Act 1, Scene 2

The change is subtle, yet always shocking.

One moment, he’s a baby, crawling and squawking for milk. A perfect picture of dependence. It was only a few days ago that I gave birth to him, right?

Then one unexpected day, a step is taken. A precarious, hesitant, definitive step. And from that moment on, the little back seems straighter, stout legs grow firmer. The curtain falls on the infant, and rises to reveal the little boy in the next scene.

He turns to me, delighted to have caught sight of his target, then hurls himself in my direction, whether I’m prepared for the consequences or not. One, two, three drunken steps and he falters, ready to be caught in my arms and smothered with victory kisses, only to wriggle away to repeat the whole routine again.

So I kneel on the kitchen linoleum once more, arms extended to collect the proud little figure as he plays his new game.

Dishes line the sink and counter, and I can smell the stink of the garbage reminding me that it needs to be taken out for the second time today, but both can wait. Let me gather him a few more times, feel the soft skin of his little arms wrap around my neck,  blond curls tickling my cheek.

Just a few more times.

Before the next change comes.


I Want A Perfect Life (and other lies I tell myself as I hide in the bathroom from my kids…)

My four year old spilled milk on the floor….for the third time today.

And if you even think about spouting the phrase “Don’t cry over spilled milk”, I swear I will go full southern mama on you! (it’s the only time I say “ya’ll”)

Because, come on, really the only person who deserves the right to cry over spilled milk is the mom of small children (or maybe a milk maid who carried several gallons’ worth up hill…. in three feet of snow… at night…)

And no matter how many times I try to explain to my four year old….and my five year old… and my two year old….and my one year old…that Mama has already cleaned up this mess (and 303,008 others today…) three times before, and she really really REALLY doesn’t want to do it again.

But Murphy’s Law of Children dictates that it will happen again. And probably within the same half hour. With synchronized soiled diapers.

Those are typically the days where you would find me hiding in my bathroom for 3.5 minutes, straining to catch a breath, and battling with my desire for the perfect life.

Because a perfect life doesn’t have spilled milk all over the floor.

A perfect life has bed covers that remain smooth all day long, paint that never chips, dinners that are always a success, books that are always balanced, and adorable robot children that never disobey.

Doesn’t that sound lovely?

Yes! Where do I get that? Just tell me what aisle at Target and I’m there!


Then I remind myself, that if those bed covers were always smooth, then all those afternoons of jumping and bouncing and laughter and giggles would have never happened.

If all my cooking attempts were successes, then those words of comfort from my husband between bites of last minute cheeseburgers to remind me that my worth is not measured by how well I prepare dinner would go unspoken.

And if my children always obeyed, were always neat and clean, always quieted when I asked them…..then I would never really see THEM.

No strength behind the stubbornness. No joy behind the laughter. No moments of seeing a difficult task finally “click” in their heads. No hair brained ideas and hilarious quests. No days of teaching them about forgiveness and the need for a Savior.

No days where I have to ask for their forgiveness, and turn to Christ for the thousandth time in repentance and supplication.

Because heaven knows how many times I too have spilled milk all over the floor, seeping into my frustrated cracks, filling me to the brim with exhausted resentment over my own failures. My own anger. My own stumbled steps that produce shattered plates.

A perfect life would have no room for my own imperfections.

So is that what I truly want? A life without growth, but pristine in its attire?

You and I both know that the answer is No.

When I am honest with myself, delving down deep between breaths as I sit on my bathroom floor, I know that I don’t. Not really.

I may always strive for a perfect looking life, whether it be conscious or not, but am forever grateful for the real life I was given. Because then there is room for me too.

A life of frayed edges.

A life of missing pieces.

A life of messy, happy faces.

A life of stubbed toes, and tear stained snuggles.

A life of forgiveness.








A Letter To My Sons

My precious boys,

There are countless things that I wish to tell you, to teach you, before you are grown men. I know that day will arrive sooner than I feel today. Today you are all so small, full of innocent passions and ideas, giggling smiles and grubby hands.  Continue reading “A Letter To My Sons”

4 Things I Learned From My No Spending Month

February was my very first, officially titled, No Spending Month. I had never taken on this specific challenge before, and on Feb 1st, was excited to tackle it and see what I would learn.  Continue reading “4 Things I Learned From My No Spending Month”

What You Can See…When the Clutter Is Gone


A row of tiny, shiny rubber rain boots. The lyrics of a song that bring back memories of anticipation and romance. The way light pours through old, decrepit windows. A gallery wall of creativity. A hallway, that, although not decorated or changed at all, happens to be one of my favorite rooms in this rental.  Continue reading “What You Can See…When the Clutter Is Gone”