Category Archives: Family

Do Something Fun

By

Barely able to contain her excitement at mama’s reaction, I watched my Sweetgirl out of the corner of my eye, yesterday, as I opened her Mother’s Day gift to me.  I unwrapped a lovingly made preschool painted print of her hand as a tree and her fingerprints as the flowers. Beautiful.  Then, I unrolled this interview paper:

Roo_Interview_PreK_Missindeedy

I’m thrilled beyond belief to know that I’m still in my first decade of life, and that she recognized my deep and abiding love for ice cream. However, do you see that arrow up there on the left?  I had to work so stinkin’ hard not to cry when I got to that line.

Immediately, I started wondering what mental image, of me, my children will take into their adulthood’s.  “She doesn’t do anything for fun.”? OUCH!

Oh, how I want them to remember that mama did indeed have fun doing this most difficult and important job. Most of all? I want them to recall a mother who enjoyed being their mama.

The word “intentional” comes to mind here.  If that is truly how I want to shape their memories, then I do believe I’m going to have to do a little less of the head-down-finger-dance on the keyboard and a little more of this:

boogie_board_missindeedyThat is my mothering goal, moving forward.  It turns out that my Mother’s Day gift was a lesson.   One I’ve heard before, but clearly forgotten.

“Good, better, best;never let it rest.
Until your best is better, and your better is your best.”

If you’ll excuse me,  it’s time to go do something fun.

Be a mama to the two sweetest kidlets I know.

Yes indeedy.

Have You Called Your Mother?

By

Mother_Call_Her_Missindeedy

The Nana and I have fought, and hard, for our relationship over these last 40 some-odd years.  It’s been worth it.

Where we are now?  It’s a good place.

There was a period of time, an altogether-too-long period of years, where my mama would be the last person I’d call for advice, comfort, or inspiration to carry on.   Is that a harsh thing for some of you mothers to read?  I’m sorry.  It is a true story.  One that, I hope, makes what I write next, about my mom, all the sweeter.

Ours is a relationship redemption story, if there ever was one.

Walking down that road of pending motherhood, I realized that all of these hopes and dreams that I had for my own sweet children, were tied up tightly with every fiber of my being. And that was a frightening revelation, a scary prospect, and a depressing way to behold the future of my children. Does that make sense to some of you? The thought overpowered me that, “I was only going to be able to do the best that I could with what I had.”

Sadness permeated my heart at that thought, followed by no small amount of resentment.  I didn’t feel like my mother had prepared me for this mighty job that I now had.

And, at that point in our relationship, I didn’t feel that I could or would ask her for her help. Nor did I think, for a moment, that she would have any constructive or encouraging words of wisdom to share.

Redemption sometimes comes unexpectedly. As I lay with my firstborn nursing him in the wee hours one morning, it dawned on me that my mama truly did do the very best that she could with what she had.

That brought a softening to my heart.  And, ultimately, opened the door to some Grand Scale Healing in our relationship.

Is it sunshine and unicorns now?

Nope.

It is progress.  And Love.  It’s a blooming friendship built on the hope of continued trust and a committment to slather on the grace whenever and wherever.  It’s all of these things, and so many more, wrapped up together to strengthen the fibers of my being.

And, hopefully, hers too.

Now?  I do ask her. All the time, it seems, I ask her what she thinks I should do, could I have handled this better, which outfit should I wear to this event. It’s almost like these last 8 years or so, we’ve been making up for lost time, cramming each interaction with as much mother-daughter love as it can possibly hold.

And I am deeply grateful.

My mother, The Nana, my mama?  She is a gift to me; a precious gift that truly does keep on giving, with each new day that we spend knowing that we are mother and her daughter.  This redeemed relationship is a gift from the God who sees; and isn’t afraid to reach right in and continue to draw us closer to one another, and to Him.

Dear Mama,

I love you.  I’m so glad you’re MY mom. 

Now, turn on your phone, you’re about to receive a call.

Love,

Pooh

Where To Go On Vacation, Again

By

The words that I’ve been writing lately have been far more reflective than I ever thought they would be, when I began blogging last year. I’m waiting patiently to see where all of this reflection is going.  Hopefully, somewhere with a glorious bent?

In the meantime, it’s time for a little levity.

What better way to lighten up than to look at… vacation pictures! Aren’t you “so stinkin’ sited!” (as Sweetgirl would say)? You are not required to answer that. 

During our April vacation week, we went to Disney World.

Again.

It was magical.

Again.

There is not a one of us who doesn’t want to return.

Again.

And soon.

It makes all of us so incredibly happy to be there.  It really isn’t much more complicated than that.

Watching our children, walk hand in hand – or even better – skip, hand in hand, on their way from here to there? Seeing the absolute joy in their eyes, as they spy their favorite characters or rides? Eating every single meal together – as a family – and hearing them chatter away about all the things that touch their hearts in the course of a day? Dole Whip? I cannot put a value on these things.

And this, from a woman who grew up down there and swore that she would never fall into that mousetrap as a parent.

Ha! The joke’s definitely on me.

Oh, indeed it is.

Without further ado, here ya go:

Disney_Vacation_Collage_Missindeedy

Has there been a vacation spot that you wish you could return to (or have) again and again?  Share, please!  I’d love to know.

A Perscription for Peace

By

Choose_What_Is_Better_Missindeedy

I’ve been digging in my heels quite a bit, lately.  Maybe you’ve been here too?  Both my heels and my heart are becoming callused. And, it ain’t pretty!

I can feel the very moment when I know it’s going to happen. Pride rears its ugly head and I refuse to call it for what it is.

And so, I dig in those heels, ready to do battle.

Have you ever tried to do battle in heels?  It’s not easy.  And, I don’t know about you, but I usually end up on my backside, bruised and confused.

Can I tell you? I’ve become weary of doing battle.  Finally, I’m realizing that I’ve been refusing some of the very things that would remove these ugly calluses from me.

Now, I know full well, that refusal can be a very good thing.  Mary refused to busy herself, instead choosing to sit at the feet of the most amazing Teacher and Lover of a soul that could ever walk this earth.  Job refused to take the counsel of friends trying to get him to see reason, and instead, trusted in this Great God who allowed the worst to bring out His best. Ruth, who refused to leave her former mother-in-law for a better daily existence, dug in and Stuck. It. Out.  And, ended up being included in the lineage of Jesus Christ – The Savior of All!

Those sorts of Good Refusals haven’t been on my mind, though.  What’s been on repeat in this head of mine is this sort of thinking: “I need more time for myself.  I need fewer demands placed upon me.  I need to keep my schedule more open for A Possibility.”

I need. I need. I need.

Allow myself to annoy myself.

Because, I surely have.

These refusals? I’m all done with them!

Time.  It’s temporary. And, I do not even fathom it in its current form. My Maker?  He does.  I can rest in that.  He knows exactly when I need more of it. God will, indeed, provide more time, if and when He knows I need it.

Demands. The ones placing the demands are gifts.  I’m not saying that to be trite.   I listened to the heartbreak and anguish of three friends, Three Beautiful Souls, just in the past few weeks, alone, who lost pregnancies.  And I dare to complain that the “demands” of the children God blessed this unworthy womb with, are too great?  For shame. Truly.

Calendars.  Blurry days and jam-packed weeks aside, my calendar does include some Very Important Things.  Things that must be written in stone for the good of this family that I am blessed to be a part of.  But, if I’ll take an honest look at most of the other things, from an eternal perspective?  They’re really not all that important.

Ultimately, it’s not about me. For one who struggles so mightily with feeling worthwhile, this lesson seems awfully difficult for me to master. I so pray it isn’t always.  It’s almost as if I can write it out here, and see my decrepit mindset for what it is, only to forget it days or weeks later, when life gets All Hectic again.

It’s becoming clear that therein lies my prescription for peace.  I must clear some of The Hectic out.  For the good of this sweet family that has been entrusted to me – and I to them.

Choose what is better.  I want to do that.  Don’t we all?

And so, I will.

I’m ditching those heels and setting myself on The Firm Foundation.

Yes, indeedy.

What about you?  Is there a little too much of The Hectic in your life lately, too?  Where can you see places to choose better?

We Need More Sock Puppets

By

This week has been so tumultuous.  I’m trusting in this, right here:

via Pinterest via Renee Swope

So… I thought we could all do with a joyful little story.  Here ya go.

A week before Sweetgirl turned five, The Nana kept telling us to watch the mail for her card.  I thought it was odd that she would make a bunch of fanfare about a card, but thought it wise to indulge her. I am nothing if not respectful of thy mother.

Each day, we eagerly checked the mailbox for a card from The Nana.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch!

And then, one day, this arrived:

Slipperfoot_Collage_Missindeedy

And we instantly understood.

Is this not the most fabulous card?  I’m not sure who played with Princess Slipperfoot more, me or Sweetgirl.

Therefore, I do believe we need more sock puppets.  It’s fun for the whole family.

Or, at least, for me.

And, a note to The Nana – I will never doubt your enthusiasm for a card, again.

What a Weekend!

By

We were uber-busy this past week.  I’m surprised I didn’t collapse before Sunday. But God is good.  He held me together right up until yesterday.  Then, I was down for the count.  But, like one of those bouncy punchy bopper thingies (I really can’t think of the name of that thing to save my life! Anyone???) , I’m back up and at em’ today.

We celebrated Sweetgirl’s 5th birthday on Friday.  Her party was on Saturday, and can we all just agree that ten 4 and 5-year-olds hyped up on cake and dancing like they’re 12 is enough to push any parent over the edge?  Can we?!

I am going to try to just hit the highlights here, but my favorite was, by far, Sweetgirl’s blue hair.  It was just fun! And so… her! We used a product called Hair Chalk.  Have you ever?  Me neither. But, I’m here to inform.  And entertain.  But for now, inform.  So, Hair Flairs Color Chalk is what we used.  It goes on very easily by rubbing it directly onto the hair to be colored.  Lessons learned?  1) Wear rubber gloves.  2) Do not allow the hair to touch ANYTHING in your house for the next few hours.  (Let’s just say that there are a few places on the walls and couches that are a lovely shade of aqua.  I’m going to pretend they aren’t there until they go away on their own.  Good strategy?)

blue_hair_blog

And then, on Saturday, we partied like it was 1999.  Only, it was 2013.  And the party people were the Under Six Crowd.  Mercy…

Birthday_Girl_Tink

The Gammy and The Grampa had driven up for he occasion and I think I can state with some level of certainty that by party’s end, we all just wanted to lay down where we were and sleep until 2015.

But, there was leftover cake to be had.  And we do not ever waste cake in this house.  Indeed.  It’s actually considered illegal in this family.  According to law #8 section 22 of the Missindeedy Family Laws and Codes… Oh, kidding!  But, for realz, we don’t waste cake.  Someone worked hard to make this thing of beauty.

Bday_Cake_5

Anyone hungry?  We have approximately half of a half sheet cake left over.  And I refuse to eat another 3 pieces in one sitting piece. Let it never be said that I don’t know how to share.

Happy Monday!

Locked Out of Him

By

What I’ve shared here took place two months ago.  I’m sharing it, now, in honor of Autism Awareness, in the hopes that some parent who feels like they are in the pit of despair with their own child, will know that they are not alone.

2

“Mommy, look at my invention! Isn’t it cool?”

It’s a hanger, with a piece of twine attached to it. He’s decided that he can use it to pick up his sleeping mask so that he doesn’t have to pick it up with his fingers.

“Isn’t that a good invention, mama?”, he asks again, looking for my approval.

I give it, readily. “Yes, Honey, it is! That’s some great inventor-type thinking right there. I like the way you are thinking of inventions!”

He is so pleased. “I’m going to get a piece of paper to write about it and that will be my invention for Invention Convention at school.”

The teacher in me responds before the mama in me has a chance to sensor my mouth. “I’m thinking that’s a really good start. Let’s see if we can add some more things to make it a bit bigger for your school project.”

He goes from 0 to 60 in the time it takes me to blink. The self-loathing, it starts pouring out like lava. “I’m a FAILURE! I’m stupid and an idiot!”

And then, a phrase we’d never yet heard, “I want to get a gun and shoot myself with it, I’m so dumb!”

I’m incredulous! I look at my husband and we have an silent conversation with our eyes. No. NO! He couldn’t have.

But he did.

All of this vitriol comes forth in the heat of the moment. I’m trying to remember that he’s frustrated. That we are all capable of saying vile things when we are feeling so dark and jaded and hurt.

But we’ve been walking this tightrope of thought patterns with him for the last few weeks. Ever since the Invention Convention paperwork came home. According to the paperwork provided, “Each 3rd grader must choose one of three projects to complete by March 6th. 1. Write a paper on a famous inventor. 2. Conduct a Rube Goldberg project with a small group. 3. Invent a never-before-invention, independently.”

My own 3rd grade teaching experience prepared me for the complexity of steps involved in this process. I knew, without a doubt, that he needed to choose the easiest option. But no. Our child, with his quirky, wonderful mind challenged to the max, already, during each mainstreamed day at school, has fixated on the most difficult option.

Only, this child? He works off of a script. We’ve only just begun the exciting and tenuous process of creating thoughts off of a script. And my mind screams, “NOOOO!!!! Not that choice! Anything but that choice!” But my mouth makes no sound.

So we go through the paper together, looking at the objects he can gather and the different examples of ways he can put them together to create an invention. It becomes agonizingly clear, after the first solitary minute, that he is completely overwhelmed. I pull back and attempt to lay this complicated project out in even more minute steps, deconstructing each one into its most simplistic form. He will have none of it.

And the self-loathing begins. The tears stream. The hurts starts pouring out. He lays out his own perceived stupidity one offense at a time. “I’m stupid! I’m just a stupid kid! I can’t do ANYthing!”

And then, to me, he says, “You just think my ideas are stupid. You hate my ideas!” Each statement, NOT a fact, sinks the knife deeper into my heart.

And then, it comes. The one phrase no parents enjoys hearing and everyone parent abhors, “I HATE YOU!” Butcher knives couldn’t leave deeper cuts. It is clear, now, that this 9 year old boy, who we’ve worked so hard to give the tools for life and communication to, he is stretched as taught as he can be. He is beyond his ability to comprehend the possibilities. I can do nothing to assuage this tension inside of him. I know that.

I try anyway. I softly begin to list the many many ways he was created that are amazing. How smart he is, how kind, how gentle, how funny, how adventurous… He wants to hear none of it. His mind has locked me out. No key on earth will allow me entry.

So I retreat. Into my own bedroom to cry. Away from him. Away from the pain that each word inflicts.

Just as on that first day, many weeks ago, we have this conversation all over again. And I try to block out what these kinds of conversations are going to mean from a mental health perspective. Can I just pretend that all kids think these thoughts of themselves and their parents. That all 9 year old boys go into rages that last an hour or more and fits that involve banging their heads against the wall or rapping their knuckles against their own heads as they rail against their perceived stupidity? Can I?

No.

But in this Saturday moment, I try desperately to work out in my mind how best to proceed. In this very moment, what do we do? Should I try to console him? Should Daddy step in and tow the hard line of unacceptable talk?

No. He wants none of it. By turns, he melts into me and expresses deep sorrow and rails against me even as one single syllable leaves my lips. “You HATE me mama!”

“No, sweetboy, I do not.”, I assure him vehemently.

“Yes, you hate what I make. You said my invention was horrible!”

“Sweetboy, did I say your invention was horrible?”, I ask him. I’m essentially begging him to help me understand when or how he heard me say those words.

“No, you said it was too small.”

I understand now. I crushed his spirit.

I’m still learning.

“I did.”, I say. “And I’m so sorry. It was your invention. We love that you were thinking like an inventor.”

And at that, somehow, the rage is reignited within him. He stiffens and begins railing all over again. The entire process, we go through it again. Less than minutes after it began to finally subside.

Twenty minutes seem like an entire month. I am inconsolable inside. He is inconsolable outside. Sweetman takes over. He tries to intervene. Sweetboy has decided that I am the enemy.

“You HATE what I make! You ruined the whole thing, MAMA!” he spits out at me.

Daddy takes this boy, that seems to me to have just been born yesterday, upstairs. “Yeah, I really am a bad kid! I’m the worst kid ever. How can I make inventions? By my stupidness?”

At this, I must run into the bathroom as I choke back sobs.

“I’m the worst kid! That’s what my self thinks.”, more slapping of his palm against the side of his head. They are upstairs now. I hear too much.

Some minutes pass.  They walk back downstairs.

He immediately comes over to me.  “Maybe I should go away. My self is horrible. No really, my self is horrible. I’m the worst! Maybe you should just kill me or something.”

“We love you. We think you are amazing. You have such a good heart. We are so very sorry you’re feeling this way, but please know that we think we are the luckiest parents in the world to have you in our family.”, Daddy tells him. And many more loving, positive words of affirmation.

He refuses to accept a word of it. He threatens to chop my coffee cup in half. We remind him that breaking things isn’t going to make him feel better. His eyes light on his earphones. He takes them and, before we can react, pitches them angrily across the room. They break. Of course, they break. He is now sliding back down into the pit of despair.

“See what I did? I’m just a stupid, stupid kid.”

And I begin to tear up. Again. This cycle – it slices through all of our hearts. No one is immune.

Little sister asks him if he’s okay. He screams at her, “Be quiet, sis! It’s NOT your business! Just leave me alone.”

Now, she too, is crying.

This vicious cycle takes well over one hour to struggle toward closure. I know this to be true because we were locked out of Sweetgirl’s iPad this morning. We weren’t able to try the code again for “60 minutes” far more than an hour ago, according to the clock.

I’ve retreated to the kitchen this time. I press the little round home button, focusing intently on something, anything, other than the agony going on around me right now. It says the code is incorrect. We are locked out for another 60 minutes. Just like with him. Locked out. Unable to enter the right code to open him up.

I begin pleading, “Please Lord, calm these hearts. Especially his. Oh, Lord, let his little heart feel full of the love we have for him and not the hate he is developing for himself.”

He begins to calm. A bit. And all at once he starts crying and asks, “Am I evil? I was so evil to myself!”

We rush to assure him that he is not evil. That we all feel mad at ourselves sometimes. I wrap him in a hug so tight that I fear suffocating him. But I want to shield him. From himself, yes, but from the fiery darts he’s trying so hard to stab himself with. I just want, so desperately, for him to feel the love I have for him. We all have for him. “Please, let my love overtake his dark, Lord!”, I silently, fervently, pray now.

No words. Not now. Now isn’t the time for words. I mouth to daddy with no small emotion, “NO WORDS!!!”.

His body, still so much like a child’s, though so tall for nine years old, starts to relax. I kiss the top of his head and murmur over and over and over, “I love you. I love you so much.”

He continues to soften. I can feel it. I can’t let him go.

He breaks away and looks up with tear-stained eyes and asks for some lunch. We all begin to pad around the kitchen together, circling the island as if stopping for too long will break the peace that has finally, finally began its descent. We ask him softly, “White bread or wheat, American cheese or Muenster?”, as if these small decisions will hasten the peace that is finally breaking through the turmoil we’ve all been in.

All is calm now. We’re sitting at the table with our lunches before us, pretending nothing major just happened. It’s just another Saturday.

We’re all feeling fragile. We eat, not really focusing on any food going in, or taste going down.

I frantically begin trying to remember, while they are still fresh, all of his words, so that I can recall them when the therapist asks. Each phrase I remember is another slice with the knife. I bleed for him. I pray, sometimes, that he will know the extent to which his father and I bleed for him. And then, I almost instantly regret that prayer. And instead, I pray that he never has to know.

I get up now, to go check on the progress of the iPad. We’re still locked out.

Please God, Let it not be true with him.

Key_Marian_Trinidad

Oh, They’re Listening Alright

By

We had to go to the dentist today. Saturday.  I’m not a fan of Saturday dentist appointments.  Saturdays really should be spent doing something, anything, other than having someone pick at your teeth.  No offense to my friends who are in the dental industry or married to dentists.

And, also, every time I enter a dentist’s office, I feel the need to break into the song from Little Shop of Horrors, “I Want To Be a Dentist”.

In other news, my children strongly dislike their dentist appointments.  This is odd to me, as they both have been endowed with practically perfect teeth.  Captain Ahab and The Nana passed down some amazing “toother genes” as we like to call them. (We are nothing if not scholarly in our verbiage.)  It’s not like they’ve had to endure hours of work done, or anesthesia, or pain of any sort. Unless you count the pain from their twice yearly flossing.  Because, y’all, we don’t floss.  Sorry, it’s true.  I don’t want to lead you astray, thinking our dental routine is any great shakes.

Anyhoo, what my sweetkids do like about the dentist office that we go to, is the waiting room.  It has video game consoles and a castle climbing structure.  And it’s a good thing, because when I arrived, they notified me that they were running about 20 – 25 minutes behind.  Sweetman had just texted me, moments earlier, to ask us to swing by Starbuck’s on the way home and pick him up a coffee.  I texted back, and then… well, you can see his horrid sense of humor in the picture, below.

dentist_wait_missindeedy

I may have completely ignored his choice of emoticon because if I don’t, the razzing just goes on and on and on.

Each time come to the dentist, my sweetchildren also seem to have an incredible ability to make fast friends with whatever other kidlets are there.  Today was no exception. What was exceptional, was the name of the little girl that Sweetgirl befriended.  It was, “Neveah”, pronounced Nuh-vay-uh.  I told the adult how beautiful it sounded and asked where it came from. “It’s Heaven. Spelled backwards.”

Before I could process that or spell check it in my head, my own child’s name was called for our appointment.  We merrily headed back and Sweetgirl proceeded to tell the Hygienist how excited she was to pick out a prize, take a ride in the chair, and get a new toothbrush.  My little talk-a-saurus hopped up on the chair, still chatting away, telling our Hygienist how she liked to talk and talked all the time and didn’t like to stop talking.  The Hygienist mouthed to me, over her head, “I’m sorry!”.  Oh, my child…

However, as soon as that chair started it’s “ride” backwards, terror gripped her.  I could see the scream starting in her throat and leapt up from my wooden child’s chair 3 feet away to soothe her.  The poor Hygienist didn’t have a clue what was coming down the pike; and I don’t want to overstate here, but Sweetgirl can be a bit, um… dramatic.  Shocking, I know.

We narrowly avoided a crisis by showing her the sparkly sunglasses that would help protect her eyes while the big light shined on her mouth. The Hygienist then started in with how she needed to shine the light because Sweetgirl’s mouth was like a little cave, and the light helped her see well enough to do her job.  Sweetgirl proceeded to try to talk through the entire teeth counting and scouring parts of the visit, unless she was screeching over each new tool brought to her mouth, or sound made by “Mr. Thirsty”.  It was a delightful 5 minutes that felt more like 500.

We stopped for a moment to get the toothpastes out. Sweetgirl was offered a choice of 3 different flavors, one of which was cotton candy.  Sweetgirl exclaimed, “Cotton candy!  I never had that taste before.”  The Hygienist lauded her for this and thought it prudent to explain how cotton candy is made out of sugar and is very bad for your teeth.  I didn’t think then was the time to correct Sweetgirl about the fact that she loves cotton candy and asks for it anytime we see it at a fair, grocer, or store.  Right?

By this point, I do believe that the Hygienist was starting to get the picture, and realized that she better get on with it, and quick; otherwise, she’d need to break out the chocolate before our visit was over.  And not for us. I’m no dental expert here, but I’d guess they don’t take too kindly to the dental staff shoving chocolate into their mouths, in the midst of a dental appointment.

You’ll be happy to note that the rest of the visit went along uneventfully.

Sweetgirl and I stopped by the grocery store in the same plaza for some essentials.  We were, after all, out of my Salted Caramel Gelato, and I needed butterscotch chips. Also, we were down to our last roll of toilet paper.

Almost 2 hours later, we pulled out of the drive-thru at Starbuck’s.  Sweetgirl piped up from the backseat, “Mama, why is cotton candy bad for you?”.

Huh.

I thought that conversation had gone right over her head, but no! She’d been listening, alright.  And mulling it over in her head. Because, now, I had to re-explain what cotton candy is made out of and how sugary things can rot your teeth if you eat too much and how if you don’t brush your teeth often enough…

She interrupted me to say, “But, Mama, you give me sugary stuff all the time!”  (Which, hello!  I do not!)

But, all I could think was, “Thank You Lord that she didn’t say that in the dentist’s office.”

Yes indeedy.

A Valuable Commodity

By

This question has grabbed me by the tail and flung me around more than a few times this month:  “Spend some time with me, please?”

My children.

My husband.

My God.

My.

Lord!

In this time of Lent for some and Purim and Passover for others, I find myself forgetting to remember.

Remembering the Good that came from His willingness to spend time. Here. On earth. For us.

It’s all about the time spent.  Remembering the beauty of the relationship. Not the things done.

And, my sweet children are good at this; remembering to spend time. I can easily take a page from their life book.

“Play a game with me, Mama.”  “Read this book to me, Mama.”  “Let’s bake cookies together, Mama.”

baking_cookies

It can sound like an endless string of requests barging into my me-time moments.  If, I forget to remember what a gift this precious time with these loved ones is.

Jesus understood this.

How many times, Lord, will I have to read of how quickly time will go by and how they will grow up and go forth?  Or how All The Time I thought I had with my husband is cut short unexpectedly?  Or how, in the blink of an eye, one can hear news that will hasten their arrival to the Gates of Glory?

And I will be left wondering, “What happened to All The Time?”.

I don’t want to be left wondering.

Because, that me-time isn’t near as fulfilling as time spent ushering in memories, and soaking up His Word, and showing them how much I love them.

With my time.

It’s the most valuable commodity I have right now.

Lord, teach me to use it well.

Five Minute Friday: Home

By

It’s free write time! I’m linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday this snowy morning.  Click the button below to be able to see all of the many-colored thoughts on “Home” that are shared today.

5-minute-friday-1

HOME

Go…

Once again, I am left chuckling to myself over the choice of word for our free write, today.

slippers

Here I sit, in my pajamas, on a cold snowy Friday morning, with my  Sweetkids tucked around me on the couch.  We’ve just devoured far more chocolate chip pancakes than anyone should be allowed to. (You’ll be happy to know that no batter was spewed on this particular morning!)

And I’m reveling in it.

These precious stolen snow days at home, when both children still want to be stuck at home with their mother?  They are becoming fewer and farther between.  The ones that do come are coveted.  Is it okay to covet a snow day for the purpose of enjoying carefree time with your children?  I surely hope so.

We pray for those who must still travel to work today.  And for the grocery stores and hospitals and police and fire units that all remain open and available for those who need them.  We get to do laundry together, and choose our meals together, and snuggle together.

And I have missed this.

Life has been hectic lately.

We’ve all needed a day to relish in the comfort of home’s embrace.  With each other.

Oh, yes indeedy!