aprons with pockets

A kettle of turkey noodle soup is on today's lunch menu. Four diligent workers are scraping shingles off the neighbor's roof as I watch their progress from the kitchen window. Muffled work-a-day sounds come to me across the blazing white snow, punctuated by the occasional whump of what I hope to merely be heavy scraps thrown from the roof. I count heads: one, two, three......four. Why do I feel it's going to be a long day?
A mother never voluntarily imagines the worst; it comes to her unbidden. That's why I prefer aprons with pockets on days like this. Stuffed in my apron pockets are wadded balls of kleenex in which are buried worried mutterings and maternal sighs. If planted deeply enough and watered with a few fretful tears, they have a fighting chance to morph into prayers. A spiritual mom could streamline this process and go directly to prayer and some days I am that kind of mom. But today I wear my apron like a safety net and stir the soup with a big wooden spoon.
"Speak softly and carry a big stick" works in the kitchen, too, you know.