Parenting is the Worst.

I think there is a little bit of hell in each stage. When they’re tiny, they cry, and cry, and cry, and you are supposed to be some kind of @#$%^& wizard to be able to tell WHICH cry it is. You are constantly worried about what goes bump in the night, trying to survive sleep deprivation worthy of a POW camp, never knowing what that spot is on your blouse (and being too tired to care).

When they are toddlers and preschoolers, they are messy, smelly, potty training accidents waiting to happen. They are loud. The incessant whining makes you seriously consider packing your bags and leaving.

When they are in elementary school, there is the girl drama, the beginnings of male posturing and the heartbreaking struggles of learning how to read, do 3rd grade math, and all the “not quite a teenager, not a little child anymore” pain.

Then comes middle school. Oy. Like, awkward. (and they smell weird TBH) You get to have the detailed “talk” with them which is SO AWFUL. You watch them take first notice of each other and their own bodies, and you panic when you realize you’re halfway done but you still have SO much you have to teach them.

Here comes high school with all its “who do I want to be,” and the “you’re so out of touch MOM” business. And relationships *GAG* that are here and gone faster than I can learn their names so we’ve quit trying. They’re having their first big failures and you want to rescue, but you don’t have time to baby them any more. You can see the end of the sand in the hourglass; you’re racing the clock.

I can’t imagine what her senior year will be like. The last of everything. Saying goodbye at college move-in day. And beyond. I cry just thinking about it and we have three of these to do.

Parenting is pretty much awful. 

But. There are also the snuggles and the miracles. And laughing at silly jokes, watching them discover their world, and conquering their own mountains; sometimes with you and sometimes on their own.

There is watching them learn to fly, helping them up when they fall, making it better with kisses and ice cream, and being present and silent when they finally open up.

Screaming with joy when they run the ball into the end zone, stick a hard stunt, throw a tumbling pass, stand at center stage, or pass that test they worked so hard on.

There is the overwhelming joy at silly songs, quiet play, watching them sleep, the spontaneous hugs, their boundless energy.

There is the tremendous chest-splitting pride when they make good choices, rescue a friend from danger, stand up for the small, play games with their siblings instead of on snapchat. Text you in the middle of the day how much they love and appreciate all you do for them.

Every stage is awful. And wonderful. ❤

Just Keep Swimming

For the thirtymillionth time this week, “just keep swimming,” is in my head. It’s August and that means summer is officially over. Not that we have much summer here, in Crazyville.

Coach is off, but he gets pretty tired of being “off” after about a month and the Cheerleader is back at daily workouts and practices after the 4th of July. So, we stay pretty busy even when we’re not so busy. Our normal “not so busy” looks like a lot of other families’ super busy. #sportslife

Margaret Thatcher and The Boy have both asked to play soccer this fall, the Cheerleader’s booked us up every evening but Saturdays, and of course Coach practically lives at the school now.

So. Hi.

My last post was right before the election. And then THAT happened. I am still so speechless at the utter circus in the White House right now, I don’t even know where to start.

(amiright?)

I started Camp Gladiator and I’m already down a pant size. But, more importantly, I realized this morning I can’t remember the last time I took Advil in the evening because I was achy and creaky from sitting in my chair all day at work; carrying all that stress in the back of my neck or back. Work is still a barrel of monkeys every day, but I no longer dread feeling like I’ve been drop kicked in the face every night.

I’m also using my standing desk more often, drinking less coffee/more water, and making myself leave the office and go home for lunch.

Ah, work. Still a great job. Still love what I do, love the team, love what we’re accomplishing. This is the Empire Strikes Back part of the project so we’re all working really hard, feeling like we’re not exactly getting anywhere, but it’s just a plateau. We’ll push through and then we’ll be back off to the races. We’ll work it out.

I feel myself coming to a bit of a crossroads with work. There is so much still to do/build/accomplish. But the past few months have felt like a total grind and I’m really missing building, training, and COMMUNICATING. I have done this work thing in this brain, and with this heart long enough to know that communication and training other people how to communicate is where my passion is. In the words of Tigger, “it’s what Tiggers do best!” As important as pulling and analyzing metrics IS and as much as I’m 100% committed to what I’m doing RIGHTNOWDONTLOSESIGHTOFTHISPROJECT, I know I’m going to have to get back to training/communicating or I will begin to atrophy those muscles I’ve worked so hard to build over an almost 20 year career. God did not create me to be a Commander type for nothing.

Since my last post, I promoted to Director with Thirty-One Gifts. Something I don’t post much about here, but it’s become a really important part of my life. I truly feel part of something with Thirty-One that I don’t have anywhere else. Yes, it’s one more thing to do, but it’s as much part of my day as coffee.

 

I’m certain there’s more. But, this is a lot in one update. For my friends who follow me on facebook, none of this is news, but I miss writing (see my bit above about not creating content).

Later, gators.

put your shades on, turn       up the music, &        DEAL WITH IT. 

 

 

 

 

 

Sidenote

It’s Saturday. I haven’t blogged in a while and, if I had more time (duh), you’d be able to see why.

We’ve finished up our first competitive cheer season, Doc is trying to beat CR7’s goal-scoring record this year in *cough* first kick rec soccer, and The Boy is trying to set a record for the number of times he can bang his face on the ground, into the lip of a table, or corner of a bookcase in a single month. Coach is finished with soccer season and has moved full-on into yearbook (which means he’s busy covering every sport, concert, play, and awards dinner at THS). Work is work for me. I love it. Busy, busy, busy. They keep giving me things to do so I’ll take that as a good sign.

I have been feeling the urge to reorganize, purge, and simplify our belongings (again). Realizing the reality is that we probably won’t try and move this year, all the STUFF in this house is making me crazy.

I want to redecorate the Boy’s room. It doesn’t really say anything now that I’ve taken his sports stuff out of his crib. I think we’re doing race cars, but I just haven’t had the time.

*sidenote* I’m writing on Coach’s mac (#love), but I’ve gotten used to my Surface and so now I keep touching the screen. */sidenote* HA.

Doc & Munchkin (can I still call an almost 13-year old “munchkin”?) (and, @sarah, is it more correct to put the punctuation inside the “” or outside, since the “” was to designate a name, not a quote?)

What was I saying?

This is my life. I can’t keep a !@#($% thought in my head for longer than about :25 seconds. So, you see why blogging has been such a hit or miss thing this year. I want to. My life would make a great sitcom. My children are hilarious and I really should be writing this down because [in my most obnoxious, patronizing voice] “they won’t be little forever.” (see, I know I used it correctly there.)

And it’s not all fun and games. There are things I want/need to pour out so I get them out of my head, but I open up the page to write and stare at a blank screen. And then life intrudes and demands my attention. So, in my head these thoughts stay.

Speaking of. The Boy just poured a cup of cinnamon toast crunch out on the kitchen floor. Because 18 months, you know?

Excuse me while I go back to the mess.

One You

You are one.

You are smiles.

You are snuggles.

You are everywhere.

 

You are light. Your older sisters are wind and water, but you are light. Your smile lights up a room and everybody gravitates to you. We can’t help ourselves but to love you.

You eat just about anything. Well, except blueberries. You’ll drink the milk cold, unless it’s first thing in the morning or the last drink of the night; then it has to be just a little warm.

You like Octonauts, Jake and the Neverland Pirates, and Chuggington, but don’t really care either way; you are (by far) the most laid back of the three.

You’re just as happy with a lego pad that is kind of the same shape as my phone as the phone itself (I know that won’t last much longer) and “no, no, no” seems to be your favorite thing to articulate at this moment (probably because you hear it 2300 times a night).

I love you, little boy. You make our little family absolutely complete. You are one. You are mine.

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More

I knew three was going to be more. More kisses. More snuggles. More laughter.

And, yes, I knew it would be more work. What I underestimated was how much more. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder what on earth I got myself into and when I’m going to feel a little less overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed by the mess.

Overwhelmed by the noise.

Overwhelmed by how tired I feel. All. The Time.

Who knew adding one more little person to the mix would add all this work?

I’m pretty sure I’m messing it up. The Boy cries when he’s tired. Or hungry. Or wants to be picked up. (which is all the time). Princess Crybaby is a tyrant. Munchkin is growing up too fast. WAY too fast.

Oh, and have I mentioned the mess? And the noise?

….SIGH…

Just when I feel like maybe I can’t take any more, they do this:

And then I laugh. And I do. Laugh, that is. A LOT.

There is a lot more of that, too. Delight at the beautiful young lady Munchkin is becoming. Amazement at how fast Princess Crybaby is learning and how incredibly smart she is. And the sheer joy of falling in love with a boy. (they really are SO different)

I read something the other day that said to have young children is to accept that, for a time, you just have to hunker down. And I guess that’s what I’m doing. I just hope I make it out alive. *laugh*

Quiet

It’s a little before 5am. The house is quiet; everybody still sleeping. I’m sitting in the dark living room, finishing my first cup of coffee and thinking about a second. It’s a rare treat that I get to enjoy a cup of coffee in silence since the arrival of The Boy. Has it already been almost three months? Has it only been three months? He seems so much part of our lives that it’s hard to imagine him not here.

Princess Crybaby is good. The other night, Coach told her it was time to go to bed. She walks over, stands in front of his chair and says, “can we talk about this?” And that about sums up where she’s at. Everything has to be explained. She’s into the “I need reasons mother” phase. It’s obnoxious. And adorable.

Munchkin is in a play at the high school. Yesterday, I picked her up from the house to take her to rehearsal. I smiled inwardly as I noticed she’d taken great care to get ready. Her hair was arranged and there was a certain “big kid” air about her. A part of me sighs a little more each time I have the opportunity to witness this young girl transforming into a young lady. I am happy, of course, because that’s what she’s supposed to do, but still. Glimpses of the little girl are becoming a little more rare. This part is new for me, so I am trying to approach this with a certain air of conservative detachment. (yes, I made that up)

As we pulled into the high school parking lot, I asked her if she wanted me to drop her off or walk her in. (I kind of thought she’d just want to be dropped off – I mean, I’m MOM and she has started striking out on her own a little more…I didn’t want to cramp her style and I knew she was perfectly safe) Because it was right at 4 o’clock, there was still a lot of traffic – both people and cars. She asked if I’d walk her in. Playing it cool, I parked the car and she hopped out. This is our world – we spend a lot of time around Temple High School – so, as we walked through the parking lot, we chatted about rehearsal and what she would do when she was finished. I reminded her to turn her phone off during rehearsal (no, Munchkin, silent isn’t enough. If it accidentally goes off, you might get tossed off the stage… LOL – just kidding. kinda)…etc.

At this point, we’ve waded pretty far into the mass of humanity in the plaza outside the student center. It is all the sudden I feel a very close little shadow at my side. She leans into me a little and says, “there are so many people, Mommy,” and she takes my hand. It is then I am reminded that she is not so very grown up after all.

I smiled down at her and reminded her that they were just bigger versions of her and we navigated through the crowd and into the student center. I noticed the little bounce in her walk returned once she had ahold of my hand and it was all I could do not to kiss her head. (I know that would have been way over the “MOOOOOOOOM” line) Once we got inside the theatre, she slipped her hand out of mine and bounced off to her world in the theatre. The moment was over.

It was a sweet reminder that I still have a few years before I enter the uncool phase and she’ll struggle with her desire to be close to me and, at the same time, the need to be independent of me.

So much in which to delight. Mine is a cup that overflows. And that’s why the floors are sticky.

But, for now, it’s dark. And quiet. And you can’t see the piles of laundry still not finished (as if), and the dishwasher that’s full of clean and the sink almost full of dirty (I think they multiply like tribbles when we aren’t looking), and the …. well, you get my point.

And my coffee cup needs a refill.

The clock ticks

I don’t want to be a stay at home mom. I thought I did. I used to be. But I don’t anymore. This is not a post about the pros and/or cons of staying at home. This is about me. Because it’s my blog. LOL

I stayed home with Munchkin until she was two. It was, circumstances aside, Amazing and super rewarding. Being able to watch her develop and learn real-time was incredible. When I went back to work, we both had a very hard transition. Becoming a single parent necessitated going back to work. I will tell you, in our experience, two was too late to introduce daycare. Munchkin suffered terrible separation anxiety and every transition issue you can imagine. This compounded my own personal guilt at not being able to continue the plan of staying home with her until prek; illogical as it would prove to be. I felt like I failed her by not being able to sustain the plan.

Princess Crybaby was a daycare kid from six weeks. She did not experience separation anxiety the same way and she missed a lot of the transition issues her sister went through. She is not a hitter, or a biter, and potty training was a breeze. She gets along well with classmates and is, overall, very accepting of adult caregivers. All of this could be personality and have little to do with early socialization. Certainly well-socialized kids still hit and bite, struggle with potty training and have terrible separation anxiety. Shoot, who knows how The Boy will shake out. (So far so good, though)

As I was pregnant with The Boy, then, scenarios went through my mind of staying home; both with and without some kind of income. I felt some measure of sadness as I accepted the reality that finances and our chosen lifestyle just wouldn’t permit me to stay home without some kind of income, and legitimate work-at-home jobs seem scarce or hard to find.

Once The Boy arrived, it was quite different. I found the long days at home very lonely, blissful as they were, with only The Boy for company. I found myself craving a creative outlet, but felt too tired and attention-torn to focus on anything. I started to feel a little crazy without regular, adult conversation. I started rearranging the house, cleaning and organizing. That makes my husband VERY nervous.

I realized that my wanting to stay at home was less about the kids and more about me.

Now that I’ve gone back to work, albeit only a couple of days back, I find I am happier and more satisfied during the day. Of course I miss the children and can’t wait to see them at the end of the day, but I get that much-needed creative exercise. And, being home with the kids all evening isn’t exhausting, because I haven’t already been with them all day… I can still be a good mom and not be home all day.

I believe God uses our circumstances to gently teach us. I am pretty over the idea of a God who beats us over the head in order to bend us to His will, or employs the “because I said so,” style of leadership; blaring truth through loud speakers. He was gentle (and silent) in this circumstance; allowing me to discover for myself that His plan (going back to work) really is in my best interests.

So if you, Dear Reader, are sitting and watching the clock tick, sit tight. Search your heart for how you feel and where you see God leading. Try not to get too hung up on the why; I think it becomes apparent, but sometimes not until you’ve moved past.

disclaimer: I am a skeptic. I love The Lord with my whole heart, but confess to asking a LOT of questions. I have invested in fleeces, because it seems like I have frequent opportunities to use them. Thankfully, I worship the God of the universe: big enough to put up with all my obnoxious questions, and small enough to take the time to answer them.

Endings & Beginnings

All things come to an end. Today was the last day of my maternity leave. Ever. I’ll never be pregnant again. Never give birth again. And I’m ok with that. Pregnancy is scary. I can’t un-know all that can go wrong, or how quickly things can go from fine to nightmare.

Endings. How we say goodbye to things is as important as how we say hello. I cried a little today; not out of sorrow, but a sense of finality. I AM getting too old for the bone-grinding exhaustion of a brand new baby; the never-ceasing demands of very small children. While The Boy is small and sweet and oh, so, snuggly now, he is also fragile and very young – when so much is out of your control. That is where prayer comes in. Because rather than hang up on all that COULD happen, I will choose to spend my time being thankful for them, and all the moments that come with them: funny, soft, heart-breaking, and exhausting. The joy, sadness, pain, satisfaction and disappointment that comes from parenting little people who are so like you, but still their own little individuals.

I am not going to lie. In the middle of those not so warm and fuzzy moments, I find myself looking to the heavens, saying, “what, EXACTLY, can I be thankful of here?” More often than not, the heavens are silent. Not because He’s not paying attention, but like every good counselor, He’s waiting on me to figure it out myself.

I’m still learning.

So, tomorrow is a beginning. I pray it will be a blessing and that, in turn I will have an opportunity to bless those around me. I am nervous and excited. I know the skills required and hope to get my sea legs quickly. I go in with eyes wide open that the pace will once again quicken and work will become more demanding, but in a skill set that is more in line with my skills. We shall see.

I’m still learning.

Beginnings and endings. One chapter closes, and another one begins.

The boy who never grew up

I am reading Peter Pan to the girls at bedtime. I think they are enjoying it – even Princess Crybaby gets mostly still and quiet. Sometimes she will lay her head on my lap and I’ll rub her back while I’m reading. It’s terrific. Munchkin and I read The Secret Garden last year and it was really fun.

Last night, we were reading the chapter where Wendy decides it’s time to go home. She’s telling the story about the Darlings and how the mother always kept the window open for them to return – never forgetting them. Peter goes on to tell his version of that story, when his own mother “forgot” about him, locked the nursery door and replaced him with another little boy.

Call it runaway pregnancy hormones, but I started to choke up. The girls were absolutely silent too. It was quite the literary moment.

I reassured the girls at the end of the chapter that I would never forget about them if they flew away to Neverland and I would always keep the windows unlocked so they could come home. And then the bedtime rodeo recommenced and the moment passed.

For them.

But, a little while later, I found myself thinking about Peter and his story and I could not help but think of Riley. The temptation to fantasize about our eldest boy being one of the Lost Boys, running wild around Neverland; having adventures with Indians and pirates is an intoxicating thought. And then we get to coming back to the window. Would our little “Peter” (aka Riley) think we’d forgotten him? Would he see the crib and bassinet and a closet full of clothes waiting for The Boy’s imminent arrival, and decide that we must have replaced him?

Yes, I know it’s irrational. Riley is in heaven and has been since that morning in October, four years ago. I have not forgotten or replaced him. In fact, I don’t think a day goes by that my heart does not, in some way, whisper his name.

It’s just a story. And I’m VERY pregnant.

One day, I will read Peter Pan to The Boy and kiss the top of his head for the trillionth time and, yes, think of my own Peter Pan. And, while I am perfectly aware of the fact that this is from the movie Hook and not Peter Pan or any of the original versions, I still love this quote from Tinkerbell:

“You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you, Peter Pan. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”

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Torture

So, the Doc said a couple of weeks ago that I was far too cheerful to be “ready” to have a baby and that there would come a point where I would just be OVER. IT.

Friends, I believe that train has left the station.

Like Chinese Water torture (see, sis, I got it this time), I can’t tell if these B-H are hurting more because they are getting stronger OR if my pain tolerance is compromised because they’ve been continuous for a week.

 

Either way, they suck and I hate them. Well, hate is a strong word. If they are going to continue and ramp up (TODAY), then they are great and by all means, they should continue. BUT. If they are just messing with me, then I hate them.

According to wikipedia (the source of all knowledge; reliable and otherwise) – the purpose of chinese water torture is to drive the victim insane by the incessant drops of water. Sounds just like B-H. I wonder if they make straight jackets in maternity sizes?

Had this been an actual emergency…

Dangit. I said I wasn’t going to do this. This is baby #3 and I KNOW what real labor is like. I told this child he wouldn’t get one over on me. I blogged, oh-so-smugly about being onto the mental games played by Braxton-Hicks. I felt invincible.

But, my darling son simply can’t let that stand (who is he to not join his sisters in running me in circles) and so he got creative. He gave an Oscar-worthy performance. All the signs pointed to the real deal. Even the OB nurse got excited. I was pretty convinced we were headed to The Show. I finally agreed to go into the clinic so the doc could “just check things out.”

Well, as it turns out nothing is, in fact, happening. I am right where I was YESTERDAY (at my regular appointment). The contractions feel different and they are stronger and lower, but not strong enough to progress. So, I bought myself a chili dog for lunch and came back to work. I have mollified myself by saying it wasn’t L&D so it doesn’t really count as a practice run.

I hate being wrong. I have a real problem with it. Did you know?

I yelled at my kids today

It was NOT a good mommy morning.

I yelled at Princess Crybaby for dropping her cookies in the car.

I didn’t tell Munchkin “goodbye, I love you” when I dropped her off. I told her to be good and mind her own business.

I mumbled something huffy under my breath when I had to find the compact cards for Coach.

I feel like I failed as a human being today by being a complete bitch. I’m going to make something yummy for dinner tonight, to make up for my awful-ness this morning. And read bedtime stories.

And, yes, I’m trying not to cry about it, but I’m not doing a very good job.

I’m tired of being pregnant. I feel fat, my uterus feels like it’s starting to fall out and I DO NOT want to hear another person tell me how quickly September is going to go by because I might punch them in the throat.

I’m terrified about having three little people need me – at the same time- to help them get ready for the world when I, myself, feel like such a tangled mess.

I’d like to go back to bed, please. I’m being unkind and that’s the same crap I yelled at Munchkin for.

Routine

I will freely admit I am a type-A personality. (PR people like stating the obvious) I like routine. I dislike disorder. So, summer’s “what do you want to do?” “I dunno. What do you want to do?” schedule makes me CRAZY. (and it doesn’t take much to accomplish that these days.)

So, I’m super excited school starts Monday. My children? Eh, not so much. I’ve been pushing morning wake-up earlier and earlier and I’m noticing two little grizzly bears emerging from where my daughters had been.

Lump it, kids. Momma can’t think when we’re in a hurry. Then I can’t ever find my keys and you KNOW how that works out. I call Daddy and start yelling on the phone. #truestory

Who’s betting I’ll start getting up BEFORE 5am; just to get a quiet moment with my coffee before I have to start wrangling kids. And that’s BEFORE we add The Boy. OMGosh. Somebody shoot me now.

“B-H can Eat It”

Today, I was talking to my mother and I told her I’m having a lot of Braxton-Hicks, but that I’m onto their “let’s make her think she’s in labor” game and they could just “eat it.” Because that’s what they do. It’s like taking your car to the mechanic. It never does it once you get there to check it out. And then they look at you like you are a little stupid and maybe you should have paid closer attention to those childbirth classes and a little less attention to Pinterest.

This is not my first rodeo. So you would think I would know what I was doing 100% by now.

My pregnancy with Munchkin was pretty easy, if you don’t count that pre-term labor thing at 22 weeks (don’t worry, I carried her to a lovely medium-well done 37 weeks). Delivery was a PIECE. OF. CAKE. So much so, that I almost hesitate to tell my birth story because I figure other mothers might want to slash my tires.

Princess Crybaby was another easy pregnancy. Sure, I threw up a little every morning from about 10 minutes after the pregnancy test until the morning they induced her at 38 weeks (so we could make it into the hospital we wanted before they closed it to rebuild it as a children’s hospital). Quick and (as these things go) unremarkable (other than they, “hey look, it’s a redheaded miracle baby!” part of delivery – DUH). Another easy delivery. Well, for me it was harder, but I fully believe that’s the 8 years older business. *ahem*

The Boy has been super sweet. No nausea (well, not enough to really talk about), no stupid sweet tooth that made me blow up (weight-wise) and lord, the weather has been an absolute gift. Y’all, it was 70-something degrees this morning. In Texas. In late August. UNBELIEVABLE. (not that he had anything to do with that, of course)

But I’m nervous. What if this last one is “the hard one?” What if I finally earn my mother stripes by living through the delivery from hell? You know what I’m talking about; the one where I finally earn the right to stare down my son and say, “I labored 22 hours with you, BOY, so you’ll eat your green beans standing on your head if I say to..” I can’t really use that card with the girls. “Munchkin, I pushed six times and you were out,” or “Princess Josephine Crybaby, I pushed 15 minutes with you, young lady, so I think I’ve earned the right to tell you you aren’t going to dye your hair,” just doesn’t have the same affect. Not. Even. Close.

But it’s not time to find out what kind of labor it’ll be. Hrmph.

So, in the meantime, these B-H can just keep on doing whatever it is they are trying to do because I ain’t falling for it this time. Nope. Not me.

Little

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This new little miracle.

Little hands

Little feet

Little ears (have I told you I have a thing about my children’s ears?)

How can I be so in love with this boy I haven’t met yet?

Oh, come on October.

I want to see him.

Hold him.

Kiss him.

sleep

24 weeks. The magic point at which, it seems, comfortable is becoming a passing memory; something to think about in the past and look forward to in the future. It’s sometime around 4am and I’ve given up on sleeping any more. Princess Crybaby woke up a little bit ago, asking to go to the bathroom, but she was so sleepy I don’t think it actually occurred to her to go. Then she asked to sleep in our bed. Well, she’s so dadgum snuggly at 4am aaaaaaand I relented. (I have NO willpower at 4am) Well, by the time I settled her back in and got halfway situated myself, I was well and truly awake. Knowing better than to lay there and watch the clock, I got up. And here I am.

I actually don’t mind it. (right now; ask me again this afternoon when I’ve propped my head up with catalogs so I can pretend I have enough batteries to get me through the workday.) The house is still and quiet and it’s still dark enough I can’t see our “happy mess.” *laugh* I have surrendered to all but the basic “necessity” cleaning until the children are old enough that it’s not like watering your yard in a rainstorm. I mean, really – what’s the point? (don’t think that lets Coach off of dishes duty while school is out. I have my limits.)

I think of my sweet sisters and how lovely and clean their house is and I envy them. (and wonder where they get that extra energy and if it something that comes in a pill form.) While some people want to be Martha Stewart, I want to be Molly Weasley. She had a spell to do the dishes for goodness sakes and that beats making crepes and origami christmas ornaments any day of the week.

I console myself with the Joel Olsteen-esque “name it and claim it” platitude (i.e. completely useless, but so warm and fuzzy) that they won’t be little forever and time I “waste” scrubbing floors and sinks and doing laundry is time I could be spending with the kids. Or something like that.

 

You know the really funny thing about this picture (and many others just like it)? I don’t think there is a single child within five miles of this room. Low sharp coffee table? White upholstery? Skinny vases three inches from the edge of the table? Open, roaring fire? And, look at the shine on those floors. Are you kidding me?

One day I’ll have a lovely clean house again – probably right around the time I can reach the stuff on the floor (or sometime after Halloween). For now, excuse our mess.

Oh, and if you hear snoring coming from the corner office around 3 today, you’ll know why.

I got nothin’

I’m tired. It’s been a crazy, hectic week; to be followed by a hectic Friday and Saturday before I can relax. I am SO thankful, though, for the holiday weekend. So, today’s post is a whole lot of nothin’. Nothin’ funny. Nothin’ sappy. Nothin’ inspiring.

I’m empty today. Well, that’s not true. I have a baby boy the size of a bell pepper hanging around that I’m trying to get to know, two little girls who light up my life with their fireworks every day, and a husband who delights, completes and overjoys me. I have friends who encourage me, family that holds me close and faith that keeps me afloat. I have Jesus.

You know what, maybe I’m not so empty after all.

A Son of my Own

There is a very special gift in daughters. They touch your heart in a very specific way. I have two. One is turning 11 this fall and the other will be 3 two weeks before her older sister. They are my joy and my truest delight. They are as different as night and day. They love differently. They laugh differently. They cry differently. They pout differently (well, Princess Crybaby doesn’t really pout; she skips straight to laying on the floor and yelling) And I am filled with a joy that I never knew possible.

And yet.

I longed for the chance to raise a son. A boy. With all the boy-ness that comes with raising a boy. (that sounds very Jack Sparrow-ish) I have no idea what his personality will be, but seeing his face and his hands and his arms and all the other wonderful parts God is knitting together yesterday was a wish come true.

 

I laugh in advance of the messes he’ll make (probably at the urging of his sisters).

I pray for the special bond I’ve heard about between a boy and his mother. 

I hope he is like his daddy. Oh, what fun we’ll have then. (and by fun, I mean I’ll be yelling down the hall or out the back door at him (AND his dad) a LOT)

I wonder if he will be quiet or loud.

I wonder if he will sing.

I wonder if he will be our artist, thinker or athlete – or all of the above.

I wonder if he will like blocks and legos (I’m sure my brother certainly hopes so).

I wonder if he will play GI Joes and recruit his sisters into playing with him. (Princess Crybaby I can TOTALLY see… Munchkin…not so much)

I wonder.

1 Samuel 1:27 – For this child I prayed, and the LORD has granted me my petition that I made to him.