Moving

I started the process of moving over to wordpress about a year ago, then never did it, then didn't write for months this summer and fall while I started homeschooling my daughter.  I finally posted after all of this, and wanted to let you know where to find me.  I'd like to promise that I'll be writing a ton, but any commitment I make to write more is the kiss of death. Please come with me to momdeprovence.wordpress.com

The Good Stuff

Our book club is gearing up for a second attempt at meeting to discuss One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are by Ann Voskamp.  The first attempt was me, a turkey dinner, and two good friends.

 I feel so compelled to share this book with as many people as possible, as it gives the gift of of perspective in a way no other book has.   I believe a plague on many at-home moms is the belief that we are missing out, biding our time until we can move on with our lives. But it's a lie.

I spent the week in the woods with my children camping. I was not raised a camper, more a Holiday Inner, so this is sort of a big deal. And I was alone with them for most of the time, so I'm pretty much a rock star. I'll sign autographs later.

We ate our breakfast eggs under the watchful gaze of towering pines, played telephone by a crackling fire, ate way too many marshmallows, and sang at the top of our lungs while washing dinner dishes.  Our last night was one of "true confessions" at the campfire, hosted by the fiesty girl with the sweet smile.  She says "we'll laugh about this later."

And these are all gifts, memories to stow away and laugh about one day. Seeing everything as "gift" straight from God removes that constant feeling of hurrying through what I'm living today to get on to the really meaningful stuff.  Today, right now, this is the moment to be savored as gift.  No hurrying for tomorrow, for success, for contentment. Contentment is now, right in front of me. It is gift in my open hand. 

Simon enjoys some sweet downhill speed in between Smores.

Serendipity

The drizzle of rain outside my window sparks memories in my ears.  I started a writing project back in December that got temporarily sidetracked by a furry adoption and subsequent training and readjusting. It would be dishonest if I didn't admit that opening the box of my past (literally a box of my old journals) didn't give me a reason to stop and digest.  I'm back in the game, however, and reveling in what I can only attribute to the God who loves me.

My pastor just gave a sermon on how "everything happens for a reason," is one of those stupid things that well meaning people believe. I heard his case, and I totally get it, but on a day like today I still believe it.    I'm really talking about all of the little particles of  life that that appear around me and start to form a picture.  I see a pattern and a purpose in choices that seemed random at the time.

 I decided to bring my writing project along with me on vacation, since I would be spending time alone with my husband and alone with myself for the first time in years.  I figured I would at least have time to get the juices flowing.  I also wanted to throw a book on my Kindle for my reading pleasure, so I downloaded A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by my favorite best guy friend I've never met, but who makes me belly laugh whenever I read his work. When we got on the plane to Seattle, Mel announces that we're going to try and visit a friend of his before we drive over to Canada. Totally last minute, but I would expect nothing else from my husband.  I decide to go with it, see it as a divine appointment.

Serendipity occurs when within the first 5 minutes at this friend's house, I learn from his wife that she's a self-employed editor, sort of an idea coach. She has a great book about memoir writing that she recommends, and she generally encourages me to continue with my project.  I tell Mel on our long drive to Canada, that if I ever finish this book, I'm totally hiring her to help me shape it.

Double Serendipity for me when I'm lounging at the pool yesterday, and Donald Miller is talking to me about Story in the book I randomly chose for my trip. In A Million Miles he's telling the story of helping write the screenplay adaptation for his book, Blue Like Jazz. It's like the conversation I had with Encouraging Editor is continuing in the book by Miller, like we were all there at the dinner table together and he's just building on what we touched on earlier. 

So to all of you skeptics who say you don't understand what I'm talking about when I say "God is talking", this is how I hear his voice:  through people, smells, words, pictures. I hear him encouraging me to continue the project, and hear him explaining the Story we're all living. 

"Glory to God in the highest, for all these events led me to you. Your gentle hands protected me as I wandered in the woods.  I snagged my clothes on thorns, but no wild beast devoured me."

Uninspiration

The minute I committed to writing and posting at least once a week, my brain's inspiration went on hiatus. Every morning I resolve to start fresh,  and then there's the baby up in his bedroom serenading me, calling me to come and rescue him from his tower. The dog baby paws at my laptop and runs up the stairs to retrieve her charge. The Boy wanders down, stares at me vacantly, dish-blond hair at attention. Husband calls from the bedroom requesting a cup of coffee in bed. Big girls are up, wandering around the kitchen, asking for food. That's it.  Breakfast must be had, children dressed, a day planned.
 How do other writers do it? By the time I have carved out a little piece of my day to exercise my brain, all I want to do is sleep. It doesn't help that I'm nursing a toddler who thinks I'm a giant teething ring. And yet I keep starting posts and not posting them, sketching out pieces of chapters and walking away for weeks on end.  Today I'm blogging instead of sleeping, sending it out there all imperfect, just to set the wheels back in motion. My love of words compels me.  When I sit down with God at the end of my life, I want to remember what happened and have some good stories to tell him. (Thank you Donald Miller)

Signs it's Time to Wean Your Toddler

This one's been brewing in me all week while I fight a virus and nurse my almost 2 year-old bundle of wonder.

1. If you toddler pulls away while nursing to entertain you with his beat boxing, it might be time to consider weaning.

2. If Cutie can and does put his leg up through your shirt and through your collar to rest his foot on your face while nursing, it might be time.

3. If you can't sit down without him flopping down on your lap and saying "peeese", it might be time.  At least he says please.

4. If your toddler believes you are a cool refreshment that must remain exposed and available to him through an entire movie, it might be time.

5.  If you start seriously pondering any of the crazy tactics used around the world, like rubbing dung or bitter concoctions on your milk producers, you know exactly what time it is.

The Notebook

Some people save pictures in scrapbooks, ribbons and trophies, figurine collectibles.  I save everything I've ever written, from the moment I started writing things down.  I asked My husband to retrieve "my box" with all of the older stuff in it so I could fill in some memory holes for my foreign exchange book.  It took all of Christmas vacation, but it finally appeared, and right on top was a school notebook from 1984.  I'd etched the Van Halen logo in several places and written other random things on the front.  As I started reading the stuff on the inside I had to put it down and walk away.  I left it for another week, and then one of my girls read a page---"AAACK don't read that, you must never read any of that."  So I'd just given her the greatest temptation ever.
 I took the book back in my hand and read through again, feeling nauseous, feeling very sad.  In French I told my husband what I'd written about, stuff he knows, some he doesn't.
"Girls, I want you to know that the reason I don't want you to ever read that is because it's not your mom.  That isn't me.  It's who I was before I knew Christ."
The notebook is now strategically hidden.  I've made a plan to make one more pass through it and then throw it away.  Burn it.  It was my lonliest most tragic summer, filled with things I'm forever scarred by, things I truly regret. I'm not ashamed for my daughters to know what happened, but I want to tell them with my true voice, not have them hear it from the very confused girl, who wrote about herself in the third person half the time.
There is one piece that I will keep, an ode to an Autumn leaf, that I wrote on stationary and tucked neatly in the notebook.  I'll keep this thing because it is truly beautifully written and it celebrates beauty and being alive. The rest will burn.

Obedience School Dropout

This week we lived through our first bath, learned to sit and lay down, and dropped out of our first obedience class.  I'm so proud of myself, really.  I signed up for the class offered by my rec department, and since this was the guy recommended by all the shelters in the area, I didn't think twice about it.  I was a little surprised that a choke chain was required, but sure I'll buy one. The first night he was a little harsh with a couple of the very aggressive dogs in the class, but at the time I really appreciated it.  After the second week, and seeing my dog get aggressive when she hadn't been before, I made the call.  The program coordinator asks me straightaway, "did he throw a chain at your dog?" Seriously.  And what's worse, he had thrown a chain at a 6 month old lab puppy who was snarling at my dog.

I swear I'm a mom blog, not a dog blog, but being a dog mom is making me sort of "focused" on this topic.   This week I experienced a deja vu of my early parenting experience, when my eyes were opened to the huge chasm between "parenting styles" in our country. At the time I followed my heart and prayed through a churning gut about some of the things the people around me believed and practiced.  As I grew in confidence as a mom, I could speak more authoritatively about what worked for me and why I didn't do it the way they did.  I was really assuming that dog raising would be a little simpler and less volatile than that, but that is not the human way, is it?

So we are looking for a new class, preferably one that uses treats and praise. The most amazing book for me on this journey has  been, Living with Kids and Dogs...Without Losing Your Mind by Colleen Pelar.  Short and simple, it has allowed me to prepare my house and kids for introducing a dog into the family. She provides simple things you can teach each age of child (The Boy loves to "be a tree" when Belle comes looking for a treat in his hand) and ways to train your dog around the kids with treats and positive reinforcement.  I have also loved The Adopted Dog Bible by those great folks at Petfinder.com . It's all in there, from housetraining to buying a brush.  And can I say that my dog stopped bunching up and dropping steamy loads around my house within the first week by using lots of positive reinforcement and not one rolled up newspaper.  

New Years Blah Blah Blah

Tonight is New Year's Eve, officially the worst holiday ever.  The only positive memories I have of this day are from my tween years, before the adult illusions of a spectacular evening had set in. My sister and I would go to my grandma's house and enjoy a corny evening of Dick Clark, make party hats out of tin foil, and if we were lucky, get a shot of Grandma's homemade kalua. In our hearts we knew we were just biding our time until the really fun years would begin.

From that point on, New Year's Eve has always been a holiday of great disappointment; of nothing to do, of reservations forgotten, of wrong shoes and wrong dresses in awkwardly wrong evenings.  Nothing has ever been as magical as a movie.  By this point in my life, I realize that I avoid celebrating New Year's at all.  I hate resolutions because I never keep them, I hate having any kind of expectations for an evening, because I'm always disappointed. Okay, I'll admit that celebrating 2000 nine hours ahead of my fear-mongering countrymen was somewhat enjoyable.  When I could call my mom after midnight and say "see mom, the phones are still working," it was a pretty satisfying moment.  But then my husband insisted on going to downtown Nantes to watch fireworks or something festive and cold, and I just wanted to snuggle up with my baby in my jammies and celebrate by mentally savoring my life.
I'm so thankful. I want to expect nothing and be thankful for everything. Tonight I danced with my kids in the kitchen to the Black Eyed Peas, drank champagne in the crystal flutes from my wedding, played wii in my Christmas jammies with my baby on my lap and my new dog at my feet.  It's 10 o'clock and I'm not staying up until midnight. Good night 2010.

Little Orphan Annie

When you meet a child who is homeless or severely neglected, they often have a very un-childlike quality about them.  They are somber little adults, with big adult thoughts of survival and mortality in their heads.  When I adopted Belle, a seven month-old puppy from the pound, I was expecting a fair amount of puppy behavior like chewing, and romping.  After now three days of care, play and good food, she is finally starting to behave a little like the child she is and actually playing with her toys.  She was so mellow that first night that I was actually starting to worry about her health, and now seeing her grab one of my bras and wrestle it to the ground like the beast that it is, I'm relieved.  She is so thin that her hip bones and should blades stick out through her fur.  This mama started feeding her pretty aggressively from the moment she crossed our threshold, and paid the price in piles of steamy badness in my living room.  I think we've got the food and poop situation under control now, and she is about the sweetest, dreamiest dog I've ever met.  Who could have not wanted this being?  Why would anyone neglect and abandon this amazing, sweet, intelligent dog.  All I know is I'm glad she's now ours, steamy piles, chewed bras and all.

A Face Only a Mama Could Love

Here she is folks, my new baby. This isn't the one I posted a picture of yesterday...  I drove 30 minutes tonight to see her with my children, the empty tank light taunting me and the rush hour traffic encroaching upon me.  When we arrived, they told me she couldn't be seen because she had just returned from the vet where she spent the night after being spayed.  I was fairly persistent, and they let me go out to the kennels to look at her.  After passing ten anxious, barking, crazy pitbull terriers, there was Bell, anxiously barking and running all over her kennel.  We went back in and asked again if we could just pet her, we had driven 30 minutes to see her.  Finally, a nice young man relented and walked us out there, explaining that she was very thin and very neglected and really needed a good home.  I could tell that she had a bond with the guy, as she kept hiding under his arm and leaning against him.  When she saw that I was on her side, she leaned into me to, craving protection.  Her face is wirey, but her body is soft and fluffy.  Her big feet reveal another facet of her genetic makeup beyond terrier and spaniel.  I think we're going to have a sort of big dog on our hands, but a gentle, sweet one. She still needs to rest up from her surgery and finish her medication, but in a few days she'll be home with us. Thank you, Petfinder.com for making a great way to match animals with their people.

Doggy Jail

This is my current obsession.  Not this particular dog, but finding a dog to adopt for Christmas.  This little guy is named Lenny, and I just saw him on Petfinder this morning.  Is he the cutest thing ever?  I say obsession because when I decide to do something, it sort of consumes me.  Only the enjoyable things.  I'm sure my husband wishes that house cleaning consumed me, but alas, notsomuch.
On Saturday we met a sweet dog at Petco named Louie, a short fat rat terrier who wanted to play with my kids so badly he was going nuts.  When we went to the shelter to see him again, he was all over the place, and so hyper I didn't think I could manage him.  That same day I met Rudi, a gorgeous little Japanese Chin, who was mellow and delicate, and let me walk him around the yard---but what would my bruiser toddler do to delicate Rudi?  Another neighboring shelter has some puppies that just arrived, so I made myself read about life with a puppy to see if that is even something I can fathom right now.  I have been trolling Craigslist for dogs, and almost drove 2 hours away yesterday to rescue a gorgeous untrained golden retriever .
Why am I even contemplating another responsibility so badly right now?  It almost feels like a cosmic overthrowing of my better judgement. There is an animal that needs us this Christmas, and I need to find him.

Laughing is my Favorite

Sometimes I get very discouraged by the group of people I'm affiliated with---and we're not just affiliated; if you're a Christian, no matter the denomination, you are my brother or sister in Christ.  We're spending ETERNITY together.  I'll be honest, there are many Christians that I hope are busy enjoying a different part of heaven when I get there, because they bum me out.  My passion for my people has recently be reignited by a guy I've never met nor side hugged and a great little book and blog called Stuff Christians Like.  Jon Acuff, your musings tickle my funny bone like nothing has in a very long time, and I really needed it during an election year.

Why do we take ourselves so seriously?  We are a strange bunch.  Admitting this doesn't make God any less amazing or loving; it is really more amazing that he still loves us despite our shenanigans.  I'd like to pick out a couple of examples from the book, but for some reason the intense humor gets lost in translation. This weekend my husband and I were giggling at the Ninjas, Half and Halves, and Pound Cakes at our worship service and counting how many times God's favorite word was used in prayer. You just have to check it out for yourself.   

Wanderlust

Back in 1987, which feels like both yesterday and another lifetime altogether, I spent a year abroad in Belgium as a foreign exchange student.  Something took hold of me a few years before, when I was pretty deeply entrenched in teen angst and rebellion, a wanderlust that I have been unable to shake even to this day.  I had always been one of those people who wanted to be somewhere else, live a different life, experience something entirely new.  How many middle schoolers beg their mothers to move to another city?  Well that was me, and by 15 I had just enough French under my belt at school to know that I was wired for languages---I wanted to travel the globe.  Belgium was my first taste of the expatriate experience. It was both a transformational trial by fire and a gift.  Belgium stripped away my persona and its costume and left me to search for true identity and meaning.


Here is what I love the most about the interweb.  I have started to craft a memoir about my year in Belgium, and I can look up pictures to jog my memory.  This is Tavier, the first village I lived in.  How far away from high desert Nevada could you get?  Within the first few days, I had already attended a wedding reception inside the walls of a centuries old dairy and eaten Saturday supper with a group of the villagers.  It was an amazing year. My sister joked that I am trying to single-handedly destroy the foreign exchange program when I told her a couple of the things that happened to me that year. I guess it's weird that there are things I've never told anyone--not her, not my parents or my husband even. As I think about it, I believe that I returned home so entirely different that I had to work really hard to pretend I was still the same.  But I never was.  I was totally "Exchanged". 

The Gang's All Here

It's amazing that I can still eat after what I had to clean up this morning, and yet here I am, chowing on my cold cereal, ignoring briefly the screaming toddler at my feet.  I swear, I'm not cut out for this. But when I think about all the little crises I deal with on a daily basis and realize that we're all still alive, especially these little people God mistakenly entrusted to me, I think that maybe I could do anything.  I could climb Mt. Everest, except for the freezing my butt off and the lack of oxygen.
I know that my kids are destined to do great things in this world, because God took a young woman with no desire whatsoever for motherhood, and gave her such a yearning that she could not let it go until each one of these people was birthed on the planet.  You may look at me with my 5 kids, one carried kangaroo style and one looking like she could be the mom, and think "that poor woman."  She must be Catholic, or crazy or Mormon, or stupid, or too lazy to use birth control.  The truth is that I had to pray and wait for each of these blessings, and lose a couple on the way.  Each time we integrated another person into our family, I just felt that the picture wasn't complete.  

They are all here now, and the fog has lifted.  I now clearly see the challenge set out for me and it is terrifying and exhilarating.  Dealing with all of these bodily fluids is the easy part---we're moving into crushes and peer influence, and I'm facing the ghosts of my adolescent past.  How much do I share?  How soon?  Already my eldest is amazingly brighter, prettier, stronger, wiser than I was at that age. But I've got boys riding past our house on their bikes, texing, and requesting friendship on Facebook.  I need another cup of coffee.

Poopscepade

It all began so innocently.  After being up with Juju at 3am, I just wanted to grab a couple of extra minutes of sleep.  He crawled out of my bed and started toddling around the kitchen.  I could hear him in there talking to himself and calling out to siblings to wake up.  My body was in one of those uber relaxed sleepy states, and I told myself, "he's fine, he'll find the legos on the floor and play for a little bit.  A few minutes later he came back to the bedside and tried to climb up.  Having some difficulty, he said "Uh oh."  I took pity on him,  leaned over to pull him up, and got an armful of nasty stinky poo.  Holy crap, indeed...it was everywhere.  All over him, all over the sheets (because apparently this is why he crawled out of bed in the first place), tracked through the house.  With no coffee on board, I was at a total disadvantage.

Game plan: throw baby in bath, brew coffee, strip sheets, do detail.  I thought I had it all under control, when I came around a corner and found it smeared on the floor and my treadmill.  I think my husband put him up to this. At this point, I just want my mommy, but if I called her she'd just laugh and remind me of the time I did the same but worse.  Moral of the story? Don't sweat the small stuff.

The Boy

I questioned whether to write about this or not, but thinking of another brave mom who writes about it all, I'm forging ahead.  I want any mom out there to know that her instincts are the best source of understanding for her individual child--as long as she's not smoking meth or spaced out on the disco biscuits.  For months I've been angsting over the state of my son's brain, educational health, emotional development, etc.  I'm no stranger to highly spirited children, for all of mine appear to fall somewhere in that category, but I am a mom of 3 girls before my boy, so I was never sure if I was dealing with issues of gender or true developmental delay.  And I'll go ahead and say it, even though the big boys don't want to hear it, you are all a little delayed.  That was just for me so I could chuckle.

When I put my little man in preschool this year, it was with a certain amount of urgency as he was talking much less at 3 than my daughters had.  All year I kept taking his educational pulse with his teachers, and he made huge strides.  But here we have arrived at the end of the year, and I find myself still struggling to get him to follow simple directions.  It's as if he has ear plugs in, or he seriously cannot pull his attention away from anything that he's focusing on or he will die.  And if we do pull him away, it's full melt down mode, and my husband is all with the tough love and time out in the corner.  Something just doesn't seem right though, and everyone is telling me it's just a "boy thing".  I don't want to be the ostrich mom with her head firmly planted in the sand, wearing a big blinged out necklace that says "boy thing".  After a recent birthday party where all the other boys managed to eat their cake at the table without screaming about sitting in one certain seat, and where the other boys didn't have melt downs because they couldn't open the present they were giving to the birthday boy, I decided that I was going to have my son evaluated.  I put it on my "to do" list, and promptly procrastinated.  One month later God arranged for the school district to provide free early childhood screening at my daughters' school, so I had to go.  I seriously almost turned the car around. None of us wants to admit that there might be something wrong with our child.  Further proof of this is that during this 4 hour window of opportunity, only 3 or 4 other parents arrived at the screening, all with their adorable quirky boys in tow. Sigh.

My son demonstrated his "self directed" behavior very clearly at the screening and had a great time lining up a bin of cars according to color while I talked to an angel of an autism specialist for our school district.  Both the psychologist and the speech/language therapist agreed that if they could only get him to respond to the questions, they knew he would score higher.  They assure me that there are no short buses in Douglas county, but I'm still crying at the thought of putting him on the bus at all. I still haven't even had the IEP meeting to discuss what my son might need to get him ready for kindergarten, but I'm always one to run in front of the horse I'm supposed to be riding.

Seventeen Years of Wedded Life

There's this person in my life,
who's always reaching, kissing, enjoying me.
Filling me with joy, and likewise anger.
There's this person, my love for whom
I can't explain.  He came upon me suddenly.
He came and would not leave.
My love showed me what never leaving felt like.  What clinging tight to love might bring.
My love is now my husband,
here to stay, forever holding, cherishing,
fighting for me.
My husband, one I never thought would come,
happened on me suddenly, and here he will stay.

"Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy as unyeilding as the grave.  It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame.  Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away." (Song of Songs 8:6-7)

I wrote this poem for my husband when we wed...it's rough, and so were we.  I think we are a testament to what tenacity in a marriage can bring.  

Say it Ain't So

She's far away, yet I feel her in my heart right now, right up in my throat actually. He's practically a stranger to me, the great guy I chatted with at our 20th reunion who bought me beer and even glasses of water that I didn't ask for but he knew I wanted.  His name is Bob, and he is battling lymphoma, a battle I NEVER thought he wasn't going to win when I first read about it on her blog.  Her name is Leah, a friend from school; the friend who brought a jello salad spiked with vodka to the 8th grade picnic.  Who knew vodka messed with how jello set up?  Leah threw up all over me in the upper bunk of her parents trailer days later from a continuation of the same shenanigans we were dabbling in.  I've got more on her, but that's for another time.  Outside of a strange 3-way call a mutual friend set up and surprised me with around 2001, we had no contact until we were helping plan our 20th high school reunion.  Since then we've connected through the usual means of the new millenium--Facebook, e-mail, blogging.  And her blog has been amazing and painful to read these past several months as her husband was diagnosed with lymphoma, treated, in remission, sick again, seaking a risky transplant, and now given weeks to live.  This just isn't how it was supposed to play out, yet she continues to write and let us into her most vulnerable places.  We're all still hoping he is going to beat this thing....we're rallying, we're hoping, we're praying, we're sending positive vibes, whatever.  But last night's post was the one that sent us all to our collective knees.  The image of her curled up miserably on her "chofa" at his hospital bedside contemplating--preparing for--the reality that he was leaving this planet and she was staying here alone.  Just typing the words makes my whole body churn.  Did I mention THIS ISN'T HOW THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO GO?  I feel us all crowded in her hospital room with her, we're shoulder to shoulder, butt to butt watching, aching as we watch, and unable to change the outcome or lift the burden from her.  If I could but carry her pain and sorrow for her one hour right now, I would gladly.  I can't do very much, but I can stand in the gap praying for an 11th hour miracle, pray for whatever the future holds for this family and my dear friend, pray that she would have a peace in her heart right now that only God can provide.
If you're reading this, please keep praying for Bob.  It's not over until you know who sings.

My GAD is acting up

It's that gnawing, anxious sensation, just below the surface of emotion.  That feeling like something terrible is about to happen, or I've done something, somehow, that I need to make right---but I have no idea what.  It's a feeling of dread. It's not something I can tell people is going on, because it almost like it's imaginary, or not linked to reality.  When I try to tell my husband it's happening, I get the rolling of the eyes or on a good day I get his best stab at encouragement. He's used to hearing the phrase, "if I should die in the night, " or "do you think someone at the Del Taco could have poisoned us?"
  When I was a kid, I remember telling my dad about it and explaining how I just had this awful feeling about something bad, and like any good Catholic father, he told me it was my guilty conscience and I probably did something wrong.  In high school when I medicated myself with cannabis, I remember looking out my window thinking that the world would end at any minute.  And I felt very alone.
I'm not alone anymore, in fact I'm surrounded by people all of the time, people who want and need things from me, which makes the GAD act up.  I also have lots of commitments, ones I made when I felt fine, but now they make me want to crawl in bed.  And that is one thing that eases it for a while.  A good nap and a do-over.  I think my GAD is hormonally driven, so I guess as long as I'm still a girl I'll be battling this on some level.  One of my biggest fears is that my daughters will/have inherited this, and sometimes I see shadows.
So here's my "mantra":  "Do not be anxious about anything.   But in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God, .  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."  Phil 4:6.

Third Time's a Charm

I learned a great lesson from my baby this morning.  He's hit that great phase where rifling through drawers brings hours of entertainment.  I figure it's worth it to allow him to explore the bathroom drawer (with all safe contents, people) while I take a long-deserved and necessary shower.  After a few rounds of "coucou" through the glass, he set about the business of opening the drawer and playing with the 10 containers of dental floss (ask Hubs about this one) and multi-pack of tooth brushes.  He successfully opened the drawer, then moments later shut it on his precious, chubby baby finger.  Not a lot of crying, but a look of distress, before he managed to pull his finger out.  Immediately, he set about trying to shut his finger in the door again.  Seriously? I tried talking him through it, then  sort of chuckled to myself, wondering how many times he would do this before he figured out where he shouldn't be putting his fingers while playing with the door.  The third time it was a little harder for him to dislodge his finger, and then after that I noticed he didn't do it again.  Hmmm, so maybe there is something to the saying "The third time is a charm".  Are we wired by the Great Creator  to need a little finger slamming to get the picture?  What have I been slamming my fingers in lately?  What have you been slamming your fingers in lately?