My mom.

I love my mom. She is quirky, silly and fun. She has always been that way. I have so many memories of her making silly faces at me from the kitchen or chasing me down the hallways to tackle and tickle me. She used to follow me to school to hug or kiss my face properly if I didn't giver her a proper goodbye in the morning. I used to shrink inside my clothes, but now I look back at her dedication to motherhood with such fondness. She stayed up until all hours of the night to make me dresses. She'd tiptoe over my messy floor to tuck me in at night or give me cold medicine if I was coughing. And she would always listen to me for hours. Sometimes when I chase the girls I think of her. She made me into part of the mom that I am, and I feel so grateful that my kids get to reap the benefits of the her mothering.

Life has not been easy or always kind to my mom. She often bears so much weight on her shoulders. I have seen the sparkle that used to aways radiate from my mom fade from time to time. She loves hard, but sometimes that love is hard on her, if that makes sense. She works long hours and comes home to be a wife, a mother and a grandmother in the space. It has worn her down. I see it. She sees it. But she will not be defeated. She keeps waking up early in the morning and staying awake late to give her all to the people immediately around her, and she does her best to stay connected to me and my brother across the country. I think it's hard to grow up without your parents because in a sense they don't get to see so much of your life and how much you grow and change. My mom has tried to understand me or at least respect me and my changes, and I feel so grateful for that. She encourages me when needed; she hangs up on me when necessary; and she stretches her mama arms through the phone on more than one occasion to give me a hug that only she can. 

I love my mom. I love that my kids love my mom. I ache a little knowing they don't get to see them often, but I am filled with gratitude for every sacrifice my parents take to be with my kids as often as possible. 

My inflexibility

I think one of the things that I work on most is learning to bend the inner me. I feel like 5 kids has made me extremely flexible--too flexible if you ask some. I have learned to let a lot of things go that I wouldn't have even a few years back. I realize messes happen a lot. I can't keep every room clean ever. Someone always inevitably gets sick on an important day. My naps are often curtailed by a foot pounding on a shared wall. And you know what--I'm usually okay. I deal with it. I rebound faster. I'm rather proud of myself 75% of the time.

But there is that nagging percentage that still eats away at me. Usually it rears its ugly head at dinnertime, which for me is the absolute worst hour of everyday. The kids immediately seize up and go stiff whenever they see a plate full of anything other than tacos. The babies refuse to eat most of the time if I don't spoon feed them. Timmy has recently developed a habit of gagging himself and running to the trash can to spit out whatever dinner I prepared. And the other girls poke at the meal with such scorn that I just want to run upstairs and eat my plate of food alone, which I never get to do. And mind you...most of my dinners take me over an hour to prepare, so dealing with this on an almost daily basis has made me a bit inflexible.

I turn into a wide-eyed monster when I look around the table and see the various faces or hear the noises coming from the trash can. Do they not know how long it took me to come up with the meal let alone make it? Of course they do; I've only repeated it to them 100 times. But it doesn't matter. Dinnertime is always the same. I hate it.

I am also wildly inflexible about giving up my workout time. It is, perhaps, the only time I give myself each day. And you should know that unless I'm running outside alone (which doesn't happen frequently in the winter), my exercise routine is generally interrupted 5-10 times each day to help a child wipe their bottom, spell a word, fix the tv, do someone's hair, etc. And I've learned to roll with the little interruptions. Just today I managed to do a complete leg workout while craning my neck to see Elle's memory book so I could help her write "memos" next to the picture. And later I sang nursery rhymes to Timmy while trying to finish my 2 mile run on the treadmill. And those things didn't really bother me, but if a child does something that makes me have to miss my entire workout, I am a bit of a bear. It's not a pretty sight.

And while I'm on this subject of revealing all my inflexible muscles, I should also say I have a weak spot for any mention of family. I feel immediately defensive and my senses sharpen when someone mentions something about my family. Last night Tim and I got into a disagreement (mostly due to miscommunication) about family. I'd like to throw the blame to PMS but I couldn't believe how quickly my blood boiled. I felt unable to even say our evening prayer. I just rolled over and took several deep breaths to calm my body down. We never talked about it. We just laid there in bed--as two grown adults--knocking our separate feet together and pretending not to know the other one was still awake and feeling just as awkward. But somehow we fell asleep, and we've managed to muddle our way through today even though there is something still strange in the air, and I keep telling myself to let it go, but the mind doesn't always do what we tell it to.

And lastly, I'm very inflexible when it comes to family pictures. I'm a nut job. It's the truth. We may get one good family, but it comes at the expense of many tears and scowls.

So there you have it. I'm not all that flexible. I have so much to work on. I need so much time; I hope I have it.

Martin Luther King Jr.

Tonight in Elle's prayer she said, "...and thank you for Martin Luther King Jr. Thank you for helping him be brave so he could change the world." I opened my eyes at that moment and saw her smiling from ear to ear, knowing that this man made an incredible difference in her life. Most of Elle's friends are of different ethnicities. She can't comprehend life with segregation. Her belief in others, regardless of their skin color or gender, amazes me.

(You should also know that she is my most thoughtful prayer giver--lest you think all my kids are as eloquent in their prayers. Not so.)

But her words reflected a short history lesson I gave to the kids this afternoon after I put Timmy down for his nap. They begged me for a movie and popcorn (because today was in the negative temps outside), and I told them that they could have their movie only after we took a moment to discuss why they had the day off school.

It was an insightful discussion. We talked about segregation, and I showed them pictures of what that looked like. Mya taught the girls about Rosa Parks. And I read a book about Martin Luther King Jr. After we talked about the results of Martin Luther King Jr.'s life and movement, the girls said, "Mom, we are so glad he never gave up because now our friends AJ and Ali can come play at our house from time to time, and that would never have been allowed before." AJ and Ali are children of an interracial marriage of good friends of ours. They are the most beautiful children, and we adore their parents.

I hadn't really thought about that, but my girls are right. We can list dozens of friends that wouldn't be friends if it wasn't for all the men and women that believed in equality and love--with a large emphasis on love.

And do you want to know what I think is really beautiful--my kids don't see people as black and white. They see people as peach, darker peach, tan, light brown and dark brown. Elle asked me today why we even call people black, and I explained it in the best way I could. If only everyone could see others the way kids do...

getting better.

I'm finally beginning to feel normal again after what felt like a deadly spiral downward had taken over my body. Stomach flu is the worst kind of flu, and it has attacked 5 of 7 of us. And if we include the dogs, I may even dare to say it got them too.

I've been sick a lot this year. My immune system is as bad as it was whenever I was pregnant, and yet I am not pregnant. Tim, while in the throws of nausea (and everything else that comes with it) yesterday, looked at me and said, "If this is what pregnancy and morning sickness was like, you are Wonder Woman." Why, thank you babe. It only took you a few years to realize how much my body paid to earn these little angels (or demons...depending on the day). ;)

Honestly, being sick is the absolute worst. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit certain perks of sickness. The amount of cuddles and hugs a child generally needs grows exponentially. Even Mya reached out for my hand and cuddled into the nook of my body while I ran my fingers through her tear-stained hair. She hardly lets me hold her, so I relished her touch, even if it was burning hot and a little clammy.

And then there is my boy. Oh my boy. He had a terrible run of it. He had it, and then it went away, and then it returned with vengeance a day later. His round, pink cheeks begged for kisses. His teary eyes looked up at me with betrayal as if he was silently asking why I couldn't take this terrible feeling from him. It was pretty awful. I snuggled him tightly and repeated, "I'm sorry baby boy. I'm sorry you're so sick." I may or may not have kissed his cheeks every second he'd let me, which I can guarantee led to my own sickness, and not that it was worth it, but boy do I love to kiss his cheeks.

As we all come out of the thick fog that has tainted our home, I feel so much gratitude for my kids and my husband who rallied together and helped each other, even when it wasn't easy to do so. We all pushed through the nausea or pain to help someone else worse off than ourselves. My family is pretty great.

And now as I think of all the moments we've gone through the last few days, I can't help but link the tender moments to ones we have (with or without our knowledge or recognition) with God. The many times he waits with outstretched arms to hug or soothe our pain. I find myself thinking of him a lot as I carry my babies around, even though they are getting to be much bigger than babies. I tell myself to do it as long as they will let me because soon they won't ask anymore. And I'm sure that's a lot like God. He carried us for as long as we let him, and then we asked him to put us down, and he's just waiting for us to ask him to carry us again.

I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. I see so many parallels in my parenting life to what I imagine the life of God to be like (obviously his is filled with a lot more patience and zero swearing), but you know the good sides of my parenting. And everyday I feel so grateful for his patience, his outstretched hand, his millions of bandaids, and his love.

33

Today is my husband's birthday, and tonight I sluggishly walked upstairs at 7pm after a long day and collapsed on my bed, leaving him to put all five kids to bed alone. When I woke up around 8:30 just as he was finishing with the girls, I felt guilty for having fallen asleep on his special day, but without missing a beat, he just waved it off and joined me on the couch to eat a slice of cake that nearly didn't survive the baking process.

Yesterday while trying to prep for today, I tried to bake my "famous" chocolate cake (as the kids call it), and just as I was lifting the springform pans up to put them in the oven, I realized I didn't clip one of the pans right, and half of the cake batter fell to the floor, delighting the dogs. I oddly didn't get angry. I just quickly saved what I could and regrouped--his 4-layer cake turned into a 3-layer cake, and no one even noticed the missing layer, and the dogs enjoyed a chocolatey treat that will probably cause some terrible diarrhea before the day is over tomorrow.

The cake trouble didn't end with the batter spilling all over the floor. While cutting the layers in the cake, one of the layers crumbled in my hands as I transferred it to a plate. I managed to piece it back together, and the cream frosting held it together, but man, I'm not sure I've ever had such a difficult time making a cake.

But Tim is worth it. So for Tim's birthday I gave him the gift of putting our babies to bed, a botched cake, and a silly gesture of finding our rogue paddle boat across the lake and bringing it home by tying a rope around my waist and dragging it behind my kayak. I'm sure I looked ridiculous on the water, but I knew Tim would appreciate the help, so I had a few laughs and secured the boat to our dock again. I also bought him a shirt, but of course it hasn't arrived yet, so his birthday gifts from me are rather lame, but somehow he managed to enjoy them.

I've been married to this man for over 11 years now. We were practically babies when we got married. I didn't even know how to make a homemade cake that first year we celebrated his birthday; I just went to the store and bought 4 chocolate cake mixes and made 4 round cakes to stack on each other because it hadn't occurred to me that you could slice the cake in half to get more layers, so that first year his cake was not homemade and looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The memory still makes me laugh.

By his second birthday I had learned a thing or two and although I still used a box cake mix, I at least learned there was no reason to buy 4 boxes. It's just gotten better with each passing year.

I once wrote how Tim was both the cake and frosting of my life. He is full of all the substance one needs to make a cake (or a life), and he has provided for me and the kids in every way possible over the years. He has all the right ingredients. But he also is my frosting. I used to think you couldn't have both--you'd have to sacrifice one in order to have the other, but not with Tim. He has all the substance and all the sweetness of the frosting. He still grabs me first thing after getting home from work and kisses me in front of whoever is sitting at the table (sometimes too passionately for my taste in front of the kids, but he swears it's for their own good). He texts me he loves me randomly throughout the day. He also texts me dirty little lines that make my mind reel for hours before he gets home; he knows how to get under my skin in the best kind of way. He runs his fingers through my hair almost every night because he knows I love it. He kisses my face when I cry. He laughs with me in bed as we review the day holding hands and touching toes. He is my cake and frosting.

And you know what else--he is also my sprinkles. He makes the very dim days shine brighter. He has a way of spicing up any dull evening with a laugh, a touch or a story.

He has what I need, probably more than I need some days, but over the years he has taught me to love abundantly and love deeply. I need him in every way, and I am thankful God had a hand in bringing us together.

Happy birthday bun! I love you so much.

tomorrow

Tomorrow my third child goes to kindergarten. I feel more sentimental with each child--perhaps it is because I know all too soon I will be alone in the daytime, which years ago only seemed like a dream but now feels more like a fragmented nightmare.

My children are my world. They drive me crazy. We have dicey days. There are days we have to remove ourselves from a room just so we don't scream at each other. But the truth is, I rather like my children. They are my friends. Obviously they are my children, but they are very much my friends. They know me better than anyone else in the world, except Tim. They are very forgiving, and they are always encouraging. They fill my world with wonder and laughter.

And when they are gone, I miss them terribly. Of course, the house gets a lot cleaner. The laundry nearly always gets put away (which has been a rare occurrence this summer). I spend less money at the grocery store. I actually wash the floor instead of just sweeping it. And I get a few more naps.

But I'd trade it all in to watch my girls chasing each other at the beach or swimming in the lake or drawing me in chalk or cuddling me on the couch or making messes with me in the kitchen. I love how young I feel with my kids (obviously there are days I feel very old too). They give me a bit of leeway to act silly or childlike.

I will miss Elle. She has been my afternoon buddy for 2 solid years as the babies have napped and the girls have been off at school. With the exception of her incessant pestering during my "nap time," ("mom, can I have some goldfish? mom, the iPad isn't working? mom...mom...mom," etc.), she was the best little helper in the world. She and I made countless batches of cookies, read endless stacks of books, created hundreds of homemade crafts, took the dog on lots of walks around the cul-de-sac, and laughed at each other while doing chores.

I adore her button nose, her blue eyes, and the way she rests her hands on her hips whenever she has something really important to say, which is just about always. She is my girl, and I keep telling myself she'll always be my girl no matter how old she gets.

At least I hope so.

Caffeine pills and late nights

(A handful of my favorite women--Linda, Lara, Jenny, Lorri, Anna, and Katie)

It's 12:33am, and I just arrived home from Milwaukee. We drove to Milwaukee yesterday morning and drove back tonight; needless to say, it was a quick trip--but a necessary one. I am currently unable to sleep because I took 2 caffeine pills a couple of hours ago because I could feel my body fading slowly in the car, and obviously I didn't want to put anyone in my family in harm's way, so I took the hit and swallowed those dreaded pills that make my legs and hands jittery and my mind wired for hours. I'm writing right now in hopes that my brain will calm down enough to go to bed within the next hour.

I made the 36-hour trip to Milwaukee because a handful of dear friends were in town for the weekend. It wasn't completely logical, but it worked out, and the whole family had a lot of fun, me included.

I'm not one to really document the play by play moves of the journey because I don't think those things are really going to matter in 20 years, but the kids really did enjoy every minute at the petting farm and beach we went to, and they loved seeing Aunt Laurie more than anything else. It always makes me feel like I'm winning as a parent when my kids put visiting people above fun attractions.

The trip for me was mostly about the people. I don't really care about farms or beaches, even though both were excellent; I care about people, especially the ones that have left an impression on my heart or mind, and that's what this weekend was about for me--being with women that not only understand me but also make me want to be better than I generally am.

I'm not really sure how I've done it, but somehow I have created an intricate web of women who are smart, funny, talented, well spoken, successful, kind, generous, understanding, curious, and courageous. Not one of my female friends is alike, yet all have these qualities, and they shine bright like the sun. I feel like the luckiest person in the world to know them and, perhaps more importantly, be liked by them.

Each friendship--whether it was created during the dramatic teenage years, exciting college years, or stretching adult years--is one that I value completely. Women need women. We do. It's just a fact. And it's been worth every effort I've made to keep strong relationships with each of them.

First love.

I fell in love for the first time on a church baseball field. I had short, blonde hair cut in a pixie style--I'm fairly certain I brought a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow from Sliding Doors with me to the hair cut, so you get the idea.

I hadn't planned on going to the church activity; I didn't frequent them often. I worked at a salon after school, and my schedule was just off enough that I didn't really attend any after school functions because I needed the money and well, work was all that was constant at the time.

But for some reason, I went to that activity. I can't even remember what we did, but I remember standing in a large oval and looking to my right and seeing him. He was just standing there--tall and goofy, but handsome as hell. And I fell in love--like my mouth went dry and my brain went elsewhere. I had never seen him before, but somehow I had to meet him.

This is where the story gets a little foggy. I don't actually remember how I met him, but I did, and by the end of the night, he walked me to my car (I think a friend was with me?), and he gave me his phone number. Or maybe I gave him mine? Or maybe we just exchanged numbers? I don't remember. It's all a blur. It was 17 years ago.

But I fell in love that night. Of course, I didn't utter those words out loud for who knows how long. I'm sure one of my hand-written journals downstairs could tell me, but right now, I'm too tired and lazy to schlep downstairs and look for that information. Plus, it doesn't really matter.

I loved that man for a solid 4 years until one day I saw him standing outside a dorm room, and love felt different. It changed. He had changed. And so had I. And so we parted ways, and my heart ached for awhile because I couldn't figure out why I spent so much time loving him just to have it end. I never found a reason. I just think that's how life was meant to be.

But for the next several years I'd reflect on this man and our relationship, and I'd try talking myself out of believing it was real love because I had gotten married and had a baby or two, and it was just too much to even really consider that I could've actually loved someone other than the man I married.

I tried for years to erase that love, and in doing so, it made me crazy. I remember the day I realized it was okay for me to have loved another man for a time. I just sat there thinking about everything that this past relationship had done to boost my confidence, teach me life lessons (albeit several really hard ones), and feel beautiful (when I really didn't at the time). And more than all that--my first love gave me love during a time in my life when I didn't really know if love mattered. He taught me that it did matter. And it changed everything for me.

I've wanted to write about this for years, but I haven't out of respect for my relationship with Tim, but like I said earlier, time has taught me that it doesn't really matter if I loved someone before Tim. My first love was just as real as is the love I have for Tim right now, even though it is night and day different. In fact, I think the love I learned then taught me who I wanted to be and didn't want to be in a relationship, and Tim has been just the man to help me sort it all out.

So love--it's a complicated thing, but it really is so beautiful if you just let it be what it is.

Because

I'm going to regret this decision in the morning. The kids are going to come bouncing into my bedroom asking for chocolate milk, and I'm going to feel like a train hit me, but I'll get up and make their milk and help them find their morning cartoon just before dutifully making lunches and tying the laces to my running shoes.

Because that's motherhood. And that is my current, beautiful reality.

Tim and I were canoodling in bed, talking about nothing really, and I just kept feeling like I needed to write something down--actually many somethings down. Not all will be written tonight, but I did start a list of topics that I feel compelled to write about.

Because the truth is that I haven't have much to say for some time now, and I've wondered what to do with this empty space that has been collecting so much dust lately.

So I hope you'll indulge me as I endeavor to write in perhaps small snippets, attempting to collect real and raw moments of my life. My life is constantly moving. It has been nearly impossible to write anything of real value (and if you know me...I hate writing crap) because Timmy is a tornado, and Birdie is just behind him, tattling her way through life. And well, I have to actually be very present with them not just because they're my last two babies and I want to, I actually have to be present out of necessity because if I don't, someone is jumping off tables and slamming into someone else or someone is finding my hidden sharpies and writing on the walls. Of course, my fourth and fifth kids would be the ones to test all the limits not previously approached.

Because that's what babies do. They remind you that they need just as much parenting as the first three babies, and you must step up your A-game.

And so I try each day. I try to rein them in bit by bit, only bridling their crazy when absolutely necessary while allowing them room to explore. I am a different mom than I was when Mya and Genevieve were 3 and 2, respectively. I feel different. The world feels different. So I parent different, but I try to maintain some consistency so the older ones don't feel so slighted.

Because older children generally feel slighted--at least that's my experience from children who will remain unnamed at the moment.

So here I am, writing close to midnight because I just can't seem to carve out time during the day like I used to. And my nights are dedicated to work so that my kids can ride horses, play soccer and dance ballet. My work may seem small and relatively insignificant, but it is of great importance in these walls, even though no one but Tim and me really knows that.

Because parenting is supposed to be about sacrifice. Giving without receiving. Loving without seeking anything--not even gratitude--in return.

My kids may not shower me with thanks, but their smiles after a horseback riding training, soccer practice or ballet rehearsal do enough for me. I know they are finding themselves in their own ways, and it gives me all the satisfaction I need.

Because satisfaction comes each day in little ways, but especially within the walls of this home I'm creating with Tim.

The grief of being done with nursing

(Timmy circa 2 weeks old in a food coma)

"When the child is to be weaned, the mother, too, is not without sorrow, because she and the child are more and more to be separated, because the child who first lay under her heart and later rested upon her breast will never again be so close. So they grieve together the brief sorrow. How fortunate the one who kept the child so close and did not need to grieve any more!" --Soren Aabye Kierkegaard

I read this quote tonight, and my heart stopped for a moment. Last week, I nursed Timmy for the last time. It wasn't planned or desired, but it just happened so naturally that I couldn't stop it. I went to nurse one night, and he just turned his gaze to me and nuzzled into the cavity between my shoulder and head. He wouldn't even consider nursing, and his look told me it was time, so I let my tears flow quietly in his dim bedroom light, and I snuggled that baby so close so as to say nursing might be over, but we will always be this close.

We've repeated the same routine at every nap time and bedtime since.

That night I walked out of his room with a heavy heart. That's it I thought. That is my last connection to babyhood, and now it was gone. And I wasn't the least bit prepared for it. I walked into my bathroom (my quiet place), and I sat on the edge of my tub, and I let my heart be still.

My body will no longer nurture babies on the inside or out. It will, however, nurture their lives with a love for reading, being creative, being active, serving, listening, and loving. I'll have to learn to be okay with that. I think I am, though the sting is still so fresh.

Lift from where you are

A dear friend of mine lost her mom a few months ago. She had battled with cancer and stomach issues and had thought that she was recovering only to learn the cancer had come back and with vengeance. She was barely 60 years old. My friend was and is still heartbroken. Her mom was everything to her, and her loss is almost too much to bear.

I have thought so much about my friend. I've reached out in different ways to let her know I'm here and I'm with her, even though I'm actually not with her. She is always present in my mind and heart, and I know she knows that.

When my friend posted about her mother's death, so many people rallied around her and buoyed her up among the crashing waves of grief. The outpouring of love was astounding. I can imagine her sweet mother watching all these women figuratively carrying her daughter out of the depths of despair; I'm sure she cried the whole time as the women helped my friend reach heavenward.

While I am not yet well acquainted with death and the grief that it brings, I have had my own experiences of being lifted above the crashing waves. Each time I had a baby, so many women offered meals and babysitting, and there were some who even came and cleaned my house (my toilets even!!). There was a steady stream of people for about a week, and I always felt so loved and cared for.

And then the week ended. And people got back to their normal lives as I expected them to, but there I was with one, two, three, five babies clinging to my ankles, one of whom was so tiny and delicate that she/he required extra love and attention, and I was forced to forge on ahead, mostly alone even though the waves were still high and often seemed like they were about to crash down at any minute.

Somehow I survived. My youngest baby is eighteen months and still requires extra attention but nowhere near the attention he once needed. The waves seem knee deep now, with an occasional tidal wave that hits me out of nowhere.

And so now I find myself in a position to reach out and lift those in deeper water, like my dear friend above. Here's the thing: people need us long after that initial week has worn off. In fact, they need us more. I could've really used an extra pair of hands the summer I had Timmy, but I often found myself sobbing as I soothed several crying babies. I am grateful for the people who still dropped by and still offered help because everything they did saved me in a crucial time. It's been a few months, and people are telling my friend that grief gets easier with time, but so far it hasn't been the case for her. It's actually been harder. Luckily, she knows some of the same women I know, and they are reaching out to her, even when she wants to hide and disappear. My friends will not let her disappear.

So during this holiday time--when everything seems so merry and bright (and it really is!)--there are people who might not feel so merry and bright for whatever reason, and if we have it in us to serve a little here and there, I hope we'll do it. Lift from where you are. And if you happen to be under crashing waves, ask for help. Reach out. There are people (like me) who don't always know service is needed unless told but are completely willing to help. Happy holidays friends!

home.

The smell of concrete just after it rains mixed with a faint smell of dryer sheets always reminds me of Argentina. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of Argentina. It was very much my home, even though I lived there for a short 16 months.

Every morning at 5:55am I would sluggishly tie the laces of my running shoes, and my mission companion and I would descend the four flights of stairs to the street where all you would smell for blocks and blocks was wet concrete and dryer sheets. Women would be rolling up their sleeves at the laundry mats, and men would be outside hosing down the sidewalks (unless it rained in which case God did their job for them), and I would run past and whisper, "Buen dia señor. Buen dia señora," to all the people we passed. Sometimes they'd nod in my direction with a half-burned cigarette resting between their lips, and other days they'd smile and wave back.

My companion and I would make our way to the plaza--a tiny park in the middle of skyscrapers--and I'd run my laps over and over again while my companion sat on a swing, resting her head and her eyes for an extra half hour. The only time she'd open her eyes was if she heard me fall on the cracks in the ground (I fell so much in Argentina, which is very unlike me) or if she heard an ambulance approaching from the distance.

There's a quote by Elder Holland (an apostle in the LDS church) where he says something like "there isn't a day that he doesn't think of his mission." I used to think that was ridiculous because life gets pretty crazy post-mission, but it's been 11 years since I stepped feet back on American soil, and he's right, there isn't a day that passes when I don't think of my mission. I think of the people I visited, the sounds on the busy city streets, the smells of freshly baked facturas, the connections I made, the service I received and rendered, and the God I found there.

God became very real to me there. He didn't seem so far away as I tried to help people feel their way back to Him. Helping people develop faith and a desire to be something more than what they already are is such an honor, and I'm grateful I had the chance to do it. In so many ways, it helps me teach my children. I know how to listen to their concerns and doubts, and without disregarding them, I help them see new possibilities.

Eleven years. That seems like an eternity ago in so many ways. But the fact that I can still hear their voices in my dreams and smell their food when I enter certain restaurants always brings me home.

things.

It's after 11, and I told Tim that I'd be sleeping by now. But something about my tiny world sleeping has given my thoughts the needed space to spread their proverbial wings and fly. I have so many thoughts but not enough time or hands to jot them down. So here, in random order, are things that have been on my mind lately.

I made a mistake. A colossal one--perhaps the biggest one of my life. It haunts me in my dreams and creeps into my thoughts as I routinely wash the dishes. I should never have gotten my tubes tied. There hasn't been a day when I don't think about what I've done. Tim feels (and has felt this way for nearly 18 months) that there wouldn't have been more babies for us. I disagree. I feel a hole I didn't expect to feel, and I trip in that hole every day, and the wound will not heal. I ache. Although Tim and I disagree on this subject, he is kind and listens to me repeat the same few words of regret to him each night on our walk. He no longer offers condolences or apologies. He just listens and lets the words hang there without reservation. Sometimes our differing opinions makes me angry. Sometimes it makes me cry. It is a burden I bear alone, and perhaps that's why it hurts the most.

I thought I'd never see night skies like the ones I saw in our small town in Texas, but I still do. I never forget to look up on my nighttime walks and feel the greatness of the world around me. The stars shine brightly here and remind me that no matter where I go, the moon and the stars will go with me.

I told God tonight on my walk that I am so tired of carrying uncertainty and doubt in my heart. With the exception of truly being able to empathize and understand people in similar situations (which I realize is a huge gift), doubt has done me little good. It has caused me to lose sight of so many things that are good and true. I told God I am ready to begin peeling away at these onion-like layers. I've been ready for some time but haven't found the courage to do much, but I'm slowing getting my footing and finding my way.

I recently told a group of women much older than me when I first felt joy. They looked at me oddly and asked, "Honey, what's the difference between joy and happiness to you?" I explained what I thought the difference was and then related the story of walking down the long staircase at BYU sometime in September or October of my junior year. I was walking alone, weighed down by the heavy Shakespeare anthology in my bag, when out of nowhere it began to rain. The rain was warm and strong, and I had nothing to shield me from getting wet so I just embraced it. I remember watching students running to their cars or apartments frantically, and I continued to walk and let the rain soak through my tan sweater. I can still feel the smile on my face and the rain dripping from my hair. It was wonderful. It was joy--pure joy.

I've read four different novels/books over the past two months. It's a record for me since having kids and working at night. But I've made it a priority to read a little here and there, and it has been so good for my imagination. Sometimes I think about the different protagonists during the day, and I feel motivated in ways I wouldn't normally expect to feel.

I recently explained to my mother that words are my love language. It was a funny conversation about birthday cards, and I hope to remember it forever. I also hope to receive more words in the future; it's all my heart could ever ask for.

I love being a mother. Knowing that I created five unique souls astounds me. These kids are so good. I watch them love each other and help each other, and I feel like the luckiest. I tell everyone I know that the only way I could do this many kids is having my kids. My kids are perfectly suited for me and for each other. They watch out for me almost always. Genevieve is always dressing or changing a baby while Mya is always getting breakfast ready in the morning for everyone just so I can take a quick shower. Elle reads books to her sister, insisting that she will teach her how to read by the end of the year. And Birdie loves to help me with Timmy. They make my life possible. They make it hard too. It's not all roses...I mean still have dirty diapers to clean, a million Birdie spills to wipe up and a dozen tantrums to work through each day, but I'm telling you what, I could never have expected to love this stage of life as much as I do. I already feel it passing quickly, and I am trying to hold on as long as possible.

After four failed attempts at potty training, Birdie self potty trained last weekend. It's a miracle. One I am forever grateful for. Only 1 left in diapers!! Hallelujah!

I wish it was appropriate to have family pictures covering the walls because I'd do it. There are hundreds of pictures of my kids from over the years that make me smile, and I wish I had somewhere to put them that I could see them everyday.

I think technology is ruining society. Personal opinion...obviously.

I often think of my neighbor. She was hit by a drunk driver nearly 15 years ago. She was just about to start her senior year of high school. She was a straight A student and had a bright future. But the crash dramatically altered her life. She has a brain injury now that forced her to forgo college and other career pursuits. She can barely hold a job. She has depression. And she lost ability to move one of her hands well. She lives with her parents, and she is always kind, but I can't help but think how hard this unexpected life must be for her. And I also wonder about the person who hit her. What is their life now?

I am too hard on myself. I have had incredibly low self-esteem since moving here. I can hardly look in mirrors without quickly looking away. My body eats away at me. The voices in my head are loud these days, and they are never kind.

Speaking of body issues, my friend's daughter just entered another treatment center for eating disorders. She's been in and out of a couple over the past few years. The toll it is taking on her body and her parents' minds and hearts is so heavy and dark. My chest tightens when I think of how deafening the voices can be. She is only a teenager. She shouldn't have to hear what I hear. I hope that somehow with all her treatment programs she can learn to love herself because it is a lesson I still struggle to remember.

And lastly, I want to say how good God is. He is more powerful than the voices, the doubt, the self-loathing, and the sadness. In my quiet moments, he reminds me he is present and aware of me. I feel him everywhere and am grateful to know I am not alone.

Ten years.

Ten years. I have loved the same man for ten years. And he has loved me too. I keep trying to think of some eloquent way to say all the words that are bursting inside me, but I keep falling short. I'm afraid words cannot adequately describe what I have felt and still feel during these past ten years, but I will do my best.

Without giving you the false impression that our marriage is perfect (I find perfection rather boring), I must admit that our marriage is as ideal as one can be. It is as sweet as apple pie and can also be as salty as the best french fry. Tim is my person. I am his. We'd be lost without each other. I can, without a doubt, state emphatically that we are each other's top priority. He tells me at least once a day that I am his favorite, and I do my best to tell him he is mine.

Of course there have been aches and pains and tears; no relationship can grow without them. But we have always been able to dig our way out of the darkness and find ourselves smiling and laughing again.

Please allow me to talk freely for a moment--I give you complete permission to roll your eyes, but I have write about this man that I married. People tend to tell me that I put Tim on some lofty pedal stool, and perhaps I do, but it's very hard for me to find glaring faults. I guess if you want me to make him feel more human, I'll tell you that he's the type of guy that when you tell him to wash the dishes, he will, but he'll overlook the dirty counters. To his credit, he always tells me that if I just remind him to wash the counters he will, but I never do because I always feel like it's an obvious task that needs to be done once the dishes are loaded in the dishwasher. So there--he's human. He's not perfect. He makes mistakes. But man, those mistakes are so small, it's almost embarrassing to write about.

Tim is good to his core. He is always honest and kind. I tell my girls to look for boys who are just as honest and kind. He has a way of running his hand through my hair or holding his hand over the small of my back that just makes me feel cared for and loved. He loves me so much. He tells me at least ten times a day. He is funny, smart, interesting, sensitive, thoughtful, and sweet. He has had to sacrifice most of his interests because we chose to grow our family by five more people plus one dog. Last year, I think he only watched one Michigan football game during the regular scheduled hour due to soccer games and other family outings, but he didn't complain at all. And if you know him, you know how much Michigan football means to him. And that's just one example of things he's learned to sacrifice over the years.

I love different things about Tim at different times, but lately I've been so attracted to and inspired by his ability to motivate people, especially me. He never uses many words, but rather he listens, nods and smiles, and once he's taken everything in, he asks a few simple questions to nudge further learning. He does this with me, our kids, the people at work, the young men at church and even peers. He is so subtle in his approach that people don't even realize he's motivating them, and they suddenly want to be better and make goals, but they don't know where those ideas come from. Tim motivates just about everyone he meets. He amazes me.

Everyday I am grateful that God placed us in similar places at just the right time. I could not have anticipated how good life would be with Tim. We both kinda jumped at marriage because we liked each other a whole lot and it seemed like the right thing to do, but we had no idea what we were doing. But we're figuring it out day by day and year by year. God has been so kind to us, even in our adversity, and we recognize his goodness all the time. I can't imagine my life with anyone else in any other place. No matter where our physical home has been or is, wherever Tim is, I am home.

Saying goodbye to summer

I have at least three thousand pictures saved on my phone or computer from this summer. Most the pictures are candid, with the kids swinging high into the sky, playing broom ball in the street outside our house, drawing chalk people up and down our driveway, chasing ducks across the lawn and back into the lake, fishing with a few pieces of bread and a net, kayaking to and from the beach to our dock, lying in the sun and finding pictures in the clouds, and make-believing the heck out of this summer.

It has been a wonderful summer. My kids have rarely asked for screen time; in fact, I often have to coax them inside to wind down from their busy outdoor lifestyle. I feel like I've been mostly absent from friends and texting (sorry friends!), but I also feel like I have really lived in the moment this summer.

Today as I rested on my neighbor's lawn and listened to the giggles of Genevieve and Elle as they worked together to make the swings twist around and around, I looked up to the sky and wondered how is this my life?!! My life is so rich and full of love--love that I offer to others and love that I receive from them in return (especially from my children). I sat there and wondered if I felt like I was lacking anything in my life and couldn't think of anything. Sure, we don't have furniture to fill certain rooms of our house and we aren't up to date on the latest technology trends, but I have all that I need (well, I guess I could use an extra hand or two because I almost always have three kids begging for my attention).

My life is not without heartache or pain. Believe me...I feel it. I have strained relationships with a few people, and those relationships tug at my very core (just ask Tim). Sometimes my kids yell at me. Today, one spit at me (she was quickly sent to time out). Sometimes my kids tell me I'm mean, and I feel sad because I don't really want to be mean, but I have to be firm. But no matter how many times my kids tell me I'm mean or I'm hurting their feelings, they have never uttered the words that I fear the most, "I hate you." I think those words would crush me.

This summer has brought us together in so many ways. We've really discovered the area in which we live, and we've tried so many new things together. It's also been hard from time to time because we're really all we have so we have had to learn to work through our differences quickly because there aren't any neighbors to run to; we have had to learn to run to each other.

I wish I could tell you about all the plays/recitals I watched over the summer months--each one with a new theme and a new song/story. I wish I show you all of the towers my kids created with those awful, tiny Legos. I wish I describe all the happy memories we've created all over the map--Texas, California, Illinois, Indiana and Maryland. It has been a good summer, and I'm sad to see it go.

a little bit of honesty

Gosh it's good to be writing a little more frequently. I've made it a priority again, and it feels so good to have my own space. So little of what is mine is actually mine, but this space is mine, and I cherish it, regardless of what any one else thinks. Even though I very much appreciate all your thoughtful comments. I really do. 

Just a few things. I'm reading The Scarlet Letter. Nathaniel Hawthorne is a literary genius. His wit and humor bleed onto every page. Unlike every other 16 year old in America, I missed my opportunity at reading this incredible classic because my gray-haired, overweight, bell-bottom wearing, Cadillac-driving American Lit teacher decided to literally "bark" at all the classroom norms and never asked us to read the classics. Instead, he gave us a list of texts we could choose from to read and write papers on every 4 weeks. So what did we all do? We chose the shortest, easiest novels on the planet and avoided anything with real depth and meaning. Let's just say that I got an A in that class, and I did it without thinking. So thanks for nothing Mr. Worley. I'm discovering all the great American classics on my own and in my thirties. I'm the coolest. 

Timmy turns a year in less than 2 weeks. I'm pretty sure I've noted this in several of my recent posts. Obviously I'm traumatized by it. But his birthday has me thinking about my postpartum. I'm still nursing and plan to do so until he quits, unless he's older than 2 because I have my limits. But I assume he'll quit sooner because the boy eats like a king, and I'm more of a midnight snack, really. Anyway, I've been taking zoloft for postpartum depression since October. I feel that it has greatly improved my quality of life, so much so that I truly feel happier as a mother and a person. And I've been worried about Timmy turning 1 because I keep thinking, well crap, does that mean that my postpartum depression disappears after he's 1? I'm pretty sure I heard somewhere (and I know cannot actually be true but I got it in my brain so I can't get it out) that postpartum generally subsides around the child's 1st birthday. Is this true? I'm not sure. 

As I said, I really feel happier. I don't get so wound up as I used to. I don't yell nearly as much as I used to; in fact, I don't really yell at all unless it's after 8pm and the kids refuse to go to bed (you have to give me that one). I feel calm when Mya yells at me each morning, even though I know a part of me wants to yell back that no Mya, I don't know where your damn pants are. I clean them every other day, and I am not in charge of them after you wear them. But I don't yell. In fact, I don't even get agitated. I just take it in, and I sternly reply that I refuse to be spoken to in such a tone and she can find her own pants because I will only help kind people. And so on and so on. 

I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that I am a perfect mom now. I'm not. I still get frustrated and grumpy. I'm still human. I'm still a woman with raging hormones. But I feel different. And so I am left wondering, is it all the medication? Is any of it actually me growing up? Or growing as a mother? Or is it happening because I know there are no more babies in my future so I don't have to stress about pregnancy or infancy or sleepless nights? There are a million unknowns. And all those unknowns freak me out. 

I don't really want to go back to the old me that yelled a lot. I hated seeing the girls wince when I raised my tone. My house is so calm and quiet 70% of the day because the 3 kids I have at home with me really don't push my buttons too much (except for Birdie at the moment...oh man...I could've killed her today when she refused her nap...but I digress) and so I don't want to mess with our current dynamic. 

So what do I do? Who am I anyway? These are real thoughts. They are hard questions with few answers. But for now I still have 2 weeks so I am just going to mull over these things and try and schedule a doctor's appointment so I can talk to a medical professional who most likely won't have the answers either but will manage to assuage my fears with some fancy medical jargon, and all will be right again. 

Well, it's late, and Hawthorne is waiting for me. Goodnight.

Please allow me to be not cool for a moment

I realize it's not really cool to be a believer anymore. I get it. I really do.

Perhaps it's the fact that there are a million religions preaching about love, kindness, tolerance, understanding, etc. that confuse non-believers. Perhaps it's because even though millions of people preach great things, we, as a collective society, often fail to put them in daily practice. Perhaps it's science--with all its hypotheses, theories and facts, which I actually agree with most of the time that trip up the non-believers. Or perhaps it's the general feeling of apathy plaguing the world when it comes to doing anything.

I can't really pinpoint the reason people are choosing not to believe, but so many people I know and continue to meet tell me their reasons for leaving faith behind them, and while I understand it and respect their different paths, let me admit something that is evidently not cool at the moment--I am a believer.

I believe in a higher power. I believe very much that that higher power is a loving Father in heaven. I believe He knows me. I believe He listens to my daily running ramblings and quiet afternoon pleadings. I believe He loves me. No...I know He loves me.

This week I taught the girls from the Bible. We studied the final week of Christ's life, reading from different sections of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Today we discussed the final hours of Christ's life leading up to his resurrection, and a verse we read has stood out to me all afternoon: "He is not here, he is risen."

I think the older I get and the more experiences I gain, the more I realize how great an act it was for our Father in heaven to send His son to earth for us. It is an act of pure love. I felt very close to Heavenly Father today. I felt very connected to Him through Jesus Christ. You cannot know how much I want to improve who I am just to become a little more like Him. It is on my mind every single day.

I know it's not cool, but I don't really care about "cool" things. I care about real things. Real people. Real stories. Real improvements. Real change. I care about how much light I feel in my life as I learn about Jesus Christ. I have said it before, and I believe I will continue to say it my whole life, everything we do should be because of Him.

So many of my friends are struggling with organized religion, and I totally get it. I've been there. Sometimes I'm still there. But the thought that gets me through those confusing days is that He is more than religion. He is truth. He is the way. He is the vine. Everything else we learn is an appendage to that. I choose daily to follow Him and be like Him.

And I am grateful for a beautiful warm day like today that reminded me that no matter how dark and cold and confusing the winter may feel, spring will always come.

My Mya

Do you know is really difficult? Parenting the oldest child. I mean...it's a total crap shoot. I can't tell you how many times Timmy/Birdie/Elle will do something that would've just driven me crazy a few years ago if Mya would've done it, but it doesn't affect me the same way now. I think I sigh most when I think about the steps I've taken and continue to take with Mya. Like really deep, heavy sighs.

I want to be the best mom for her. I can't tell you how truly beautiful she is. She is so smart, wise, responsible, funny, witty, and unbelievably thoughtful. But she is also so incredibly stubborn, mean, and emotional, and sometimes I let the negative qualities get in the way of letting me see the sun that is always shining in her heart, even if there are a few clouds in its way.

Again, I want so badly to be who she needs me to be, and for the most part, I am. But I know I can be and do more. I give so much time to the babies, mostly because they still want to be on top of me in some fashion so it seems I am always attached to them. Like me, Mya loves to be cuddled and snuggled, but only when she's ready, and sometimes I miss those opportunities because I am tending to someone else. And because I notice the missed opportunity, I wonder, does she as well? And is she keeping a running tally of all those moments? Gosh, I hope not.

Because I am not always able to physically be with her when she needs me, I try and do things to show her my love everyday. I make it a point to stop working out when she wakes up in the morning, and I run to her on the couch and snuggle her body and kiss her ever-present chipmunk cheeks (I hope they never go away). I run my fingers through her hair as she eats her cereal. I place my hand on her back as she reads the scriptures in the morning, even if it's just for a second. I define hard words for her on demand because she, like me, has a love for language and is eager to grow her vocabulary. I laugh at her made-up jokes, even the bad ones. I encourage her to make more jokes. I make a big deal about every test, homework assignment and worksheet she brings home, and I help her understand her mistakes if she lets me. If she doesn't, I offer to help, but leave the offer on the table for when she's ready. There's no reason to make her upset about an 89% if she doesn't want to understand why she missed 1 or 2 points. I buy her an endless supply of books. She's always telling me how little she gets, but I remind her how much she gets because she's the first. She is the first to get all new books, new gadgets and new foods. Then she helps introduce those things to her sisters; she does it in that fantastic sibling kind of way that manipulates the younger children that they have to read this book or try this game or eat this vegetable. I listen to her rattle on and on about the kids at school, the crushes the boys have on the girls, the way so and so chews her food, etc., and I never correct her on how many times she uses the word "like" in a sentence, even though I always keep a running total. I hug Mr. Bear with her almost every night. I read an extra chapter with her that I would never do with her sisters. I secretly tell her she can stay up to read, even if dad tells her she has to go to bed. I hug her patiently a few times a week when she comes downstairs after bedtime claiming she's had a bad dream, even though Tim and I both know she never fell asleep. I pray that Heavenly Father will help her have good thoughts and good feelings and will push those bad dreams away.

And more than anything else I do during the day for her, I am constantly thinking about her (and all the kids) and asking God to help me know her better. I'm a middle child, and supposedly I am very much a middle child. ;) I guess it's true. I don't want Mya to feel like the guinea pig, even though she is and always will be. I know I've messed up. Every time she freaks out about nothing, I think about all the times I snapped at her for spilling something or dropping something or walking too loudly when I had just put a baby down. But even though there have been some missteps, I believe I've done a good job too.

I think she knows I think about her. Gosh, I hope she does. I do. I really do. I know she knows I pray for her. I think she knows how proud I am of her. I try and compliment her when I see she's done a grown-up thing. I try and give her some space. I let her do things that are hard for me. I let her leave my line of sight and trust she isn't talking to strangers on her path. It scares me every minute she is away from me, but you know what, out of all my kids, she is the one who checks in. She makes sure to let me know where she is.

I love my Mya. I love that she loves Katy Perry. I love that she likes to wear fake glasses, scarves and bold lipstick. I love that she thinks she has a specific style. She's been wearing 2 pairs of pants all winter because she wants to wear jeans with holes at the knees but doesn't want her knees exposed because it's "weird," and it drives me and Tim crazy, but I kinda love that she doesn't care. She knows what she wants. I love that she reads until 10:15pm at night, even though she's a total cranky pants in the morning. I love that she loves Eggo waffles; I used to love them too before school and considered it a real treat when mom bought them. I love that when I'm running late she gets the other girls their bowls of cereal. I love that she has a Fitbit watch and is diligent about getting her steps in.

I wish you could know her. I want the whole world to know her. She is a gem of a first child, and for as long as I live, I am going to all I can to make that sun shine brightly out of her heart because she is destined to do great things.

work among the children

I received a unique spiritual blessing--a rough sketch of a potential life I might have, if you will--when I was 13 years young. Truth be told, I was too young to receive such a blessing. I had never met the man who gave me the blessing, and I believe we only crossed paths a couple of times after. We briefly spoke before I received it, and although I don't remember most of what we talked about, I do remember one thing. After talking about what I hoped to be when I grew up (I gave answers like a model, newscaster, doctor), he looked at me and said, "Well, I know you'll know what you need to do with time, but I think you will find your work is among the children." He went on to reiterate a similar sentiment during the blessing. It has stuck with me all my life.

I used to think it's why I eventually became a teacher. But then I went on a mission, and then I decided it was why I served a mission. But then I became a mother, and then I decided he said those words because he knew my greatest work would go largely unnoticed and without applause--it would happen within the walls of my own home.

As I get older, I'm coming to learn that that phrase wasn't really meant for one time or one role or one experience. It is meant for my whole life--for the apathetic teenagers I may one day introduce to Shakespeare, for those bright-eyed kids who clawed at my wool skirt as I taught spiritual lessons in Argentina, and for these beautiful souls I helped create.

And perhaps I could be satisfied with that, but I'm not. Today as I walked Blue and said my morning prayer, I had the weight of several women on my shoulders. I pleaded for them. I talked to God about them. And I prayed that I might know how I could better serve them. And it hit me. "Your work is among the children" is meant for so much more than just a few groups of people, it is meant for every person that crosses my path.

I may not know a lot, and I can attest that I do not, but I do know that there is a loving God of us all. We are His children. Me. You. Her. Him.

Perhaps that is why I have been given so many opportunities to listen to people as they open their hearts with me--perhaps it's because God knows I am willing to be with them and work with them, without judgment or bias. Whatever the reason, I am grateful. Each person who opens their heart with me changes mine in the process, and I believe my heart is much stronger because of them than I ever could've made it.

It's about the holes in your jeans.

Somehow I blinked and eleven months have passed. My son--my final baby--is eleven months on the 5th of April. I'm baffled, and perhaps a titch upset.

Time is a dirty thief, stealing precious days right from under my All-Stars. I have a few choice words to say to him--time that is.

For the better part of the eleven months I've moved slower, which goes against everything I normally believe and do. I've been on my hands and knees more--the proof of that is found in the gaping holes in my favorite pair of Banana jeans. Man, they're my favorite, but my kids are even more my favorite. I'd kneel on the ground until my knees were bruised if it meant I could always have one of my kids running/crawling at full speed to jump into my arms. Elle is my best jumper so long as she doesn't overshoot the jump and land on her head, which sadly happens more than I'd like to admit. I'd own a dozen ripped jeans to roll around on the ground, tickling my kids sides, thighs and armpits, hoping to hear them laugh their real laugh--not this fake crap they've learned at school.

Over the last eleven months I let the kids do things that I would never have let them do in my earlier mothering years. Just the other day I let Timmy wrap his chubby, little fingers around my legs and hoist himself up to standing while I peeled potatoes. Gleefully he grabbed those potato peels out of the trash and threw them all over the floor. I grimaced inside and swatted any and all attempts at stuffing the peels into his mouth, but man did he giggle and grin. I stood their off balance due to his weight on my legs, glancing every so often at the clock in realization that dinner would not be on time because every step seemed to be taking just a bit longer, but it was okay. I didn't even feel panic in my heart--not one bit. I just whispered to myself that it was going to be okay and kept moving at a snail's pace happy as can be.

I would never have done that five years ago. Five years ago I was a woman on a mission. I had my invisible checklist (I'm not organized enough to keep an actual list), and I went through each day like a robot. Dishes done-check. Laundry done-check. Floors vacuumed-check. Daily learning-check. And so on and son on. But as I went through my lists I managed to miss opportunities that I regret so much. SO MUCH!!

Screw the dishes. Screw the laundry (luckily I think my kids thrive on being dirty so they won't mind wearing that pair of pants more than once). Screw all the lists in all the world. Holes in jeans is what it's all about; I will swear it to my dying day. You know those days when it seems like all you deal with is poop, tantrums and spills (that's pretty much every other day here), those days are quickly passing.

Time...you little jerk.

I believe I've written it on here before, but I swear I think about it every single day; a good friend of mine--a woman my mother's age--mentored me for a couple of years while we lived in Texas. Of course, she didn't know she was my mentor, but every Sunday I sat in a small classroom at the very end of the church hallway and I listened to her teach about living with a purpose and being conscious of the present. She had birthed 4 children in a short amount of time, and when we moved to Texas her youngest daughter was finishing her final year of high school. Martha, my friend, would say to me, "Janine, I know I had piles of laundry and a billion boo boos to bandage, but I can't remember them. It's been erased from my memory." And then she would look at me on my difficult Sunday adventures, and she'd whisper, "This too will pass."

Oh my goodness, she's right. Why did it take me 8 years to get here?! Probably because it's impossible to see the end from the beginning, plus you add in all these babies, but still...here I am almost jumping through my computer to grab whoever you are by the shoulders to scream, "IT'S ABOUT THE HOLES IN YOUR FAVORITE PAIR OF JEANS. BE PRESENT!"

Even now I'm thinking about tomorrow--Saturday--and I have a million things to do because there just aren't enough Saturdays in a week, and I'm worried I won't have time to do everything I want to do, but I'm not going to pass up cuddling with my baby (Tim) and then my babies (all of them) before putting one toe on the carpet to get out bed in the morning.

If you don't have kids, this post is still very relevant to you; I promise. I took college for granted. All those hours listening at the feet of scholars, and all I was always checking other boxes. Dating-check. Work-check. Term paper-check. I should've listened more. If you're not in college but not quite at that family stage yet--go get involved with something. Serve someone. Be someone. Love your partner in life and love your family/friends. Love yourself. (As a total sidetone, but something that I feel is very relevant here...my brother has lived in Boston for nearly 2 years, and he wasn't really feeling involved there so what did he do...he enrolled in a woodworking class, and he just created the most stunning piece, and as a sister I am so proud of him because he could be doing a million things with his time and checking off a million checklists, but he is learning a new skill that interests him. And it inspires me.) So do that. Do something. Put holes in your jeans however you feel you must to be present and conscious of your own life.

It's worth it.