Honestly, it has been a REALLY rough month for me. My son, Liam, and my husband both suffered from a nasty virus that took them out for a few days. Then, I ended up in the hospital with horrible stomach cramps that would just not go away. And to top it all off, Liam has decided to not sleep through the night. (I blame it on his teeth.) Needless to say, I am physically worn out.
I can’t remember a time where I felt so inadequate as a wife and mother. I cannot seem to measure up to the “Superwoman” that I often feel I need to be.
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On Tuesday, I mopped the floor.
On Wednesday, I diligently picked up crumbs– bits of nectarine muffin, corn flakes, pieces of granola. Exclaiming over and over again as they ate — “be careful!” “Lean over the table!” “Don’t make a mess!”
Aaaah — the once-a-month psycho gotta-keep-my-floor-clean mom. Nobody likes her. She doesn’t like herself. But she loves that clean floor feeling — no need to peel up toes from sticky spots or dust crumbs off heels. Clean. And when she waits a month to do it, mopping the stick and grime off the floor is a huge job. A result worthy of enjoyment — for much longer than a few minutes.
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“Mommy! Mommeeeeeeeeee! I caught a frog!”
Walking through the field admiring the beauty of the giant pine trees and tall grass on our family camping trip revealed a hidden gem we almost never even noticed. Frogs. These were nothing like giant toads but were very tiny baby frogs that looked almost cute.
Without any advanced training or ability to research the proper frog catching technique, my sons jumped right into getting a hold of nature’s little surprise. They quickly learned frog catching requires keen eye observation waiting for just the right moment, a little bit of skill, and a lot of tenderness.
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It’s not light yet. I see a glow from the almost full moon and rays of artificial street light from behind the trees. But it is dark. Everyone still sleeps, at least in my house.
The clock shines red numbers on the ceiling — a four and a three and a zero. He’s done it again. For the 4th or 5th time in a row. Awake at exactly 4:30am. Sometimes even a few minutes earlier. He wants me to have an hour with Him before I start my day.
On “sleep-in days”, He gets me up at 5:30.
Sometimes it’s a husband getting up to use the bathroom that wakes me.
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“Mom, Dad, come quick! Gloria fell! She’s on the sidewalk and can’t get up! She’s bleeding!” Breathless from running, Grace provided us with the details of what had suddenly transpired with her sister. We’d only just arrived at the pool and the girls wanted to go on ahead of us while my husband and I gathered our gear from the car. Excitedly, both girls took off toward the gate, the younger one trying desperately to keep up with the older one. Unfortunately, uneven concrete and new flip flops turned out to be a painful combination for my little one when she stumbled and fell face-first on the hard and unforgiving pavement.
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While reading a blog post on teaching diligence to children, I experienced guilt and determination to do better.
I felt guilty because I had failed to heed the blogger’s wise words. I haven’t taught my children diligence by insisting on first-time obedience from birth. Oh, I’ve tried doing that many times. But fatigue gets the best of me and I quickly slip back into the “Don’t-make-me-tell-you-again-or-else” routine.
I also felt guilty because in opposition to the blogger’s admonition, I haven’t been the best example of diligence myself. Although I have the best intentions of working hard on a project to completion or establishing good habits, I often find myself doing something that seems more fun (like blogging!).
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I roll over and the boys come thwomping in with their big boy feet, attached to long legs, their bear-paw hands pulling back the covers, opening my cocoon of down. They leap into my bed, my bottomless pits, and this one whose “love-tank” is never full. These two sandwich me in my bed, “I’m going to snuggle you now!” the younger one announces, eyes glinting in morning sunlight, as if I could be unsure of his intentions in this moment. This one would glue himself to me except that I’d slow him down when the wild urge rises to romp like a bronco, crashing through the house.
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It was the bottom of the last inning, in what had become a very competitive matchup between two girls’ youth softball teams. The score was tied six to six. It was our opponent’s turn to bat. If they scored, our team would inevitably lose the game. If not, we had another opportunity to hit, which meant the chance to win our very first game.
Their first player hit the ball and got a base hit. Their second batter came up to bat. She hit a long ball which made its way to the outfield. One of our players ran after the ball, picked it up and ran toward the infield.
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