When we were in Pennsylvania last weekend, we spent the night at my aunt and uncle’s place. We arrived at their place right before bedtime, and, while visiting with my aunt in the kitchen—she was flitting about, smacking flies with deadly precision and then carefully dropping their mashed bodies into the compost bucket—I asked if their family would be attending church in the morning.

“No,” she said, and then, dropping her voice to a confessional level, “We actually decided to take advantage of all the company and put everyone to work. We’re going to do peas first thing.”

When I got up the next morning, most everyone was already outside on the patio, pans of peas balanced on their laps.

Conversation fluttered from topic to topic—trees that might need to be cut down, a cousin’s rationale for eating ice cream for breakfast instead of at bedtime (then I have all day to burn off the sugar!), building projects, job offers, etc. My cousin’s wife had just had a baby that morning, so phones kept pinging with text updates: gender! size! name! pronunciation of name! And all the while, our hands were moving—pop open the pod, thumb-scrape the peas out, toss the shell into the basket, and repeat.

Wanna know something? A patio pea party makes for a pretty awesome church substitute: grounding, meditative, productive, and relational.

Yo, churches! Beat that.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.16.14), dobby and luna, language study, a dare, when I sat down, Kate’s enchiladas, naps and mowers, cold-brewed iced coffee and cold-brewed iced tea, old-fashioned vanilla ice cream, and how to freeze spinach.  

On our way to a Pennsylvania wedding this past weekend, we stopped at the mall to buy a suit for my husband. He’d purchased one himself earlier that week, but when he’d modeled his purchases for me at home, I’d coldly vetoed nearly every single item.

I told you I needed you to come with me, he huffed.

I told you not to wait to the last minute, I puffed.

It turned out fine. There was a JCPenney store en route and they were having a huge sale. And taking all the kids to the mall ended up being sort of fun. Like, really fun. Like, maybe the highlight of the entire weekend?

While I interrogated a JCPenney employee on the intricacies of men’s fashion and my husband shimmied in and out of jackets, the kids alternated between exploring the store, running laps, selecting ties, and getting friendly with the mannequins.

Oh wait. That was me getting all cozy with the plastic people. My bad.

And then my older son was like, “Hey, Mom. Can I get my ears pierced? I’ll pay for it myself.” And I was like, “Sure, sweets.” So we all paraded to the piercing center where my husband signed forms and my son got holes punched in his ears.

Suit buying and ear piercing, all in the same hour. That, my friends, is called High Entertainment, Murch Style.

Confession: I kind of hate suits. Possibly because I associate them with religious pomposity, but also because they’re ridiculous. All pretense and no practicality. The uniformity of the outfit—matching pants, matching jacket, matching vest—makes me twitchy. And ties are straight-up weird. A noose around the neck? Come on. (I do like the vests, though. Sexy, schmexy.)

But then my husband stuffed himself into a gray summer suit and I was like, Oh. Um, wow. Maybe suits aren’t so bad after all?

I don’t think my children had ever seen their father in a suit. They were agog. Our youngest began fussing that he needed his own suit now, and later, when we stripped down in the parking lot post-wedding in preparation for our trip home, the older two filched bits and pieces of his get-up and then strutted about the lot.

Anyway. Now my husband has a suit in his closet and my son has holes in his ears.

The end.

This same time, years previous: sinking in, street food, stuff, garbled, Greek cucumber and tomato salad, this, too, shall pass, a glimpse, sheet shortcake, sourdough waffles, microwave flower press, fresh tomatillo salsa, and freezing strawberries.    

I’m sitting on the couch, in wool socks and yoga pants, sipping coffee and munching my way through a piece of bread slathered with peanut butter and nutella. I just got done signing my broken-back son up for tap dance. When I called the doctor’s office to ask if he could take a tap class a couple weeks after getting out of his brace, the receptionist was like, Come again?

You know, a dance class. Tap. It’s mostly footwork so he won’t have to bend all that much, I said, and then the woman burst out laughing. Somehow I don’t think the spine center gets many calls from patients seeking permission to do tap.

I’m going to take the class, too. I decided that it’s ridiculous that my kids get to take all the fun classes. Who says I can’t indulge in a little happy feet just because I’m 40? Besides, the class is scheduled for the week after my next play ends—it will be the perfect antidote to the horrible, no-good, very bad post-play crash.

Actually, the way the class sign-up came about was this: I decided to sign up for the class and then asked my son if he’d like to join me. He said yes, and then my younger son begged to come, too, and then my younger daughter (who I just signed up for ballet) said that she’d maybe like to learn tap as well? Good grief! I already had to steal from our food envelope to pay the class fees for my older son and me! I’m putting the younger two off for now. Money doesn’t grow on trees and all…

Last Wednesday my older son and I spent five hours in the eye clinic at UVA. The goal: to figure out the extent of his eye damage and to work out a solution. We met with the most eccentric doctor I have ever met in my life: picture a squirrel jacked up on caffeine times ten. He spoke so quickly his mouth couldn’t keep up! At the preliminary check-in visit, he blew in and out of the room so fast that we didn’t know what hit us—and I only understood about twenty percent of what he said—but by the end of the day when we were scheduled to see him again, we were prepared. My son secretly recorded the whole exchange on his phone so we could share the wild, you-won’t-believe-it-unless-you-hear-it ride with the rest of family.

The upshot of the day is that when my son kissed the ground, he sustained nerve damage that weakened one eye muscle. When he looks to the left, he sees double. He will most likely need surgery to correct it. Two (simple, out-patient) surgeries, to be exact. First, the doctor will operate on one eye and then, a couple months later, on the other. Ta-da, problem solved! (Hopefully.)

That evening, I noticed, for the first time perhaps, that the eye damage is actually visible. My son was looking at me out of the corner of his eyes, and only the left eye fixed on me—the other one pointed north.

“Oh my word, your eyes are messed up!” I squawked.

He rolled his whacked-out eyes at me. “Seriously, Mom? You’re just now figuring this out?”

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.8.15), a photo book, the quotidian (6.9.14), mud cake, spinach dip, thorns, last Sunday morning, the quotidian (6.10.13), the smartest thing I did, the business of belonging, playing hard, Jeni’s chocolate ice cream, the quotidian (6.11.12), and mint tea concentrate.