The Difference a Day Makes

Today, the sun is shining in a way that I couldn't see yesterday, or the many yesterdays before that.  I am feeling better.  None of my challenges have gone away.  Well, except for the husband working with no pay.  Though he's still gone all the time, but thankfully he's getting paid for it...kinda important because we rely on that.  

But life simply feels brighter, more full of hope.  Something happens when I write about current events, I'm realizing.  I'm able to use the process to see things more clearly.  To see myself more clearly and throw open the dusty shutters to let the light of inspiration chase away the dark corners of my soul.

So I decided to cheat at this whole blog thing.  I skipped over the tremendous back log of posts that I still need to write and jump into the present.  I'll still get to the older ones, just not today.

Because today, life is good.  I can see the joy.  I spent an hour this morning talking to my YW counselor who just gets it.  She struggles with balancing church obligations with family obligations.  She feels guilty for not doing enough.  She longs for the time to do more, to occasionally have down time to recharge.  But she realizes that she can't do it all, and that she should just keep trying even if it isn't always enough.  It was refreshing.  Sometimes you just need to talk to someone who gets it.  Who doesn't judge or try to fix things.  Someone who you can simply commiserate with.

And when we were done talking, I cranked up my favorite Pandora station for a little extra loud dance party.  It was so loud that it drowned out B almost completely.  Which I'm thinking is actually a key ingredient in the magic formula for today. 

And then we made cookies, but ate a large portion of the cookie dough before it even made it to the oven.  Who needs lunch when you have cookie dough?

I'm tired of being stressed.  I'm done with worrying about all the different ways that I'm not enough.  I'm going to do my best even when my best is terribly inadequate.  And I'm going to have fun while I'm trying and failing in all the different areas of my life.  Things will either work out or they won't.  But moping around now won't fix a single thing.

My life is just that, my life.  There is no blame for the challenges I face.  I can use them to build myself up, or let them tear me down.  I'm done feeling defeated.  For now.  I'm sure the feeling will return every once in a while.

But not today.  Today it's ok that I feel annoyed by my children.  I can still love them through the annoyance.  Today it's ok that I have no idea how to deal with my son's anxiety issues.  I can still see how beautiful his mind is and recognize that for better or worse, he is mine.  Today it's ok that I don't always get along with my husband.  Today it's ok that I am overwhelmed trying to be the YW president.  I can still see the beauty in all of my girls and do what I can to help prepare them for their futures.

What a difference a day makes . . .

Who I Need to Be

This morning, my 3-year-old cried and cried because she wanted Daddy. She needed him to get her out of bed, help her get dressed, put medicine on her infected toe, get her breakfast, give her hugs. But he wasn’t here. He was at work. Not getting paid, courtesy of the government.

The fact that I got her dressed, only made her cry harder. And when I went downstairs, she removed every piece of clothing and came to tell me that she didn’t want to wear those clothes. Ok. Go get different clothes. No, she couldn’t do that. She needed Daddy to help her get new clothes. So she sat on the hardwood floor in her birthday suit, crying over the fact that she wanted Daddy and that it was takin’ too long for him to come home.

I sympathize. I really do. It does take too long for him to come home. She gets to see him for about an hour each day during the week. It’s not enough. And in the meantime, she’s stuck with me.

Regular, unspectacular me.

And I’ve been even less than unspectacular lately.

Have you ever felt like you’re failing in every aspect of your life? Well, that’s me at the moment. 

The difference between who I am and who I need to be is enormous.

And I don’t know how to bridge the gap. It seems that no matter which way I turn, I am faced with the evidence that I am not enough. Not patient enough. Not forgiving enough. Not consistent enough. Not loving enough. Not spiritual enough. Not diplomatic enough.

I feel like every angry scream from my son will send a crack running through the foundation of our life. I have failed him because I haven’t been able to “fix” him. And because the stresses of our current life seem to be making things worse. He hates going to church. And it makes me wilt inside because I know that it stems from the fact that I can’t give him the attention he needs there. That I am too distracted by my other responsibilities to really hear the worries behind his outbursts. I see his future laid out before me, and it makes my heart feel black with sorrow.

The meltdowns from my 6-year-old have escalated into battles of will. She digs in her heals over the most insignificant details. And when she also fights against getting ready for church, it breaks my heart. Because I believe her reluctance is due to the fact that half of all Sunday mornings, I am not here to help her get ready. She needs the consistency my presence brings. But I have meetings, and there is no one who can fill in for me. How do I choose between these responsibilities?

When I find myself totally and completely annoyed by my 3-year-old, I know that I should look past it. That I should be able to find joy in being with her. Most of the time, I can. But not always. Sometimes I want nothing more than a time-out from being her mother. Which is selfish and not very motherly. I love my children. I love being their mother. But sometimes the miserable stuff crowds out the rest of it and I struggle.

I miss the friendship of my husband, the time we used to have to nurture that friendship. It seems that our life mostly consists of tackling one challenge after another, with hardly a breath in between and not much chance to really resolve some of them.

There are aspects that I love about serving in the youth group at church. The girls are awesome. I love being in there with my oldest daughter. It’s fun. More fun than being at home sometimes. Which makes me wary because I know I shouldn’t use it as an escape. Ironically, though, this is the loneliest calling I’ve ever had. Not because of the girls, but because of the weight of making sure every aspect of the program is running as it should. Which it isn’t. And I struggle with how to get everything on track without demanding more than my family (or my counselors) can give as they try to support me.

I know that I shouldn’t talk about this stuff. That it violates the unwritten laws that govern casual social interaction. But I’m hoping to experience a little catharsis. Because every time I find myself alone with my thoughts, I feel the tears welling up in the corner of my eyes and I want to go curl up in a corner.

It’s all too much. I don’t know how to be who I need to be.

And then I remember a passage in the Book of Mormon which reads, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.”

And I’m reminded that I am not in this alone, even when it feels that way. That my challenges were given to me, and there must be a way that I can overcome them. Because no one can do it for me. I have to believe that the balancing act of running a youth program and running a family won’t bring both crashing down around me. I have to hope that one of these days, my husband and I will find a way to reconnect. And I can’t give up on the dream that someday I might find someone who can help me bear the burden of my anxious child.

I know that I will probably feel better tomorrow. I know that these thoughts will fade as others take precedence. I even know that hard things are good for me, that someday I will look back on this time and be able to see the lessons I learned, the ways I grew.

But until then, I suppose I just need to keep trying. It may not be enough, but it’s something.

Bowl of Cherries

Whoever it was that said life is like a bowl of cherries had it right.  Sometimes it's sweet, sometimes it's the pits, sometimes it's both at the same time all rolled up together and hanging on the end of a slender green stem.

 

This is the Mother's Day photo I posted on facebook.  Because it's beautiful.  I love it because we are dressed nicely, with clean faces and smiles.  And because it looks like we love each other.

But below is more the reality of my life.  

The only reason we are mostly clean and combed is because we went to church.  And then we came home and tumbled into our rooms and threw on some whatever clothes so we could meet in the kitchen to feed.  There is chaos on the counter, like most days.  Dog biscuits in the middle of a cookie-making operation.  I love this photo because it is us.  We are who we are, and we're together.  We're even mostly happy.

But I also love this shot below, because the chaos very rarely stays contained on the counter.  It spills over into every aspect of my life.

And even though I prefer the sweet moments, I'm willing to endure the pits because they go hand in hand.  I can't have one without the other.  I can't cherish one without the presence of the other.  And even though I might want to seem like I live a well-groomed, well-behaved, well-lit life, I'm always quick to admit that I struggle with this motherhood thing just as much as the other mothers out there.  And I love my children through all the chaos, the sweet moments, and the pits.

 

I mentioned back here that if my past self were suddenly dropped into my current life, she would lose it.  I believe that to be true.

 

I look back on those comparatively calm days with much fondness.  When I stayed home with my two little girs day after day.  When their simple routines were the most pressing things in my life.  Mealtime.  Nap time.  Bath time.  Story time.  Walk to the park time.  Coloring time.  Chase them around the house making monster sounds time.  Snuggle time.  Bed time.

 

I know I didn't appreciate the relative quiet.  Or peace.  The lack of frenzy.  Not having so many multis in my multi-tasking.  I thought it was hard.  I thought my husband's firefighter schedule of 24 hours on, 48 hours off was challenging.  Which sort of makes me chuckle now.  Nobody told me that life gets harder before it gets easier.  Or maybe I just didn't listen because I wanted to continue believing that my life right then was hard.  But I also realize that it was hard for that version of myself.  Because I was young.  I had just recently joined the throngs of women engaged in the journey that is motherhood.  The chronic lack of sleep with newborns and illness and dreams that cause little ones to wake up crying for their favorite purple dress was a hard thing to adjust to.  Young mothers have to learn how to soldier on even when their most basic of needs aren't being met.  The relentlessness of putting others' needs ahead of our own is a tough pill to swallow.  As is the knowledge that our time is no longer our own, but belongs first and foremost to the little fragile creatures that have been entrusted to our care.  But I have learned that the days when I can "get nothing done" are, in fact, the days when I'm doing the most important things of all.

 

Mothers have been going through this same refining process since the beginning of time.  Too often, I think, we use our hardships to create wedges between us and others.  To set our tough times apart from those around us.  To help us somehow feel unique.  But none of these life lessons are unique.  Maybe some of the details aren't shared en mass, but the process of learning and stretching and growing is all the same.  It has all been experienced before.

 

There is no joy, or sorrow that I can feel in relation to my children that hasn't been felt before a million times over.  Kids make messes.  Kids bring chaos.  Kids make you see life through new eyes.  Kids melt your heart and help you learn to love more than you ever thought you needed to.  They bring purpose, triumph and failure.  They bring out the very worst and the very best in us. 

 

And through it all, I am so grateful to be a mother.  To be this mother, with these children at this time. 

 

I love how this process is described in the movie A Wrinkle in Time, "All the glory of what you are now and all the wonder of what you will become.  It's only yours if you discover it for yourself."  How grateful I am for this journey, and for all the joy and discovery to be found.

 

My crew gave me the perfect gift this year.  (I shouldn't mention that it's because I told them, "This is what I want.") 

A hammock, with a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies that I didn't even have to make myself.  So, when I get overwhelmed by the chaos in my life, I can retreat to a peaceful place and look up at this view . . .

to help me remember the magnitude of my blessings.  Bowl of cherries, indeed.

Bigger Enough

Dear Baby B,

Yes, I know that you are technically no longer a baby.  I don't care.  I will call you baby until my dying breath, like it or not.  It doesn't matter how old or how tall or how smart you get, you will always be my baby.

And baby, I've been thinking a lot lately about how desperately you want to be "bigger enough" to do so many of the things you see the rest of us doing.  These tasks are irresistible to you.  They tantalize you with their apparent ease and make you feel ready to jump in with both feet.

But I know you, my wild child.  Well enough to recognize what you're ready for and where you need to be held back.  I remember how much you wanted to climb onto that school bus with J & R because you could sense their excitement.  I remember how earnestly you pleaded with me and tried to convince me that you would be bigger enough "morrow" to go with them.  But I also knew that you would've only made it two steps onto that bus.  And then you would have looked back at me and realized in a panic that I wasn't coming with you, and you would have scrambled back into my arms with tears streaming down your face.

I remember the day we were out exploring the woods with J &R.  We were having such fun, and then the neighbor kids came running over and stole your siblings away to go play at their house.  You were heartbroken as you watched them walk away and leave you behind.  I remember how hard you were to console and how you didn't understand why you couldn't tag along.

But, baby, you are not bigger enough to go roam the woods and the neighbor's house without supervision.  Or to go to school.  Or to do all the big kid things that you yearn to do.  You're not ready for the freedom that comes with good judgement, because baby, your judgement isn't all that great quite yet.  You still fall off furniture that is too high for you to be climbing.  You still pull all of Daddy's floss out of the container and leave it strewn all over the bathroom.  You still try to touch hot things just to see if it really hurts as much as I say it will.  And you still always go for the knives even after Daddy nearly sliced your finger off while you were helping him make apple pie.

You have a ways to go, my dear.  You have some growing and some learning and some calming to do before you're bigger enough for all the things you want to do each day.  You'll have to trust me to teach you and keep you safe and be wise enough to know when you're ready for new things.

But baby, there are so very many things that you can do just perfectly right now.  It's ok to sit back and enjoy all the wonders that life holds for you right at this moment, without longing for those things that will come in due time.

You're bigger enough to climb onto my lap, invited or not, and curl up with your warm head leaning on my chest.  You can run pell-mell all over with the pitter patter of your bare feet on the wood floors echoing through the house.  You can confidently climb up and down both sets of stairs with only a rare tumble.  You're bigger enough to climb in and out of your crib even though you're not supposed to.  You are big and fierce enough to insist that you help with each and every food prep endeavor.  Which seems to be providing you with just the right training if you plan to grow up and become an angry chef.

You're bigger enough to recognize when you've hurt someone and you say sorry and give them lingering hugs and kisses without being prompted to do so.  You can sense it in my voice when you've crossed the line and hurriedly pretend that you were really complying, rather than defying, all along.  You're big enough to stand your ground when someone bigger and stronger tries to take something that you are playing with, whether it belongs to you or not. 

You're bigger enough to demand autonomy and independence and often insist, "No!  Me do it!"  You are big enough to style my hair, even when I have just finished doing the same thing myself.  You love to be my little shadow and insist in participating in everything I am doing.  Yes, everything.  You're big enough to find technology irresistible and to "fix" things in ways that we find difficult to un fix.

You're bigger enough to say things in the most endearing ways.  Like, "Me almost love you!"  You're big enough to pick yourself up and brush yourself off when you fall.  Sometimes.  And you recognize when your hurt extends beyond your ability to shrug off and you come to me with outstretched arms and eyes brimming with tears.  And then you're bigger enough to wrap your arms tightly around my neck and bury your head in my shoulder.  And that is the very best thing about how big you are right at this moment.

You're bigger enough to have grown out of your extremely non-cuddly baby days and into being the most cuddly, affectionate child we have.  Whose very favorite thing in all the world is to snuggle under a blanket with her Mama.

And I am loving that.

Because in the future, when you are off doing and being, I will still linger in these moments when your arms were exactly bigger enough to wrap around me.  I will still feel your fingers running through my hair, making it "so pretty."  And I will still hear your sweet voice in my ear telling me that you almost love me.

Because baby, I almost love you, too.  And I always will.

Just Mourn

They say that everything happens for a reason.

But I wholeheartedly disagree.  I haven’t believed that trite phrase for quite some time.  It’s one of those clichés that we fall back on when we don’t know what else to say or more likely, when just listening makes us too uncomfortable.

It’s like saying “There are no words . . .” or “This too shall pass . . .”  or “Everything will be ok . . .”  It’s like sharing a personal miscarriage story when someone’s child has been torn from this life, from their family.  Grief gouges a deep hole in the fabric of one’s life.  A scary, dark abyss that people want to fill with something, anything.

Because simply listening is hard, listening takes time.  And an ability to endure silence and grief and rage and any other emotion that may come into play.  It’s uncomfortable.  It requires us to suppress our own agendas, causes, and solutions in favor of empathy.

Everything doesn’t happen for a reason.  There is such a thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  There is such a thing as evil which strikes without rhyme or reason.  There is no reason inherent in the Sandy Hook tragedy.

It happened.  It’s horrible, and it happened.  It gouged an abyss in the lives of 27 families.  And it horrified a nation.

But there is no reason that it happened. 

It makes me feel sick to listen to all the people coming out of the woodwork with a cause, with an ‘it’s time to...’ or ‘let’s fix this...’ or ‘if only...’  Don’t make this tragedy about gun control, or mental health treatment, or even about the way our society views God.

There is no fixing this. 

Patience.  Silence.  Empathy.  Let’s close our lips and open our hearts.  Let’s wait.  When those in mourning are ready to talk, let’s listen.  Let’s mourn with them because we can imagine the tiniest sliver of what they must be feeling as we send our children off to school.

Maybe those in mourning will one day look back on this tragedy and assign some meaning to it.  Maybe they will find comfort through faith.  Maybe they will learn something beautiful from something so terrible.  Maybe this sorrow will one day deepen their joy.

But that is their path to choose.

Ours is to be silent and mourn.  Just mourn.

Grateful. Period.

I inevitably find that any list of the things I am grateful for simply leaves too much out.  Because gratitude is a very fluid thing.  At least for me.

The very things that might drive me nuts one week are sometimes the things I find myself feeling grateful for the next week.  And the particular quirk that I see as endearing in my child one day, causes me endless frustration the next.  And it never seems to fail that I emerge from some trial or other and am suddenly able to see my life in an entirely new perspective, which allows me to feel gratitude for things I may never have noticed before.

Gratitude is a fluid thing.  It ebbs and flows.  It's always changing.  But it is always present.  There is never a moment that I find myself entirely devoid of the feeling.   And that is just the way I like it.  I am not grateful because I am happy.  I am happy because I am grateful.

I choose to focus on the positive.

I can't say that this has been the case for my life in its entirety.  There have been stretches of time where I felt mired in the mud, unable (or unwilling) to find joy.  Times when I focused on all that was wrong, all that was unfair, all that was hard, all that I was being deprived of, all that was causing me grief.

But even during those dark days, I knew that the cause of my unhappiness lay within myself.  I knew that I had turned away from the truths which could help me feel joy.  And eventually, after moping around for a while waiting for someone else to come change things, I would tire of my dissatisfaction and snap out of it.

I would open my eyes to the little moments of joy that had been there all along.  And once they were open to that, all the rest that was hovering around the periphery would come flooding into my heart.  Which helped me feel whole again.

I could make a list of the things that I'm grateful for at this point in my life.  It would be fun to look back on years from now.  But I'm not going to.  Not this year.  There's just too much to list.

Suffice it to say that I am grateful.  Period.

Impatient

I am impatient.  In general.

But right now, I am impatient about making new friends.  I'm tired of the awkwardness that comes with new social circles.  I'm tired of feeling slightly uneasy.  I'm tired of hovering around the edges of the friendships that I see around me, not knowing quite how to join in.

Because I am not a social butterfly.  Somewhere inside me still lives a painfully shy girl who used to blush deeply whenever she was teased or even when she raised her hand to make a comment in class.  A girl who could never come up with a witty comeback until the window of opportunity for one was long since closed.

Somewhere along the way, I learned more confidence, and set aside the shyer side of my nature.  But I didn't eliminate it entirely.  It surfaces now and again. 

Like when I have moved with my entire family to the other side of the country where I don't know a single soul.

I am meeting some amazing people.  People that are kind and generous and fun to be around.  People that I can see myself being good friends with.

But I am impatient.  I don't want to wait for all the little moments that add up to produce a solid friendship.  I want the shared memories, the easy banter, the inside jokes.  I want them now.  I want the history and comfort of friendship without the time it takes to create.

I want the impossible. 

And since I want true friendship rather than the facade of friendship, I am forced to be patient.  When you rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles (or something like that.)

So I will wait.  And feel impatient as I patiently wait for new friendships to blossom.  In the end, I do believe they'll be worth the wait.

Happiness Is . . .

feeling fall in the air . . . in September.

spying on J as he makes a fort in the woods with his new best friend.

finding myself eye to eye with a hummingbird as it pauses mid-flight to check me out.

looking for bird nests in the trees, or frogs in the creek as I walk the kids down the lane to catch the bus.

watching the light filter through the trees as the sun ascends.

snuggling under a blanket with B and her dolly.

hearing J teach R the proper way to use the expelliarmus spell as they swing  together in the backyard.

listening to Shaggy talk excitedly about how cool his new job is.

finding a three-legged turtle that wandered into the driveway.

being called outside to photograph each and every one of J's nature discoveries.

glancing out the window to see a family of deer grazing in the backyard.

spending a Sunday afternoon watching a grass snake eat a giant cricket.

being surrounded by nature's beauty.

knowing that we are where the Lord has led us.

I Am Peter

Somewhere in the midst of this tumultuous relocation process, I realized that my story had already been written. It was written two thousand years ago in a book called Matthew.

But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary. And

in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea. And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear. But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid. And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water. And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me. And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased. Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God.

It is undeniable that our family’s relocation is being guided by the hand of God. I have felt comforted and spiritually guided throughout this process. Not continually, but often enough to recognize that there is so much more at play here than the whims of men.

And I believe that I am not alone in this process. I believe that I can call upon the powers of Heaven to lead me, guide me, walk beside me. Because I am a child of God. And He loves me. Enough to send the model of perfection in all things for me to follow.

I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe He is the way, the truth, and the light. I believe He can do all things, and with Him, I can do all that is required of me.

But even with this knowledge, I still doubt. Like Peter.

I have faith enough to rejoice at this opportunity to move with my family because we have been longing and praying for it for so long. I was quick to respond to the early spiritual guidance I received. We listed the house at the time and with the agent we felt inspired to. And I was not surprised when we got an above asking price offer after our first day of showings. But when the winds arose and the offer fell through, I began to sink. Doubt and despair came crashing in on me. I felt like I would drown with all that was expected of me. I thrashed around in that ocean for a while, struggling to manage everything, second-guessing past decisions, wondering how things would ever fall into place.

But I tried to remember what I knew to be true. I took one day at a time, trying to be sure to address the most important issues each day. And somewhere along the way, I again felt a perfect, strengthening presence walking beside me. He lifted me up, I turned away from my doubts, and things moved forward. We got another offer on our house, right at asking price. So we proceeded to sell our home to the relocation company, which is how our whole relocation package is set up. We signed the deed over to them, an irrevocable transaction in preparation for them to turn around and sell it to the buyer.

But the buyer dropped out. Which again threatened my footing. The house was still technically sold, but we were ushered into several weeks of grey and cloudy unsurity, where no one really knew how to proceed. Except, of course, for the man upstairs who could see the end from the beginning.

Our sale to the relo company stuck. Which was a major hurdle to have cleared. I am trying to focus on the fact that it is an amazing blessing to have sold the house. I am trying even harder not to sink into the waves of doubt as I am being required to show the house while organizing, packing, and otherwise making a complete mess of it.

Deep breath. Steady feet. Faith at the ready. This ocean will not consume me. I will walk where I need to walk, with the Savior’s hand in mine.

I am far from perfect. But fortunately, perfection is not required of me.

Peter wasn’t perfect. But he found strength through his faith. He overcame his doubts, even his ill-timed denials, and became the chief apostle. He did what was required of him.

So shall I.

Comparative Market Analysis

We’ve had a whole lot of people tromping through our home lately, trying to determine its value. Trying to assess its worth as an investment or its structural integrity or how it stacks up with other homes in the area. They’ve looked at the foundation and the roof, the walls and the floor. They considered its size and age, the curb appeal and functionality of all its parts.

Their conclusion is that our house is worth $100,000 less than when we moved in 8 years ago. Give or take $20,000. (Nice margin of error, right?)

I have to take exception with that conclusion.

Because they overlooked the most important things. The worth of this home is not determined by its square footage or how recently it was upgraded. Its worth comes from what has happened inside it over the course if its life. I can’t speak for the family that lived here before us or for whoever will come after us. But I can attest to the respect and gratitude that we owe to this structure. I can attest to just how much life has happened here.

We have grown from what now seems like a family starter kit to a full-fledged BIG family. We have spent countless hours gathered together in this living room talking, yelling, teaching, playing, dancing, fighting, watching movies and jumping on the furniture to avoid the lava. (Good thing we happen to have lava proof socks and even ocassionally lava proof feet to keep us from melting. Phew!)

We have brought three beautiful new babes into the world while living here. Their first laughs and cries echoed off these walls. They wore out the knees of their pants learning to crawl on these carpets. This is the room where they learned, at long last, to sleep through the night.

Their first unsteady steps happened in this hallway. And later, this was their runway to zoom and chase and scare each other by jumping out from behind the corners. 

Our oldest child has grown from a Kindergartener to a High Schooler while living in a room with a teddy bear picnic all over the walls. (Unbelievably, she hadn’t even begun to complain about that!) She spent altogether too many nights staying up past her bedtime whispering and giggling with her younger sister, creating the memories that will bind them together long after they are grown.

My room has been a sanctuary and a prison. It has seen joy and laughter, tears and sorrow, pain and heartache. And it has endured it all with quiet dignity, ready to be whatever I made of the space.

This kitchen has been witness to more chaos and noise than is good for it. But it has embraced that energy unfailingly. It has facilitated the transformation of flour, sugar, eggs and butter into little bits of magic that bring huge smiles and excitement into our lives. It has provided a place where we can nourish our children.

And this room has unfailingly filled with light and family every day, fostering the kind of togetherness that we cherish. And will continue to cherish during the long years to come.

This house has kept us safe. It has given us warmth when we needed it. It has battled back the intense summer heat and given us abundant shade for our backyard adventures. The grass has long since died, but the soil remains witness to the learning and growth that has happened there.

And how do you give a dollar value to something that was designed and built with so much love? There is not a house on the planet with a playhouse like this one. I will miss Sliver Hut. Possibly even more than my children.

It's had multiple makeovers throughout the years and provided many, many hours of play. My only consolation is that it may yet bring joy to another set of children once we are gone.

Home sweet home. So the appraisers told us that it's worth has plummeted since we've been here. The realtors said that we couldn't sell it for what we owe.  The mortgage people think we have to get a little creative to make ends meet. And we have to walk away from our entire down payment.

I say, so what?  It's only money. All the important things that have happened here have nothing at all to do with money. My analysis of this house flies in the face of all their logic. The impact that this home and the things that happened in this home have had on my family is worth more than any CMA could ever show. Its worth will be forever carried in our hearts, inseparably connected to the memories we have made here. 

And maybe, just maybe those memories will continue to echo within these walls even long after we are gone. I like to think that this home will remember us, because we will certainly always remember it.

Dear Fellow Mom Friend

(You know who you are.)

First, I have to thank you.   Thank you for talking with me, thinking that I have any wisdom to offer you.   Thank you for seeing me that way, because honestly, there are so very many days where I am simply trying to make it to bedtime.   With or without wisdom.   But I do acknowledge that I have learned a few lessons along the way.

Take heart.   You're a good mom.   Your children are being raised well.   Not perfectly, but certainly well enough.   Don't be so hard on yourself.   Don't be so hard on your kids.   You love each other and that is the most important ingredient of all.

Someday, all of the hard stuff little ones bring will be over.   There will be no more battles of will.   No more bedtime routines.   No more time outs.   No more sibling squabbles.   No more wondering if your approach to a misbehavior is the right one.   No more yearning for the millions of things that you want to do that you never have time for.

Someday, all of the beautiful stuff little ones bring will be over.   No more snuggles.   No more butterfly kisses.   No more bug hunts or tickle time.   No more baby soft skin under your fingertips.   No more kid art.   No more wonder at the depth of childhood imagination.   No more adoration of you.

Because they will grow up.   And become independent with lives and thoughts of their own.   And you will be left with time; time enough for solitude and sleep and memories.

Right now it may seem that that day will never come.   That these tough days will never end.   But sometimes the only way out of something is through it.   And I know you already know that.   And I know that mostly you just need to know that someone understands and cares what you're going through.   That they believe in you and your ability to face all this tough stuff and emerge stronger for having endured it.

I believe in you.   I can see your strength, even when all you feel is discouragement.   I am confident that you can climb this mountain God has given you, even if you are full of doubt.   Have faith that your kids will turn out ok.   You are doing your best, trust that it will be enough.

So what that you have "only" two kids.   You compare yourself with other women who seem to manage more children with more grace than you think you display.   This is not a fair comparison.   They have been where you are.   And they know how hard it is.   And they still struggle on a daily basis even if they always seem calm and collected to you.   It's just that they've learned to roll with the punches a little better because they've been in the game longer.

It's the hardness of the seemingly unending tough days that has molded them into the women you see.   If they talk about how easy it used to be when they had "only" two kids, then they have forgotten the reality of their early motherhood years.   Raising children is never easy, whether you have one or twenty.   But have hope, it gets easier.   Not because the tasks of Motherhood get easier, but because you will change.   Amidst your challenges, you will find the strength to be the woman your children need you to be.   Because they need you to be more than you are.   More selfless.   More patient.   More hopeful.   More faithful.   More joyful.   God will provide the necessary training for you to become the kind of more that your children need.   And once the toughness of that training is over, you will look back on that process and rejoice.

　

What If . . .

What if a gunman burst into your church meeting and ordered everyone to put their hands up? What if your daughter disappeared on her way to school? What if your car plunged into the lake with you and your five children strapped in their seats? What if your house caught on fire? What if your baby passed away in her sleep? What if some guy jumped you in a dark parking lot? What if your husband was in a serious car accident? What if an intruder broke into your house in the middle of the night?

What would you do?

Or, do you just shut these thoughts down before they even start?

I've often wondered why it is that people tend to do that. It's almost like we feel that if we even entertain that train of thought, we're daring the universe to bring our fear to life. Which is ridiculous because thinking about something doesn't make it more likely to happen. Most of the time. The scenarios I mentioned are extremely remote possibilities, but possibilities nonetheless. Why not give ourselves a head start, a fighting chance, the shadowy outline of a plan to follow when the world we know crumbles around us?

I hope against hope that no tragedy like this ever strikes my family. But hope is not a strategy.

So when these thoughts come, I let them in. I don't get lost in them, but I let them in. I think about what I would do. Who I would call. Who would be helpful to have around and who wouldn't. How I could navigate my children through a crisis and have them emerge whole. Because I will never allow such a tragedy to define us, to stop our progression, to suck the sweetness from the joyful things in life.

I realize that this might be somewhat unusual, the fact that I allow myself to run through these scenarios. Sometimes they make me cry, but I don't let that stop me from thinking about them. I would rather experience a little sorrow during a mental exercise than a complete breakdown during an actual crisis.

I used to think that it would not be possible to go on with life if I lost a child. But I have encountered evidence lately, that shows me that I was wrong. This blog, Sunshine Promises, is a heart-wrenching story of one truly courageous and faithful mother who lost her littlest son (who happened to be about the same age B is now). Her words bring tears to my eyes, a boundless ache to my heart, and inspiration to my mind.

Because I realize, seemingly more strongly with each passing day, how precious and fleeting and fragile life is. And there are times that I feel terrified that I will lose one of my children. That little B will be called home to heaven before I am ready to let her go. Sometimes I have dreams that a tragedy strikes S and she is taken from us. I have had entire days filled with a sense of foreboding, that something might happen that would shatter our world. I worry that Shaggy will not be able to walk hand in hand with me to our golden years.

I am not paralyzed by these thoughts and fears (except the one about the car plunging into the lake, because even though I have a rough reaction plan, that scenario still makes me panic just a little). I think, in a way, these thoughts are actually helping me gain the ability to push through shock and fear and denial if a crisis were to come my way. They're preparing me to be better equipped to help others during times of hardship. To have the strength to be on the front lines if that is where I am called to be.

If you ever want to read a totally eye-opening book about how most people react to disasters, read The Unthinkable by Amanda Ripley. I promise, you will never be so content to dismiss all these scenarios again. Most of the time, people simply do nothing. They freeze. And they wait for someone to tell them what to do because they've never thought about what they might need to do during a disaster. And sometimes they die.

But groupthink aside, all these scenarios are helping me to be a better person now. Because as I think about these what if's, I realize how important it is to cherish life as it is now. I am taking the time to create more memories with my children. I am drinking in the beautiful moments that happen on their own. I am less likely to hold on to the not so beautiful ones. Life is more meaningful and more awe-inspiring and more full of joy and just more because I allow myself to think about the possibility that this charmed existence might not last forever.

And I am feeling driven to capture these moments before they slip away. Whether through time or crisis. I felt such relief once I had a copy of the family portraits we had taken last year. Because the dear mother from Sunshine Promises didn't have a family photo of them all together. Now it's too late and that breaks my heart. Photos are such an important part of the way I cherish life. So lately, I've been driven to try to capture and preserve all the little things that make my current life so very meaningful and awe-inspiring and full of joy. Lots of photos and stories and video and awareness. Someday these may be the things that keep me afloat.

Now is my time to plan and prepare and gather. Right now, in the heart of the busy, chaotic, noise filled days. I will not let this time slip away.

 

A Day in the Life

 Before I left the house this morning, I decided that I wanted to remember this day. It's not out of the ordinary, really. Just a day in my life.

But I want to record it. I want to remember what it feels like to be in the trenches of motherhood, this here and now that I love so much. This time and place that brings me so much joy and so much aggravation.  I want to remember this day because it represents thousands of days just like it. I want to record more than just the tiny glimpses that my memory will allow me once this phase of my life has passed. I want to really remember. So I can hold onto the changes that are happening within me. So this refining process won't just wash away once my children are grown.

Because I want to be more than the nice old lady at the grocery store who smiles and offers unhelpful platitudes. I want my future self to be a real force for good. I want to remember how much strength and fortitude it takes to raise children. How much strength and fortitude I earned with every tantrum calmed and every math page completed and every toddler mayhem endured. Strength that I can use to help the future mothers of the world. To be supportive and encouraging. To be willing to jump in when I see a need. To bake cookies and drop them off because I notice a mom who had a particularly rough day with her kids at church. To offer a non-judgmental ear when I see a mom struggling with her child's behavioral issues at the park. To be a caregiver or a babysitter or a tutor to children who are not my own. To be a pillar others can lean on because I have been where they are going. Because I remember how amazing it is.  And how tough.

This post is for me. It is by far the longest and most detailed post I have ever written. Most people will likely have very little interest in this. But I post it here because it is the one place that I know I will be able to find it again.

My day began when our foster dog decided it was time to wrestle with Charger at 6 am. In our bedroom, of course. Yep, we are back in the foster game. And this dog is the best foster we have had. Period. She does well with dogs and children and has no issues. Except that she was shaved. Probably to treat some dermatitis thing. So she looks sorta funny. But she is the sweetest dog that has come through my home. (Sorry Charger, you have issues.) And I'm not just saying that because she likes me the best and follows me everywhere like my own personal, adoring shadow.

The getting ready for school craziness was more or less the same as every morning. K gets herself up and ready and to the bus stop. She loves the one on one time she gets with Shaggy when he walks her over. B usually wakes up next, ready for her baba. She snuggles with me as we lay in my bed and I revel in her sunny smile, soft skin and sweet baby voice that says “Mama, mama! Ou!” as she pulls the blankets off in an attempt to get me out of bed. I am grateful every day that this little bundle of joy is a newborn no longer and that I am done with nursing forever. It was sweet and wonderful and horrible and convenient and painful, all at different times. I am stinkin' proud of the fact that not one of my 5 children ever had a drop of formula. Because I know that it is the only perfect record I will ever have as a mother. And I am ok with that.

S also gets herself up and ready, though her brain teems with questions that she just has to ask right at the moment I'm changing a stinky diaper or calming a meltdown or trying to get J out of bed. J pretty much always yells when we tell him it's time to get up. He wastes most of his time dawdling in the bathroom and then has to rush through breakfast and brushing teeth to make it out the door on time. Unfortunately, this doesn't happen without a whole lot of nudging from us. And J doesn't always respond well to nudging.

R shows her sweet little sleepy face at some point during all this rushing around. It is a bright spot in the middle of all the morning craziness. She is always willing to give a cuddle or a hug and she is blessedly easy to nudge . . . most of the time. Today we have to hurry and get ready so we can actually make it to preschool on time. Because after I drop her off, I have to book it over to the junior high to watch K get an award for her good grades. We always try to make sure she knows how proud we are of all the effort she puts into learning, but these awards have become commonplace over the years. She and S get these awards twice every year.  But we do love it. How responsible they are. How much they don't need nudging to get their homework done. How much pride they take in a well done assignment. We realize that their attitude towards learning is a blessing.

As I was about to dry my hair, I realized that B had been absent and quiet for a little too long. That is usually a sure sign of trouble, so I went to investigate. I found her sitting on the table trying to drink the milk straight out of the jug. There were some flowers in a vase that were tipped over with the water cascading off the side of the table. As I got the milk out of reach, she grabbed a bowl and spoon from someone's leftover breakfast. I took that away before she could dump it out. Faster than lightning, she grabbed the cereal box and turned it upside down. S calls her 'monkopus'--a combination of monkey and octopus. I think it's a pretty fitting description of B as she is now. Finally, I just grabbed her little mischievous self and scooped her off the table and tipped over all the chairs so she couldn't climb up again. She started crying. And lifted her arms to be picked up.

I swung her up to my hip and glanced at the clock. I had ten minutes until it was time to leave. My hair was sopping wet. I had a baby with no shoes or snacks to get her through the awards ceremony. My preschooler was spinning around on the coffee table singing, "You'll never get rich by digging a witch (sic), you're in the army now." She had crazy morning hair, unbrushed teeth and her feet were shoeless. I told her to go find her shoes and put them on. She walked over to the front window, looked outside and announced, "I can't find them." Then I noticed that she hadn’t found any items to put in her share bag like I asked her to do 5 times yesterday. But didn't follow up on because I was running around to doctor's appointments and helping a friend who had just discovered that her mother had passed away in her sleep.

I realized that it was hopeless. We would not be on time for preschool. Maybe I would also miss K's award ceremony. It wouldn't be the first time. Finally we managed to get all ready except we couldn't find B's jacket. Whenever she sees it, she carries it all around the house trying to get someone to put it on because she thinks then she will be able to go somewhere. Somewhere more interesting than home.

At long last, the crazy morning routine was over. Thank heavens! As I drove to preschool, my mind was mulling over all the tasks that I needed to accomplish during the day. Errands and award ceremonies and missions of mercy would all have to happen with a toddler in tow. No getting around that. But the calls and emails and applications and research would be impossible to do with my little whirlwind around. This is why naptime is so critical to the smooth sailing of my ship. When naptime turns choppy, that's when we capsize.

We raced over to preschool, late, of course and then raced on to the junior high. I fielded a call from my mother who had a question. I had to put her off with a promise to call her back which I forgot about as soon as I hung up. Baby B and I made it just in time to . . . sit and wait. And wait. And wait. While they went through hundreds of awards before getting to K's. Time where B climbed up and down and over me and everyone sitting near me. She handed me her jacket 20 times in the hope that we would leave and go somewhere more interesting. She tried to dump out my purse and fussed for a snack and tried to draw all over everything within reach with a marker she had found. I felt a surge of pride . . . and sweet relief when they finally read K's name. I wanted to duck out then, but the idea of climbing over so many people with a toddler on my hip kept me in my seat until the ceremony was over.

As we were walking back to the van, I marveled at B. At how big she is. And how adorable she is when she runs, even if it is in the opposite direction that we need to be going. I smiled at the way people responded to her assertions of independence. When she ran away from my outstretched hand, or just sat on the ground to protest the way I was herding her to the van. I had to scoop her up and stuff her flailing arms into her car seat straps while I talked to her about birdies in my most soothing mommy voice. Sometimes that works. But today was not one of those times. I listened to her crying as we drove home.

I probably should have just left her in the van, we had so little wiggle room with our schedule. But I brought her in while I hunted around for a phone number, brought the afore mentioned spilled flowers back to life, grabbed a plate of muffins and a giant homemade card. I followed her out the door with all of it held precariously in my arms. I knew it was a bad idea for her to be loose, but there wasn't much I could do about it at the moment. The minute I turned my back to shed my load and gain a free hand to grab her with, she darted into the middle of the street. I was a few steps behind her and said a million silent prayers that there were no cars coming.

With her safely stuffed back in her car seat, we headed out on our mission of mercy. Which would have been more merciful minus the little whirlwind. She climbed, fussed, and handed me my purse with stern orders to put it on. All in the hopes of going somewhere else. When all else failed, she pushed me out of my chair. I felt grateful that she had at least flashed her impish little smile at my grieving friend while we were there.

An already fussy toddler does not make for a good errand buddy. Ever. But we forged ahead anyway. Errands have a way of just needing to get done, no matter who your errand buddy is.  It makes me feel schizophrenic to even walk into a clothing store. Too many kids. Too many different sizes. Too many "Mom, I need more . . . " Too many things that will probably be needed next month that I would like to jump the gun on. Too many great deals on clearance that might fit next year. All I really want to shop for is cute stuff that will look good in pictures that I will probably never get around to taking.

In the middle of all this, I realized that I was nearly late for R's preschool pickup. As we were driving, I had to sing silly songs and reach back to tickle B in a desperate attempt to keep her awake so she would take a nap. I needed that naptime more than she did today.

Once home, I tried to rush through the sleep routine. Halfway through I realized that I was not even aware of the words I was reading. My mind was far away. Distracted. Stuck on my list of things to do. That would not do. So I stopped, and I nuzzled B's baby soft cheek, and made animal sounds until I heard her delightful little laugh. I gave her kisses until she screeched in protest. Then we spun in circles while she waved night night to all the animals on her walls. After a few more smooches, some whispered words of love, getting tucked in next to her beloved teddy, she was set. I still feel grateful every day that she is so much easier to put to sleep than when she was little. She sighed and watched me walk out of her room with those beautiful baby blues. 

I sat down with R to have lunch to the sound of my Celtic station on Pandora. It's my go to music when I feel the need to be soothed. There is something about Irish melodies that feed my soul. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me and realized that it was the first truly peaceful moment I'd had since 6 am. It was beautiful, but short lived as I realized that R was making an art project rather than a meal out of her PB&J.

I finally made it to the computer to begin to record the fleeting memories of my morning. By tomorrow they would be gone, pushed aside by the momentum of this phase of my life. I managed to type one sentence. And then the phone rang. My mother. Who had a quick question about an upcoming birthday. And then spent the next hour and a half hashing things out with me. She likes to hash things out.

I finally broke away from the phone call when B's post-nap crying became a crescendo. So much for my small window of productivity and decompression time. It took me a while to calm her down. And when I finally had, school was out and it was time for the homework onslaught to begin. The hash session had stripped me of my equilibrium, as it always does, and I lost my patience with J who is the world's biggest dawdler when it comes to homework. I just couldn't get him to stay in his chair and focus, so I yelled at him. He yelled back and continued to yell and go out of his way to try to start fights with his siblings. I patted myself on the back for a job well done and sent him to his room where he was instructed to finish his homework before coming out. Without my nudging, it took him 1.5 hours to get it all finished. The first sentence he wrote for an assignment was, "I had a bad day because my mom yells at me." It made me laugh. And apologize. And hope that his teacher wouldn't call DCFS. But I drew a frowny face and wrote, "Poor J" just in case she thought I wasn't aware of his sad, sad home life.

My afternoon was a blur of fussy toddlers, bored preschoolers, grumpy grade-schoolers, and energetic dogs.

Dinner was nothing very memorable. Pasta, I think. Standard fare around here. After dinner, once Shaggy was home, I escaped to my room. I managed to get 10 minutes to myself to type, type, type before S showed up asking about nintendo downloads. And K wanted me to look up how to do sock bun curls so she could try it. It just couldn't wait until tomorrow, apparently. I love spending time with these girls. They are fun to hang out with. They are witty and enthusiastic and categorically helpful. I long to have more time to spend with them without the distractions of to do lists and the needs of little ones. But time like that is few and far between. I love being their mother and look forward to getting to know them all over again as they move through the phases of their lives.

Then it was time for the bedtime routine. Which took hours, even with two of us, and more patience than I had. But it still had to be done. The highlight was when I got to chase R from corner to corner and room to room as she cowered and cried and begged me not to take off the band aids from her three immunizations. But we got it done and she bounced back to cheery, except for her runny nose and hacking cough. She amazes me. Truly. Her ability to jump between moods as easily as a butterfly flitters from flower to flower. I think she is my hero.

With two tucked into bed, it was time to cajole J into the bath. Another activity where he excels at dawdling. But it gave us a welcome respite from his foul temper. Which seemed to get washed away along with the sand and dirt and whatever else was lingering under his fingernails. He emerged clean and happy and full of questions. Mostly about stuff I couldn’t answer. So he went and had a serious discussion with Shaggy about ghosts. A newly discovered fear thanks to an overheard conversation between two budding paranormal investigators at school. He is now afraid that there are ghosts in every room. He doesn’t want to be alone. It’s a good thing that he shares a room with Baby B or we probably would have been rearranging some furniture. He now resists going to bed even more than normal. When Shaggy explained that ghosts weren’t real (now would not be a good time for the whole ‘our spirits leave our bodies at death‘ thing, I think), that they were just in stories like monsters and dragons, J insisted that they were real. Because he heard his friends say that you could see them as spots in the backs of pictures. Case closed, according to Shaggy, because Mommy has taken pictures in every room and there have never been any spots. Voila! Ghost free home. Good night. Except anxiety disorders don’t follow lines of logical thinking. The fear stayed put. But J did modify his prayer, which he says word for word every night, usually with very little modification. Now it goes something like this:

Dear Heavenly Father,

Thank you for this day. Thank you for food and water and the sun and school and work and whiteboard markers and legos and Baby B. Please bless there to be no mites, no tics, no fleas, and no spiders. Please bless nothing to hurt me, nothing to bother me, and nothing to go wrong. Please bless there to be no ghosts.  Please bless there to be no scary noises.  And please bless me not to be scared. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Asking God for help with not being scared is the most perfect thing this little boy can ask for.

Once he was tucked safely, or not so safely depending on who you asked, it was on to sock buns and nintendo downloads. And the realization that I still hadn't done those urgent things. It took me a while to remember what they were. I sometimes think my mind is going, that these crazy days are robbing me of my ability to remember things because too much happens. I cannot hold even a fraction of it in my memory. Which is why my blog posts are so important to me. I want to remember more than I am able to on my own. I want to record it--a window for the future me to look into and relive a small piece of today's normal. Because I know that it will not be tomorrow's normal. It is certainly far from yesterday's normal. If the past me were dropped into my current life, she would have a breakdown. No doubt about it. But that is a thought for another post.

For now, it is time to rest. I have recorded one day, one day of my life. It was not a perfect day. There would probably be nothing from this day that I would have remembered a week from now. But now that I have recorded it, it will live on. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Just before crawling into bed, I told Shaggy that I thought we should just skip K's application to the specialized music high school we were considering. There's no more time. The deadline is upon us. All my intentions of working on it today didn't happen. And I have serious doubts about our ability to get her over there every day come next fall. So she will miss a potentially great experience simply because we are overwhelmed. Ah, well. It isn't the first time and it won't be the last.

I'm realizing that it is such a struggle to find a balance between being in the moment and planning for the next moment. Both are important, vital even. But it doesn't seem possible to do them both at the same time. So I am left to bounce back and forth between them, planning and cherishing. Cherishing and planning. And knowing all the while that most of it will fade away with time. Except for the lessons I have learned and the ways I have let myself be changed by the process. If I can just remember . . .

A Perfect Moment

Perfect moments aren't free. They are earned. And sharing a perfect moment with six other people is uncommon enough that it ought to be remembered. And cherished.

This particular perfect moment came during a very long and trying day trip where grumpiness was contagious, fears abounded, and whining was nearly constant.

R was worried about her Daddy's driving on the twisty mountain roads and did a lot of brainstorming about what would happen if the van fell off the road. J became paranoid about the mosquitos that we met at our beautiful picnic spot that was officially renamed "Mosquito Meadow." They both started crying over the loud thunder that threatened to overtake us.

But, we continued on our not so merry way. Listening to J's continued cries because some of the mosquitos had joined us in the van. He kept insisting that he was going to die.

Amidst all this joyful family togetherness, we finally reached our destination. Of course, we didn't know exactly where we were supposed to go (and we didn't stop to ask directions).  And it took us a good 40 minutes to change into swim suits, locate hats, make sure we had all necessary supplies packed in the backpack, change the baby, water the dog (of course we brought the dog with us--5 kids is not quite enough chaos for us), and get B situated in the hiking backpack. By this time, I was tired. Really tired. And grumpy.

Then R started worrying about getting dirty. Which was odd. She gets dirty most every day. And by the time we got to the trail head that seemed to lead where we wanted to go, B had alerted the entire mountain side to her presence with her crying. She did NOT want to be in the backpack. But you just can't hike very far with a babe in arms. I tried.

So here we were at the beginning of our hike, and I was ready to pack it all up and head for home. I was done with the whining, and the fears, and the crying, and the bickering. I was done trying to manage it all. This was decidedly not fun. Not in any way.

But we still didn't quit. The turning point came as a result of R's very social and imaginative personality. She made friends with the mud. Which we were walking on. Named him squishy. She said he was sleeping. "He'll be surprised when he wakes up. He'll say, 'Huh?! Who walked on me?'"

I love that girl. After that, the hike was downright enjoyable. Reminded me how very much I love hiking.

We didn't find any hot springs, per se, but we found a beautiful, secluded lake which was fed by hot springs.

Which wasn't quite what we expected for a lake. No easy access. No nice sandy beach. But, like everything else this day, we forged ahead anyway. We took the road less traveled by (for those with lots of kids, anyway). And we found a great spot to sit and soak our feet. 

That was the moment that made it all worth it. The moment that made all the effort, frustration, grumpiness, and yes, even the crying fade away into oblivion. Because none of that mattered. It was unimportant and not worth remembering. But this moment, where I was sitting on the edge of a rock with my family, our feet dangling in the warm water of a hot spring-fed mountain lake, this moment I will remember forever. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

So we lingered just to soak it all in. We talked about God and all the beautiful things He sends our way. We talked about memories and seizing the moment. We each took a turn with J's fishing net in an attempt to catch him a fish, even though we knew it was hopeless. We enjoyed how the sounds of nature harmonized with the sounds of our laughter. Because we were the only people there.

After a while, with the storm clouds looming ever darker, we decided to pack it up and head back to the van. Where we finally talked to someone who knew the area and told us where the main hot springs were. They were just across the river from where we parked. Ohhh. So even though the light was fading, we stopped there, too.

S claimed it was her new favorite spot ever.

Then we hit the road so we could sail smoothly home now that our grand adventure was over. But as we were driving slowly through the winding mountain roads in the fading light, with hail pounding on the roof, we realized that maybe our adventure was not over just yet. And when we were stopped by a ranger and asked to pull to the side and turn off our engine, we knew that this day had no intentions of marching tamely to its end. No, that would have been too easy. Perfect moments must be earned, after all.

We earned our perfect moment with patience and persistence. By forgiving each other for our shortcomings. By forging ahead even when the way was tough and miserable. By trying to model the behaviors we expect our children to learn. And by choosing to forget the unpleasant things so our minds would be ready to receive the beautiful ones.

So we calmly waited for an hour, with borderline fussy children, while some boat trailer with a broken axel was removed from the road. And we watched a beautiful mountain sunset. And then, we sailed smoothly home.

Where I learned that my subconscious did not agree that we had experienced a perfect moment. I know this because all night I had dreams about Baby B rolling down the rock into the lake. And I repeatedly sat up in bed to try to catch her before she sank beneath the warm waters of the hot-spring-fed mountain lake.

But since she did not, in fact, sink into those waters, I will continue on my merry way believing in our perfect moment. Where I will be searching for many, many more.