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With my voice dripping of ridicule, I declared, "What an idiot!"
My Little Lady immediately gasped. "Momma! You shouldn't say that!"
"What a foolish, foolish thing to do!" I justified. What person in their right mind would do something like that!?
"But Momma, that isn't nice!"
A little bit later I lay next to her tiny form in her bed, snuggled in close, ready to sing her a song. "My stomach hurts."
The whole time I didn't know what to say. The whole time I didn't know whether this was happening for HER or for ME. Was I supposed to DO something with this? Or was I just supposed to be there, to be a calm presence, to listen? Was God trying to speak to my own heart through her words and her wounds? I felt almost panicked, not having time to think through all the options and what the one very right thing to do could be. I wish I could say I chose out of wisdom, but that's not true. I chose out of exasperation. I just tried to listen. To affirm her. To tell her I was sorry. So very sorry that it happened to her and she'd had to live through that.
"They say a burned child fears fire. That's the truth." she said.
I saw it the moment she walked in the door that Friday evening. Something was wrong. Not her normal 'I didn't get my way' kind of wrong but a deep, consequential wrong. In a millisecond I had time to think a thousand year's worth of thoughts.
I had forgotten.
I've been working on tamping down perfection's head when it tries to rear up. I decided to just try it. If i didn't like it, no big deal! If it was too much time, I'd just quit. The world wouldn't explode. Little did I know...
I was standing at the stove, cutting a package of bacon in half. Those lines whooshed over me like the first rays of sunlight coming over the horizon in the morning.
That!
Out of the blue the other night in the midst of some other activity, the Lady came up to me and asked with a most serious tone, "Momma, do I look like you?"
I had spent 18 of the last 72 hours in a Sportsplex with four full basketball courts being utilized continuously by some fifty kids from age 7 to 15. Countless balls bouncing, always bouncing, plus the unexpected whistles and buzzers, and incessant squeaks of sneakers on the court barraged my senses for six hours on Monday, then Tuesday, then Wednesday.
I snapped. 415pm. Wednesday.
When the new year dawned, I knew we would be moving mid year despite being unable to share that with anyone. I decided to embark on both a Project 365 AND this 1SE One Second Everyday video Project simultaneously
Art is Expensive.
The creation of art is expensive.
The process of learning to make art is expensive.
And it is a luxury that so many are never afforded the opportunity to experience.
It was exactly ten years ago. A Friday in late December 2004. At a mere 25, I worked my very last day in Corporate America. The tension of trying to maintain a perfect home, be a good wife, all while struggling (and failing) to be a successful chemical engineer finally broke me.
The war for her heart granted me a different perspective and the wisdom to discern which issues were truly battles to fight. I have become much more selective about which hills are ones I'm willing to die on. Now I consider issues through these three filters:
A day or two before Memorial Day, my friend Tiffany from Peanut Blossom suggested I join her in the Instagram 100 Days of Summer project. Someone somewhere noticed that there were exactly 100 days between Memorial Day and Labor Day this calendar year, and thus, the project was born. I've never done a DAILY photo project before.
I want to inspire their imaginations, and I want their home to be a place that is always, always filled with FUN and fond traditions. To engage their imaginations now is to awaken their sense of wonder and prepare it for bigger and better things as they grow. Santa is meant to point our children toward Jesus, not detract or distract.
Emily picked up her backpack and came to give her mom a hug goodbye. It was morning. Bold, crisp rays of sunshine poured through the kitchen, touching the empty breakfast bowls on the counter. Mom smiled warmly and said, "I love you, Emily. Have a great day at school! Be the one!"
As we were setting up, one of the girls asked "where are your kids?" I don't even know which girl asked. I was busy trying to get everything out and ready to go for cooking class. I explained that The Boy and The Lady wouldn't be there today, because they were spending a few days with their grandparents.
Whichever girl it was then asked me, "Are you glad?"
I sat on my bed, wrapped in my cocoon of down comforter and pillows, relishing the feeling of the soft satiny sheets against my skin. I watched him ready for the end of the long, long day as we talked. Lamplight illuminated the crisp white of the duvet, highlighting his rugged and familiar features. It is our routine. My comfortable. The pattern. I was sharing my frustrations with the day. Frustrations with the kids. The myriad disappointments in myself and my failure to handle it all properly, just that day.
I wonder if other people have major parenting revelations in the floor of Sporting Goods stores. I sure did last week.
Those adorable, tiny, orange mesh shorts immediately crumpled to the floor. Her eyes became wide in shock, she quickly bent and grabbed to pull them up, and stood up with the shorts. And they immediately fell right back to the floor.
Then it happened.
Fast forward a few years and I've forgotten. It is so tempting to become caught up in my whirlwind of achievement. It is so easy to try to minimize the damage control. I am weary of cleaning up messes! I am weary of cleaning up the very same messes - over and over and over again. Perhaps it is the engineer part of me that screams on the inside how crazy it is to add more mess to the ordinary, to keep repeating the same activities and never, ever, see progress.
As the end of the school year approached and it was time to think about End of Year Teacher Gifts, I began to brainstorm. I wanted something their teachers would really want themselves. While I'm sure they appreciate the sentiment behind some art my kids would make, or something they'd create themselves, it wouldn't be something their teachers would want to keep.
I know better. I know better. I know better.
The whole morning was ‘off.’ I slept too late. I took the dogs out too late. I had to wait forever for the puppy to poop. I woke the kids late. I got The Lady in the shower late. I started cooking breakfast late. They started eating breakfast late. Then I spent their entire breakfast time looking for the cup of coffee that I’d poured before putting The Lady in the shower. I couldn’t find it anywhere.