Only One

I looked into the pool and realized that she is the only one. She is my only child left who requires swim lessons. The others have maxed out their lesson time. They're too old now. So, it's just her. The only one.

How have I arrived at the place where I only have one child left who will hold my hand as we cross the parking lot? Even at 7, she won't always willingly slip her hand into mine. There are times when I beg, and even plead, for her to grasp my out-stretched hand. Most of the time she gives in. She lets me soak in the last remaining chances to cling to her childhood.

They were once all small. Each needing hand holding simultaneously. It seemed that everywhere I walked, I shuttled them with me like ducklings. I longed for the day where everyone could buckle their own seat belt. The grass felt like it would be greener in that place.

But now, I look into the pool and find myself watching my last child learn how to float on her back. I've arrived in that greener place. Everyone can buckle their seat belt. They can feed and bathe themselves too. I like this place, this season. But, when I look around me, it's still just, green. Not greenER. Just green.

Maybe each stage we reach is only that. Nice, lush and green. With its own new places to sit back and enjoy the sun. Surrounded by patches that are downright irritating and make you long for future greener places.

So, for this moment, I look into the pool and I soak up all the joy that this sunny spot holds. This nice place where everyone can read their own book in silence. Because I also know that within this nice, green space, are thorny sections that make me want to run away. Those spots where teenagers argue and sisters fight and parenting skills are stretched to the limit.

I am continually reminded to find joy in this journey. In this moment. In this stage. Not someone else's journey. Just mine. The one where my last child is the only one learning to swim.

There is no other place greener than where I now stand. Forever here.

They Want An Answer

This week, I have been asked two questions that I simply have no answer for. I have no knowledge to glean from and no experts to call. Therefore, I am phoning a friend and asking the audience to vote. If you have an answer, I have two children who are in need of it.

Question #1: "Mom, why are teenagers so mean?"
(Honestly, if you can answer this, you should write a book and make millions.)

Question #2: "Mom, how do you know when you've grown out of your bra?"
My response: "You're going to have to ask someone who has actually experienced that."

Pick a question and give us your wise knowledge. If you can answer both, you win a week with the child who asked Question #1. Choose carefully.

3

We arrived in our adopted state three years ago, today. As we drove into this city, all I could think was, "what have we done?"

We were a little different then. Hesitant about new beginnings. My girls were smaller, younger, their cheeks a little chubbier. But yet, we were together. That became the one thing I held to. Together. No matter the state we lived in, or the changes we faced. Together.

Fast forward three years. I have yet to use the word 'ya'll' without concentrated effort. I have yet to adapt to the humidity, the ridiculous traffic or the ants that bite.

But, I have grown to love so many things. This place has wiggled its way within me. I love when the woman at the grocery checkout tells me to, "have a blessed day". I love to watch the low hanging clouds move across the sky. I love the moral compass and Christian love that fills the people of the south. I could go on and on.

When we arrived here, I didn't have any formal plan. I only had this immense drive to plant us here with a permanent footprint. After that, I simply didn't know what to expect. This new life has offered more change than I expected. But, it has also given me more joy and growth than I ever thought possible. For that, I offer thee, dear Texas, my eternal thanks.

My True Self Is Lazy

There are times when I take a step back and look at myself. At these moments, I realize that I'm either a really lazy person, or a genius. I'm a glass half empty thinker, so I always tend to side with lazy.

Todd has an issue with the dishwasher. He finds it beyond unreasonable to turn it on when it's not optimally full (read: so stuffed, the dishes don't get clean). He has even lectured the babysitter for turning it on when it could have fit at least 2 more Tinkerbell sized cups.

The other day, the bottom rack held only 5 haphazardly placed items. The top was almost empty. And guess what? I turned it on. I knew that dinner was coming up and I would have to resort to washing those big bowls by hand. Lazy or genius? Maybe both.
There are many things about Texas that I've grown accustomed to. Cockroaches are not one of them. This one was sitting on my bedroom floor when I woke up. The glass is deceiving. It's huge. And it flies!
This glass became it's home until Todd arrived 10 hours later. Lazy or genius? How about lazy and gross. I don't do gross. For reals. But, I do lazy really well.

Summer List #18

This is our third summer to attempt making taffy. The two previous years have ended in sticky taffy oozing ALL over. Hands and kitchen table covered.

This year we tried again. They cooked:



They buttered their hands and stretched:



And then, they simply got tired of stretching, so they ate:


The taffy didn't quite set up like it's supposed to. I'm not quite sure what we are doing wrong. I've come to the conclusion that there is so stinkin' much humidity in the air here, that it must affect the taffy. Lame excuse, but I'm goin' with it. But it tastes delicious in any form.

Maybe next summer will be the perfect year. Until then, we shall lick it off the counter.

How I See

Ever since the day my dad arrived in heaven (give or take a month or two), people often ask me about about the hidden blessings I've discovered from this life changing event. They always insist that within the horror, there simply must be precious blessings to be found. My answer is always the same, "I have yet to find a single one."

I look at the surface with my mortal eyes. What I see is murky and clouded. There might be a blessing or two buried in the deep. But I can't see them. Maybe if I could look with His eyes, from His perspective, my vision would clear. I really can't seem to manage it. It's as if the effort of trying to see as He sees, is far too difficult to even attempt. Instead, I see with my eyes. The ones that seem to silently count the moments missed and the milestones left untouched.

I counted today. The moments missed.

My girls and the twins were dancing, running, twirling and singing all at once. All of them jumbled together with loud laughter in the air. My eyes seemed to capture time and hold it still. Without thinking, my brain said, "my dad would have loved this moment". He would have soaked it into his very soul.

I counted again as I watched my sister stand and teach a lesson. She taught as my dad would teach. So engaging and filled with His voice. My eyes could only see how proud he would have been to sit in that room and be in that moment. I tried so hard to use my non-earthly eyes. But, I just couldn't do it.

Out of the many lessons we are sent here to learn, looking at our lives through His eyes, is definitely a hard one to master. When life seems to be running on an even, steady course, it feels easier to see the blessings He offers us. But, when life demands you to actually live the faith you profess to own, using His eyes requires strength that feels beyond our own. I'm sure that's how it's supposed to be. Hard. Work.

For if we can find a way to leverage our faith along side our love for Him, maybe, just maybe, His eyes will offer us a glimpse of all that we long to see.

While I silently count the moments my eyes see, I shall never give up trying to use His.

Wicked Good

A divine afternoon.
Don't be too green with envy.