I may or may not have bought *another* bushel of peaches today to make into fruit leather. $12 at the local fruit stand. I may or may not already have 14 pint jars of peach jam and 26 quarts of bottled peaches, summer's sweetness preserved for winter's grey. I like to think of eating them in an igloo. The peachy hues set off by the blue ice. The jealous penguins looking on, flapping with envy. My grandmother showed me how to scald and peel and bottle and steam while she whirled around the kitchen, an effective storm of pulling order out of chaos. After she pulled the bottles from the heat, the sun streamed through the glass jars to reveal golden orbs of soft flesh. Such beauty. When I open each bottle this winter, I will think of her, apron tied daintly around her waist, peach after peach moving through her able hands, her laugh filling the steaming kitchen, a communion of sweetness.

Three Faces in 30 Seconds

Blessing Jude

Meags, Tyler, Em and Jude

Four generations

The whole crew on Em's side

Mike and his boy

Karen with the double barrel...Tyler and Jude

Grandparents Taylor

The mamas (and Jude)

Me and my little man

On August 23rd, Mike gave Jude a blessing. He blessed him outside, under an apple tree, circled by our brothers, fathers, and grandfathers. Our friends and relatives gathered around and listened. I swaddled Jude in a white crocheted blanket made by my mother. I loved the look of the pearly sheen against his baby skin. It was a beautiful day. Mike gave a beautiful blessing. My grandfather came up to me afterwards and said, "How can he not do great things with such a blessing?"

Just Because

My boy

Jude

Mike

Emily

My boy's eyes are blue--of the intensity of pure things. Sparkling. They are his dad's. 27 years younger.

My boy's eyelashes extend for days, long and straight, not even a hint of a curl. I think of them like the flatness of North Dakota.

My boy has a cleft in his chin. My cleft.

My boy has a pensive face and a quizzical brow. Some might say he scowls, but I think he's just curious. Full of observation. Perhaps a little skeptical.

My boy has a pouty lip to slay the masses, bend them pathetically, helplessly to his will. I capitulate every time--scoop him up into a too-tight embrace.

My boy has a mischevious smile. A melting, mischevious smile. Mike and I go to great, ridiculous lengths to coax it out.

My boy is strong. Although his head still bobs as we hold him, standing, by his hips, his legs hold him up--wee, steel, stork legs.

He has his father's flat feet, his mother's glower, his father's hint of auburn, his mother's eye shape, his father's lucious lips, his mother's detached earlobes.

My boy captivates me countless times a day--he coos and sputters and drools and I ask for more. "Tell me," I say, "Tell me more."

My boy sleeps with his small fists cradling his head. The small vulnerability of his sleep is endlessly disarming--the thin, purple paper of his eyelids.

My boy has fuzzy, wispy hair, a halo of strawberry fuzz on his near bald head. It poofs out deliciously after his bath.

I kiss my boy hundreds of times a day--push my lips into the chubiness of his baby cheeks, the top of his head, bury myself in the small arc of his neck, into his palms, his feet, his button nose. It's compulsion--an outflowing of my motherhood to his sonhood, to his babyhood, to his mineness.

I take these small moments and tuck them into my new heart--the one that burst into being as my body spread wide as eternity--the one with pockets to hold his many small, unintentional gifts. Small tremors of love still stretch it, that heart, wider and wider--an expanse of warm space to nestle every sweetness, every angle, every moment of my boy, my Jude, my tender, little babe.

Muscle Tees

I'm going to bust you up!

Just, kidding! I love you!