Thinking Good

I cringed as I watched the dad before me.

His son was up to bat, and his hands gripped the fence tightly in front of him. We had already observed his antics the previous time Micah* came to the plate, his yelling and the look of disgust over his face when his son propelled his entire body toward the ball, bat still, instead of just swinging.

You know the type. The dad who feels his son’s performance is a reflection of himself, even if we all are only watching a T-ball game full of five-year-olds.

So when this dad moved forward to watch Micah attempt to hit the ball, I cringed in anticipation of how he might react.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Micah surprisingly hit the ball off the tee, and we cheered in excitement. After all, the team rallied, and we were only a couple of runs behind. We could actually tie this game up.

But this little boy didn’t seem to understand the weight of his hit. No, instead of running to base, Micah decided to swing his arms around like he was a helicopter, bob his head from side to side, and kick up his legs slowly as he lolligagged over to base.

Everyone in the stands was laughing. Everyone, that is, except for Micah’s dad. The dad yelled through the fence, “RUN, MICAH! RUN!” And then he turned away in frustration when his son was thrown out by a mile (which rarely happens in T-ball).

I wished the dad could lighten up. I wished he could realize these kids are little; who cares if they don’t take the game seriously? Nobody thought he had failed as a father because his son stunk at T-ball. There would be plenty of time for truly competitive sports later.

I’m not sure if this father had any realizations that day, but I surprised myself with my own a few hours later in the car. I shared it that night as Matt and I met in the bathroom getting ready for bed.

“You know,” I said, “I really didn’t like how Micah’s dad yelled at him during the game. I’m sure he made Micah nervous.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice.”

“Really? I thought he was pretty obnoxious. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him.”

Matt had served as the on-deck coach that game, so he was preoccupied. But now knowing that he hadn’t even noticed Micah’s dad made me doubt what I observed a little.

“Well, anyway, he really bothered me…but I have to admit…I kind of wanted to yell, too.”

Matt and I laughed, and at almost the same time, we both yelled out versions of “Just RUN, Micah!”

Because it’s true. My mind was thinking almost everything Micah’s dad’s mouth was saying. Perhaps knowing my own thoughts is the reason I had such disdain for him. And while I didn’t and still don’t agree with how this particular dad reacted, I felt like a hypocrite for having this disdain. After all, my thoughts weren’t any better; I just happened to keep them to myself.

During my drive in the car I thought about the different times in my life when I had acted the right way but not thought the right way. The times when I didn’t gossip but hid judgmental thoughts in my heart. The times when I didn’t complain at work but criticized my boss over and over in my head. And the times when I cringed at parents who couldn’t relax knowing that I, too, would’ve felt a little embarrassed if my kid rounded the bases like a helicopter.

I know the right way to act, and, most times, I choose the right behavior. I just don’t always choose the right way to think.

After my drive in the car, I was reminded of the fact that I have been reminded of before: I have a long way to go. I don’t want just pure behavior; I want pure thoughts. When I laugh at little kids on the ball field acting like helicopters, I don’t want thoughts of “Geez, Louise, kid! Just run!” interfering. I don’t want critical thoughts filling up space in my mind (I need those spaces for memory!). I want to be good and think good, too.

So, please, Micah. Help me out. I have a long way to go as a person, and you have a long way to go as a ball player. Can we meet in the middle? How about a nice jog to first base next time? I promise I’ll only think good thoughts about you.

*The name of this little ball player has been changed to protect the innocent.

Can anyone relate to my problem, or am I just evil?

Taking Out the Trash Is More Important Than You Think

It was Wednesday morning, and the four of us were in the midst of our lazy, summer wake-up routine. I was casually helping the youngest get dressed for the day when I heard the groan of a large truck trying to find the energy to accelerate down the street. It took me a moment to realize that that sound belonged to the garbage truck, and I ran to my son’s window to see if Matt had taken down the trash cans.

No.

I rushed down the stairs, slipped on some flip-flops and headed out the back door toward the pails parked by the fence. I pushed open the gate and drug the full recycling container down to the front just in time to see the truck turning out of my neighborhood. I wasn’t sure if that was the garbage truck or recycling truck, though, so I sprinted back up the driveway and repeated the same routine with the full trash can.

And then I ran inside. I knew better.

I was gone for at least five minutes, and five minutes was plenty of time for the gates of hell to swing wide open.

I sprinted up the stairs, for I heard quiet, a sound I’ve grown to fear. Panicked, I made my way down the angular hallway to the very last room upstairs–our bathroom. Sitting on the floor in a pillow of eyeshadow and powder dust was my daughter, daintily painting her face with the mascara wand she was rhythmically dipping in my bottle of foundation.

Scooping her and the make-up up in giant swoop, I took to cleaning her face and hands. I plugged in the vacuum and sucked up the evidence of how she spent her last five minutes and then headed downstairs to search for the other two. After all, it had now been ten minutes since we had had meaningful interaction.

Downstairs Chloe and I went to find Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum scaling the shelves of the pantry. Every box of cereal was opened, paper cups lined up and half full with the contents of the boxes. Chocolate smiles gave away that they had dessert first. After a quick reprimand, I ordered the kids to their chairs for breakfast, not sure if the oldest two have any room left for this meal, and I strapped Chloe in her booster seat, thankful that at least she can’t get down and wreak any more havoc at the moment.

Or so I thought.

Distracted by the first three episodes of the morning, I didn’t think through what I needed to do before strapping Chloe into her seat. As I poured the milk into the cereal bowl, the jarring sounds of I go pee-pee! echoed throughout the house.

Unstrapped the two-year-old tornado, reminded her the warning works better if she tells me before she pees all over the floor, took off the soaked underpants, and handed her paper towels to help clean up the mess.

It was closer to brunch than breakfast, and I was chomping on Zoloft like they’re Skittles in between each bite of organic cereal. You know, the healthy choice to start off my day right.

And through each bite of cereal, I began to think What could I have done better?

But of course, the answer is nothing. But I could think of something that my husband should’ve done before he left for work.

No, taking out the trash isn’t a life or death issue, but it is a mental health issue. Husbands, remember that fact.

Disclaimer: For the record, none of the events following the make-up ordeal actually happened on that day, but they totally could’ve–we just had a good day. I am writing from experience, so, husbands, heed my words!

Wonder

I’m linking up with The Gypsy Mama for her “Five Minute Friday.”The rules: Write for five minutes flat without tweaking or editing.

GO:

We lay in bed, two separate twin beds, three children crammed in sleeping bags between our beds, at the foot, beside us. And I looked over in that dark room at you, a tall man in that small bed, and you said, “You can come over here.”

And I excitedly climbed over kids to cuddle next to you, if only for a minute before we drifted to sleep. In wonder I lay as you wrapped your strong hands around me, wonder that you who had driven until three in the morning, tired and uncomfortable, loved me so much that you would exchange a good night’s sleep for a sleep holding your wife.

It was then that I knew how much you truly loved me; it was then that I knew I would be safe in your arms forever.

STOP:

We are on vacation for a long weekend, but I figured I could muster five minutes of writing! I was very distracted by a two-year-old who has suddenly developed separation anxiety–as in I cannot be more than 24 inches away from her at any given time without a meltdown ensuing. Nevertheless, I wrote what I could, and I look forward to reading and commenting on your posts later this weekend. Thank you for stopping by!

Warm, Sunny Days

Matt took the week off from work to coincide with the kids’ Spring Break from preschool. He never said so, but I think he took the time off for me as much as for him. And it’s been wonderful.

Watching the kids look in pure wonder at a part of God’s creation that they never see, and seeing the whole family smiling together–I couldn’t ask for anything more.

And, yet, I want to ask for a little more; I want to know how to keep this joy even when Matt goes back to work.

I know part of the answer. When we work together and play together and choose to experience our days together, even if we’re not doing the same thing…

…life runs a little smoother, time-outs and the need for discipline a little more rare.

And so we spent our day outside, each engaged in a different task beneath the warm sunshine, amidst a butterfly or two who would dance its way across our backyard proclaiming to us that spring is here. Picking the black soil out of our fingernails or green Play-doh out of its little cylinder–we were free to make messes and revel in their goodness.

And as I walk this journey in a quest for joy, a peace and contentment with my children every day, I can’t help but ask God one more question:

Is there any way you could make it warm and sunny every day?

What journey are you taking? Leave a comment below, or link up with your own post!
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If You Really Knew Me

Box of Chocolates Cake — photo via photobucket

I was scurrying about the kitchen, straightening up the mounds of paper that never seemed to leave, displaying the orange card that they had made for him. Red and purple paper hearts adorned the front, preschool-writing of big letters forming names across the inside. And I grabbed children one by one brushing hair and checking faces for Daddy’s arrival.

It was Valentine’s Day, and he would take our daughters for a special date, I, our son. We had decided long ago that Valentine’s Day was not a holiday worthy of our money, yet it served as the perfect excuse for some special one-on-one time with our children. Even still, I held my breath every year, wondering if he had thought of me, too.

I really didn’t want him to spend his money–Valentine’s Day was too commercial and silly–but since the days of flowers for no reason and little notes left on my windshield in the morning were long gone, I secretly hoped for a handmade card describing all the reasons he loved me. Maybe even a single flower to place in a vase atop our kitchen table.

But definitely NOT what he showed up with the year before.

We had been married almost eight years at the time–how long did he need before he truly knew me?

The kids responded like Pavlov’s dogs to the familiar sound of the garage door creaking to open and waited for their Daddy to come through the kitchen door. And as he came through the door, we all immediately noticed the red carnations he had for each of us. Within 15 seconds, each child had broken his or her own stem, and Matt quickly got to work trying to tape back together the broken flowers.

But my eyes didn’t leave the small package he had set on the counter.

Once flowers were mended and pictures were taken, I moved my way to read the package on the counter. My eyes immediately caught the word ‘Chocolate.’

To most, that one word would cause happy endorphins to spread throughout the body. But I’m not most.

There are many weird things about me, and I will accept that not liking chocolate is one of them. I cannot ever remember ordering a piece of chocolate cake nor a time when I didn’t choose the vanilla ice cream. The thought of eating a whole Hershey’s bar makes me feel sick, and if I wanted to find solace in food, I’d choose pizza.

There are a few notable exceptions, and if one really knew me, one might know them. I do like brownies; however, if you slap some fudge on top of them, they are now worthless to me. I like peanut M&Ms, but that’s because the peanut is the focus. I like chocolate syrup atop an ice cream sundae, and I don’t mind the chocolate ice cream, as long as vanilla is the predominant flavor.

I really don’t expect anyone to know those specific details…

…but I did expect that my husband of almost eight years would have enough sense to not show up with a box of chocolates. Even if it is Valentine’s Day. Even if every other woman in America would eat them.

As I looked at the box on the counter, I wondered if one year later my husband still didn’t know me. My eyes continued to scan the whole title, reading the words ‘Chocolate Covered Pretzels.’ While they were an improvement from the box of chocolates from last year, I still didn’t get it.

“I thought you’d like the sweet with the salty.”

I just stared at him for a minute.

“You know, it’s not a prerequisite for the holiday that a person has to eat chocolate,” I said shaking my head at him.

He laughed as we began to put coats on little kids excited for date night. And as we moved to our separate cars, I picked out the perfect gift for Matt next year–a big bowl of eggplant with some french fries stuck in the middle.

Writing in response to the prompt, “If you really knew me, you’d know that…” for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What is something that we’d know about you if we really knew you?

And I’d love for you to come back tomorrow and link up your own post for ‘Journeys.” You can use any topic, as long as it pertains to a spiritual journey that you are currently taking.

Excuses, Excuses

I sat in the middle of the floor fuming, absolutely fuming, as I picked up each card and slid it into the appropriate box. The anger burned inside my chest, radiating heat all the way up to my cheeks. My brow was permanently furrowed, my lips pursed as tight as I could hold them together, my jaw beginning to ache from clenching my teeth.

Every time I felt the first cleansing effects of a deep breath, all I had to do was look around me to find my fury. After all, everyone knows the expression: “Hell hath no fury like a mother left to clean up others’ messes” (Or something like that). And what a mess I was left!

I only have a picture because I wanted evidence of my rotten week for my husband, my husband who was out-of-town for the majority of the nightmare.

We had already cleaned up half of this mess once before. When I caught my son taking down his father and my games, I quickly admonished him to put them away. Of course he didn’t, as his little body was overtaken by a demon the moment his father walked out the door and headed to the airport, and his curious sister got into some of the cards from the various boxes. At this point, I joined them on the floor and began cleaning up the mess with them, lest things got too out-of-hand.

We stopped only to eat dinner, and as I packed away leftovers, they were to resume where we had left off. Apparently, my instructions were not clear, and they resumed where they had left off before I had intervened.

Every. single. card. of every. single. game. was on the floor.

Normally, I leave my kids’ messes for them to clean up, but this mess was too overwhelming, too vast, and I had to rid all evidence of this day before I tried to manage another day alone with them.

As I followed the kids upstairs, the anger burned inside me. And while I didn’t lose my temper, I definitely used it, reminding my son a half a dozen times how furious I was at him for his behavior this week, threatening the other two if they didn’t move quickly. I wanted them to go to bed and not talk to me until the morning. Of course, they didn’t comply with that request, either. We went upstairs at 6:30, and it was 8:30 before my kids were finished ‘getting ready’ for bed and another half an hour before the first fell asleep. My son decided that 10:30 would work for his bedtime that night.

And in the meantime, I sat in the middle of the floor putting card after card in its appropriate box, all the while fuming and steaming over all the reasons this mess was my husband’s, the man who had not been at our home for the last three days, fault. After all, who better to blame than the man who is out-of-town?

I had completely convinced myself that Matt was to blame for this mess, and as I sat for an hour and 15 minutes cleaning up these games, I decided that I no longer liked him.

Whenever Matt’s away, the kids act like monsters. Or if one of them is good (thank you, sweet Hannah Grace) the others make up for it. Who wouldn’t get angry at kids who behave this way?

I had enough sense to text Matt: “You know when I try to go to bed. Don’t call me.” Even though I wasn’t in bed, I didn’t think I should talk to Matt. Remember, I didn’t like him anymore, and I didn’t think I should tell him that.

So, of course, Matt called me. And I wasn’t nice.

But in my defense, I warned him not to call! I knew I was angry and couldn’t be nice, so he can’t really blame me for my less-than-loving tone.

As I lay in bed that night, I thought about how I allowed a mess of cards (albeit the worst mess of cards I’d ever seen) to create enough rage in me to kill a man. I allowed my fatigue and frustration to cloud my mind into thinking I disliked my husband. And I had created enough excuses to prove I was right.

In that moment, I had my first glimpse into how self-control really works.

Self-control isn’t just making good choices; self-control is eliminating excuses.

I lost my temper because my kids were out-of-control.

I’m so weary because my husband is out-of-town.

I’m having a cheat day today, but I’ll get back on my diet tomorrow.

These shoes were on sale, so it’s okay that I bought them (even though I already own 100 pairs).

And pretty soon, we believe the excuses and justify our behavior.

I lay in bed that night, nauseous and tired, holding on to my last thread of anger for one more moment. I thought about my husband whom I wanted to blame, my kids who were at fault for a mess (a huge one) but not for my anger, and I released them. If I wanted control of myself in the morning, I had to own up to myself that night.

I closed my eyes and said ‘goodnight’ to a horrible day and ‘goodnight’ to my excuses. And I drifted off to (a very short) sleep.

^“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). Emphasis mine

What are your go-to excuses for bad behavior? Leave a comment below, or link up your own post on ‘self-control!’ Thank you for joining me over the last few weeks as we explored the different fruits of the Spirit. I am worn out from God’s conviction! Stay tuned for more details as to what we’ll contemplate next in ‘Journeys’!

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He’s Just That Good

While I typically can write a blog post with relative ease, I struggle every Thursday night like my former high school students, not knowing where to start, not able to hit that first key on the laptop, staring at a blinking cursor. The past few weeks I struggled because I knew what I was lacking, and it’s hard to write about my own spiritual failings. However, this week I struggle because I know I haven’t done my subject justice.

I really had hoped to encounter the perfect story of goodness, perhaps an unexpected moment at the grocery store, or a random phone call from a far away friend. Instead, one person entered my mind from the first moment I contemplated this fruit of the Spirit. But I didn’t want to write about him.

I prayed to God for examples of goodness, hoping there was someone I was forgetting. I searched my memory bank for anecdotes involving loved ones and relatives whom I haven’t seen in years. I even looked up the definition of ‘goodness’ in the dictionary, hoping some word in the definition would trigger the inspiration I needed to write a different story than the one in my head.

But it was always him.

And I really didn’t want to admit that fact because I’ve been mad at him for the last week.

But if I’m truly to write on goodness, there’s only one person I know who is this good.

I wish I could say that I’ve never uttered an unkind word about another, but I can’t. I wish I could say that when I fight, I always fight fair, not hitting below the belt with careless words or rubbing salt in the wounds with a stone-cold silence. But I can’t.

And he can.

He doesn’t offend easily, and he is slow to anger.

He doesn’t choose jealousy as a garment but instead clothes himself in trust.

And he trusts with the words I type across the screen, even when they’re not pretty.

He isn’t perfect, but he does walk a righteous path.

And his heart is good.

And when he knows that I’m frustrated, that after nine years we’re still not on the same page, his heart hurts as he searches for ways to find common ground. Whether through a cup of hot tea, a cannoli on a Friday night, or a kiss sending me to bed amidst the clanging of dishes in the sink.

He’s just that good. In the little things. In the big things. All the time.

And even when we’re not on the same page, I know we’re in the same story, fighting for the same things, just focusing on different battles.

His goodness sets my heart at ease, my mind at rest, and when I see the goodness of my loving husband, I taste the goodness of our perfect Father.

^“22But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). Emphasis mine.

When you think of goodness, is there one person who comes to mind? How do you see goodness in your own life?

Link up your own post on goodness below, and please link back to my post with either a hyperlink or my button (grab the code off the sidebar). Be sure to read some of the other posts who have joined us, and show some kindness by leaving comments on the other blogs! Thank you for taking this journey with us!

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Back When I Was a Rookie Parent…

I have never shared this story with anyone, but it’s time….

It was the middle of the night, and Caleb was in bed with us. Perhaps, he had just finished nursing, or maybe he was having a tough night sleeping–I’m not sure–but I am very sure about the events that followed and my rookie-parent reaction.

The black of night filled our room, and the only noise was the heavy breathing of Matt as he slept. Caleb was nuzzled in close to me, resting quietly. Until, BLLAAACCH!!!

And out of nowhere, this precious little boy, around five months old at the time, threw up three times his body weight. Matt and I shot up in bed instantly. The noise–it was horrible. I swear I watched our baby’s head spin around seven times before the vomit left his mouth, gasped as I heard a splash when the throw up hit our bed.

This experience was our first with a child and vomit, and, thankfully, I had just read an article the day before from one of those parenting magazines that I won’t name (because I can’t remember). I never skipped an issue that came to my ‘Inbox’ telling me what my child should be doing at this stage in his development. I read all the articles on vaccines and child safety, and I studied which foods I could introduce to my baby when. I trusted this source. So when this magazine instructed me to have my child seen immediately if he began throwing up and was less than six months old, I took the advice seriously. And I did what any parent would do…

…I called 9-1-1.

That’s right; I hopped out of bed, handing the baby to my husband, picked up the phone in the middle of the night, and dialed the phone number reserved for emergencies. After all, this event was an emergency. My baby had thrown up, and the magazine said he needed to be seen immediately. And the only way he could be seen immediately was if I called the paramedics to rescue him.

My saving grace was that we used Vonage, an internet phone system. We had set it up when we lived in Oklahoma so that we could have free long-distance while we lived away from our family. A plus side of this service was that when we moved back to Georgia, we didn’t have to change our number. Apparently, however, our emergency services were tied to the state in which we first ordered Vonage. When I called 9-1-1, a dispatcher in Oklahoma answered.

“9-1-1, What’s your emergency (or something like that)?”

“My son just threw up, and he’s only five months old!”

Surely upon hearing my son’s age, the dispatcher would signal all the emergency personnel in the area. And in the process of explaining my emergency, we began to realize that we did not live in the same area.

During the confusion of explaining where I lived and figuring out where the dispatcher was, a cloud began to lift from my mind. I noticed the dispatcher did not seem overly concerned that my son threw up, and I decided I did not need an ambulance sent from Oklahoma. The dispatcher asked, “Is your son okay?” and through my foggy memory, I believe he offered to connect me to the correct 9-1-1 in Georgia.

I looked over at Caleb in bed with my husband, his little baby head no longer spinning, and I came to my senses: “No, we don’t need an ambulance. Thank you, Sir, but we are going to take him to get checked out.”

And, no, I did not mean in the morning. That’s right; we put on clothes, strapped that little baby in his car seat, and we drove to the emergency room in the middle of the night. After all, our baby threw up once.

Apparently, I had not yet learned about the ‘after hours’ phone line. I had never heard of such a thing, having never called my own doctor’s office after they closed. After all, if I were sick in the evening, I would just call them in the morning.

And if I were too sick to wait until the morning, I would go to the emergency room.

I didn’t realize that my child’s pediatrician had an ‘after hours’ phone line to give parent’s advice in the middle of the night. I didn’t realize they had anticipated how crazy parents, especially new parents, can act. Had I known, I probably wouldn’t have called freakin’ 9-1-1 because my son threw up once! And I probably wouldn’t have waited in the emergency room for three hours because my son threw up once…and not again the whole time we waited.

Four years later, I still don’t understand why the doctor in the ER didn’t seem more alarmed. I told him Caleb threw up at least an entire bottle’s worth of breast milk, but he didn’t believe me. He said it was probably only an ounce. I reminded him that Caleb was only five months old; he didn’t seem too concerned. But the magazine said that he needed to be seen immediately….

So we left the ER that morning with baby and anti-nausea pill in hand. But I never gave it to him. After all, he only threw up once.

Matt, Jennifer, Caleb--high school reunion night — The Rookie Parents

What’s the craziest thing you ever did as a new parent? Surely, I’m not the only freak!

And don’t forget to link up your own post tomorrow! This week’s journey is on love. Click on the ‘Journeys’ tab at the top of the page for more information. I look forward to reading your posts tomorrow!

Ten Indications Your Husband Is Away on Business Again

10. Your son’s first baseball practice ever is scheduled for the first night your husband is out of town, and you’ll get to tote your 3-year-old and 21-month-old along to experience it.

9. Thirty minutes after your husband leaves, your son wakes up with a rash all over his body. You get to take three kids to the doctor’s office and find out your son has strep throat–all before ten a.m.

8. Your son, who has been looking forward to his first practice for two weeks, cannot go to baseball practice. You now get to carry around the guilt of knowing that your cursing the timing of his first practice with your husband’s trip has somehow caused him to get strep throat.

7. The rare coffee date you scheduled with your friend almost a month ago for when two of the three kids would be in preschool must be rescheduled.

6. Knowing that you’re quickly losing your mind the longer you haul around three small children, you make a short list of items you will need to get at the grocery store while waiting for your son’s antibiotic. While you leave the store with three items that you did not need, you manage to forget the first item on your list–and your brain.

5. You find yourself sitting on your bed twitching and eating M&Ms–and you don’t even like chocolate.

4. Your husband, in his kindness, planned a menu for the week, made a corresponding grocery list, and bought the food before he left. However, he neglected one small detail–that each meal would take two plus hours to make, and you would be feeding the kids dinner at 8:00 p.m. (You’ve never even made one of Rachael Ray’s 30-Minute Meals in less than an hour and a half).

3. During the two hours you spend cooking that first meal when your husband is away, your children conjure up the North Wind to sweep through the playroom. You grab your camera to capture evidence of the catastrophe, but the batteries are dead. You then grab your phone and snap a few shots, but the photos aren’t there when you try to upload them to your computer. The disappointment of not having proof for your husband is worse torture than the actual clean-up.

2. Deciding she can’t make it until she reaches the bathroom, your daughter pulls down her pants and pees on the kitchen floor that you had just mopped a couple of hours earlier–and this daughter is NOT the one who is potty-training.

1. Your youngest child decides that 10:15 p.m. is a perfectly acceptable bedtime.

What craziness happens when your spouse is out of town? What chaos ensues if you go away?

And Then I Laughed

Throughout the week, I racked my brain trying to think of a story to write for this week’s Writer’s Workshop. As I lugged wet clothes out of the washer, I paused to think of the last time I laughed. In the midst of reading about the missing Knuffle Bunny, my mind would wander to think of a time when I was wrong.

Sure, I could think of a couple of times when I had laughed recently, but most were in response to a silly expression one of the kids made or an amazingly correct use of sarcasm by my four-year-old. I’m not sure I could recreate the moment where anyone else would laugh, too.

And then there were the times when I was wrong….hmm…I was struggling with this one a little bit. I was sure there was something–I have a terrible memory–but I kept drawing a blank.

The funny thing is, I immediately thought of at least ten instances when Matt was wrong. I thought of the time(s) when he made us late to church because he thought he could wake up 30 minutes before we had to leave; those days with a newborn in my arms and a 17-month-old running around my ankles and some words uttered 9 months earlier that this situation would not happen; and finally, no matter what he says, I know that the thermostat and/or heater is broken–if the tip of my nose is frozen, and my hands are numb, it is not 70 degrees in the house!

But the last time I was wrong? I got nothing.

So at dinner, I decided to confront Matt with my problem:

“I really want to do that Writer’s Workshop this Thursday, but I can’t think of anything for any of the topics.”

“Really? Well, what are the topics?”

“There was something about prenuptial agreements, but I didn’t want to touch that one…when was the last time I laughed really hard?”

“Modern Family.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to write about a T.V. show.”

Matt proceeded to reenact the dialogue that had me laughing a few nights previous.

“You know, there was the topic about the last time I was wrong. I’d write about that, but I just can’t think of anything.”

There was a pause as Matt looked at me with a straight face. His blue eyes began to twinkle.

And then I laughed.

After seeing the left side of his lip curl into a smile and then hear the snicker escape from his own mouth, there was nothing left I could do but join him.

Visit Mama Kat for more stories of laughter or women who can admit when they’re wrong. And don’t forget to get your post ready for tomorrow’s Journey on forgiveness! For more information, click on the Journeys tab at the top of the page.