Happy Mother's Day!

I got up at 6:00am with just one goal for the morning – start a roast in the crock pot. I make pot roast all the time. It’s not a big deal. Peel and chop onions, carrots, and potatoes; season the meat; add a little water; press start. When I do it all the night before, it’s a twenty minute process, tops. Yesterday I learned that when I do it in the morning, it’s a four and a half hour ordeal.

I thought I could get it done before Reese woke up. Wishful thinking! I went to the kitchen and Reese was already digging in the pantry for Cheerios (despite being told numerous times not to take food without asking).

“I wanna eeeeeat,” she whined, as if she’d been waiting all morning for her breakfast.

I guess I’m making the roast after breakfast. No big deal. Plenty of time.

I noticed that Reese’s pajama pants were damp.

“Reese, did you pee through your pull-up?”

“I did.”

“And is your bed wet?”

“It is.”

I stripped her bed and changed her clothes. While I was at it, I got myself and Allie dressed too. Then I started her sheets in the washer and made us each a separate breakfast - Cheerios for Reese, oatmeal for me, mashed banana for Allie.

After I cleaned up breakfast, I sent Reese off to play and put Allie in her bouncy chair (at my feet, of course, because I’m not allowed to leave her sight). I was peeling the second onion when Reese appeared behind me, holding up a Wal-Mart bag.

“Mommy, I wanna do this.” It was the supplies we had bought the day before to make Mother’s Day cards.

I was thrilled. She can make cards. I can peel and chop. What could go wrong?

Well, nothing if the bag of supplies didn’t contain a bottle of Elmer’s glue and three tubes of glitter. I totally should have known better.

I spread out the tablecloth and all of the supplies. I went back to the counter and picked up the peeler. Then Allie started crying. She wanted me to hold her. She does this a lot. People tell me to let her cry, but I rarely do. Plus, I knew her crying would lead to me rushing, which would no doubt end in some kind of accidental potato peeler or Cutco knife injury.

I strapped Allie into the Baby Bjorn. (Yeah, I know. Much safer, right? Now both of our fingers were in danger). I started peeling the carrots – now at arms length because of Little Miss Grabby Hands, and I had to stop every 30 seconds or so to monitor the glitter situation over my shoulder.

It was not going well. Apparently, my little glue-sprinkle-shake demo went in one ear and out the other. I had to keep running over to stop her from sprinkling the whole tube of glitter onto one dab of glue, and she needed several reminders to decorate only the cards and not the table or her chair – or herself.

By this point, there was glitter in everybody’s hair and in my pot roast. Allie’s fussiness had escalated into a total meltdown, which reminded me that I was cutting into her naptime, and I still had a pile of potatoes to peel and chop. With an exasperated breath, I put everything on hold.

I fed Allie a bottle and got her down for a nap. Then I helped Reese finish her cards and clean up her mess. I got her a snack and turned on the Tinkerbell movie. The house was quiet. I chopped the rest of the potatoes and seasoned the meat.

At 10:30, I finally pressed the start button on my crock pot.

With Reese occupied and Allie asleep, I went to my bathroom and shut the door. I needed to decompress.

When I was pregnant with Reese, I did my best to mentally prepare for pregnancy, labor, and the financial burden of diapers and college savings. I tried to get ready for the big hurdles I knew I would eventually face – teething, potty training, discipline, sleep schedules.

I did not, however, prepare for the constancy; the intensity; the all day, every day.

I used to think Mother’s Day was about recognizing the big picture of motherhood and giving thanks to the women who birthed us and raised us, the women who love us unconditionally and would do anything for us. But those are the easy parts.

It’s the small stuff that is the real challenge of motherhood. It’s the interrupted showers and cold dinners. It’s the need to say things like “please don’t put your foot on my sandwich.” It’s the fishing-poop-out-of-the-bathtub nights and glitter-in-the-pot-roast mornings. It’s the deep breaths of patience and silent moments of prayer.

Mother’s Day is just as much about the day-to-day little picture as it is about the higher purpose, greater love big picture. My pot roast story isn’t just a funny story about a crazy morning. This is my life. This is every mom’s life. All day, every day. But few people see the intensity of our little picture routine and we don’t often talk about it, which means it often goes unnoticed.

This year, thank the mothers in your life not just for the big things, but for all the little things too. Thank them for the willingness to wear a curious infant despite the inconvenience. Thank them for supporting a toddler’s love for messy arts and crafts. Thank them for the things no one else sees - the messes made and cleaned, tantrums thrown and calmed, and tears cried and wiped. All day, every day.

And if you ever see sit down for a nice hot meal and see a shiny fleck of glitter in your food, just smile with understanding, eat it with gratitude, and know just how much love and patience is sitting on your plate.

Happy Mother's Day to the all day, every day moms!

You Are So Beautiful

Ok, ladies. Here we go with another Hearts at Home No More Perfect Moms Blog Hop. This month’s topic is “no more perfect bodies.” It's a personal one and since it's not something we openly talk about, sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one out there who has been in the place I'm about to describe. I guess I'll find out…

Before I had kids, I knew exactly what kind of mom I was going to be. No tantrums in this house. No unhealthy snacks for these kids. And as far as all that talk about moms who "let themselves go," that wouldn't be me. No, sir. I was going to get my butt on a treadmill and be rockin' my pre-baby figure in no time.

The part of me that now knows better finds this hilarious. Oh, little naive one. How's all that workin out for ya? So, I guess nobody told you that the muffin top is sit-up proof. And despite the claims of some infomercials, you might as well toss those C-cup bras because those days are OVER.

Well, that little naive one inside me doesn't see the humor. I have been mourning the loss of my pre-baby figure for months, despite the compliments of people who say, “Wow, you look exactly the same!” Trust me, I do not. Clothing hides a lot. If you saw me in the shower, you would understand. (Although I'd rather you just take my word for it).

Our honeymoon - June 2008

On more than one occasion, I have stood in front of my full-length mirror and cried about how I can no longer fill out my bras but I seem to have no problem over-filling my jeans. Then I feel vain, which makes me feel guilty, which makes everything worse (as guilt always does).

I used to be so beautiful.

I know that sounds so sad - I told you I was vain. Real beauty comes from the inside, right? I see it other people. My husband sees it in me. Why couldn’t I see it in myself?

After Reese was born, I made a pretty decent comeback (ahem, mothers of one, beware) and maybe I expected it to be that easy again. After two pregnancies and a combined 12 months of nursing (I had to quit after 3 months with Allie), I've been struggling to come to grips with where things have... ended up. And honestly, up until last weekend I thought that’s where this post might end. I didn’t know what else to say. I have a "mom body" now and I'm sad about it. The end.

But God leads us in such wonderful ways and during the Hearts at Home conference last Saturday, I wandered into a session on "dressing your mom body with confidence." I assumed it would be some frumpy lady preaching about modesty and I was always more of a “flaunt it if you’ve got it” kind of girl. The problem is that I no longer think I have IT and now I’m lost. And bitter. So there I was.

I sat quietly in the back of room. The speaker wasn’t frumpy at all. She was well-dressed and beautiful and just an awesome woman - like the kind of person who could have been talking about the mating habits of snails and I would have listened. As I sat there, I finally started to understand where my attitude had derailed. I discreetly pulled out my Kleenex as women around me probably wondered why I was getting emotional over patterned scarves and layered tank tops.

Then I really lost it when she said that our daughters will develop their sense of confidence based on our sense of confidence. How will we teach them to embrace their beauty if we can't fully embrace our own? What will they come to believe about themselves when people tell them how much they look like their mamas?

When I got home, I apologized to Matt for rolling my eyes when he tells me how good I look and for not taking his compliments to heart. Later that night, before I changed into my pajamas I stood in my full-length mirror and apologized to myself because my unwillingness to accept my imperfections blinded me to the perfect beauty that exists within them.

God gave me a body because He wanted me to respect it. Now I do. I am humbled by that. This body birthed two amazing children, children who wouldn’t exist otherwise. I am proud of that. This body isn’t damaged. It wears a badge of honor, a badge many women don’t get to wear. I am thankful for that.

February 2013

And as I stood there feeling humble and proud and thankful, I finally saw what my God, my husband, and my children already see.

I am still so beautiful.

That's why people tell me I look exactly the same - because to them I really do. That's why my husband tells me I'm beautiful every day - because to him I really am. And that's why I've had such a hard time believing that the beauty is still there - because I had heard it from everyone but myself.

Whatever imperfections you dwell on, remember that we all have things about our bodies that we’d like to change. It’s easy to assume that someone else has no complaints, but we don’t see each other in the shower or in the fitting room. All we see of others is what they choose to show us, and that’s rarely an accurate representation. If our clothes look unflattering, we change. When someone compliments our jeans, we don’t announce that we just went up a size. And when people say, “wow, you look exactly the same,” we just smile and say thank you, leaving them to think that we don’t stand in our mirrors and cry because we haven’t figured out how to embrace the perfect beauty in an imperfect body.

So love your muffin top and embrace your stretch marks. Wear your badge of honor with pride and gratitude. Remember that your self-image isn't just about you. It's also about the daughters who are developing their own sense of self every day based on what they see in you. As you continue to repeat these very important words to them, don't forget to also take a moment to stand in your own mirror and say - and believe - those same words for yourself.

You are so beautiful.

I'm also linking up with Bigger Picture Blogs today. We are celebrating March and the arrival of spring with posts that reflect the word "Rejuvenate." Join us here for more Bigger Picture Moments.

AND for more "no more perfect bodies" posts by other Hearts Bloggers, follow me to Jill Savage's blog.

A Perfect Kind of Love

I’m double-dipping again today and linking up with Bigger Picture Blogs and the Hearts at Home Third Thursday Blog Hop. In honor of the release of Hearts at Home CEO Jill Savage’s new book, No More Perfect Moms, the Hearts bloggers are teaming up to bring you a candid look at some of our own imperfections. Last month we all shared about our imperfect homes, and this month’s topic is “no more perfect marriages.” Enjoy!
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Matt and I started dating almost eight years ago during a time when our lives were all about us, and we had all the time in the world for each other. Two kids, multiple life-changing decisions, and many miscommunications later, I’m finding that I need to adjust my image of what I always thought a good marriage was supposed to be. 

I realize that makes me sound like my marriage has failed to meet my expectations or that I've somehow been trapped into something I didn't sign up for. Let me clarify. Our disagreements are many but our arguments are few. Laughter is fairly constant and anger is rather rare. Quality time is a priority (well, at least as much of a priority as it can possible be with a toddler and an infant in the house), and "just because" cards are a common gesture. We are similar and different in all the right ways and our daily prayers reflect our gratitude to God for leading us to each other.

When I lay it out like that it sounds pretty perfect, right? Well, as much as I love him, I still roll my eyes when I see his side of the closet in its perpetual state of disarray. I get annoyed when he chews too loud, and I don't understand how he never gets tired of watching ESPN. And even though I can count our big fights on just one hand, we still bicker regularly about things like who should give Allie a bath, who left the garage door open all night, and who should get up with Reese at 6:00am.

As normal as all that may seem, I do find that the little annoyances and repeat areas of disagreement combined with our constant lack of energy have begun to transform our once-perfect love story into a run-of-the-mill tale of two boring old married people. So I've decided that I need to deconstruct my perfect image of the perfect marriage before I mistake contentment for apathy and forget the bigger picture of what true love really is.

I won’t lie. I have questioned my marriage. It’s not a notion I entertain willingly, but more of a fleeting invasive thought that creeps up after I’ve stormed out of the room and muttered something like “you just don't get it;” or when I realize that we haven’t kissed in two days and I start to fear that I might someday understand what people mean when they say, “I love him, but I’m not in love with him.” 

Maybe it’s because I grew up reading Danielle Steel novels and watching movies like Titanic and The Notebook – stories that either completely omit the less glamorous parts of love or glorify them in a way that make you believe that perfect harmony really does exist. After all, in a world where the timing is always perfect and no one ever has morning breath, who wouldn’t find everlasting love at first sight? 

Or maybe it’s because I live in a society that portrays real love as easy and automatic, causing the belief that the need for intentionality and effort signals the permanent loss of “the spark” or that the inevitable switch from passionate excitement to quiet contentment means that you must have “fallen out of love.”

When those thoughts creep up, I always remind myself that it’s only the perfect image of easy love talking -  an image based solely on the fantasy world of Hollywood and brief encounters with other couples whose miscommunications and marital flaws are so hard to picture that they surely must not exist. And then I remind myself that no perfect image – whether it exists on a movie screen or in the pages of a novel or even in our own minds – could ever capture the depths and dimensions of real love in real life. 

Because real love burns beneath the surface of the sparks that fly in the early years when falling in love is easy, and it doesn’t waver even when it discovers that staying in love is hard. Real love comes from cleaning up each other’s vomit and knowing that you really did mean “in sickness and health;” and from holding each other’s hands in your darkest hours and knowing that you really did mean “for better or worse.” Real love doesn’t bat a concerned eye at occasional arguments, breaks in affection, or lulls in excitement. It stands by you even when you’re wrong, forgives you even when it hurts, and says “I love you” even through silence and distance and death. 

More than anything, real love knows that the moment when you’re wondering if you’re falling out of a perfect love is really just the moment when you begin falling into the only kind that really is.

This is a Bigger Picture moment. 

Join us at Hyacynth's place today!
 

So God Made a Mother

By far, my favorite Super Bowl commercial this year was the Dodge Ram ode to farmers. After almost five years of marriage to the son of a hardworking, self-giving, family-honoring farmer, each line touched my heart with words that are all too true. As I listened, I couldn’t help noticing the many parallels between the cultivators of crops and livestock and the nurturers of children and families. So I decided that we moms deserve our own version...
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And on the eighth day, God looked down on his planned paradise and said, "I need a caretaker." So God made a mother.

God said, "I need somebody willing to get up before dawn, fold laundry, wash dishes, work all day, fold more laundry, wash more dishes, eat a cold supper, give baths, read stories, stay up past midnight, and then do it all again tomorrow." So God made a mother.

God said, "I need somebody willing to sit up all night with a newborn baby and embrace the tears of exhaustion because she knows that she will one day dry her eyes and smile as she reflects on the bonds created through those long nights. I need somebody who can play the same games and sing the same songs every day for hours on end and who has endless uses for cardboard tubes, popsicle sticks, and ice cube trays. Who, during each of her children’s first 18 years, will finish her 40-hour week by Tuesday noon and then, tired but willing, put in the remaining 128 hours." So God made a mother.

God said, "I need somebody strong enough to set reasonable limits and instill self-discipline, yet gentle enough to dry tears and kiss boo-boos and nurture them through their fevers, who will give up her one free hour to snuggle with the child who’s still afraid of the dark."

I need somebody who will be fair and consistent and lead by example. Somebody to share, care, protect, provide, and teach, and learn, and hug, and hold, and give unselfishly, and love unconditionally. Somebody who threads her family together with enduring bonds of unity, who would laugh, and then sigh and then reply with tears of pride when her daughter says that she wants to spend her life doing what Mom does. So God made a mother.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.
Join us today at Brook's place!

Surrender to the Mess

I’m double dipping today and linking up with Bigger Picture Blogs and the Hearts at Home Third Thursday Blog Hop. The theme for the upcoming Hearts at Home conference is “No More Perfect Moms,” which means the Hearts Bloggers will be laying out a few of our many imperfections with our next few topics starting with today’s prompt “no more perfect homes.” Enjoy!
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My house is always clean. Everything I own is neat and organized to an embarrassing degree. Let’s put it this way – the items on my spice rack are in alphabetical order. No joke. Everything has a place and rarely is anything out of its place for very long. Clutter and chaos drive me bananas, and I would gladly forfeit my very scarce bubble bath opportunities in the interest of tidiness.

Sometimes people ask me why I care so much about the condition of my house, especially because I’m not one to fret over anyone’s judgment. The reason actually has nothing to do with other people. I could be a hermit living on a mountaintop and my house would still be just as organized. I’m trying to measure up to my own standard, not anyone else’s. I’ve just always been happier in a clean space and I function better in an organized setting.

Friends and family often teased that I would have to give up my compulsive neatness when I had kids. Well, after Reese was born I didn’t change and neither did my house. I’d like to think that I did it without compromising my responsiveness to her needs (or my own), but I’m sure that wasn’t always the case. Many nights I would put her to bed and then spend my me-time picking up toys, washing dishes, and folding laundry. When Allie came along, I was just as determined to keep up my charade because, after all, a clean home is a happy home.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I would have to make my peace with the disaster that has overtaken my living space. I’m not sure what pushed it over the edge – the addition of a second child or the toddler who leaves a trail of toys through every room – but I’m finding myself outnumbered by burp cloths and puzzle pieces. In the weeks after Allie was born my efforts to battle the mess were futile, and I slowly began to lower my standards.

Looking back, I see that all I ever got out of my obsessive need for order was a temporary sigh of relief and a side of unnecessary exhaustion. For a long time I thought of housekeeping as a part of my job description as an at-home mom, and I believed that giving it up would mean I had failed in that aspect of the role in which I have so much pride.

Today, my house is no longer the perfectly organized haven to which I have been accustomed for so many years, and I’ve had to find other ways to achieve the inner peace I had always derived from a tidy home. The more I let it go, the easier it got to leave things undone and I’m even finding that I have more time for other things I enjoy – things that bring me greater peace than a spotless kitchen ever did.

Contrary to my fears of failing at my job, letting go of my house is making me a better wife and mother day by day. I finally see that obsessing over my kids is much more worthwhile than obsessing over my chores because there’s nothing miraculous about housework. I don’t cut snuggling sessions short when the dryer buzzes because wrinkles don’t grow up and move away. I don’t stop the puppet show to sweep the kitchen because my days with crumbs on the floor are not numbered. And in those few precious moments when the girls are asleep and the house is quiet, I can finally walk past the dishes, step over the toys, throw my clothes on the floor, and sink into a tub of bubbles because a relaxed mom is a happy mom, and a happy mom makes a happy home.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. 

Join us today at Hyacynth's place. 

Lessons from a Crying Baby

I told Matt what Allie’s doctor said. Sounds to me like colic. Hang in there. That’s it. That was the extent of his advice. Hang in there. Well, I could have told myself that. That’s what we’ve been doing for the past month.

Allie cries through the evening almost every day. Every time there is a lull in the pattern, I get my hopes up that things are getting better, but it never lasts. We’re getting in a routine where Matt and I take turns walking laps with her around the fireplace. He tries a pacifier. I try to nurse her. We walk and sing and swaddle and bounce and do our best to eat our dinner and talk over the wailing. We switch back and forth between walking with Allie and playing with Reese and our alone time is rare. This is our life.

She’s only been doing this for about four weeks, but to us it feels like forever. It’s affecting my ability to enjoy the newborn stage, and lowering my patience for Reese and Matt and myself. One night after Reese was in bed, I handed Allie off to Matt and buried my face in my hands.

He put a hand on my shoulder, “Are you ok?”

“I just don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“Are you saying we should put her on Ebay?”

I laughed through the tears, and asked if he would mind if I took a shower before my next turn.

For the past month, I have been asking God to make this go away. I begged him to calm her, heal her, and bring her peace so I in turn could have my peace. I want to remember this stage of her life as a happy time. I don’t want to look back and think, “Gee, that was awful. I'm glad that’s over.” I have said over and over to God what I had just said to Matt, I don’t know how much longer I can do this, and I've been angry that God doesn't seem to be listening.

Alone in the bathroom, I prayed as I often do in the shower. This time, however, I put my agenda aside and I asked Him only for acceptance:

Dear Lord, please help me accept my circumstances. Help me to be calm in this storm and grant me the peace of knowing that this will pass in your time. Let me be thankful for the things that are going well, and help me find greater joy in smaller moments. Please give me the strength and patience to be the mother you created me to be.

Then I returned to the living room to take my turn with Allie. Matt went to bed and I continued walking laps around the fireplace. Remembering my prayer, I started thinking about all that I've been thankful for in the past month - moments that made me smile and all the wonderful parts about having a newborn. I recalled the moment of her birth, her first bath, her first smile, the way Reese kisses her forehead, and the feeling of her tiny head resting in the palm of my hand.

Before I knew it, I was crying again, but instead of the tears of frustration, anger, and exhaustion to which I had grown so accustomed, they were tears of gratitude and joy. At some point, Allie had stopped crying, and her little head rested peacefully on my shoulder. As I continued walking, I sang three verses of Amazing Grace and thanked God for answering my prayer. Then I set Allie in her bed where she slept for six hours, her longest stretch to date.

When I first told Matt, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” I wasn’t even entirely sure what I meant. That statement doesn’t even make sense in a situation where there is no way out. Yet, I tend to say that during times when I’m faced with circumstances I’m not willing to accept.

I realize now what my heart was feeling when my mouth made that statement. I meant that I can’t continue through this challenge while focusing on the negative. I can’t face it without God’s grace. And I can’t continue holding onto the image of the circumstances I want rather than accepting the circumstances I have.

I don’t know how much longer this will continue, but I do know that if I continue drawing strength from God, keep picking myself up when I fall, and focus on being thankful for all that is well, I can do it. For as long as it takes.

Because although there may not be peace and quiet in my home, I can choose to walk through it with peace and quiet in my heart.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.
Join us today at Melissa's place!

A Sign of God's Plan

In October 2002, during my sophomore year at ISU, an acquaintance invited my roommate and me to go out with some of his friends. We gathered in his dorm room at Watterson Towers where he made introductions and one guy in particular immediately caught my attention. He reached out to shake my hand and flashed me a smile in a moment that is permanently ingrained in my memory. He was a life-of-the-party kind of guy and so easy to talk to. Early in the evening, he mentioned that he was in a long distance relationship, and I told him about my Army boyfriend who was beginning a four year tour in Germany. We spent the evening laughing and dancing, and our whole group had so much fun that we started going out together almost every weekend.

We spent the next two years dancing at frat parties and blasting country music through the halls of his apartment building. We remained respectful of each other’s significant others, and I never mentioned the butterflies that stirred with every smile, every wink, every not-so-inadvertent touch.

Eventually, I ended my long distance relationship and embarked on a series of mediocre dates and short-lived flings. He still had the same girlfriend, so I never did get a chance to share my true feelings. Over time, our little group started growing apart, and soon I stopped scanning the room for him at parties. I stopped trying to run into him on campus, and even when I did see him I only waved from afar. After I graduated, I wondered if it had been a mistake not telling him how I felt. In my mind, he would always be “the one that got away.”

That fall, I went back to ISU to start my graduate degree. All my friends had graduated and the party scene lost its luster. I had just ended another relationship with someone who didn’t quite measure up to the guy I still couldn’t fully forget. I laid on the bed in my one bedroom apartment wondering where the next phase of life would take me.

Then the phone rang and an all-too-familiar voice asked me on my last first date.

In October 2012, I gave birth to our second child and that child entered the world in a hospital room with a picture window. In the middle of the view from that window stood Watterson Towers, the place where Matt first shook my hand exactly ten years before.

The view from that window will remain forever in my heart as a reminder that God is behind every unanswered prayer, every time of uncertainty, every phase of waiting and wondering. He orchestrates each stage of our lives from beginning to end, and every so often if we are paying attention, He provides us with wondrous moments that bridge the gap between the past and present and fill us with assurance that He really does have a plan.

This is a Bigger Picture moment. Share with us today at Brook's place.

The Best is Yet to Come

Slowing our bikes to a stop, we gathered in a giggly cluster on the front lawn of my childhood home. A white limousine sat in front of the house across the street next to a group of smiley teenagers. We watched in awe, whispering as quietly as young girls can whisper while we cast our votes for the prettiest dress and the cutest date. When the limo finally drove off, we returned to our bikes and I pedaled down the street behind my friends, fantasizing about my own prom night and the many promises of a bright and beautiful future.

That was eleven years before I actually attended my own prom, and here I sit eleven years after, having experienced so many of the days that once seemed so far away – high school, college, marriage, pregnancy, motherhood. Through the first three decades of my life I looked toward the years ahead with such hope and anticipation. Every year brought another exciting “first” and the future was full of mystery and adventure. I wanted to look older, feel older, be older. The best is yet to come.

Somewhere along the way, my feelings toward the future began shifting away from excitement and floating in the space between indifference and dread. With so many major events now in the past, I feared that life would become perpetually repetitive, boring even. No longer able to fantasize about where I might “end up,” I wondered if the adventure was over, if I would begin to spend less time daydreaming about what is to come and more time entertaining thoughts of what might have been “if only…”

Yesterday I celebrated my 30th birthday – not the way I celebrated my tenth with a slumber party filled with popcorn and late-night laughter; or the way I celebrated my eighteenth with a huge bonfire in my parents’ backyard; or the way I celebrated my twenty-first with an irresponsible number of shots and a very spotty memory. Instead, I spent the day at the pumpkin patch with Reese and my mom, and then I enjoyed a pedicure and dinner with friends. It was quiet, peaceful, and perfect, and I celebrated because the repetition I anticipated has become the comfort I seek and the boredom I feared has become the contentment I cherish.

With one decade closing and another about to begin, the future is filled with a different kind of adventure. The identity-seeking years of wild parties and tangible firsts are becoming the peacefully stable years of security, consistency, and continued spiritual growth. With a greater appreciation for simple joys and deeper gratitude for even the smallest blessings, I have a renewed sense of excitement for all that lies ahead.

As 21st birthdays become 40th birthdays, weddings become 50th anniversaries, and graduation parties become retirement parties, I will always remember that little girl on her purple bike pedaling toward the road ahead with the wind at her back and a heart full of hope and anticipation for the promises of a bright and beautiful future. 

The best is yet to come.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Jade's place!

Through a Toddler's Eyes: Work

Reese and I walked hand-in-hand toward the playground. To our right, the tiny lake shimmered in the sunlight as a flock of Canadian geese waddled along the shore line looking for the perfect spot to enter the water. 

“Look, Mommy, those geese are working.”

Working? I asked if she meant to say “walking.” She corrected me, confirming that in her mind, those geese were hard at work. Trying to wrap my head around her logic, I challenged myself to answer the question - if they’re not working, what are they doing? Well, they’re just doing what geese do. They're just… being.

It took me a minute to fully process the beauty of her statement. Somehow, she had come to understand that to engage in your “work” is simply to be as you were meant to be, to fulfill your basic purpose.

That moment has completely changed the way I see my daily routine and the way I think about the “work” to be done in my life.

I walk the aisles of the grocery store like an eagle in flight.

I empty the dishwasher like a bumblebee gathering pollen.

I dust my furniture like a rosebud turning its face to the sun.

And I sit at my computer spilling the contents of my heart like a flock of geese waddling along the sandy shores of a shimmering lake.

Now, I can stir a pot on the stove, fold laundry, or pay bills without wishing I could stop and just simply be. And I can read a book, paint my nails, or write my heart out without feeling like I should get on with more important work. In every action I am working, fulfilling my purpose, turning my own tiny gear in the giant wheel of creation. I'm just doing what moms doing. I'm just being.

And when Reese is constructing her tallest block tower, splattering soap bubbles on the mirror as she washes her hands, or picking up her toys at the end of the day, she's just doing what toddlers do. She's just being. But she tells me she's working, and I just smile and agree because I've forgotten that there was ever a difference.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Corinne's.