The one where I run a victory lap

Mama, I'm sorry for yelling at you. Please forgive me?

Came the sweet whisper from my daughter, quiet and repentant, as her arms wrapped around my middle searching for grace.

I exhale silent thanks, hugging her back. Restoring the relationship she feared broken.

Honestly, the defiant talk, the yelling, the arguing between my girls comes so frequently some days that I ignore it sometimes---head-in-the-sand, because you never can tell, there might be dandelions and baby smiles in the sand.

But.

Conviction pierced my girl's tiny heart, and she sought forgiveness completely unprompted--this was huge, HUGE, I tell you!

In my head I'm all:

For the love, FINALLY! all the shepherding, teaching, redirecting, disciplining, torturous I-just-don't-know-what-to-do, tear-shedding moments have paid off---it's actually sinking in. Sweet, Jesus, thank you!  

And then, I can actually hear the Chariots of Fire theme song.

Duun dun dun dun duun duuuun. Dun dun dun dundun.....

They say pride goes before the fall.

Yeah.

I was that kid in yellow with a mouthful of grass and dirt. As the same repentant daughter slunk away as her sister, with disheveled hair and a tear-streaked face, accused,

Mama! She tired to bite off my ponytail. 

Whatever, you guys! Victory laps are totally overrated.

The one where Baby Jesus was denied a ride on the bus

So. We sold our house.

Remember when I was complaining about the 8:30 A.M. showing? Yeah. I still don't think early morning showings are okay, but these early morning visitors bought our house, so I sort of still like them.

So. Hooray. We're moving on December 23rd. I'll be 38.5 weeks pregnant, or I'll have an infant. Either way. Crazy.

With a few minor things up in the air, our Christmas decor is simple. No tree, no stockings hung by the chimney with care. Our Christmas decor comes down to this:

 

The Little People Nativity Set. 

If you're not familiar with The Little People---they're toys, and the "Little People" are interchangeable with other Little People toys.

For instance, this morning I found the "angel" rockin a sweet mustache, necktie and holding an apple: 

Later, I found the real angel driving some kids, a wise man and his camel to school:

It was this motley crew that caused a bit of a ruckus this morning. Brynne thought Baby Jesus should get on the bus, and Hadley vehemently denied him entry. Maybe she was confused, because Baby Jesus has blonde hair and pale skin. I don't know.

As plastic people and animals flew everywhere, I tried, amidst shrieks of protest, to make it a teachable moment,

You know girls, this isn't the first time Baby Jesus was denied entry. His mama and papa weren't allowed a space in a house or hotel, which is why he was born in a barn. Can you believe that someone wouldn't let Jesus come inside their house?!

Admittedly, timing has never been my strong suit. 

Hadley would have none of it, despite my brilliant impromptu recap of the Christmas story, I mean, everyone knows Jesus doesn't have blonde hair, right?  This Baby Jesus was NOT getting on her bus.

Brynne cried. And I did what any mother of toddlers would do (after taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes)---distract and redirect.

A little bit later, a camel drove by. I noticed little Baby Jesus, cradle and all, had managed to get himself a ride, like a second-class citizen, with a bus full of sheep, donkeys and a cow.

Maybe Hadley knew that Baby Jesus would be more comfortable surrounded by animals. Or maybe she conceded to let her sister give him a ride, despite his historically inaccurate blonde hair.

Welcome to the Christmas season, friends.

Life Is Difficult

Life is difficult. Dr. M. Scott Peck writes in his book, The Road Less Traveled. Some of you might say, duh, but I definitely need the reminder, so I appreciate Dr. Peck for putting it out there.

It was a year ago today that I went into preterm labor. My only responsibility in the whole world, from that day until the day the girls were born, two months later, was to sit on my rump and gestate. Sound easy? It wasn't. Up until the middle of November I had been doing boot camp workouts. Me and my belly did sprints, jumping jacks, burpees, squats--you  name it. I was active, I enjoyed being active. Then, suddenly, I wasn't. Life is difficult.

My life has changed so monumentally since that day a year ago.

Sunday, I reached the end of my rope, wits--you name it, I was at the end of it. I needed a break. For whatever reason, that day, the constantness of motherhood engulfed me, and I couldn't seem to figure out how to surface to catch my breath. The ever-present need the girls have for me when they are awake, and the infinite list of chores that need to be accomplished when the girls are not awake. I was tired, physically, spiritually, emotionally--just drained. I was completely cognizant of the selfish, joyless hole I was sitting in, but I couldn't seem to figure out how to climb out of it. Life is difficult.

A Starbucks coffee and an hour trip to the grocery store by myself later, I was in a much happier place.

Today, I look around our home and see spider webs glistening in the sun shining through our dingy windows. I see a collection of dust on most all of our furniture. The battle to keep dog hair off the floor is a daunting, win-less war. There is laundry to be done, dishes to be washed, babyfood to be made, and it took a blow out diaper this morning to remind me that we are all out of wipes--guess I need to get to the store today too. All those feelings from Sunday suddenly threaten to rear their ugly head again, or maybe they never really left--simmering below the surface, waiting for an overwhelming moment to pounce. Life is difficult.

I know I am not the only mama to ever feel this way. And, really, truly, most of the time I'm okay with the craziness of my life. I laugh at it, I celebrate it. Today, my daughter was rolling all over the place smearing poop all over herself and the changing table as I scrambled around looking for the wipes that we did not have. Soon, her sister began scooting over to play in her sister's poop, because it just looked like so much fun. I laughed, the complete insanity of it all was hilarious to me. And it makes me ever so grateful for the handiness of wipes when I remember to buy them, and refill the dispenser.

Dr. Peck goes on to write, Once we truly know that life is difficult--once we truly understand and accept it--then life is no longer difficult. Because, once it is accepted, the fact that life is difficult no longer matters.

 

That resonated with me today. My life is what it is, and most days, I don't realize the difficultness of it. That very pregnant girl sitting on the couch a year ago would have been completely overwhelmed jumping into this life, and she might have thought it impossible to manage. But, here I am, dancing through each day doing the best I can, seeking to see the levity of most situations (at least those that involve poop), and praying that God will give me the patience, grace, energy and strength to care for the girls, myself, my husband and my home. Some days are better than others, because, let's face it, Life is difficult.

The Artist

My daughter, Brynne, is an artist.

Her canvas--our second crib, currently being used as a changing table.

Her medium--teeth.

I have to laugh--she comes by it honestly.

When I was ready to transition from my crib to a bed, my papa made my bed, crafted it out of beautiful cherry wood. I still have it, ironically, it sits in the same room as the masterpiece Brynne has created.

 As a toddler, I made my papa's labor of love into my own work of art.

I'm pretty sure I was punished for that. I would have punished me for that.

My mama had us take naps every day. She would tell us where the hands on the clock needed to be before we were allowed to leave our rooms. After my imagination wore out, and sleep wouldn't come, I got into all kinds of mischief--not on purpose, mind you. I would absently pick at a seam in the wallpaper by my bed, or pull fur out of a stuffed animal, or--I would etch teeth marks in the headboard of my bed. All while watching for the hands of my Disney clock to point to the right numbers, so that I could be released from my nap.

The wallpaper was patched, the stuffed animal has long since been thrown away, but I still have the bed. Beyond the amusing story, I see the teeth marks as an engraved memory. That bed stands in the girls' changing room quietly holding on to that memory for me. As I look down at permanent indents that Brynne's chompers have done to the crib, I glance up and smile at the work my teeth did on my own childhood bed so many years ago.

The cribs we purchased convert into beds, so Brynne will have her artwork to take with her someday. Maybe she, too, will have children who enjoy gnawing on wood, and she will have her own engraved memory to remind her to laugh.