As a child, I never understood birthdays. Sure, I loved getting presents and a chance to choose my favorite meal for dinner, so I didn’t question the tradition too much–but why a day to celebrate that I was born? I didn’t do anything to make the day happen, so why a day for me?
But after having children, I understood the answer.
Chloe, I look at you, and I realize that birthdays are just as much for those throwing the party as the one throwing the wrapping paper.
They are a chance to thank God for the precious gift of you while you enjoy all of yours.
They give a reason to spend one more day together as a family, laughing and loving; one more day to remember how the family changed for the better two years before.
And they are a day to remember the beautiful colors this life contains and how you made each of them a little brighter.
Happy Birthday, sweet Chloe. You truly are God’s gift.
How does your family celebrate birthdays? What do birthdays mean to you?
I don’t have a therapist, but I’ve contemplated getting one many times. If it weren’t already obvious, I use my blog as a way to process through my feelings, and many times it works (and it’s free). But sometimes I have to wonder if I might not need professional help….
I can’t read status updates on Facebook. Specifically, I can’t read status updates about mothers enjoying being mothers–they make me feel guilty. Whenever I read, “I just love being a momma!” or “Making cookies with my sweet babies!” my stomach balls up in a series of knots.
It’s not that I don’t love my children or thank God for them every day–it’s just that my status updates would read a little differently:
“Tried to make cookies with my babies. Broke up one fight over whose turn it was to pour in the sugar, moved little hands three times that kept trying to crack extra eggs in the bowl, and realized I was short a 3/4 cup of chocolate chips because my kids apparently snuck them during the week.”
“Why don’t my kids take naps!!!”
“Had to grab Chloe off the top of the refrigerator again.”
Our days tend to feel a little chaotic, no matter my best attempts to structure them. Somehow the simplest plans to read a book or go outside and play can derail into a drama that has me on my knees shaking my fists heavenwards crying, “Why, God, why?!”
So when I read status updates that remind me that school is almost over for the year, status updates that exclaim “I’m so excited to have my three kiddos home with me 24/7 for the next 3 months!” I feel guilty. Guilty and terrified.
It’s not that I’m not used to having my kids home with me–preschool only keeps two of them for three hours a few times a week–but that little break with just one child is well…a little more manageable.
I think about our Georgia summers with the blazing sun and 100% humidity, that miserable heat that keeps everyone indoors, and I get nervous. Sure, I will take the kids to the pool, but I also remember our pool time last year that had me sweating more than swimming while I did my best to keep three kids in the pool at the same time . We will visit the library, but I have flashbacks to the time my son thought playing hide and seek through the aisles was fun while I was trying to get everyone out the door. And I think of a couple weeks ago when the hair massacre occurred leaving my daughter with beautiful strawberry-blonde locks looking like Hayley Mills in “The Parent Trap.“
Site of Hair Massacre
Blue streak in hair not permanent--just some finger paint
I think about my budget that includes ‘art cabinet with a lock and key’ since putting things up high doesn’t work. I look at the dutch door that has swung from each child’s room in an attempt to keep them in…
…while they keep trying to get out.
I think about our every days, and I get nervous. And when I get nervous, I feel guilty. And so I write a blog post while biting my nails in the hope that I’ll laugh and feel a little better.
And if not, I might give that therapist a call (or at least stay off Facebook).
Does the impending summer vacation have you nervous or excited? What cheap activities do have planned to keep your little ones out of trouble?
I often wonder how she did it, how she raised my sister and me states away from her own family, many nights alone while her husband traveled every week. I never felt unloved or neglected by my father, but I know now the added stress for a mother who feels like she is parenting alone.
I never knew she felt tired or lonely; I never knew of her aggravation or frustration. I saw unity from my parents and felt blessed to have a family held tightly together.
It is only now, as she reaches out to me as one who understands, that I understand the strength of my mother.
When I look to how I parent, how I love, how I cook, how I clean, I realize the imprint of my mother that I carry over me. I’ve sought her example and advice for issues ranging from fevers to family.
But my mother-in-law didn’t have a mother’s wisdom from which to draw. Having lost her own mother at a young age, she was not afforded the same opportunity to learn as I. Yet when I look at my husband, I marvel at the imprint she left on him. I marvel at the children she raised and the love that she shares.
And it is now that I share life with my husband and accept wisdom from her own lips that I understand the strength of his mother.
Happy Mother’s Day to my mothers who have taught me more about strength, not with words, but with their lives. I pray that one day my children, too, will see a strong woman when they look into my eyes the way I do when I look into yours. Love your daughter, Jennifer
I’ve heard this story so many times that I’m not sure if the storage rooms in my weak memory are holding the details of the actual event or my father’s retelling. Nevertheless, I can picture myself perfectly in that bubblegum-pink shirt behind the Baskin Robbins counter as my parents walked through the door.
My dad walked up with a smile for his daughter working her first job, but before he had a chance to say anything, I laid out the rules for this lover of vanilla ice cream:
“I can’t give you any breaks, Dad.”
He hadn’t asked for a break, nor would he, yet I felt the need to make the policy of the owners of that little Baskin Robbins in Georgia known from the get-go.
But what kind of daughter doesn’t give her father a break, rounding out that ice cream cone with an extra-large scoop of vanilla?
Perhaps it was the influence of the ice cream-drill sergeant-owners. After all, they did have a scale on the counter so that we could measure our scoops. They did have a separate rate for their employees for that first week of training that was below minimum wage (although, in fairness, I got minimum wage for catching on so quickly). They did give me a surprise written test after I had been an employee for at least a month to ensure I knew the difference between a ‘float’ and a ‘soda’ and could list the ingredients in a ‘freeze,’ even though, had I forgotten, there were ingredient cards on the back counter.
And they did discourage us from taking our two free scoops each shift with their measuring stick and pay incentive. Yes, they actually measured the amount of ice cream left in the buckets versus the number of sales. If our profit margin lay within a certain amount, we would get an extra nickel per hour added to our hourly pay. If it were within the next level, a dime, and the next level a whole quarter! Obviously this kind of money really adds up when one works, at most, a four-hour shift, two to three days a week.
I was obviously thinking of my co-workers. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the pay incentive by taking my free scoops. I didn’t want to deprive them of extra money for college by rounding out my dad’s ice cream cone. Think–they could buy an extra pillow for their futon by the end of the summer!
So before my dad even ordered, I told him ‘no.’ No, there would be no extra ice cream for him.
What kind of daughter does that to her own father? A daughter with a heart as cold as the Rocky Road she scoops.
And, yet, I went home every night with my chocolate-stained, bubblegum-pink shirt, proud that I rarely took my free scoops, and when I put in my two week’s notice, my boss’s voice cracked as he begged me to stay. Sure he wanted me to stay–think of all the nickels I saved him!
Now, as I relive that moment in my mind, I have to shake my head. What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I bring home a scoop of ice cream for my dad every shift I worked? Why didn’t I sit around the table with my mom while I told her about my day over a cup of ‘Quarterback Crunch’?
Because I was a rule-follower, an over-achiever, a goody-goody. Yet, I realize now that sometimes following the rules too closely is anything but good. When I look back over my life thus far, it’s not the rules that I broke that I regret the most.
It’s the ones that I didn’t.
Dad, you will get the biggest scoop of vanilla ice cream I can muster at Chloe’s birthday party this weekend.
What is a memory from your first job? Have you ever followed a rule that you wish you would have broken? Linking up with Mama Kat today. Come back with your own post for ‘Journeys’ tomorrow!
I awoke a little after midnight on the couch where I had fallen asleep to sounds of cheering in Times Square, and the scene was eerily reminiscent of many of my New Year’s. I watched on the T.V. as Americans rejoiced in our capital and in the city which housed such tragedy near ten years ago, and I felt nothing. Or maybe I felt everything. I went to bed that night not knowing how to feel after learning that we killed Osama Bin Laden, and I spent most of the day yesterday trying to process my thoughts.
I read my share of Facebook status updates rejoicing in the death of one of the most miserable human beings my generation has known and those quoting Martin Luther King, Jr. reminding us to turn from hatred. I read blogs reminding me that this man got what he deserved, and I read articles from pastors urging Christians to respond with love. And I didn’t know what to feel.
Two nights ago, I was proud of our military. What an elite group of men who entered an extremely dangerous situation, lost a helicopter, but didn’t lose one American life! What a group of men who took out the target and then got out–I have such respect for all our military and their bravery.
I was proud of our Commander-In-Chief for allowing the military to do its job, for giving the order to finally get this man who brought such tragedy to our country, who destroyed thousands of lives and disrupted our way of life forever.
But I found myself not able to cheer.
I’d like to say that I felt sadness for a soul who, based on my beliefs, is spending an eternity burning in hell for his deeds. But I don’t. Bin Laden got what he deserved. I can honestly say that while he was alive, I did pray for him–I’m not sure I even believed my own prayers–but I did pray that the miraculous would occur, that he would repent and turn to the God who has grace and love for anyone who would accept it. But now that he has died, this coward who recruited others to kill themselves in order to advance his mission of hate, this man who grabbed and used one of his own wives as a shield in a desperate attempt to save himself; I feel disgust for him. And I feel nothing.
Yet, I am very sad. I know this man mattered to God and was created in His image. What a tragedy of a life wasted, a life that refused to see the value in others, a life who allowed his soul to turn as black as the hell in which he is now residing.
My mind waffles back and forth as I wrestle with my own political beliefs and spiritual instructions. I don’t believe a nation can turn the other cheek when attacked, yet I know a Christian can’t embrace the love of Jesus and rejoice over the death of anyone who lived a life apart from God.
I want to celebrate that the good guys won, but I think of the thousands of lives lost on September 11th and the thousands more in pursuit of justice. I think of the military families who have endured years of separation and those who broke apart under the weight of the burden. I think of a nation divided over Guantanamo Bay and whether or not we should be involved in a War on Terror. And I think of the time I placed my shoes in a bin at airport security and had to check if bottled breast milk could come on board.
I want to cheer for the good guys. I want to celebrate a victory.
But I fear there are no winners–
only a soul who was lost and a way of life that we will never get back.
It was 7:45 a.m., and I had already made three trips up and down the stairs. Little children, on a quest to find hidden Easter candy, would take turns sneaking downstairs while I was helping their brother or sister get ready for school. By the third time I pulled a toddler off the kitchen counter, my mood was wrecked for the day.
When is he going to install those baby gates?! If I can’t even change a diaper without a child climbing on top of the refrigerator, I certainly can’t do any tasks myself that would require power tools!
And with that thought I recalled every item on my husband’s ‘honey-do’ list. I began to organize the list into a book with chapters, and I wrote a mental preface explaining how hard my job as a stay-at-home mom to three crazies five and under was and how it was exponentially harder because my husband’s list had grown too long.
I know the power of thoughts. I can drive from 0 to 60 on the witch-mobile in two seconds flat.
So I really didn’t appreciate the sermon yesterday on Phillipians 4:8-9:
Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies. (The Message)
Think about the best not the worst? The beautiful not the ugly? Please! How can I not think about the four inches of hair my daughter clipped from her beautiful head?! And of course, if I think about that event, there’s no way I can stop myself from thinking about something on the ‘honey-do’ list that was the inevitable cause!
But then I realized that there was a time when I taught myself to think differently, to find thoughts full of praise instead of curses. For Lent, I decided to give up complaining about when Matt came home from work–and I didn’t plan on indulging in complaints once Easter arrived, either. I knew that my complaining was a sin, and every time I was tempted to do it, I wanted to remind myself that it was sins like this one that sent Jesus to the cross.
After all, Matt’s doing his job and providing for his family. He comes home right after work and can’t help it that he sits in traffic for an hour and half. We tried to move–it didn’t work–so now it was time for me to move on in my thoughts. I needed to provide a place of refuge in our home, not a storehouse for tension.
I don’t know if Matt noticed, but I learned to bite my tongue. And after biting my tongue enough times, I trained myself to not have the thoughts causing me to bite my tongue in the first place. I wasn’t perfect–I slipped right before Easter–but I saw how changing my overall thinking for 40 days changed my entire mood.
And I hate to admit it, but John Maxwell was right. In his sermon yesterday, he challenged us with the thought that “when we want to fix others, it’s normally we who need to be fixed.”
Ouch.
I don’t like thinking that way. I’d rather think about baby gates and cluttered attic spaces instead of the junk cluttering up my own mind.
The best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.
But, perhaps, there just might be something to not thinking about the baby gates after all.
I originally started to write this post for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. However, a late night watching the paths of tornadoes, early risings from the kids, and a canceled kid-swap day due to a stomach bug kept me from getting this post published Thursday morning. After contemplating the topic some more, I decided this post is actually perfect for ‘Journeys,’ but since Mama Kat gave me the inspiration, I’m linking up with her, as well.
3.) What is going on in the bedroom? Describe a memorable sleeper.
For the last five years, sleep has been a commodity. With three children came three more reasons that I would never be able to count on a consistent routine of a solid eight hours. Every night this week, my husband and I have either been stalled in our desire to go to bed or ripped from a deep sleep due to cries in bedrooms down the hall. Last night was different, however. Last night my own worry kept me awake, causing me to grab only a couple of hours here and there.
I had known all day that a storm was coming. The day before our trusty meteorologist warned through the radio that there was a chance we’d wake to thunderstorms, and even though that morning passed without those flashes of lightning, he warned that another system would arrive around eight p.m. I took notice, and I sent my husband an e-mail asking him not to work past six; tornadoes were supposed to accompany this storm, and I wanted him home with us before the fireworks began.
The kids were ready to make their way upstairs as Matt arrived home, and we had everyone tucked into bed by 8:15. I went downstairs to check my phone that had rung while I was rocking my daughter, and I noticed a missed call from my dad. I called him, knowing that he doesn’t usually call me in the evenings.
“I just wanted to make sure that you’re ready for the storm,” he said after I told him I saw I missed his call.
“Umm…no. I mean, we know it’s coming, but we haven’t done anything, yet.”
“Well, if you guys want to come over here and stay in the basement, you’re more than welcome.”
I got a little nervous after his suggestion. After all, Dad had never invited us to share the basement for any other storm. I told Matt the offer, but he didn’t think we needed to make the drive over there. We’d just take the necessary precautions here.
Together we pulled tray-tables and plastic bags full of party decorations out of the downstairs closet. I stacked plastic totes with red lids full of Dr. Seuss hats and paper Thanksgiving turkeys, butterflies and sundry other creations made in preschool. I found small boxes of pictures that had not yet made it to albums, and I retrieved around six blankets that Matt and I cuddled under on those rare nights when we watched a movie. And while I was preparing for the storm, I was performing a mental checklist of the items I would need to organize this closet.
Matt found all the bike helmets from the garage, and I grabbed a football helmet from the playroom. We had four helmets and five of us. I ran upstairs and threw down the massive pillows that adorned our bed and grabbed the flashlight from Matt’s dresser drawer. I remembered seeing Caleb’s little flashlight under his bed when I had hunted down the missing Easter candy earlier, and I got on my stomach, squirming my way under his bed until I could reach the little light. I set the two flashlights next to each other on my nightstand in case the power went out while we were asleep.
We were ready.
While sipping warm soup at the kitchen table, I sent my sister a text asking her to tell Dad that we were prepared now; he didn’t need to worry. She texted me back with Dad’s offer of the basement again and concluded with the words “good luck and god speed” if we decided to stick it out at our house.
Godspeed?
I had never in my life heard my sister or anyone in my family, for that matter, use those words. I reached across the table to show Matt the text, and I admitted that I was officially scared. What kind of storm did we need to expect?
After our quick dinner, I ran upstairs to take a shower before the thunder and lightning began. And as is typical for me, my thoughts took off as soon as I was alone getting ready for that shower. What if we’ve made a mistake and should’ve gone to my parents? What if we went to my parents, but the storm hit there and not here? If we have to take cover, how will I keep the kids calm? What would I do if anything happened to Matt or the kids?
I began to worry. I knew a storm was coming, but I didn’t know when, and I didn’t know exactly where. And while I didn’t want to dwell on morbid thoughts, as I kissed each kid goodnight again, I wondered if I would get the chance to do the same thing in that same room again tomorrow. I was assuming the worst–that the tornadoes would hit us–based on the urgent nature of the newscasters and the number of friends on Facebook heading for their basements. And I found it strange to know a disaster was coming and to have to sit tight and wait. And I found it unnerving to know that what I was waiting for could change my life forever.
But praying and waiting was all there was left to do. We made the best preparations we could, and now we just needed to see if they were necessary or not.
photo courtesy of photobucket.com
I pretended to read on the couch where we continued to listen to the excited weatherman and watch the giant red blob work its way across the screen. I peered over the top of my book as the weatherman gave the countdown for each city in the path of the mile-wide tornado. Floyd, you have two minutes to take cover. Sandy Springs, you have eight minutes to get ready–you are in the direct path of the storm. And I knew I wouldn’t sleep tonight.
But I woke up an hour or so later on the couch to the boom of thunder and sound of rain beating on the windows. I immediately sat up and focused my tired eyes on the T.V., looking for the red blob and the small cities named on the screen. It was almost one a.m., and two different storms were nearer, yet they looked as if they would slide by us, one overhead, one below.
Matt was sound asleep. I tried to wake him, desperate to know if he had a plan for how we would hear if we needed to take cover. All of the preparations would mean nothing if we slept while the storm was knocking at our door. Matt said he’d turn on the radio on his nightstand, but I was not comforted knowing that I woke Matt, not his alarm, most mornings. But, alas, we didn’t have any other options, and from what we could tell, unless the storm turned, we should fare okay.
Good sleep was hard to come by that night. Chloe had acted upset at bedtime and awoke crying again after we had fallen asleep. And at five a.m., I again jerked awake to hear the conversation on the radio that the threat of dangerous weather for our area was now over. I no longer needed to be afraid; we were safe.
Even though I try to wake up at five most mornings, I decided to go back to sleep. I was exhausted. Unfortunately, my kids decided to wake an hour earlier than usual.
As I went about the morning routine of getting the kids ready for school, putting tray-tables and unused helmets back in their places, I thought about the preparations Matt and I made the night before. We didn’t know when or exactly where, but we knew the storm was coming. And while we hoped for the best, we didn’t know if we’d be counted with those who had lost something precious in the storm.
Almost 300 individuals lost their lives as a result of this storm system that swept through the southeast. As I poured milk in cereals bowls, I thought to myself that their end is no different than the one I’m going to face–I will die, too. The only questions are when and how.
And just as I prepared for a tornado last night with pillows and flashlights, there are preparations to be made for that moment when I will cease to exist in this life, that moment that we all know is coming.
I know I have areas in which I need to improve, habits I want to correct so that I’ll leave this Earth with no regrets. But I also believe that when I leave this world, I’ll enter another where I’ll meet my God. And when I see Him face-to-face, I will tell Him, “I tried to prepare, but I have done nothing that can make me worthy to enter into your presence, nothing except for one preparation–to love your Son who thought me worthy to die in my place.”
We all face the same end. The end of the story is not a surprise–it’s just the journey that’s different for all of us. So are you prepared? Do you know what you believe? And if not, when do you plan to prepare? The storm is coming while you sleep, and there is no guarantee that there will be time to get ready when you wake up.
Please keep the families devastated by this storm in your thoughts and prayers today. Click here if you’d like to make a donation to the American Red Cross to help these disaster victims.
Have you ever had to prepare for a literal storm coming your way? What thoughts ran through your mind? How much thought have you given to the fact of your own mortality? Are you ready if you died today?
I had a brief career as a high school English teacher. My love for literature and desire to do something meaningful with my life brought me to that profession, but after a few years, I pursued other avenues and am now home with my own children. I still think about many of my former students from time to time, however. My last year teaching, I was saddened by a general attitude that I saw among my students, and I wish I could go back and address them. If I could, these are the words I would tell my students:
Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean that it is pointless, and just because something is difficult doesn’t mean that it is stupid. If you don’t learn to push through these hard lessons in school by doing your best now, then you will have set yourself up for a pattern of quitting later. Working hard does matter, and you will not be rewarded now or later for mediocre work.
For some of you life is hard now. Some of you have crappy parents–I’ve met them–but don’t let anyone determine your destiny except for you. We don’t all start on a level playing field, and some of you will have to work a thousand times harder to start at the same point as one of your classmates–so work a thousand times harder. Life isn’t fair, and the sooner you get that idea out of your head the better. If you want to succeed, take the steps to make success happen.
Success is not measured by the amount of money you make. True success is living your life in a way that, at the end, you won’t be ashamed to stand before God. True success is finding that which brings your life joy and meaning, and giving your all to that cause.
Follow your dreams, but understand that all dreams come with sacrifice. Our society doesn’t like to talk about sacrifice, but it is a word you need to embrace. If you want to be a musician or actress, go for it! If you want to serve in the military, make us proud! If you want to become a doctor, wonderful! If you want to stay home with your children, do it! But understand that for any career choice, you will sacrifice something–money, family, holidays, personal freedom–the list is different for every choice. Decide ahead of time what you’re willing to sacrifice and what you’re not, and stick to your convictions. Then work hard, and make your dreams happen.
You will not feel happy every day of your life, even if you’re going after your dream. Learn to persevere–persevere in marriage, persevere in your job, persevere raising your children. Do not believe the lies of Hollywood; there is no ‘and they lived happily ever after.’ Achieving that ‘happily ever after’ takes hard work through many rough patches, but stick it out. Marriages worth something, careers worth something, families worth something all have time, sweat, and tears engrained in them.
Make good choices now; unfortunately, the choices you make now can and will affect you later. Wait to have sex. Even though our society is inundated with sexual images and has completely cheapened the act God gave us as a gift to share with our spouses, you don’t have to give in to the pressure. Any choice you make regarding an unwanted pregnancy will have lasting consequences. And while you should take the risk of pregnancy and STDs seriously, you should also take your emotional health seriously. Sex will bring you closer to the person with whom you’re sleeping. That person should be worthy of you–wait until you find that one person. Wait until you’re married. Sometimes old-fashioned ideas are actually good ideas.
If you want to buy something, save your money. If you don’t have the money, don’t buy the item. You do not have to have an iPhone or an iPad or designer clothes. Learn the difference between needs and wants now. Establishing a pattern of bad financial decisions now will limit your choices later.
Finally, figure out what you believe and why you believe it. Examine your faith. Your parents faith or lack thereof is not enough to get you by in life or an excuse for whether or not you believe, and these excuses will not count if you do stand before God one day. Of all the decisions you make, this decision is the most important. You will face many trials in life; to whom will you call out when they come? What is the purpose behind the decisions you make?
And if you make a decision to follow after God, then really follow! The world doesn’t need any more half-hearted disciples. The world needs more people who truly loves others, care for the poor and the underprivileged in society, and treat every human being with kindness and dignity.
And at this point, I would gently nudge my students awake, tell them to wipe the drool off their mouths, and remind them that I am always here to talk about any of these issues if they need me.
Linking up with Mama Kat for her Writer’s Workshop and Michelle for ‘Thought-provoking Thursday.’ Come back tomorrow and link up your own post for ‘Journeys.’ What life-journey are you currently taking?
As we poked seeds into the little holes we dug with our fingers, an excitement filled my body. Our second garden was taking shape, herbs next to their compatible vegetables instead of separate like the year before, a new bed dedicated to wildflowers by the lone Dogwood tree.
Last year was our first attempt at a garden, and I found fulfillment in the experience. When I’d walk out in the mornings to water the plants already thirsty from the Georgia heat, my mind would dwell on the spiritual. I’d think of the Master Gardener and His precision pruning. I’d think of the circumstances of life beyond my control, the seasons of drought or the times of refreshing rain.
But as I was sitting with dirt creeping in my socks and filling the small spaces between my fingernails and skin, my thoughts weren’t nearly so deep. Nor are they this morning.
Instead, I am an anxious little girl waiting for Christmas to come, wondering what presents I will unwrap in the morning,
wondering if our stockings will be filled to the brim with peppers this year unlike the year before,
wondering if the kids will sneak their gifts before Christmas day arrives.
Do you have a garden? What is the most fulfilling part of the experience for you?
I lack sleep, little girls staying up three hours past their bedtimes trying on leotards and baby oil, waking up twice in the middle of the night crying for lost binkies.
I lack space, never having a moment sans children, even my own bed not serving as a refuge against little bodies climbing in and taking over.
I lack patience, sometimes not finding the calm within me to deal with disrespect or disobedience, my last nerve chewed on and spit out by 7:00 p.m.
I lack ideas, not knowing the next fool-proof technique to get little kids to pick up their toys, having exhausted all the creative options I could find.
But, sometimes, I take a minute to look around at the round faces breathing heavy, listen to the raspy snores escaping tiny mouths, feel the thick bedding wrapping a cocoon of warmth around healthy bodies, and I realize
I lack nothing.
Participating today in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What do you lack? And come back tomorrow to share your own Journey!
Jennifer Vignola Davis 