“Patch, let’s go brush your teeth?” I wish I could say it 100 times a day for I love the feeling of anticipated fun I’m about to have. I look down to see his beautiful, big, green eyes looking up through the long, curled eyelashes at me ready to begin his ritual dancing delight. His movements are a bundle of spontaneous predictability for I know he will break into dance and the cheeky smirk on his face will soon appear but how it all pans out reflects his mood in that moment. He dances to the sound of the brushing … brusha, brusha, brusha … wiggle, bump, jiggle … brusha, brusha, brusha … hip, jive, bump. I feel the freshness in his breath and see the glow in his mouth not nearly as clearly as I remember the freshness of his hip wiggles and the glow of his hand jives. Occasionally, singing is muffled through the beat of the toothpaste melody. Always, joy is discovered in my heart. I fall a little bit more in love every.single.toothbrush.stroke. Grateful for Patch I must certainly am. Grateful for teeth brushing I most certainly am.
♥. Driving through traffic I spot sunbirds splashing in the roadside puddles for the rain has found us and I’m grateful. It’s easy to imagine the coolness of the waterdrops against the warmth of their feathers from the northern summer skies. It’s easy to feel the fun they are having. I like this feeling. A lot.
♥. Friends … wine … beer … conversation … laughing … Pay TV playing in the background on a casual Saturday night. I’m grateful for this time. A lot.
♥. My eight new woolworths re-useable shopping bag buddies come in a neat carry bag, each folded neatly to the size of a tim tam biscuit. I remember to not only take them in the car with me but through the grocer’s sliding glass doors all the way to the checkout. Re-useable shopping bags and I are finally shopping buddies. I love this. A lot.
♥. Our street is stuck in a 1960′s time capsule. I swear. It’s the kind of place where neighbours young and old, share baking delights, home grown vegetables and pots of tea. It’s the kind of neighbourhood where the children love outdoor, imaginative play. The sitting in gutters, playing in the rain, being characters out of their favourite books kind of outdoor, imaginative play. It’s the kind of street where everyday routine is established very early each morning to the alarm of the curlews and a lapping tide. The school children get picked up at their scheduled time each weekday morning … 8.05am is the reliable time Harry and Patch greet our friendly bus driver Mrs Verri … the doors open, they say good morning, Mrs Verri kindly waits for them to high five their friends and find a comfortable bus buddy to share their tales with … everyone seems filled with the morning delight … 8.07am is about the time 30 budding students showcasing their freshly cleaned uniforms .. the girls wearing their bright hair ribbons and even brighter smiles and the boys wearing their enthusiastic faces and latest soccer ball, wave to me out their bus windows simultaneously. The bus doors are securely shut. I can see the fidgeting excitment but only hear the sound of the engine. I certainly do not need to hear Mrs Verri kindly remind the children, ”Wave to Mrs Bofinger”. Their simultaneous hand flapping and adoring gazes are a dead giveaway. I stand at my front door and wave back with a brighter smile and a bigger heart each day. I’m grateful for our neighbourhood. I love neighbours who bring up gorgeous children. Children who understand individual differences … young people who bring out the best in my boys and empower them to be better friends. ‘Modern kids living a 1960′s childhood’ would make the perfect signage for our street. Living this childhood dream will all end one day whether that be dependent on life choices or through the simple act of growing up. The day this all ends will be a truly, sad day. The appreciation of simple play … neighbourhood mateship and country style bus runs … will always be treasured through memories. Memories we’ll all love. A lot.
♥. Off-key trumpet notes merged through bugle morning melodies in our house this week. Our freshman’s trumpet tones are far from the bugle notes broadcasted across the country each ANZAC day. While watching the poise of our beginning trumpet player however, I feel like I’m standing amongst the thousands in Gallipoli memorized by a single musician who connects each participant worldwide through the melody of ‘The Last Post’. As for our beginning trumpet player, one day his tone might become smooth and every single note might sound sharp , but it’s hard to imagine his poise looking any better than it has this week. Confidence and enthusiasm I love. A lot.
Until next time, let cupcake warmth and bright icing smiles fill your world.