Raising Magnolias

The Night The Lights Came On

My husband of almost 15 years is a world traveler. He literally has friends all over this great world. He said to me once, “Of all the cultures I’ve experienced, none is more different (from Nebraska) than The South.”

On the surface Midwesterners and Southerners have much in common.

There is Faith.

Family.

And friends.

But sometimes I underestimate just how different our cultures can be and sometimes I feel trapped in both.

And in neither.

Earlier this fall I had a conflict with a colleague who was critical of how I had taught her class.

Earlier this week the police showed up at my house and I listened to another colleague completely un-dress me over the phone. I cried all day. As in, I could not stop crying.

Over dogs.

And I can get a little worked up.

And I’m smart enough to realize that the common component is me.

A few weeks ago at my yearly physical, my OB, whom I love and adore was asking about my upcoming wedding.

OH!! I may have forgotten to mention that.

I’m getting married!

Anyway, she was wishing me well and I mentioned that I was still struggling with how hard life as a divorced mom can be.

Even with the happiness.

And she said something to me that has changed everything.

Or rather is changing, has the potential to change.

She said.

“Your life was in crisis for so long that your body’s automatic response to criticism, challenges, etc is that of crisis.

I didn’t teach the class well. She completely hates me. She’ll tell everyone else that I”m a horrible teacher because “not being good enough” is all I’ve known. Of course this is a crisis!

Except, ya know, it’s not. It’s a class. One class.

So this week.

I woke up to lights. No-one can seem to understand that I didn’t hear the dogs.

I didn’t hear my phone.

I didn’t hear the doorbell.

I’m pretty sure Matthew Mc Conaughey had shown up at my house and I was serving tea.

It was 3:30 in the morning!! I was asleep!

So finally it was the lights. The swirling blue and red. You only see those lights when something bad has happened.

I tried hard to gather my thoughts. The doorbell was ringing.

I have this great shirt that I love but never wear in public.

It’s from a run sponsored by Lucky Beer and it says, “Drink Beer. Get Lucky.”

And it’s tight and all I can think about as this officer is lecturing me (kindly) on being a good neighbor and shining the flashlight in my face was “Oh my gosh. Hello tiny little breast in the spotlight.”

And now I’m scared to go to sleep. I’m scared that I won’t hear the doorbell. I’m scared that I need to wear appropriate clothes and bras and—

Well, I won’t got that far. I don’t wear bras very much even during the day.

I was embarrassed. I was wrong. I was very much the bad neighbor.

I later found out that before the cops came, the live-in boyfriend came.

Beating on my door in the middle of the night is not the best way to get my dogs to be quiet.

I live alone with two children. Really think I’m going to answer the door to a stranger in the middle of the night?

Idiot!

Wait. I’m trying to apologize.

See? A crisis. My dogs woke you up. I’m sorry. I’m like really, really sorry but it’s not a crisis.

And to be honest, the fact that some people just don’t like me is also.

Not a crisis.

This morning I asked my client if he wanted to run outside.

“Is it warm enough?” I asked.

“Yes! It’s warm enough. I saw Amy running. ”

“Well, Amy is a life-long Midwesterner. She’s hard-core. I’m just a delicate Southern—-

And I paused looking for the right words and the lady at the front desk interrupted and said,

“WIMP!!”

Well, I was going with Belle or Princes but yes.

Maybe so.

But that’s what reminded me of my husband’s words so many years ago.

Southerners are just different.

Not better. Different.

We “flower-up” our talk and we have a more beautiful way of saying things. 🙂

A midwesterner might say, “Wow. She is such a bitch.” (Sorry, I know that not any of my midwestern friends would say that).

A southerner would put it differently. “Oh, bless her heart. She is really just not a people person. I think she  just needs more of Jesus.”

And if your dogs were annoying the CRAP out of you? She wouldn’t call the police. She wouldn’t send her live-in boyfriend to bang on your door. (We don’t live with our boyfriends down south.) 🙂

No. A southerner would bake bread.

From scratch.

She would take it to your house .

And she would say.

“Bless your heart. Oh my goodness, I am so sorry to have to mention this, but your dogs, bless their hearts, precious as new-born babies, well they are just a tad bit loud and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I would just, oh bless your heart, I would just really appreciate if you could kindly get them to shut the HALE up.”

Then. If they didn’t. There would be less police and more shotguns.

I was wrong. I was a bad neighbor. I love my Midwestern friends and family and I love my little Midwestern town.

Sometimes, though, I have to remember that everything is not a crisis, not everybody has to like me and yes, when you hurt my feelings or when it’s too cold outside, I’m a southern little—

WIMP.

And now, I’ve got some apologies to attend to and some bread to bake. It’s just what we southerners do.

So. Much. More.

Ok. So, I’m a little bit done this week.

And it’s only Tuesday.

And orange is not my color.

But here’s what we need to know. Or, at least here’s what I know and what I need for you to know.

Ya know, in my humble opinion.

Football?

Cross Country?

Soccer?

Volleyball?

Yes. They’re more than “just a game.”

It usually happens when we’re on the losing team.

After all, it’s only a game.

Ya know, because we lost and we don’t want to make it more than that.

Or I also love (don’t really love), “Well. They are only 9.”

They’re only 5.

Oh well, dang. Now they’re “only” 17 and have no clue how to win or lose or accept graciously or accept humbly or how to work with a team or how to self-discipline and shoot.

When is the right time to start?

In my kindermusik classes, we all get to be winners.

But at some point, right? At some point we have to teach other skills?

Other lessons?

Raising our children up “in the way that they should go so that when they’re old they will not depart from it, ” that starts now, right?

What am I missing?

A few months ago a blog post circulated about the most important words our children need to hear in regards to sports.

I love watching you play.

Oh my gosh, how I love watching my kids play.

And I’m loud about it.

Loud joy.

Right now it’s football.

I love it when he tackles. I love it when he runs. I love it when he hits the shoulder pads of his teammates congratulating them on their play. I love it even more when he gets tackled and he gets.

Back.

Up.

I love the whole. dang. thing.

Raising our children?

It’s so much more than a game.

I get that parents can take it too seriously and push too hard and I understand the sentiment but, y’all—

XBOX is just a game.

Fake little football people running across the screen is just a game.

Candyland.

Is just.

A game.

But my son? Our children? Learning respect? Learning teamwork and cooperation? Learning humility and sportsmanship? Learning how to win well and how to lose even better? Learning that you have to show up and stand up and get.

Back.

Up.

That, y’all. Is not a game. That is life.

I didn’t encourage Coulter play youth football because I’m training him for a life of professional football.

He weighs 65 lbs soaking wet.

I encouraged youth football for his life, right now.

I encouraged youth football as a tool for learning and as an opportunity for some pretty cool guys to build into my son.

I asked Coulter last week if he thought his coaches yell too much.

He looked at me as if that were quite literally the dumbest question ever.

Uhm, no.

Ok, well does Coach Dan yell?

Uhm, no.

OK, well does Coach Mike yell? (Mike is his future step-dad, fyi)

Uhm, no.

Well-wait.

When Coach Mike gets mad, he usually just throws his clipboard down. But then, well, he can’t bend down to pick it up and so he has to kind of lean down (Coulter gives me a play-by-play)visual and by now we are both hysterical, laughing.

Yes, I can see my strong, little, non-flexible man throwing a clipboard for effect and then being humbled as he tries to figure out how to pick it back up.

You see, here’s what I’m thinking.

We’re lying to our children.

Everyone gets a trophy.

Everyone’s a winner.

You’re only nine and it’s just a game.

But what if we set a higher standard?

You are nine years old!

Not only nine.

But all.

Of.

Nine.

What’s that phenomenon called when we set the bar high and they rise to reach it?

Yes. That!

What happened to the bar?

It’s like we’re all in that game where you dance under the bar (limbo?) and they keep lowering the bar and lowering the bar and why don’t we stop—

Lowering the bar.

Raise it up.

This sport? This activity? Artists and gymnast and pianist and athletes? What is it they love?

Love to watch them play. Yes-And.

Quit telling them it’s only a game.

Play is a child’s work.

Watch a child in the sandbox. Watch how hard they work. Watch them on the monkey bars. That is hard stuff!

Telling them it’s only a game doesn’t make them feel better.

It diminishes who they are and what they are and how they spend their time.

Y’all.

This is their life! Let’s build them up and raise them up and cheer as they throw that football up.

Or over.

Or whatever it is that they do with it.

Football. I didn’t write a $150 check for six weeks for  “just a game”.

Basketball. I didn’t write a $90 check for six weeks for “just a game”.

I wrote those checks as an investment in my child’s life.

And investment that says, “I’m proud of you and I believe in you and if this is important to you, than it’s important to me.”

Last week he came out of a big ‘ol pile of boys with the ball. He held it high in victory. He showed it to the crowd. I started screaming, spilling my tea on everyone around me. “He has the ball!! Coulter has the ball!!”

I don’t know how he got it and the play got called back but do you think for a second I thought about cheering,

“DON’T WORRY!! IT’S JUST A GAME!”

No! I yelled. Look at that kid.

That kid? That #32! Look at him! He has the ball.

When he’s all grown up, what will his “play” look like? Who knows?

I don’t care what he chooses (or what the Lord chooses for him). All I care is that I raise a son who fights hard to get out of a tackle still holding the ball.

And when he does, I’ll still be cheering.

Loud Joy.

Money, Sex and Lying about Jesus (Today’s sermon notes)

Sometimes I doodle.
Sometimes I write grocery lists.
Sometimes I create cool graphs or my favorite, bubble letters.

And sometimes I actually write sermon notes.

I’m always listening, by the way. Pencils help me concentrate.

And currently I’m using up a box of about 200 Myra Katherine Hale, Miss Nebraska 1995 pencils. I have no idea why I still have them, but they are just perfectly sharp.

Today, though, no MKH or Mrs. Myra Katherine McConauhey or dog food, bread and milk.

Today the pastor started his sermon with this. (And I’m kind of paraphrasing the parts I don’t remember.)

Marriages struggle (break-up, etc.) for 3 reasons.

Money.

Sex.

And in-laws.

Yup.

Money.

When you have it, when you don’t, when it’s his and never yours.

Sex.

When you have it, when you don’t, when you have it with other people. Just, ya know, hypothetically speaking.

And in-laws.

I’ve never written specifically about the break-up of my marriage, but let me go on record as saying it wasn’t the in-laws.

Our pastor preached from Peter and gave what was, without question, the best sermon on marriage I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing.

Where was he 10 years ago?

Hearing this message would not have, could not have saved my marriage.

But it would’ve saved many years of being completely confused.

And utterly sad.

The problem with blogging about a sermon is that I’m gonna share about 2 minutes of a 30+ minute sermon (the man can do some preaching’), so I worry that I’ll bungle his message, but here is what I learned.

The man is the head of the household.This is not a command, rather a statement of fact. Something about the difference between and indicative and an imperative.

My buddy Luke leaned over to tell me that he’s learning this in 5th grade.

It’s not a matter of if you want your husband to be the head or not, it only matters that he is.

So if he sucks at it, that’s really gonna suck for you.

And your children.

And my pastor did not use the word suck. Just, ya know, fyi.

I also learned that God created marriage to be an image, an example, a (oh, dang—what is the word I’m looking for), oh! a model for how we see Jesus and the church.

I knew that. Sorta. Ya know, the whole we-are-the-bride-thing.

Here’s what else our pastor said.

Men.

If you do not lead your family.

If you do not love your wife the way that Jesus loves the church.

If you do not honor your wife and live with her in an “understanding way.”

Then you are lying to your family about Jesus.

And the church.

Liars.

And I can’t help but make the leap.

And I’m picking on fathers but I can’t help but make the leap.

If your children come to you and you turn them away.

You are lying about Jesus and the church.

Jesus said to the little children, come unto me.

If your children come to you and you guilt them and you make them responsible for your happiness and you tell them they can’t feel and they can’t be honest and you create an environment of fear and distrust and you are their earthly father so yes, I have to go there———

You are lying to your children.

About Jesus.

And His bride.

OK.

So I was driving home from church.

Alone.

And having your children gone never—ever—never gets easier.

If anything, it only gets suckier.

Anyway.

Driving home from church and I was trying to remember where I ever got the courage to leave.

It’s all starting to fade and I’m trying to remember that brave girl, scared out of her mind who was tired of a husband who was lying to his wife.

And her children.

And it was the best sermon on marriage that I’ve ever heard.

My life is measured in halves and splitting and calendars and his and mine and my children are bounced back and forth like some ridiculous bouncy ball that you get at the pizza parlor and marriage is a disaster in this culture because men don’t want to be men and they don’t want to lead and they want their Kate and Edith (or Ed) too and yes, OK, for the 5 or 6 men who read my blog, here is it is.

Step the hell up, quit lying about Jesus and lead your families.

Urgh!

Ok, that is all!

Yes.

The best sermon I’ve ever heard on marriage.

I’ll have to ask Luke. Is that considered an opinion or an indicative.

I’m emotional.

And maybe strung a little tight.

And slightly sensitive.

And I tend to re-act.

Or, ya know, over-react.

And Taylor Swift has a new song.

Shake it off.

But I care that they haters gonna hate.

And I stink at shaking.

And then there’s Elsa.

Let it go.

And we sing it.

All day long.

With hairbrush-microphones and super-sweet dance moves.

And there’s an Elsa costume for $139 that Emma Claire simply must have.

One hundred and thirty-nine dollars.

For a costume.

Anyway.

Somedays this job of being a grown-up really stinks because maybe we never really grow up.

And I think about my favorite quote, from Maya Angelou.

When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.

And I wish that were easier.

I wish husbands (and wives for that matter) that said, “I do”, really did.

I wish friends that you trusted were actually trusted friends.

I wish and I wish and wishing does no good.

So I pray.

Come, Lord Jesus.

My feelings were hurt this week.

And I was embarrassed.

So.

I did what any sane, rational, 41 year-old woman would do.

I un-friended friends on Facebook.

I know.

Did I mention the overreacting tendency?

But here’s what I’m learning.

The hard and super slow way.

And I’ve read it a hundred times.

Proverbs 18:24

“A man of many friends comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”

I love my sticky friends.

Coulter calls them “framily.”

There’s another translation that says, “A man that has unreliable friends comes to ruin.”

Ruin.

And I’m working so hard to be still.

To be quiet.

And know that He is God.

For almost 15 years, I let the hard stuff go.

And each morning, I would shake it off.

Day after day.

Slowly I found my voice and I made a choice.

This.

For my children. For myself.

I will not.

Just.

Let it go.

And so I speak up. Like, ya know, all the time.

And I’m loud.

And sometimes I do stupid things like un-friend my friends on Facebook but I won’t go back and I won’t slip back and so, no.

If it hurts my children; if it hurts my family; if it hurts me—I probably won’t just let it go.

I’m a wear-my-feelings-like-a-diamond around my neck and I humbly let them show.

Broken trust isn’t easily shaken off.

No matter how hard I swing my hips.

And who am I kidding. This white girl’s hips don’t swing.

Is ‘let it go’ really the lesson?

Children living in poverty?

Let it go.

Kids being bulled?

Racism? Abuse?

Whatever.

Shake it off.

No. That can’t be the lesson.

My children see my heart. They know what makes me cry and what makes me mad and what makes me laugh out loud and they know my heart.

And when they see the wrong and see the hurt and when they hear of wars and bombs and our brothers and sisters in Christ tormented and killed for their beliefs, well.

I want them to feel it.

To lean into it.

And ultimately.

Bind the Word around their hearts and never.

Ever.

Let it go.

Do you remember back when your babies were, well, babies?

When they would take their whole hand; their whole fist and wrap it oh-so tight around your finger?

Babies do that. Hold tight.

Mommas do that too. 

I don’t remember how or when or why but eventually; gradually, they start to let go.

And I was the one reaching.

And wanting to hold.

But it doesn’t matter. This is the real New Year’s.

And off they go.

 

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************

It took us about 20 minutes to get home.

Biking with a 5 year-old-dreamer takes a special kind of patience.

She waves. She smiles. She thinks the cracked sidewalks on the east side of Fremont is the Miss America runway. 

And why not?

We started with 5, but ended with 3 after the boys declared their “independancy” and took an alternate route home.

I tell Emma Claire it’s a race.

And we won, which was weird. We shouldn’t have won.

No bikes. No boys.

I drive back to the school. Make the block. Weave in and out of the neighborhood.

Slighly annoyed. Slightly amused. Slightly confused.

I called a friend.

Then another. 

I drove to Coulter’s dad’s house. Dark. 

I drove to the other little guys’s house. Dark. 

And I thought back to a conversation just that morning about Coulter riding his bike to school.

Friend: “Does that make you nervous?”

Me: (And I’m summarizing.) No.

But now?

Now I can’t find him.

I can’t find them.

I see Jodi. My friend who got the call and whose son did not come home. And I’m now hysterical.

She leaves her mower. Hops in her car and 35 minutes after the start of school I have 3 friends helping me look.

I reach down to call their dad and my phone dies.

Of course it does.

I drive home to get a charger and there, mom after mom after mom, we all assemble and Coulter walks out the front door with chip crumbs on his shirt looking super-confused.

“Sorry mom. We stopped at Dad’s house. Then I offered Morgan a popsicle. Then we stopped at Ms. Jill’s house ’cause we were tired.

And all I could think about, as I tried to slow my breathing, was his use of the word “offered”.  What nine year old says “offered?”

Later that night, I wept again.

Why do some sons come home?

And others, Home?

The next morning, Coulter hopped on his bike. And once again asked for his “independancy” (and I can’t bring myself to correct his grammar because he is DANG cute when he says it.)

My babies.

How they used to hold tight.

The backwards blessings of this broken world and I knowing that it doesn’t really matter how tight I hold on, they will go.

They will soar.

They will jump.

The will let go.

 

But, as long as the Lord wills it, they come home. And these hugs are even better than the tight-finger hugs.

“I will both lie down in peace and sleep; for You alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” Psalm 4:8

Do I worry?

Yes.

Will it help?

“Who, by worrying can add a single hour to your life”. Luke 12:25

No.

My Memorial-Labor Day

9 years ago on Memorial Day, I sat with my husband and mid-wife and a variety of nurses and I labored.

It actually started several hours the day before.

And I guess I wasn’t really sitting.

And I labored some more.

And I went through at least 3 nursing shifts. So many in fact, that 3 1/2 years later, when I started laboring with Emma Claire, my nurse said to me, “Cool. You’re using a mid-wife. I never delivered with a midwife.”

I took her by the arm and looked her in the eyes and I said.

“Well, you’re gonna. Because I had like 5 nurses with Coulter and I don’t care what it takes, but Emma Claire is gonna be a one-shift baby.”

One shift.

One nurse.

Anyway.

I won’t bore you with the details because if you have babies, you know that it hurts and if you haven’t had babies yet, I don’t want to scare you, (but you should kinda be scared. Ya know, just a little), but it was long and I was scared of the epidural so it was drug-free and I don’t have too many nice things to say lately and there are seasons when all we can see if gray even when there’s a rainbow right in front of us, and this morning I needed a rainbow so  I sent a text to Coulter’s dad.

Thank you.

Thank you for laboring with me on this day, nine years ago.

Then I went for a walk and saw a dog-walker whose ex-husband is in jail.

Hard to pay child support from jail.

As God’s children we are called to give thinks in all circumstances.

Somedays that means being thankful that your ex-husband didn’t pass out during labor.

Somedays that means recognizing that your ex-husband always, always, always pays his child support.

Somedays that means recognizing that your ex-husband isn’t in jail, even though the kids would probably get to spend more time at home with me if he was.

Ya know, just sayin’.

OK, so the Y was closed this morning. I sent texts out wondering if the weather would hold for outdoor workouts. My dad was struck by lightening as a child and people will tell me all the time that you can’t survive that, but my dad’s 69 so, actually you can survive that, but even still, I don’t mess around with lightening.

I got a text back.

“The sun is trying to shine over the Catholic Church.”

Trying to shine.

That’s what I’m doing. Trying to shine and trying to see and searching for the rainbow..

The kids will be back on Wednesday.

I have 4 nights left before his “exclusive” time in the summer.

4 nights.

It’s possible that if I quit pouting long enough, I would be able to plan a pretty cool stay-cation.

This calls for pinterest.

And a tent.

Yes, I need pinterest and a tent.

And somebody who knows how to pitch a tent.

And your ideas if you have any!

I need jars.

And lightening bugs.

And if y’all could please pray that I can stay up long enough for the lightening bugs to appear.

And I need sun and warmth and water and balls and we are going to have birthday parties and we are going to see friends and I’m giving thanks.

Ann Voskamp says that thanksgiving precedes the miracle.

So I’m giving thanks for my ex-husband. For the gift of our children. For his job and his ability to pay child-support. For the wonderful vacations that they  get to go on (because now that we’re not married, there is all of a sudden a lot of money for travel and vacations and dang it, that didn’t sound very thankful. I told you the sun was trying to shine, I didn’t say it was shining brightly,) and yes, I am thankful for a weekend to rest and rejuvenate and re—

Oh, who am I kidding.

I didn’t sleep at all. My house is eerily quiet and I actually built a pillow barrier so that I could only sleep on 1/8 of my bed, since Emma Claire usually sprawls out over the rest of it and occasionally, I tuned Netflix to some very obnoxious kid shows just so I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own house.

If I could just train the dogs to complain about every piece of food I put in front of them, then I might actually be able to relax.

But what mom can relax when her babies are gone?

God did not create us for that.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

Thankful.

I need the miracle.

And this summer maybe the miracle is being able to see the rainbow.

And that the sun is really trying to shine.

Mother Math

Did you know that 9 is half of 18?

Half.

What the HALE?

We were on our way to the orthodontist.

Chatter, chatter, chatter and then I hear.

“Emma Claire! I’m almost nine years old!!”

Nine?

Nine!

Holy HALE!

I needed a bag. The kind they give you on airplanes.

The kind I now carry in my car since I’ve now lost 3 car seats to the back winding roads of Southwest Arkansas.

Who am I kidding?

I don’t even carry paper towels in my car.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“9,” I stammer.

“Half.”

I feel sick.

No. I am sick.

We arrived at the Orthodontist.

There were pictures of crooked teeth and crowded teeth and cross-bites and under-bites and it’s seriously amazing that the kid can eat anything at all and the Dr. lays out a plan.

The plan for now is to prepare for braces.

My mother taught me it isn’t polite to talk about money, and I’m holding camp later this month on manners and I will teach them that it isn’t polite to talk about money, but today I don’t feel like being polite. Today I’m just gonna tell you that to “prepare” for my son’s braces is going to cost more than 10% of my yearly salary.

10%.

To prepare.

So.

I reached out to Coulter’s dad.

“Do you think we should get a second opinion?”

No response.

Again, I reach out.

Brief response telling me, in short, that braces are expensive.

Uhm, yes, this I knew.

So I reached out for my own second opinion.

And then I went to see my attorney. Not about braces but because I don’t like being ignored.

Their dad owed me a small amount of money.

A very very small amount.

Just sitting in the waiting room at the attorney’s office cost more than what was owed to me.

But do you know what isn’t small?

Being heard!

I have lived through and walked through and  marched around and fallen down and people will ask me how I did this and how I did that and it’s a little like the pain of childbirth in that you sorta forget and I do want to forget.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Last night the littles left with their Dad for a weekend vacation.

I wept uncontrollably.

Their dad has custody for the summer.

The.

Whole.

Flippin’.

Summer.

And I’m super-hot mad.

Nebraska.

No-fault state.

Right. Because divorce just happens? It’s no-one’s fault?

No-fault  my a@#

Wait. What? I don’t swear.

I turned on the shower. For some reason a good cry is better in the shower. Plus these houses are really close together and I figured the water would drown out the sound of me crying. And my neighbors lock the dogs in my garage when they bark too much, so I’m a little worried about what they might do to me.

I couldn’t catch my breath.

Mike called and when I couldn’t talk, he said.

Hang tight.

And then he was here.

My man who doesn’t ignore.

How did I “do that”? How do I “do this?”

Somedays not very well at all.

But I always I re-visit what my  way-too-young-to-be-a-widow-friend says about 40.

It is not old.

Life too short. And life too long.

And when I forget and I when I panic and when I lose my breath, Lord just remind me.

9 is half of 18, so celebrate the 9!

Friday, this momma who swore her children would never play with toy guns will create a nerf-gun battlefield in the backyard, strap on some am0 (is that how you spell that? Y’all know I’m talking about about the little nerf pellets, right?) and yes, we are gonna celebrate NINE.

Forgetting the past, forgetting at last.

Just this.

Gratitude.

For time today .

To love my littles.

And at 9 and 5, they are still little.

(Coulter was born on Memorial Day, 2005. When I look at this picture, I see a competitive  little man who works hard, plays hard and whose mouth is gonna be worth more than my car! ) 🙂 Thank you, Jesus for the gift of this child.