There is a swing. On a porch. At a house in the quiet of eastern Kentucky. A few generations of babies have been rocked on that swing. I was rocked on that swing. Almost two and a half years ago, Cate got her first rock on the swing. Her wriggly 8-month-old body didn't stop for a picture on the swing, but I do have a picture of her on the porch, with my aunt. On Tuesday, Brennan took his first swing, three months into his one wild and precious life.
I have loved visiting my great aunt's house ever since I was a kid. We often hold family reunions there. As my grandmother and her two sisters get older, fewer summers go by without a family get-together. Those get-togethers always remind me of this book. Because when these relatives come, they come bearing fried chicken and potato casserole and sticky, sweaty kids and desserts to die for and sweet tea and stories of things that have happened since the last reunion. And of course, we swing on that swing.
This week wasn't really a reunion though. Just me and the kids, my mom, my grandmother and her sisters, and a few cousins that stopped by. But we still had fried chicken. And potato casserole. And yummy dessert and sweet tea and stories. And the weather was almost warm enough to make my kids sticky and sweaty. But not quite. I love knowing that the swing is only a couple of hours drive away from my house. I hate that I don't get to make the trip to swing on it more often. I just picked up Beth Moore's book, Feathers from my Nest, in which she talks about different aspects of mothering, often tied into some object she finds or notices. This swing is one of my feathers.
And since I haven't linked up with anyone in awhile, I decided to link up with Serenity Now. Click the button and enjoy some weekend bloggy reading.