He's One.

It's been 365 days. A whole year.

And I'm not entirely sure where it all went.


I remember that there was ALOT of sleep loss. ALOT of crying for about a month (both him and me). ALOT of poopy diapers. ALOT of changes. ALOT of swaddling. ALOT of calling my sister for advice. ALOT of praying. ALOT of "what the heck did we get into."

And ALOT-- and let me reiterate ALOT of love.

What do you say about the Other Man? The one you didn't see coming who swept you off your feet right under the nose of your husband? What do you say about the fact that your heart flutters at just the sight of him, and especially when he's sleeping in your arms or leaning in for a sloppy wet kiss?

I adore this baby.

Here's some of my favorite days since this time last year.











My Son,

Will you please slow and AND hurry up? Slow down the independence, the separation from me. Slow down the loss of the chub on your legs, the roundness of your face, the baby-ness of your smile. Slow down the speed of which you're learning new words, realizing the world is a little scary, and processing all this data we throw at you. Slow down the disdain you have toward your sister so much (I didn't think this started this early) and slow down the linebacker's aggression you possess toward 99.99% of life.

But hurry up and say "I love you, Momma." Hurry up and pick me flowers and tell me I'm pretty. Hurry up and draw me a picture of the sky with an airplane in it. Hurry up and want a dog so Daddy will get us one. Hurry up and take up for your sister for a change.

But stay little while you do all this, please.

Little enough for me to pick you up and put you into bed at night. Little enough to look at me first when you fall down and your knee is skinned. Little enough to think it's funny when Daddy kisses me or I sing in the shower. Little enough to fit on my hip. Little enough to tug at my dress hem from the floor with your little arms reached toward me. Little enough to smile every time I walk into the room, even if you saw me 2 minutes ago. Little enough to think I can fix anything, be anything, and say anything and it's just about perfect to you.

This year, you changed my life. I'd never had a son before. I wasn't sure how this would work. Oh, don't get me wrong. I was ready for the messes you'd make, the spaces you'd consume. I was prepped for the ridiculousness of boys through your cousin. I was told of your total opposite nature to all things familiar to my feminine world. I knew I would love you as much as I love your sister. But I wasn't prepared for how you would love ME.

For how your eyes would sparkle at me and only me. For how you'd find the perfect place in my arm and nestle in there every night as we lullaby. For how you would choose me (almost) every time over all the other arms that want to hold you at any given moment. For how you'd whine for me, crawl fast toward me, squeal with delight over me, and in doing so, melt me like a Popsicle in July. For how you'd say so much with so little words when I'd catch you staring at me with admiration, and upon catching my eye, simply grin, lips closed. For how you'd restore my joy on so many tired days, refocus me on scattered days, and push me to the brink of my patience with your personality that is so much like my own.

You and I are a special ticket, my boy. I love you fiercely and furiously, like a wildfire out of control. You stretch me beyond belief. You force me to slow down and prioritize. You make me laugh until I cry. You make me cry until I weep.

And you're the last line of the song God chose to write for me.


I have enjoyed this year more than I can express with words. And to think I get to have the passenger's seat for the next 17 or so fills me with joy from my head to my feet. Your delicious face is my crowning jewel. And your adventurous heart is my treasure. Your strong will, my challenge. And as we help guide you into being the man you'll become, I fall upon God's mercy and guidance to lead us. Here's to you, my prized son. My delight, my love.

We're just getting started. And I can't wait for the rest of it.

Love,
Mom

The Bachelor.

Ok.

Here's a disclaimer. Or two.

I hate, hate, HATE the show The Bachelor.
I do not judge you if you like it.
I have friends who like it and I'm perfectly happy being their friend.
This is my blog and I'll rant if I want to, rant if I want to, rant if I want to (please sing that line).
And this girl is on FIRE. (sing that, too.) So if you want to not read, opt out now.

I was in line at Target and saw the above photo on US Weekly. And instead of rejoicing in the fact that there's a virgin bachelor (I guess it turns out he's really not a virgin but a recycled virgin who is choosing to remain celibate), I was struck with one of those "Are you kidding me" moments.

Where do I start?

Oh, maybe I'll start at the fact that I'm a little super passionate about my children's purity through their childhood and adolescence. Maybe I'll start at the place where sometimes, no matter how steadfast I am in my beliefs and morality, I get tired of swimming against a current that feels like class 5 rapids to keep my kids' hearts in tact. Maybe a good place to start is that if we don't think this "entertainment" is affecting our children, why not put yourself in the place of how you'd feel if YOUR daughter was one of the disheartened fish in The Bachelor's pond who got sent home empty handed and broken hearted. Maybe I'll start at the fact that marriages are dropping like dead flies and no one wants to admit that entertainment such as this serves as Exhibit A as to why.

I hate The Bachelor. I hate the process that teaches young people that a man can stand on a literal pedestal and take his pick from women like a harem of worshipping Barbies. I hate that he will woo more than one of them at a time, give his affection and thus in HER mind his heart to more than one woman at a time, and I hate that he will spend the night with different women toward the end of this process, trying them on to see if they fit like most men test drive trucks. I hate that these women wait with all hope and sincerity that they will receive a rose from this man, this man whom they barely know and mainly have a sexual attraction to. And I hate that the last step in the journey is that two women are completely convinced they will receive a marriage proposal until the very last second when one of them goes home heartbroken and devastated that she wasn't the one after all that hoopla. And the whole Bachelorette thing? What happened to women being pursued? What happened to letting him look for YOU? But I digress-- that's "old school" and I'll save it for yet another tirade/blog.

Seriously? Can you fall in love during the middle of a circus? You're telling me that even though there's countless women, ridiculously little moments alone, constant ping ponging diversions of attention, shared affections, the bubble of reality TV and Hollywood that surrounds you that the real world doesn't live in, and spoiled rotten behavior and drama surrounding you, it's possible to know at the end of it all you've found the love of your life? Oh my. Oh, oh my.

See, in real life, women aren't ok with being option 2 or 3 or 45. In real life, man meets woman, and stops the world to win her heart, singular. In real life, there's coffee dates, long walks, and sitting on the couch asking questions like- What's your middle name? Did you play sports when you were school? And what was your favorite childhood pet? In real life, he doesn't spend the night with you one night, and her the next night to see who is his perfect fit. In real life, (most) women aren't okay with that. In real life, marriage doesn't begin with the "other woman" being sent home and you winning the competition.

And don't even GET me started on the virginity issue. The headlines read: "The girls are stunned to learn Sean's saving himself for marriage." Also, "Their awkward Fantasy Suite dates." And my personal favorite, "How the winner copes with her sexless engagement." Once again, society wins at falsely teaching young people that sex is the foundation for a great relationship instead of the by-product of a healthy marriage like God intended it to be. Once again, society wins at making the people who actually choose to get married before beginning a sexual relationship feel like they are diseased. And once again, our children are taught that if you aren't having sex, you certainly can't be in love. Because after all, sex is the reason we fall in love, right? I beg to differ. My husband and I both were virgins when we married- me at 19, him at 31 (yep, you read correctly) and let me tell you--- I promise you that we aren't lacking intimacy and I am a very, very happy woman. In fact, I can't tell you the assurance I have in knowing there's no comparison games to past partners being played, no regrets we carry, no jealousies bubbling inside... only a love that deepens as the years pass and we live this perfectly imperfect life together.

And furthermore, why isn't the headline reading "It was so awkward that they were having sex, having barely known each other at all" in all of the other seasons?

I can't speak for you. But I am on a passionate mission to show my children the other side of marriage. Not the one that begins with frivolity and hype, or roses and Fantasy Suites. Not the one that shows unrealistic demands and fairy tale endings. I want to show them the one where the baby is up all night with a fever and you take turns holding her so the other can sleep a while. I want them to see one where the best times are spent on your own living room couch. I want my kids to be familiar with the comfort that comes from the arms of the person who has pledged his comfort to you when you're devastated at yet another one lined pregnancy test. I want them to see "hot" as the hands that mow the grass, fix the broken door handle, and catch the lizards that got into the house. I want them to see the strength that comes from holding hands as you wait for answers or while you sit in the ER with a kiddo with a broken arm. I want them to walk into the kitchen when Momma and Daddy are smooching and be totally grossed out. I want them to understand that sometimes you're married for 13 years before one of you falls passionately in love, and that by the 17th year, you miss him so bad at the end of the day, it's like when you were in college and he was four hours away again. I want them to see that sometimes, love is messy, it's inconvenient, it's painful, and it's tiring. But it's also fruitful, refreshing, bountiful, and safe. I want them to see fighting and making up. Giving and taking. Crying and laughing. Worrying and trusting. Making messes and cleaning them up. Growing and changing. Working and resting.

And the last I checked, this isn't the picture our good ol' reality show paints for my kids to see.


I don't remember the last time I received a single rose from my husband. (I don't care for flowers that much. I'd much rather have chocolate, lol.) But what I do receive daily from him lasts way longer than the petals from a flower ever could. In fact, I wear his promise to me on my finger and every day, he makes good on that promise.

And at least when I do get a rose, I know I'm the only woman who got one from him that day.

I'm just sayin. ;-)

The Front Nine and the Back Nine.

This is the part where I start feeling overwhelming emotion that makes me feel all happy and ridiculously sad at the same time. This is the part where I realize that 365 days are really over quickly, and added up, they turn into seconds and vanish like the morning fog. This is the part where I step back and gasp at how much has changed right in front of me and overnight, like the strange way dew appears in the grass and you never saw it until you step barefoot into the morning.

My daughter is nine years old today.

We celebrate birthdays in BIG fashion in our house. Like for days at a time. Like lots of cake. Like lots of gifts. And the "big" birthdays? Well, they get even MORE attention. The 1st, 5th, 10th, 13th, 16th, and 18th are pretty significant ones, dontcha think? Entrances into new stages of childhood that should be praised and celebrated. However, last week, it hit me. The 9th is a pretty big one too.

We are exactly halfway.

Halfway between birth and adulthood. Oh, I know my job doesn't end in 108 more months. I'm 35 and I am still being parented. But reality is, in 108 more months, she will belong to the world. Not just to me and her daddy, her brother... To her destiny. Her own path. Her real-life world.

108 months down, and 108 more to go.

Sobering. And nauseating.

So much to teach her. And it's half over. So much she still has to learn. And tonight, I will be OVER half way to the threshold of her future. Halfway to her freedom.

Halfway to my nest being one less a baby bird.

We spent the morning with her, reminiscing with her and laughing about how far we've come-- the highs and lows of the front nine. We took her to breakfast, and I swear the whole time, she was cuddled to my side in our booth, her sweet daddy across the table from us- just the three of us, like we were today nine years ago. We would tell her a story about when she was 3. She'd say, "Tell me another one, guys." And we would.

My heart is full when I think of this girl, this answer to so many tearful prayers and so many wishful dreams. She was the light at the end of infertility's long dark tunnel. The first burst of fall's cold air on my exhausted face. And from her conception, she has been a delight. She was a delight to carry, a delight to deliver, and is a delight to raise. I praise the God of Heaven and Earth for her life. Because HER life brings definition to mine.

Will you allow me this trek through the last nine years? I can't put them all on here, for one- you'd fall asleep. But mainly because you wouldn't "get" it. Nor should you.

She is mine.


Dear Abi,

Here are some moments I have loved with you.

Nine years ago today, I found what I was born to do. When your cry filled the room, announcing your entrance, Heaven rejoiced like it never had before. That day, the world was changed. That day, you broke my heart and healed it all at the same time. That day, you showed me what I was created for. You have been a sheer treat to my soul from the moment I knew you were inside me. Every day being your mom is a dream I dreamed about for many years. And you've never one time been a disappointment to me. I carry your laugh with me through the day. And I count the minutes until I can kiss your cheek every time I drop you off at school. I search the freckles on the bridge of your nose and the speckled green in your eyes. I love the way your voice changes when you're telling me something funny and the way your song resonates through the house every waking minute of your day. I sigh with happiness when feeling you crawl into our bed in the early morning hours. I love your heart and how tender it is- how it breaks with love at a moment's notice. I love how you sing Zac Brown songs at the top of your lungs in the shower with lyrical precision. I love your pioneering spirit and how you're not content to blend in with your surroundings. I love how other kids are drawn to the light inside you. And how you make others feel valued and welcomed in your presence. I love your relationship with Jesus and how personally you know Him. I love how easily you take correction and discipline and how repentant your soul is when you've done wrong.

But mostly, I love that you are mine. I love that out of the billions of women on this planet, God fashioned ME to be your mom. That all the years of waiting led us to YOU.

Everything about you delights me. Everything about you matters to me. And everything about you is everything a mom could ask God for in a child. In fact, as He always does, He surpassed all I asked Him to let you be. You're so much more than I asked for.

And the back nine will be our greatest years so far. I know this because YOU are in them.

I love you,
Mom

A Refresher Course in Perspective.

A fresh wave of perspective has hit me like a tidal wave today. A tsunami that has knocked me to my knees and put me on my face with emotion. A realization that was as close as my next breath a few weeks ago when 26 people were taken from their lives in Newton, Connecticut- but sadly a perspective that was easily forgotten through the day to day shuffle of naps, homework, to-do lists, diaper bags, and dinner time rushes. Today, my perspective is back. But that perspective has come with a great price.

Within the last week, two local families in our area have met great tragedy. Two families have lost spouses and children through horrific car accidents. On two very separate occasions, two families went about their normal days and suffered irreversible blows to their core by sundown. Two families are torn in half and trying to figure out how to breathe without their loved ones nearby.

And I was complaining last night about what exactly?

Abi's tangled hair that she (yet again) failed to brush thoroughly?

The fact that my van needs a vacuuming out something horrible and I had no time to do it?

The whimpering that my son does sometimes at night that doesn't require us to go in there but wakes us up nonetheless?

The ache that comes and goes in my right knee?

The fact that I am stuck at a weight that I wish was 10 pounds less?

A cranky baby who was fighting his nap like a champ?

The purpose in life that my daughter has apparently discovered in picking at her almost one year old brother until he snaps a twig?

The fact that I threw an opened container of Greek yogurt across the kitchen and missed the trash can?


Was I really complaining about that?

Because as I look back over those complaints, here's what I see.

Signs of life.

Signs that there are healthy, vibrant, living, breathing people who love each other, love me, and love life, all in my house, warm and safe. Signs that though my life isn't perfect and certainly isn't what I imagined it would be, it's far better than I dreamed it would be and more than I ever hoped for. Signs that I have a safe place to land every day, surrounded by people handcrafted to walk through life with my hand in theirs. Signs that we are living. Signs that life is good.

This blog will be a short one. It's one that doesn't require much explanation or any eloquent words. It doesn't get any simpler than this.

Hug your kids. And often. And look them in the eye. Listen to them when they speak. Touch them on the face. Hold their hand and breathe in their scent. All around you there are parents that would give all their earthly possessions to hear a whine or a shriek one more time--- give their health to answer one more question about ladybugs or what Power Rangers eat for breakfast. Parents who would sacrifice their careers and college degrees for the chance to get up and feed a baby in the middle of the night one more time. Who wish with all their hearts for their child to have a broken arm instead of a debilitating illness or incurable disease. Who see me frustrated and tired with two unhappy children in Wal-Mart and long to go back and push a buggy with a grumpy child or two one more time. Husbands who don't know how to go on without her presence in their home. Wives who regret the morning rush that cost her that goodbye kiss.


My point is this succinct. Stop complaining and live your life. You only get one. And if you're constantly complaining about the messes and the chaos, and you're constantly waiting on the life you always envisioned to begin, it could be that you can't see the forest for the trees, my friend.

Soak it all in. These are the signs of life.

Burnout.

Burnout. A noun- meaning "the reduction of a fuel or substance to nothing, through use or combustion." Also meaning, "physical or mental collapse caused by overwork or stress."

My definition?

When you're just quit of it. (A phrase my daughter coined when she was 5.)

I've decided that when you're a mom, motivation comes and goes like an ebbing tide. You can be super motivated on Wednesday and see your messy house as a canvas for you to work a creative miracle, only by Thursday to feel like if you have to cut one more chicken nugget into bite sized pieces or fish one more blade of grass out of a messy mouth, you'll just lay down in the fetal position and bawl.

You know why? We never stop.

I've blogged many times about the cataclysmic difference between life before a baby and life after. But the fact remains, it's a comparison you can't describe until you experience it. And the fact remains that when you don't have children, you can lie down and go to sleep and never wonder if you'll be woken up by a hungry baby at 3:00 am, or even question whether or not you'll have enough time the next day to watch those new shows that every one has been anticipating. You never wonder if your dinner will be eaten while it's hot or remotely warm, or ponder how many cups of coffee are legitimate before you have what a normal person would consider a drug addiction.

My point is-- there's not much time to catch your breath. And what used to be messes you or your husband would make once and you'd clean up once becomes a mess you literally clean up 27 times between 5:00 and 8:00 pm.

I love my family. Not like a "I-love-you-because-I'm-committed-to-you" love. I'm talking about a drooling, celebratory, fluttery heart, bawl my eyes out kind of love. They make me laugh from my toes. They make me squeal with delight. They make me count the minutes until I see their faces. They make me run my race with excitement for what's coming next. I almost always feel appreciated and valued-- even by my little squishy 11 month old boy who smiles with his eyes with sheer love and thanks for me.

But burnout happens. It happens when you're folding teeny tiny socks that never have a match and are impossible to find because of their microscopic size. It happens when you're picking up child A to take her to one location, while child B is screaming for his balloon that he threw to the back of the van. It happens when you volunteer to do math centers (again) while there's dirty dishes in your sink at home. It happens when you're working through a nap time protest, or an eye-rolling session from a moody 3rd grader. It happens when you look at the clock and realize it's an hour past when you had hoped you'd be in bed and you still have 3 major things that will stop your family's functionality tomorrow if it's not done tonight. It happens when you tuck in a sweet baby or send a cheery 8 year old off to brush her teeth for the night. It happens when you are listening to your kids screaming at each other out of anger. It happens when your beautiful family is sitting on the couch and you're gathering up 38,922 toys the size of a pack of raisins from under the kitchen table and you're green with envy because that couch looks so comfy.

It. Just. Happens.

And you know why it happens? I don't know about why it happens for dads... (and dads, I'm not saying that us moms are the only thing doing anything for the family.) But I know why it happens for women.

We were created with a strength to nurture. And that strength easily and frequently becomes our weakness.

We were created with a womb. To nurture another human being for nine months. And whether you bore a child from your womb or not, the fact remains, you were created with the make-up to do so. Every fiber in your being was imprinted with compassion, sensitivity, wisdom, and intuition. Over time, the way we were raised, life experiences, and our own choices either develop or stunt the growth of those God-given gifts inside us. We aren't just checking off a to-do list like our male counterparts... to us, our to-do list equals nurturing our families' needs at a heart level. Every meal we cook equals full bellies and happy hearts for our loves. When we put clean sheets on our baby's bed, we sleep better ourselves that night. When the laundry is folded and put away, we feel like we've prepared our husbands and children for a successful week... a clean slate to choose from.

But truth is-- though our motives are great and our hearts are open, we get bogged down in the day to day because our own programming works against us--

We give until we give out.

To borrow the definition again, we "reduce our fuel or substance to nothing due to use or combustion." See, to a man, a task is a task. To a woman, her task is her heart's display- especially when it comes to her family.

My husband is extraordinary. In just about every way, he's unusual. And I guarantee you, there isn't a woman on earth more thrilled with her marriage than I. I feel loved, I feel cherished, I feel valued, I feel equal, I feel seen, I feel heard. But fact is, when I enter a stage of burnout, I feel like no one appreciates what I'm doing, no one notices I'm there unless I don't do my routine, and I'm the only person in the house who knows where anyone's stuff is. The "real" me knows that nothing could be farther from the truth. But the "burnout" me is selfish and likes to throw pity parties.

The other day, one of my very closest friends on this planet said to me, "God wants to do things for you because you're you. He wants to do things for you that has nothing at all to do with your marriage or your children, but things just for you."

I hear this. I teach this, for crying outloud. But in the day to day, I forget this. That the Maker of me is so deeply proud of my existence and so full of gracious kindness for me, He wants me to experience little glimpses of Heaven on earth that have nothing to do with anyone in my household except for me. A cup of coffee alone in Target. An hour to read a book by myself. A morning to sleep in. A day in a bookstore alone. A new pair of pajama pants. A chance to sit in my hammock and listen to nothing at all. Two hours to watch DVR shows without anyone needing to be held or fed.

Here's the deal. If you're waiting on someone to make these things happen for you, you'll just live in burnout. You have to create your times of refreshing. Sure, my husband will on occasion say, "Let me give you a foot rub," or "I'll clean the kitchen tonight." Fact remains, he is tired too... he works too, he parents too, he loves and nurtures and plays too, so to expect him to give to me what only I know I need is unfair and builds resentment.

GIVE YOURSELF PERMISSION. To:
Take a nap if you're sleepy every once in a while.

Read a book while your littles watch TV. (**gasp** TV????)

Say, "When Daddy gets home, I'm going to Target. Alone. And I don't know when I'll be back." And leave your watch at home.

Stay in the shower a little longer.

Sit on a bench at the park while the kids play and call your mom.

Say no sometimes when they say, "Mommy, play with me."

Delegate.

Leave the dishes and head to bed early.

Find five minutes to read a little devotion/Bible verse in the day.

Go out with girlfriends once a month. (working on this).

Be glad when your kids are: gone overnight, napping, or just out of your sight for a few minutes.

Say no. And for no reason at all.

Ask for help. Beg for it if need be.


216. That's how many months we have them. 216 calendar flips. That's a mere 18 Christmases, 18 birthdays, 18 Valentine's Days, 18 summers. May sound endless at times. But when I think that I am 108 months down, 108 to go with my oldest, I find the urge to keep burnout away at all costs. I can't afford to lose even one precious day. Because she matters. I matter. And if I'm not at my best for me, I won't be at my best for her.

I think I'll sit on my couch tonight. ;-)

I Confess.

Will you just listen to me? I have some things I need to get off my chest.

I confess:

It's January 9, and my tree is still up. I'm not the least bit apologetic about it.

It's January 9 and I haven't made any resolutions/goals for 2013. At least on paper. I'm gonna do it, I promise. But not today.

I am constantly torn between wanting my kids to grow up and stay small. It's like the war of Selfish Mommy versus Loving Mommy. Loving Mommy always wins. But sometimes, Selfish Mommy just wants to eat a meal while it's hot. Or take a nap when she's sleepy. Or read a magazine the month it comes out. Or even the year it comes out.

I don't feel like a dork anymore for treating a grocery trip alone like a spa day.

Sometimes I really worry that I'm doing something my kids will end up in therapy for one day.

I hear people who don't have kids talk about how "busy" or how "tired" they are, and I have to fight the urge to laugh out loud. And then I remember that I didn't have a child for 7 years and tired is tired, regardless of why you're tired. The difference in no-kids tired and kids-tired is when it's kids-tired, you usually get interrupted from your rest when you finally get some and your tired carries over to tomorrow like minutes on a cell phone rollover plan.

I throw away alot of things that my daughter probably intended to land on my fridge door. I mean, really. How many rainbows with stick people can a metal appliance hold? I'm pretty sure all our magnets are interfering with something Nasa is trying to do to bring world peace.

I go on alot of mental cruises, trips to the mountains, and just hotels in wherever with giant fluffy beds and cold dark quiet rooms.

I hold my breath every month. You know what I mean.

I find myself with Baby Einstein playing for who knows how long, and Walker isn't even in the room. Or even on my side of the house.

I also find myself whistling the melodies that I know by heart from the instrumental classical music on Baby Einstein like I used to hum songs from the radio.

I do a happy dance when bedtime comes every night. At least in my mind. Even if they've been super angelic and perfect. I never dread bedtime. Never. Ever.

My heart leaps when I hear that little "bah-dah-bah-mama" spoken over the baby monitor around 7:00 am.

I have actually worn more makeup and fixed my hair more since I had baby 2 than before I even had baby 1. I think it's a mind trick to make me feel less "mom jean" ish.

When I have my sister's boys in public and someone asks "how old my boys are" or says that "my" kids are beautiful, I agree with them.

I have never loved my husband more than I do right this second.

I seriously fantasize about my boy and his cousins playing football and I hope all the time they don't choose baseball.

For some reason, the thought of Abi as a teenager makes my stomach turn way worse than my baby boy becoming one.

Nothing makes me happier than cooking dinner while the bustle of the afternoon/evening is happening around my feet and at my kitchen bar.

I spend way more time than is practical staring at my kids' faces.

I literally can't remember what I did all day before I had kids. But it sure felt important while I was doing it.

I can't figure out my body since I gave birth again. It's like reading a map to a city I went to a long time ago but every landmark has changed and every single street is now a one way street and I need to get over to the other side of the block.

I talk to Walker about ALOT of things that I'm glad he can't understand yet. He keeps really good secrets, and like the typical man, doesn't say much back when I gripe or gossip.

I still find myself spelling words in front of my almost nine year old, like I used to when I didn't want her to know what I was talking about. I flew through a long spelling the other day, and she never looked up from the iPad and said the word I spelled.

I am not the least bit humble about how beautiful my kids are.

When I get a night off/an early bedtime for the kids/a random chance to do whatever I want for hours, I never choose girlfriend time.

I discipline other people's kids in my mind every time I go out in public. Like a whole role play scenario in my mind. For real.

I kiss my kids wayyyyyy more than the average mom does, apparently. And my poor nephews have to suffer through it too. I ain't sorry.

I throw away ALOT of toys from my daughter's room that she never knows about.

There are too many bowls of Lucky Charms consumed in our house than crunchy moms would think is acceptable.

I have never made a single thing of homemade baby food in my entire life.

I wasn't the least bit sad my milk supply was so pathetic with both of my kids and I "had" to use formula early.

I cannot-- CAN. NOT. go to sleep with a dirty kitchen at night.

I literally wonder how many times I hear, "Mom, watch!" or, "Mom, look!" in a 12 hour period.


And there are more times than I can ever document or count when I think I need someone to pinch me. That after years of trying. Struggling. Wanting. Needing. Imagining. Dreaming. Hoping. Hurting. These kids are mine. And that man is mine. And this is our life. It's a reality I never dread waking up to. And a reality I never regret as I close my eyes at night.

My last confession today?

I am totally convinced that I am the most favored woman God ever conceived. Ever. And always.