Standing in front of our paused 65-inch TV, I begin painting a scene for two little girls having a sleepover. The portrait features a poor little boy desperate for a golden ticket—only five exist. Will he get one, or won’t he?
You and I already know. But to these two five-year-olds, the outcome is still tender and alive. Their eyes bulge at the first sight of the chocolate river and the edible teacups and candy leaves. They drop to their knees, collapsing the couch cushions beneath them, hands glued to their cheeks.
When Charlie, whom they’ve rooted for, finally makes it—HE MADE IT—a piece of them climbs inside the story and rides along.
That’s the only way to watch a 1971 classic: with ones who devour suspense like a full-sized Wonka bar.
And because I refuse to let this moment slip by unnoticed: when Charlie’s grandma is shown needle-and-threading a massive frock in bed with the three others, Emma whispers, “Wow… she’s a very good crocheter.” No mention of four adults piled into one bed. Just admiration for fine motor skills.
Earlier that day, I had finally removed the cooked-macaroni-sized frog poops from the front porch. With bleach, soap, and a rag, I swiped down bug leavings and cobwebs, poured solution over water stains from neglected plants, and vacuumed the turds. The porch had also become an accidental plant orphanage—too many pots, too little care. Including the Boston ferns. Most people buy them for a season and toss them, but I’m going to overwinter them. This is my first attempt, so we’ll see where things stand next March. For now, I’ll buzz-cut them with my kitchen scissors, give them a deep drink, and store them in the crawl space for a once-a-month watering.
Now, at Emma’s request, I’m curled nearby as she and Evelyn settle into sleeping bags on the living room floor. The past two times we hit this moment—late at night, eyelids heavy, courage dissolving—Emma’s quiet “I want my mom” meant a one-minute rescue drive, two houses down. I just heard the toilet lid clink, so either she or Evelyn is still awake. And if one of them is awake, the other absolutely is too.
Emma can get overtired quickly, which is why I’m still holding at a cautious 60% chance she’ll stay the night. Evelyn’s wide-awake, chatty energy could push her straight into the emotional danger zone.
So I slide on my Strong Mom Hat and issue gentle-but-firm orders: No, there will be no books. Yes, the next step is heads on pillows, eyes closed, words done.
Do I have time to lower my percentage to 42%?
We’ll find out. But for now, I’ll watch the rise and fall of their sleeping bags, ready to leap into comfort or celebration—whichever one the night decides to become.
Thanks for stopping by today! Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 