This post is part of the 31 Days to Flourish in Motherhood series. Click here for the whole list!
During my 31-day series, I’ll be participating in Five Minute Friday within my Flourish theme. Five Minute Friday is a community of bloggers who write, using a different prompt word each week, for just five minutes. The purpose is to just write, without over-thinking or editing. If you know me at all, you know I won’t post without reading through to make sure there are no glaring errors! But what I’ll share on FMF will be as raw as I’ll ever get.
So I’m supposed to somehow incorporate BACON into a post about flourishing in motherhood… in five minutes. (In all fairness, today’s FMF prompt was apparently voted on by blog readers, so… not negotiable and also not the fault of the good people over at FMF.)
No promises, friends. This is going to be interesting.
I don’t frequently meditate on bacon, but on an evening such as this, when I’m forced to for the sake of the challenge, ya’ll, I find myself laughing a lot.
There was the bacon explosion, for example — a couple pounds of bacon woven together (yep, woven, it was a work of art) and wrapped around several different kinds of sausage wrapped around several different kinds of cheese wrapped around I think more bacon wrapped around a very specific kind of heart attack. I believe we then slathered the whole thing in BBQ sauce, carved out “911” into the weave just in case we were too lethargic to remember it, and smoked that pig all day long. That was a Memorial Day that we spent with a lot of relatives, including my out-of-town in-laws. We attended a lovely memorial in the morning and spent quality time together, the kind of time that makes you ache when it has to end. We were still living 600 miles away at the time, just visiting for a few days.
Oh, and the summer when my little brother came back from Scout Camp with his forearm burned so badly it looked like he’d just walked off the set of a horror movie — nope, there wasn’t an archery accident… he’d just been making breakfast. Bacon over a campfire. Despite the circumstances, I think that was when I started to see my brother as more of a man. He was growing up, making a stupid mistake to which plenty of grownups I know would be prone, but not complaining about it. It was a nasty burn, but he took it in stride and handled it like a man.
And then, since apparently we don’t learn lessons from others, the camping trip in the Rockies in which I prayed that Husband would not suffer the same fate. I watched the flames engulf our little camp griddle (which clearly was too small if it wasn’t sitting firmly over our firepit) and lick at his arms… I think that was the last time we tried cooking bacon while camping. Sausage links on a stick from here on out! Our bacon-over-an-open-fire days are over. So are our mountain camping days… for now… but those are some of my favorite memories from our time in Colorado.
I’d almost forgotten about our late-November getaway to Estes Park shortly after we moved to Colorado. We stayed in a sweet “chalet” (pretty much a studio apartment, only much nicer and with a hot tub, which I only find appealing in the dead of winter), which had a full kitchen and a fridge stocked with everything we needed to make breakfast both days and a fancy steak dinner one night. Ooh look, bacon! We cooked it up the next morning and were immediately aware of the fact that it was some sort of “maple bacon.” The chalet smelled like Canada the rest of the weekend. (I shouldn’t say that, as I can neither confirm nor deny that Canada smells of maple syrup. But our chalet did.)
And there are more… apparently bacon stands at the center of some really great memories. (Maybe also some not-so-great ones. Yeah, we’ve had a lot of laughs making fun of my brother for the bacon fire incident, but I’m pretty sure that the memory itself is less than pleasant.)
I think that’s how motherhood is. Lots of memories — some better than others. Some are more war stories. We laugh and cry (sometimes laugh until we cry) about the good times and the hard times and the crazy times. But Husband and I have come to appreciate (or, in my case, grudgingly admit) that our littles are what make our memories richer. Even when we get burned — by the overwhelming ordeal of raising them, or just by life itself — they’re making our lives full and sweet and spicy and salty…
E and G, you’re the bacon of my existence.
(Confession: that was more like ten minutes. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t make the bacon –> motherhood leap in five! It’s pushing it as it is.)