Kid Logic: More Cute Stories from the Mind of a Child

It’s time again for more of the funny things kids say. If you missed the first round, you can read them here. These are some of my recent favorites...

One time Reese sneezed and then she smiled up at me and said, “I’m blessed.”

~~~~~~~

This happened while Reese was watching Cinderella:

She said, “Now she’s gonna go dance at the ball.”

“And then does she fall in love with the prince?”

“No, she doesn’t fall. She just dances.”

~~~~~~~

When I turn on the Christian music station on our Direct TV radio, Reese says “the TV is singing about Jesus.”

~~~~~~~

Reese has a tutu with a speaker in the waistband that plays “The Chicken Dance.” She wore it to a tutu birthday party and the next day she said, “Mommy, we should give [the other girls] some batteries so they can fix their tutus.”

~~~~~~~

Reese has an odd fear of public toilets because she thinks they flush too loud. One time I had her in a bathroom and she turned to another lady and said, "Mommy's gonna go potty and it's gonna be loud." 

~~~~~~~

These were submitted by readers:

My girls hadn’t been listening to me all day, and at one point, my husband said, “You girls are driving your mom crazy.” The older one answered, “But we are too little to drive.”

~~~~~~~

Our second child was about four-months-old when our older child came up to me and said, “Mommy, when are [the baby]’s mommy and daddy going to come and take him back to his own house?

Leave me a comment with your funny story and I’ll share it in a future Kid Logic post.

Happy Friday!

Life is What You Make It

"Mommy, can we go play in the snow?"

It's so hard to tell her no. "Well, not right now. It's too cold for Allie and we can't leave her in the house by herself."

"Oh, ok." She disappeared into her room and emerged a few minutes later dressed like this...

She ran up to me, wild with excitement.

"Mommy! Hurry! Come see the snow!"

She dragged me to her room, and I instinctively turned my attention toward the snow covered ground outside her window.

"No, Mommy. Right here," She scooped a pretend snowball from her carpet and held it out for me to see.

"Come on, Mommy. Let's play in the snow! But, it's very cold so you better get your hat and gloves."

How could I argue with that? I went to the laundry room and dug out a hat and my warmest pair of gloves.

When I returned in the proper attire, she launched a pretend snowball in my direction. I staggered backward, "You got me!" Then I bent down and made a "snowball" of my own. She ducked behind the rocking chair, "You missed!" I couldn't help noticing that she giggles the same way whether she's throwing a real snowball or a fake one.

We chased each other around the room, throwing pretend snow and making pretend snow angels. We built an pretend snowman and slid down pretend hills on pretend sleds. When we were done, she poured pretend mugs of hot chocolate in her tea party set and we warmed our hands and feet by a pretend fire.

As the scene unfolded, I thought back to a few specific incidents where unexpected circumstances altered my perfect plans and the resulting disappointment hindered my ability to fully enjoy myself in spite of a few hiccups. When I told Reese that we couldn't play in the snow, she could have had a tantrum. Or she could have given up and found something else to do. Instead, she put her boots on anyway.

Kids have an amazing ability to refresh an adult's perspective on life. That morning, Reese decided that she was going to play in the snow and nothing - not even the complete absence of the one thing she needed in order to fulfill her plan - was going to stop her from doing it. She simply decided what she wanted and then she found a way to create it. Not only did she succeed, but she had just as much fun as she would have if she actually was outside.

It took a two-year-old in a t-shirt and princess snow boots to remind me that life is far too unpredictable (and far too short) for us to allow our circumstances to dictate the manner in which we experience it. In any situation, we see what we choose to see. With a little shift in attitude, our challenges can become our adventures, our struggles can become our gifts, and unexpected circumstances can become windows of opportunity.

Sometimes life does knock us down, rain on our parade, and derail our plans. I think we all know what it's like to be that kid looking out the windows of our lives at something we're told we can't have - the "snow" we can't go play in. Those moments come with choices. You can resist them with a tantrum. You can give up and move on. Or you can get up and put your boots on anyway.  

For the month of March, Bigger Picture Blogs is celebrating the change from winter to spring with the theme "Rejuvenate." Join in here for more rejuvenating winter/spring moments!

Five Minute Friday: Ordinary

Ordinary.

Commonplace.

Unexceptional.

Average.

Yuck.

It’s not something I ever aspired to be and sometimes I hate that it’s a pretty accurate word for my life. Too often I am reminded of my miniscule existence on this enormous planet. In today’s globally connected world, we are more aware of the expansiveness of life beyond the walls of our homes and the streets of our towns than ever before. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel like the littlest of fish in the biggest of oceans.

I wonder if that’s why validation has become so highly valued in our society. People need to be seen and heard and reminded that their existence matters. (Hence, the constant scroll of facebook status updates and the popularity of websites like klout.com). Maybe that’s why I obsessively check my blogger stats. I need to believe that my story matters. I need something to lift me out of the realm of the ordinary… until I remember that I am among a million ordinary moms blogging about their ordinary lives. Ugh!

Rather than making me want to quit, it’s those reminders that urge me to continue. I know that my life is pretty ordinary and that fact can be discouraging. But I also know that I serve an extraordinary God and when I place pieces of my average life against the backdrop of a much bigger picture, I see glimpses of an extraordinary purpose.

So do I matter? I don’t know my worth to the whole world, and I don’t have a klout score to tell me my worth to the cyber-world. But I do know my worth to the people in my world and I know my worth to the God who placed me in it. Yes, my daily life is pretty ordinary, but my purpose and my existence are far from it. That's all that matters. 

It's been a while since I participated in a Five-Minute-Friday. Every week a prompt is released Thursday night at midnight (today's is "Ordinary"), and bloggers are asked to write on the topic for five minutes. No planning. No editing. Just five minutes straight from the heart. (Although I should admit that I couldn't stop with the clock today, so it's really Seven-Minute-Friday for me). Click the link above for more takes on this prompt from other bloggers.

Memories that Matter

Reese at 4 months

Lately I've noticed that it has become harder and harder for me to lift Reese. I usually only carry her long enough to comfort a boo boo or to transport her sleeping body from the car to her room, and the days of loading the dishwasher and making dinner with her on my hip are long gone. I suppose I could take it as a sign of just how out of shape I am now that I haven't set foot on my treadmill in over six months (which could be part of it, but in my defense, people always ask me if she's four because she's so tall). What it really means, though, is that she's becoming more of a kid and less of a baby or even a toddler.

Next fall, she will start preschool two mornings a week. She doesn't want me in the room while she goes potty (which is often because she wants to unravel the entire roll of toilet paper without interruption, but still). She is now fully conversational in her speech, and sometimes she calls me "mom." When she was a baby I remember wondering what she would be like as a kid, and as much as I love getting to know her more and more each day, I really miss that baby.

Compared to her older sister, Allie is a stage five clinger. Reese was always pretty independent, and she never had those typical toddler meltdowns when I left her in the care of anyone else. Allie will likely be the opposite. She wants to be held all the time, and I get very little done while she is awake. I spend most of my day with her strapped to my chest and most of the night with her in bed beside me. I rarely did this with Reese. Sure, I held her a lot, but if I had to do something that would be easier with two free hands, I set her down and she was usually content.

I've spent a lot of time complaining about my inability to set Allie down for more than just a few minutes at a time, and I've spent even more time complaining about her refusal to sleep soundly anywhere except snuggled up beside me in the bed that I always said would be reserved only for Matt and I. Now, as I see the baby inside Reese fading further into my memory, I'm trying to spend more time cherishing these days and less time waiting to have my hands free and my side of the bed back to myself.

When I was pregnant with Reese, the most common piece of advice I got from other moms was "take a lot of pictures and cherish every moment because it goes by fast." Other than the taking pictures part, I don't know that I really took this advice to heart or that I realized just how fast it would go. Sometimes as I carry Reese in from the car or snuggle next to her in bed, I flip through a montage of memories of the baby she used to be, and I find myself wishing for the ability to go back and do it all again.

Last week we notice that Allie has started teething, and now she's clinging to me even more. She fussy and demanding, and sometimes I get tired of it. Then Reese comes up and says, "Hold me, Mommy." I strain ever so slightly as I lift her to my hip, but I never turn down her request because someday I won't be able to lift her at all. Finally I set her down because Allie is crying to be held again. I lift Allie to my hip and notice the difference in ease, and then I look into her four-month-old eyes and I know that my days with this baby are numbered.

Every time I lift Reese, I realize just how fast these years are going by. So instead of searching for the light at the end of the teething tunnel, I'm staying in the moment as much as possible. I'm cherishing the way she chews on my finger and the comfort only my arms can provide.

As with every stage of life, the hard part will come to an end, but it takes the good parts with it too. Someday, all that will be left is an imaginary montage reel of memories and the best way to preserve precious moments with our babies to make sure those reels are loaded with as many good memories as possible.  

On the Wings of Someday

Someday...

I repeat that word to myself every time I fantasize about having a meaningful place in the writing world. And for some reason, "someday" is always enough to keep me content with my current state of affairs. It condones my habit of diving under the rug for weeks at a time when I feel discouraged by someone or something, and it lets me continue believing that I really do have every intention of pursuing my dream down the road when life is more convenient.

As much as I hate to admit it, I have been buying emotional stock in "someday" for quite some time.  

The first time I looked in the mirror and saw a writer inside me, I was eight. I wrote a story about a special teddy bear and it was "published" at our local library. Two years later I won a school-wide essay contest on the essence of the Olympic spirit. Throughout high school I never received less than an A+ on a writing assignment, and I still remember  the verbatim compliments of every teacher who encouraged me to pursue this as a career. In college, I applied for four scholarships with an essay component. I won them all.

I'm telling you this not because I want to boast. Actually, I'm rather ashamed. Sure, I'm proud of those specific moments, but what disappoints me is that I took every single one and stuffed it away as encouragement for the dream I would pursue... someday.

For twenty years after I held my very first book in my hands and knew in my heart that I was meant to write, I continued to stand on the cracked foundation of "someday." Looking back, I often wonder where I could have been if I had the courage to sidestep my pride and decide on any one of my 8,000 yesterdays that "someday" would be today.

Two years ago, I grabbed the tail end of a dream that I believed had slipped away and I slowly started reeling it back in. Two years ago today, I published my very first blog post, and in that moment I reconnected with that little girl holding her five-page, self-illustrated book about a missing teddy bear and the child determined to find him. Even though I still have a long way to go in the pursuit of that dream, I'm finally able to say that I have stopped saying I will and started saying I am.

Don't do what I did. Don't wait twenty years to start believing in your gifts, pursuing your goals, and reaching for your dreams. What plans have you packed away in the storage room of your future? Reach into that room and unpack that box. Then leap out and fly on the wings of your dreams so they never have the chance to fly off on the wings of “someday.”

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!
                 -----------------------------------------------

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...
________

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!

You Know You're a Mom If...

If you've ever answered the door looking like this...

If your living room looks like this...

If your toilet paper is rolled like this...
















If you open kitchen drawers and find things like this...

If your camera is filled with pictures like this...















If your Friday nights look like this...















If your Sunday mornings look like this...

And if you do it all because of moments like this...

Smiles like this...















Bonds like this...

And love like this...

Because even when the job seems small,
you know that your purpose is so very big.

It's a New Day

Wow. It’s amazing what a few good nights of sleep can do! We’ve pretty much done a 180 degree turn in the past week starting with Allie switching over to formula. Yes, I stopped nursing, and although I’m still struggling to accept it and still questioning whether I made the right choice, seeing her (and me) finally at peace is helping me cope. For the past 3 months, I’ve been suffering from major sleep deprivation (among other things), and between Allie’s bottle refusal and my breast issues (I’ll spare you the details) there was little anyone else could do to give me relief. Fortunately, she took to formula like a champ, and all of her tummy issues and reflux symptoms disappeared almost instantly. On the fourth night she slept for two stretches of five hours, waking only for a quick bottle. As for me, it took just a couple restful nights for my good spirits to return in full force.

This week I am half-tempted to apologize for my recent negativity and stinky attitude, but I won’t because I am committed to sharing whatever is on my heart on any given day – good, bad, or ugly. It is my hope that those who read my not-so-happy posts will reflect on their own past or current struggles and take comfort in knowing  that no mom walks around with her head in a cloud of positivity 24/7. No matter your struggle, you are never alone, and your many messages of encouragement over the past few weeks have certainly reminded me that I am in the good company of many other moms out there who experience their own share of dark days now and then.

I used to think the ebb and flow of life from bliss to turmoil and back again meant that there was something wrong with me. Today I know that’s not the case, and when you find yourself swinging back and forth between the tides, know that there’s nothing wrong with you either. Those moments (or days or months) of turmoil are what fuels our ability to enjoy the blissful days in the first place. It’s difficult to fully appreciate joy if you have never felt sorrow; to really know peace if you are never troubled; or to truly understand God’s grace if you've never been challenged. For, without the bad we could not fully experience all that is good.

With my energy restored (well, almost anyway), I have finally been able to rediscover the joy in a midnight feeding. I can see the humor in Reese’s claim that she’s “flying to Mars” despite my full knowledge of what she’s really doing in the pantry with the door shut. And I can once again read Dr. Seuss with the kind of enthusiasm that would undoubtedly land me a starring role in Sneetches: The Movie. My routine over the past few days has been a piece of cake compared to the weeks of fussy mornings, colicky evenings, and sleepless nights, all gathered under a dark cloud of PPD.

Today I have a renewed commitment to take no precious moments for granted. I am emerging from this struggle with a stronger marriage, a deeper faith, and a mightier soul. When I reflect on the first few months of Allie’s life, it won’t be with regret over my inability to savor every moment. Rather, it will be with gratitude for the many moments I did savor, and all that I learned – about myself and the true level of my strength; about my husband and the real depths of his love and support for me; and about God and the comfort He brings when I offer up my struggles to His endless glory. There's definite truth to the saying, "the soul could have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears," and through this storm I always took comfort in knowing that the rainbow would come, bringing with it the brighter sun of a brand new day. Today is that day.

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

Misery Loves Company

By now most of you know that things haven’t exactly been smooth sailing around here over the past two months. On the upside, I have finally recovered from my postpartum depression and Allie’s colic has improved significantly now that she is on medicine for reflux (thanks to some reader emails). Still, despite the recent improvements, I’m still having a lot of moments where my attitude stinks and the bigger picture of life gets lost in the mundane, repetitive days. Between a baby who doesn’t sleep and a toddler who doesn’t listen, I often find that motherhood isn’t exactly the magical, marvelous experience I expected. Sure, I have magical and marvelous moments, which are the ones I usually write about, but I have plenty of “Why did I choose this life, again?” moments that leave me feeling both guilty and inadequate in the role I’m supposed to love with all my heart.

Let’s face it, though. There’s nothing magical about Reese pooping in her underwear every other day and there’s nothing marvelous about discovering crayola art work on the walls and greasy chapstick doodles on the couch. Someone always needs me, someone is always crying, and I’m always trying to figure out the evasive answer to another mysterious problem. Why is Allie crying? Why isn’t Reese listening? Well, I’ve had enough of the guilt, and despite whatever I’m supposed to be feeling, this phase of life often stinks just as much as it shines.

On those not-so-shiny days, I don’t necessarily want to hear about the bright side. Bright side people make me feel guilty. I also don’t want someone to swoop in with the perfect advice or a magical solution. Chronic fixers make me feel inadequate. Instead, what I want on those days is a friend who will drop everything to meet me for coffee because she hears the need in my voice. A friend who isn’t afraid to agree that some parts of motherhood are downright awful and draining. A friend who will sit with me and swap “why me” stories until we’re both waist-deep in each other’s misery.

With that kind of friend, there's no mention of the bright side because we know that some aspects of life only have one side. We don’t need to say “I’ve been there” because it’s apparent in our stories. We don’t need to look for the silver lining because we can hear it in our laughter. And we don’t need to worry that our negativity brings each other down because we know that sometimes misery really does love company - not because we love to be miserable but because misery needs validation and reassurance from people who can use their stories and laughter and “me too’s” to say, “I totally get it.” In those moments where our stories are heard and our emotions are validated, the feelings of guilt are replaced by a realization of normalcy, and the feelings of misery become glimmers of hope.

Thank you, Kristin, for giving my misery so much company.

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!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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. 

The Time I Almost Ran Away

I wish I could say that my recent absence came about because I’ve been too busy reveling in the joys of my growing family, and if I wasn’t so compelled to tell the truth, that’s probably what I would have said. I might have told you about how much I enjoy watching Reese tell Allie what color everything is and asking her if she’ll be ready to play outside “when the snow goes away.” I might have told you about how busy I’ve been preparing for my new part-time teaching job. I might have even opened up about how difficult the transition to two children has been and how much harder it has become to juggle all of my responsibilities to my home and myself. All of these things are pieces of the truth, but they are only minor contributors compared to the real culprit.

Although it pains me to say it (or write it) out loud, the truth is that I’ve been caught in a dark place since mid-December because of a terrifying episode of postpartum depression that ripped through the center of my being in a matter of days and put my heart in a vice grip of constant panic.

I experienced some postpartum struggles after Reese was born, and I promised myself this time would be different. I spent months building a fortress of positivity around my heart and soul. Armed with self-help books, daily meditation, and relentless prayer, I truly believed I was prepared. Allie’s delivery went so smoothly, my recovery went so quickly, and we settled into our new routine so easily. Everything about our birthing experience with Allie was a stark (and pleasant) contrast to the many struggles we experienced during and after Reese’s arrival. I had every reason to believe that I had beaten it this time. After six weeks of baby bliss, I thought I was out of the woods.

I did not see this coming.

At first, I thought the tears were born out of exhaustion. I thought the frustration was a natural part of life with a toddler. I believed the panic was legitimate and the worries were real. By the time I realized what was really happening to me, I was already deeply buried in the trenches.

This was not a run-of-the-mill postpartum episode – the kind that leaves you crying over your permanent muffin top and mourning the loss of your personal freedom. Oh, no. This was a door-slamming, on-the-floor-crying, sanity-robbing hostile takeover that kept me up at wee hours of the night plotting my escape from this house, this town, this life. I was constantly distracted, always on edge, pacing the floors like a caged animal. Simple tasks overwhelmed me to tears, and I felt like I was drowning in my own life. I fought the constant urge to jump in the car and head out of town with no plans to return.

If the anxiety wasn’t bad enough in its raw form, I made it worse by wallowing in guilt and shame and allowing myself to question my love for my family as if a better wife and mother would never be in the place where I found myself.

Four days before Christmas, I overheard Reese addressing the guests at her stuffed animal tea party, “Mommy’s sad and I don’t know how to fix her.”

I had wanted to work through this on my own, and I believed my faith and my love for my family could carry me to the other side. I got through it before and I would get through it again, but not at Reese’s expense. With my white flag flying high, I made an appointment with my OB and came home with a prescription for the medication I swore I would never need.

Somewhere in the depths of the darkest emotional hole I’ve ever experienced, I found the inner strength for which I had spent so much time praying. It didn’t come in the form of a superhuman ability to defy biology and overcome a long-standing chemical imbalance. It came instead in the form of an emotional white flag and a rock-bottom willingness to accept my circumstances and receive help.

It’s been over three weeks, and I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. I knew the worst was over when we all got the flu on New Year’s Eve and I couldn’t stop laughing at Matt’s “happy new year” jokes in between trips to the bathroom.

Slowly, I’m remembering how to laugh at messes and spills and diaper blowouts. I’m playing with Reese more and fretting over the budget less. I’m learning to ignore the inner voice that makes me feel ashamed of this weakness and to listen instead to the one reassuring me that I’m still every bit as strong as I always believed.

Well, that’s the real reason I’ve been M.I.A. this month, and I chose to share the full extent of the truth because I know I’m not the only mom who has experienced this emotional cage. Even though most of us struggle through postpartum hormonal changes in some way, the voice of this part of motherhood – like many other not-so-pleasant aspects of our roles – often goes unheard. Let’s be that voice. If you’ve been there, let your story plant a seed of hope for someone else. If you’re there right now, reach out for help before your older kids start seeking counsel from their stuffed animals. And if you ever start to believe you are alone in this battle, just give me a call and I’ll tell you about the time I almost ran away from home.

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!

Kid Logic: Cute Stories from the Mind of a Child

Reese just turned two and a half last month, and my favorite part of this stage has been watching the development of her language skills. It seems like she finds new ways to express herself every day, and I am amazed at her ability to learn and remember new concepts and words. I love the way she pauses in deep thought as she tries to reason through various aspects of her world, and her responses in those moments are often creative and downright hilarious. Here are just a few of my favorites from the past few weeks….

~~~~~

We were getting ready to leave the grocery store and she asked why she had to buckle up in the car. I said, “Because it’s very dangerous to ride without a buckle and if we get stopped by a policeman, mommy would get in trouble.”

The next time we got in the car she said, “I have to wear my buckle so mommy doesn’t get a time out.”

~~~~~ 

She looked out the window and saw a rabbit perched up on its hind legs and said, “Look, mommy! A kangaroo!” 

~~~~~

We were playing with alphabet magnets and I held up the letter R.

“R is for Reese.”

She looked confused and handed me the letter U.

“No, this one is for Reese.”

“Why is that one for Reese?”

“Because you say, ‘This is U.’”

~~~~~

We were at a friend’s house and she was having a hard time sharing the toys. Every time her friend touched something, Reese would cry and say, “No that’s my ball!” or “No, that’s my doll!” Finally her friend got so frustrated that she gave up trying to play with Reese. She sat on the couch and started singing, “Old McDonald Had a Farm….”

Reese interrupted her and said, “No, that’s my song!”

~~~~~

She and I went to get haircuts together. When Matt got home, he asked her what we did that day. She said, “We went to the hair doctor.”

~~~~~

Ok, this is my all-time favorite moment, and it doesn’t even involve my kid, but I have to share it…

On my mom’s 40th birthday we all went out to dinner. At the time, my two younger brothers were four and five. During dinner, my mom shared the story about her 30th birthday and how my oldest brother started crying and said that he was afraid she might die soon because she was so old.

We all laughed but my five-year-old brother looked confused and asked, “Why did he think you would die?”

The four-year-old chimed in to explain, “Because back then people only lived to be thirty.”

~~~~~

What funny moments have you shared with your kids?

Leave a comment here or follow the link to the facebook page and tell me your story along with the age of your child (I will change names to protect identity). I’ll share more from Reese and other readers in future “Kid Logic” posts.

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.

A Brief Update

Well, it has been quite a month, and I think I’m finally starting to see the light at the end of the sleep deprivation tunnel. I thought I would share a brief update before I attempt to get back into my normal posting routine (if that’s even possible. We shall see).

Allie is five weeks old now and perfectly healthy. (I know. Time flies, right?) We had a difficult first month with her sleep schedule, and she began showing signs of colic which makes for some tense evenings around our house. Lately it feels like things are getting better, but I think maybe that’s because Matt and I have simply grown accustomed to the walking zombie lifestyle.

Reese's broken collarbone is completely healed and we got the official okay last Monday. She handled the whole situation like a champ and never complained about wearing her brace. By the time Allie was born, Reese was back to normal and you never would have known she was injured. She loves being a big sister and - just like every other major transition in her little life - she has handled the change marvelously. 

As for Matt and I, well, did I mention that we’re pretty tired? This whole sleep deprivation thing is quite new to us. Reese was born in the summer when Matt was off work, and by the time he returned to a full-time schedule, we had a ten-week-old baby who slept through the night consistently. Not so much this time around. With Allie, Matt stayed home for one week; my mom came down the second week; and after that I was on my own with two kids and feeling like a first-time mom all over again. 

Already in this first month, I’ve had so many moments that I wanted to share, but each time I had the opportunity to get in front of the computer I found myself choosing to sleep instead (which was probably the wiser choice anyway). So I will likely backtrack a bit to some of those earlier blog-worthy moments I missed and as much as I would like to jump right into them all now, doing so would likely make this a contender for the longest blog post ever written.

For some reason it just seemed weird to start up again without filling in the gaps from the past four weeks. So that’s my only purpose today – to say that we are all alive and well and starting to get used to being a party of four. I hope the demands of my evolving role as a mother allow me the time to continue sharing my heart through this incredible journey. I thought I had learned a lot about things like life, love, and patience as a mother of one, but if the past month is any indication of what lies ahead then I have a feeling that the lessons have only just begun so stay tuned…

And remember that there are now two easy ways to follow along and receive automatic updates. Enter your email on the right or click my facebook link and "like" the fan page. Thank you for taking this journey with me. There's plenty more to come!

Love's Not Easy, But It's Worth It

I cried as we drove to the hospital. We were headed in for a scheduled induction, but my contractions had started earlier that afternoon, and I was pretty sure I was already in labor.

{I had been hoping to avoid an induction this time around, but two days earlier my doctor - who literally saved my life the day Reese was born – told me that she had to go out of town unexpectedly over the weekend of my due date. I sat on our patio praying for peace and clarity as I tried to decide whether to schedule an induction or risk my doctor's absence. I decided on the induction, despite my desire to experience spontaneous labor. Imagine my excitement when I started having contractions the morning of our appointment. Isn’t God awesome?}

As we made the 30 minute drive to the hospital, the joy and excitement were overshadowed by anxiety and fear as I wondered how I would possibly go through all that pain and exhaustion again. I worried about a repeat occurrence of the complications I suffered last time and I questioned my ability to do it all again. Matt held my hand as we drove, reassuring me that everything would work out and reminding me of the bigger picture behind the pain. The wait is over. We’re having a baby. Today.

Thirteen hours later, our daughter was born. If I took the time to fully recapture the details of those hours and the magnificence of her entry into the world, I’m afraid you might never see the end of this post, (and given my current state of exhaustion, it is unlikely that anything I write will accurately portray such a miracle).

That night, I laid in my hospital bed surrounded by the soft glow of the moon and the light snores of my husband asleep on the couch across the room. Next to my bed, our newborn baby squirmed in her sleep.

The events of the day replayed in my mind as I relived the magic of holding, kissing, and nursing my baby girl for the first time and the memories of Reese’s newborn days. No longer minding the pain, no longer worrying about the weeks of sleep deprivation ahead, no longer wondering if I can handle this, I lowered my head to the pillow and closed my eyes to join my husband and my daughter in peaceful sleep.

Ignoring the IV needle in my wrist, the cramps in my back and abdomen, and the stitches that hindered even the slightest change in position, I pressed the “play” button on my ipod, turned the setting to “random,” and let the tears of joy and gratitude flow onto the pillow as Francesca Battistelli began singing in my ear…. 

Love’s not a feeling

Love’s not convenient

But I know love will change your life

Love takes sacrifice

Love cuts like a knife

Sometimes love will make you cry

Love’s not easy

But it’s worth it…

Allie Marie
October 26, 2012 @ 1:01pm. 

8 lbs. 20 in.

Welcome to the world, Sweet Baby Girl.

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

Maybe That's Why...

My heart has been heavy this week. Other than simple bumps and scrapes, this has been my first experience with the heart-break of seeing my child in pain; the guilt of wondering if I could have prevented this. Every time I see her wince as she tries to get comfortable, I find myself asking, "why?"

We saw an orthopedic doctor on Tuesday, and it turns out that the bone is cracked halfway through. She needs to wear the brace for four to six weeks, 24 hours a day. Matt carried her out to the car and we headed home preparing ourselves for the reality that we will have both an injured toddler and a newborn baby in just 10 days.

Why did this have to happen so close to the end of our pregnancy?

Why did this have to happen at all?

Why does she have to experience this pain?

Why? The question tumbles from my lips in an automatic response to life’s not-so-pleasant surprises. From minor inconveniences to major catastrophes, I find myself looking toward the sky and demanding an immediate answer or an easy solution. Sometimes I just freeze for a minute as I wait for God to part the clouds and say, “Just kidding. This isn’t really happening.”

And as much as I wish that my situation weren’t real, my questions for God extend far beyond the walls of my own home this week. The list of people we love who have been hit by difficult circumstances and tough uncertainties is so long that our dinner is cold long before we finish saying our prayers.

Morning, noon, and night, I am in constant prayer, asking God to provide strength, comfort, and peace to my daughter, my family, and my endless list of loved ones searching for reasons of their own. As I pray, my phone beeps with constant emails, texts, and facebook messages - reminders of the many prayers flowing into my life as my prayers flow out to others. People offer to bring a meal or lend a hand in the same moment that I am sending that same offer to someone else.

As I sit in the middle of this outpouring of love, the questions begin to fade and I am surrounded by a rainbow of gratitude. Because without these challenges, without these questions, we might forget how to love this deeply, how to pray this desperately, how to reach out this easily. We might forget what it’s like to come to him on our knees and feel His embrace. We might forget to surrender to His hands and His plan. And we might miss the peace and the joy of knowing just how loved we truly are.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Melissa's place!

Lessons from a Broken Bone

I caught my oldest brother (who is both single and childless) eyeing my stomach from across the room, “What?” 

“So, pretty soon you’ll have two kids.” He said it as if no one had ever explained to him how this process works.

“Yeah… and?”

“Isn’t that gonna be a huge pain in the ass?”

Although he said it jokingly and I laughed out loud at the time, that really is one of my concerns. I don’t exactly voice it in those words, but I often think about how I will adjust to the added demands of a second child. Every day I have at least one moment where I wonder how this is all going to work. I have gone from being consistently punctual to chronically late; I have to sit and take a deep breath at least once a day; and I can barely function after 9:00pm. And I only have one kid!

Today I had one of those mornings. Everywhere I looked, another task begged for my attention and I couldn’t seem to make a dent in my mental to-do list. I bounced back and forth between my roles on the toddler entertainment committee and the cleaning crew, and I kept trying to picture a newborn in the mix. Maybe my brother had a point.

Just before lunch, Reese was playing on our bed while I separated laundry. I didn’t see her fall, but I heard the thud as her body hit the bedroom floor. I rushed to her side, trying to determine what was hurt. She pointed to her shoulder. I scooped her up and comforted her while I waited for the tears to stop. They didn’t.

I laid her on the bed and ask her to raise her arms. She only raised the right one. I asked if I could take her shirt off and she refused. From what I could see, nothing looked abnormal. There were no lumps, no swelling, and even though I felt like an overly paranoid parent, I decided to take her to Prompt Care anyway. I threw on a hat and a pair of flip flops, wrapped her in a blanket and carried her out the door in my pajamas.

On the way I called Matt at work and he wanted to meet us there. Great. Now we’re both overly paranoid. When we got there, the doctor wanted to do x-rays. Standard procedure. Or maybe he’s an overly paranoid doctor. I was surprisingly calm the whole time because I kept waiting to hear, “It’s nothing. Go home, put some ice on it, and wait for the bill for this unnecessary visit.”

That’s not quite what he said.

Fractured collarbone. Brace. Sling. Pain meds. Orthopedic referral.

We brought her home and took turns sitting with her on the couch while she watched re-runs of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and snacked on grapes and cheese crackers. The remainder of our afternoon and evening revolved around her. We ordered a pizza for dinner and Matt got displaced to the guest room so Reese and I could sleep in our bed.

As I sit here typing in bed with the computer on my lap and a sleeping toddler at my side, there is a wet load of laundry still in the washer, a dried piece of green Play-doh ground into my living room rug, and a puddle of spilled salsa drying on the bottom of my refrigerator. The messes that somehow seemed so dire 12 hours ago suddenly don’t matter at all. My mental to-do list now contains only one item, take care of Reese. Everything else has either been completely forgotten or termed unnecessary.

I would have guessed that a situation like this might worsen my concerns about having another child. Instead, it eased them - totally. Reese has never had an injury or an illness worse than a cold, and I had forgotten the ease with which this mode of motherhood takes over – the mode that gives us added strength and patience, that blinds us to the rest of life’s demands, that lowers our standards for the condition of our homes and the frequency of our showers, that carries us from moment to moment without a single priority beyond loving and nurturing the children who need us.

That's how a newborn enters the mix. That's how we accept the responsibility of dressing an extra body and feeding an extra mouth. That's how we deal with a child who has the flu or a fractured collarbone. To people who aren't ready for children, I suppose it would seem like a huge pain in the ass. But to the women who already have them, it's life. It's motherhood. And we wouldn't have it any other way. 

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!

Keep the Fire Burning

I poured my Saturday morning coffee and settled into the recliner. Reese was still asleep and Matt had already left to work on the farm. I stared out the window, watching the sun rise over the treetops. In the corner of our yard, two empty lawn chairs faced the stone fire ring. Tiny strands of smoke rose intermittently from the center of the circle, the final remnants of the previous night.

Just ten hours earlier, Matt went outside to light a fire while I put Reese to bed. I waited for the sound of rustling bed sheets to fade away before joining my husband beneath the stars for a much-needed night of reconnection. Pulling our chairs in close, we took turns tossing in empty pizza boxes and pieces of shredded mail. The warmth enveloped us, creating a shield against the chill of the night. The heat pressed into our cheeks, forcing us to inch our chairs backward as we fed the flames. 

Alone in the dark, we reunited with the couple we were seven years ago, before full-time jobs, children, and mortgage payments began chipping away at our time, energy, and patience for each other. With no clock to remind us of the hour, we rekindled past memories, laughing as if we didn't already know the end of each story. We talked late into the night, ignoring our bodies’ pleas for sleep as we fed the flames of our marriage with laughter and simple presence.

Knowing the morning would come all too soon, we finally made our way back to the house. Behind us, the fire began its slow death. We didn’t even bother to fully extinguish the remaining flames. The lack of attention would be enough to seal its fate. Crawling into bed, we snuggled a little closer, held each other a little tighter, kissed a little longer…

Sitting in the recliner just a few hours later, I wondered how I would possibly muster the energy for a full day of toddler mayhem. Regret began crowding my thoughts as I silently scolded myself, you should have gone to bed earlier…

My inner voice suddenly quieted as I watched the fire take its final breaths, completing its descent from a beautiful burning blaze into a lifeless pile of ashes.