40 Ways to Keep Summer from Slipping Away

It's more than halfway through July. I paused a moment or two this morning to put to paper my intentions for the rest of the summer. I find that if I'm intentional, I'm better able to fully engage in the moment. I don't want to let a second of summer's goodness slip away unappreciated. So, I resolve to

1. Make sure it is Mama in prayer that my children see first thing every morning. Much preferred to Mama pounding away furiously at a keyboard.
2. Exercise both morning and evening. Evenings, with Mike.
3. Eat three small meals a day, nothing more.
4. Keep my kitchen Whole30 compliant.
5. Sit down and eat together every evening.
6. Completely refurbish the Homemaking Notebook, update routines, discard the unnecessary.
7. Paint the house.
8. Limit social media to pre-determined times of day, for very small, pre-determined periods of time. For me and for my children. 
9. Actually shut down the computer when finished instead of merely closing the lid or clicking "sleep."
10. Sew something for an hour (or more) every day.
11. Polish up the Alphabet Path and make two week lesson plans for every letter, transferring them to PDF so that I don't have to consult the computer for my lessons. And update that tutorial.
12. Make peach jam.
13. Whittle my Google Reader down to the top ten most inspiring blogs. Check in with them once a week. Read books the rest of the time
14. Keep my Instagram circle small. I treasure those snapshots of the lives of intentional women.
15. Stick to the "more prayer, less coffee" routine.
16. Take myself off every junk mail list and unsubscribe from all email blog feeds.
17. Keep a Mason jar of fresh flowers on the center island in the kitchen every day.
18. Visit every playground in my neighborhood at least twice before September 1st.
19. Make in-real-life play dates once a week--for me (pedicures might be involved).
20. Keep the first and last hours of every day free from digital interference.

21. Go to Adoration at least an hour a week.
22. Indulge in unlimited pillow talk. Sleep in if necessary.
23. Make a fresh pitcher of fruit infused water every morning. Drain it by the end of the day.
24. Keep my cell phone completely off in the car.
25. Plan a date night once a week.
26. Help Mike plan a 25th anniversary trip for September.
27. Watch the sunrise with Nicholas.
28. Kiss them goodbye when they leave the house. Every one of them. Every time.
29. Take Karoline fishing. Let her sing. Sing with her.
30. When someone--anyone, everyone--speaks to me, look him/her in the eye for the entire conversation. (Unless we're sitting and doing handwork together;-)
31. Stand in the pool and let her jump to me. Over and over and over.
32. Go to a Brad Paisley concert with my absolute favorite 17-year-old and his darling girlfriend and her awesome mom.
33. Finish knitting "Katie's" sweater so Karoline can wear it this fall.
34. Read five picture books a day to a child on my lap.
35. Pray the rosary together every night.
36. Tell my kids how much I love to watch them play.
37. Lots of bubble baths, followed by kid massages. 
38. Say "yes" to as many crazy, creative kid ideas as humanly possible.
39.Let Sarah paint my toenails.
40. Help Kristin plan a Christmas wedding.

Cocooning Reprise

I have long loved early childhood. From the time I was very little, I have invested much thought and prayer into the mother of young children I feel called to be. Much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone except my husband, I even majored in early childhood in college. (Just an aside: I had enough nursing and anatomy/physiology credits to also be certified to teach health and PE. God had a plan. I grew up to educate children who, when asked to name their school, inform the general public that they attend the Foss Academy for the Athletically Inclined. But I digress.)

 

I have held tightly to the promise that it's never too late to have a happy childhood. And since mine was not childish or carefree, I've set out very deliberately to create for my children what I think I might have missed and to enjoy it alongside them. Deep in my heart, my fondest wish was to be the very good mother of young children. You might say that I've dedicated my adult  life to that task.

Not too long ago, I can't remember where, I read about a woman around my age who said that she was too busy with her grown kids and teenagers to mourn the fact that her babies were growing up and there would soon be no wee ones in her house. I'm not. I'm not too busy. There are still small children in my house and they slow me, still me. I still stay with them at night as they drift off to sleep. I still sit with them at the table as they eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, ever so slowly. I bathe them and brush their hair and braid it up before bed. I sit and rock and hold and read. I still thank God for them with every breath, much like I did the day they were born. I have plenty of time in the course of my day to be still and know that these are precious moments that will not be a part of my days in the not too distant future. 

In a way, I envy those women who blithely move along to the next stage of life and smile brightly and say, "There! That's finished. Wasn't it grand? Now what's next?" I'm not one of them. Perhaps I'm just not good at transitions. I sobbed at my high school graduation. I remember how reluctantly I traded my wedding gown for my "going away" clothes. I cried so hard when Michael left for college that I had to pull over because I couldn't see to drive. I held more tightly to each newborn than the one before. And this last one? I don't think I put her down at all for the first twelve weeks. My intimate relationships are deep and rooted and meaningful. When I live something, I feel it. 

I know it's time.

I know because my environment cries out that it is so. My house is full to overflowing with people. Several of them are more than twice the size they were when we moved in here. Some have left and come back and brought with them more of their own stuff. We are bursting at the seams. It is time to acknowledge that we are in a new season of life and to allow my house to reflect that.

And so. I cocoon. Somehow I know that this is intense, deeply personal business and at the end I will be the same and yet, forever different. I spin a silken thread tightly around my home. My cell phone goes dead. I don't recharge it. I don't touch my laptop. I don't carry the house phone with me. I don't leave for several days. It is time to conquer all those recesses of my home that I neglected while I held babies. It is time to let go.

We need space. We no longer need a co-sleeper. Or the sheets to go with it. We don't need a swing. I begin in the basement.

We don't need three neatly labeled boxes of beautiful thick, pink, cotton clothes -- 0-3 months, 6-9 months, 9-18 months. I carefully save the christening gown, the sweet baptism booties, the first dress Karoline wore to match Katie and Mary Beth. The rest I fold into giveaway bags.  Michael takes the baby "things" to the Salvation Army on Friday.The clothes remain until Saturday morning. The Children's Center truck is due to arrive at 8 AM. After I've finished with the clothes, I cannot  stay here in this basement on Friday. I've done what I know will be the most difficult task. I also know I'm nearly suffocating.  I need to go upstairs and get some air. 

I begin in Mike's office. This isn't really my mess or my stuff or even the stuff of children who haven't been carefully supervised. It is just the overflow of two busy adults who pile and stuff a bit too much. He doesn't use this room. It's a lovely room in the middle of the house with a bright window. I put a new sewing machine on the desk. I rearrange shelves, discarding things he no longer needs. I spend an hour or so carefully dusting his youth trophies and 25 years of sports paraphernalia. I think about this post and I know that we can (and should) share this space. I move some baskets in. My yarn, my knitting and sewing books, a few carefully folded lengths of fabric, holding place for a stash to come.

I stitch a few things in that room. And I am happy there. I am no longer knitting in my womb. But I am still creating. And it makes me happy. My arms are ever more often empty, but my hands are increasingly free for other pursuits. Still, a small voice whispers, knitting and sewing are nothing like the co-creation you've done for the last 22 years. I hush the voice. I have no idea where this is going. He is the Creator. He has written a beautiful pattern for my life. All He asks is that I knit according to His plan. Trust the pattern.

On Saturday morning, that truck comes. I can't even watch as they load my dear boxes. My stomach clenches and my eyes fill with tears. Things. They are only things. The girls who wore those things are safe in my arms. Another mother will be blessed to hold a sweet pink cotton bundle close and nuzzle her cheeks. I descend to the basement.

Here. Here is where I must force myself to cocoon. Here is where ten years of "put this carefully in the craft room" will come back to haunt me. They have tossed at will every single time. It never recovered from the great flooring shuffle. I do pretty well with the rest of the house, but I dislike coming down to the basement and Mike rarely comes down here. So, here is where the disorder has collected. The "craft room" is a jumble of stored clothes, curriculum, craft supplies, and 25 years of family photos. It is a mess.

I am humbled by the mess. Quite literally driven to my knees. But I have spun myself into this small space and here I will stay until I can emerge beautifully.

I have banished all outside interruptions, but I have brought with me the Audible version of this book. Good thing, too, because I will benefit greatly from the message within and, frankly, I will need to hear the narrator say "You are a good mom" as often as she does. 

I see the abandoned half-finished projects, the still shrinkwrapped books, the long lingering fabric and lace. Did I miss it? Did I miss the opportunity to do the meaningful things? To be the good mom I want to be? I am nearly crushed by the weight of the money I've spent on these things and the remanants of my poor stewardship.What was I doing when this mess was being made? To be sure some of the time was sadly wasted. It is easy to berate myself for time slipped through my fingers. Cocoons are really rather nasty things.

Determined, I clear out the clutter. I tell myself that life is not black and white. It's not all bad or all good.  I fold fabric and recognize that what I have here is the beginning of some new projects. I gather acorn caps and felt and label them and tuck them away for the fall. I make a very large stack of books to sell secondhand. I sort and sweep and remember. I see picture after picture of smiling children. I see, in those color images, time well spent. Time well filled.  Their mama always looks tired. I recognize in  those pictures that my children were happy--are happy. And I also recognize that it's been a little while now since I felt that tired. It is true that much of my time in the last twenty years, I have been filling well. I have been holding and rocking and nursing and coloring and listening and reading and giving and giving...I have been cherishing childhood. And it is a true that in a household this size, it is darn near impossible for every corner of the house to remain clean and every lesson to be carried out according to plan ,while caring well for babies and toddlers.  Messes happen.

The season just passed? The very long season? It was good and full and messy and cluttered. It was bursting-at-the-seams joyful in a way nothing ever will be again. It was also very hard work. Very, very hard work.There were utter failures and big mistakes. And there was a whole lot of good. 

This new season? I don't know yet. It's not nearly as cluttered. I have stayed in this cocoon until every corner of my home, every nook and every cranny, has been cleared of the clutter of the last season. Every poor choice, every undisciplined mess has been repurposed. Every single one. I can see my way clear to do the meaningful things. And the blessing is that there are still plenty of children in this house to do them with me.

As I sweep the room for the last time before considering this a job well done, I see a picture that has slid under a bookshelf. It is Mike and me at our wedding rehearsal. I stare long and hard at that girl. But I stare longer at him. He is still every bit as happy as he was that night. Happier, really. Really happier. These days in this cocoon, I have been brutally honest with myself. I've held myself accountable for every transgression. I have humbled myself before God and I have confessed my sins.  I look at his image and then back at mine and I realize something very important. Whatever my failings, I have consistently been a good wife. I wonder at the ease with which this recognition comes to me. I am certain that much of it is born of his frequent words of affirmation. I know it is so because he has told me it is so. But why is it so?

Grace. 

Ours is a gracious God. It is only by His grace that I am the wife I am. And it is by His grace that I have this sense of peace about the most important relationship in my life. These children willl grow in the safe home he and I have created together. And then they will fly. Mike and I? We will be us. Always us.

I carefully put away the very last picture, turn out the light, and climb the stairs.

I've cleared out the clutter, made peace with the past. I've learned a very valuable lesson that I'm long going to be pondering in my heart. It's time to fly free.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

~ reprinted from the archives. I'm back in the basement today, but it's very different than it was last year. I'll be back tomorrow to share with you the rest of the story.

May We Talk About Something?

Recently, in a brick and mortar bookstore, I noticed something. If I were planning a wedding, I'd have plenty of books from which to choose. They'd all look bright, pretty, and cheerful. If I were expecting a baby, I'd be inundated with books. It would take me all of nine months to read them all and then, I'd have a ready supply of parenting books at my fingertips. That's as it should be, I suppose. All those books address big stages in a woman's life and we all agree that we can use all the help we can get when preparing to marry or give birth or raise children.

But what if I wanted to read a book on midlife? What if I wanted to learn What to Expect When Your Hair Turns Gray and Your Kids Fly Free? What if I wanted a helpful, hopeful, realistic, but bright and optimistic book on the next stage? There's not much out there. I might pick up a bestseller. And I might read this:

My personal experience, now shared by millions of others, tells me that the perimenopausal lifting of the hormonal veil — the monthly cycle of reproductive hormones that tends to keep us focused on the needs and feelings of others — can be both liberating and unsettling. The midlife rate of marital separation, divorce and vocational change confirms this. I, for one, had always envisioned myself married to the same man for life, the two of us growing old together. This ideal had always been one of my most cherished dreams. At midlife I, like thousands of others, had to give up my fantasies of how I thought my life would be. I had to face, head-on, the old adage about how hard it is to lose what you never really had. It means giving up all your illusions, and it is very difficult. But for me the issue was larger than where and with whom I would grow old. It was a warning, coming from deep within my spirit, that said, “Grow … or die.” Those were my choices. I chose to grow.

For most women, identity and self-esteem are generated by our associations and relationships. This is true even for women who hold high-powered jobs and for women who have chosen not to marry. Men, by contrast, usually get most of their identity and self-esteem from the outer world — the job, the income, the accomplishments, the accolades. For both genders, this pattern often changes at midlife.

Women begin to direct more of their energies toward the world outside of home and family, which may suddenly appear as a great, inviting, untapped resource for exploration, creative expression and self-esteem. Meanwhile, men of the same age — who may be undergoing a midlife crisis of their own — are often feeling world-weary; they’re ready to retire, curl up and escape the battles of the workplace. They may feel their priorities shifting inward, toward home, hearth and family.

It’s an ironic transposition: The man is beginning to look to relationships for his “juice”; the woman is feeling biologically primed to explore the outer world. In married couples, this often produces profound role shifts. In the best of all worlds, the man retires or cuts back on work, becoming the chief cook and bottle washer at home, and providing emotional and practical support for his wife’s new interests. She, in turn, goes out into the world to start a business, get an education or do whatever her heart dictates. If their relationship is adaptable and resilient, they adjust to their new roles. Some are so energized by their newfound freedom and passion that they fall in love all over again. If a woman’s partner is not willing to grow, however, he (or she) may become jealous of her success and independence, and put pressure on her to continue to care for him as she has always done. He may even get physically sick, often in the form of heart disease and/or clinically dangerous high blood pressure. It’s important to note that this is not a conscious or willful act; he’s simply responding to the promptings of our lopsided culture.

A woman often finds herself in the difficult position, then, of having to choose between returning to the role of caretaker to nurture her husband at the expense of her own needs and pursuing her own creative passions. It’s an old story, common to women in many cultures, not just our own. The woman in menopause, who is becoming the queen of herself, finds herself at a crossroads of life, torn between the old way she has always known and a new way she has just begun to dream of. A voice from the old way (in many cases it’s her husband’s voice) begs her to stay in place — “Grow old with me, the best is yet to be.” But from the new path another voice beckons, imploring her to explore aspects of herself that have been dormant during her years of caring for others and focusing on their needs. She’s preparing to give birth to herself and, as many women already know, the birth process cannot be halted without consequences.
Caring for others and pursuing unexplored personal passions are not necessarily mutually exclusive choices, but our culture makes them seem so, always supporting the former at the expense of the latter. This is part of what makes the midlife transformation so much of a challenge — as I know only too well.

Well, now, that was hopeful wasn't it? That makes you just want to rush headlong into this new season, doesn't it? I'm sure your husband will be delighted with this passage.There's just enough ring of truth in it that it is sort of scary. But there's no faith. No foundation in vocation. No honest Christian optimism. 

So, let's discard that book and let's write another. If you were looking for a book on midlife, what would you want to read there? What would you want that book to address? How would you want to come away from the book?

I'm really serious, friends. Really, really serious. Shall we make this book come to life? Together? 

Tell me what you're thinking. 

the face of attachment parenting

{All the pieces of my heart--Mother's Day 2012. Rose Creek Cottage.}

I was standing at my kitchen counter when I read the email asking me to consider flying with my toddler to New York for a Time Magazine cover story on attachment parenting. It took about a second to remember how exhausting (and frustrating) it was when The New York Times scrutinized our family for a piece on homeschooling. It wasn't terrible, but it was intrusive and in the end, I didn't feel like our message was conveyed well at all. In the next second, I thought of my nursling. Clearly, she's an "older toddler." She and I talk about nursing. And her nursing is limited to bedtime, in the dark and quiet of her bed. It's her snuggle time. It's our snuggle time. It was inconceivable for me to imagine nursing and posing. How would I even begin to explain that to her? This isn't photo op. It's a real life relationship. A relationship I would not exploit for anything in the world. Anything.

I declined.

It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Clearly, they were looking for a perky body. Mine is a body that has nurtured in this ancient fashion for so long that I, too, am ancient. Nothing is perky. It's all soft and squishy and well-worn. It's a real body. And I'm a real mother.

I was standing at the same spot in the kitchen when I first saw the cover. I felt physically ill. Literally. I felt the blood drain from my body and I gagged. Then, in the next second, I thought of what will happen when that cover child is 15 and a kid in his school finds that picture in cyberspace and posts it to his 2024 version of a Facebook wall. Attachment parenting is all about building trust. I think this young mother was shortsighted in selling out the trust of her son several years hence.

I commented on the post where I first saw the picture. I felt the adrenaline rushing. I felt all the sputtering arguments tingling in my fingers. 

I closed the computer. Physically removed it from the kitchen. Chopped a lot of vegetables. With my three-year-old. I knew I had to in order to survive.

The next day, there it was, all over everywhere. Everyone had something to say about it. Everyone was rushing to defend, redefine, articulate, refute, explain. Again, that physically ill feeling. I didn't revisit my Facebook or Twitter or Google Reader news feeds for the next three days.

I recalled a promise I had made to myself, after an extended period of thought and prayer: 

In part, I wrote: 

I need to start the day (after the prayer and exercise start) with a shower, clothing and lipgloss, and then some quiet time with the Bible. I want my children to find me in that room, with a candle lit and the Bible on my lap when they first wake up. I don't want them to find me staring into my laptop.

I need to refrain from internet drama, even a little bit.

This was internet drama. I knew I needed to stay far away from it. I had been thinking for a few weeks about attachment parenting anyway, and about social media, and about surviving cancer and living life knowing that it all can change with a single phone call. All these thoughts had been pressing upon me. 

I got an iPhone a few weeks ago. Suddenly, I was connected everywhere I went. I immediately made sure it would not chirp at me everytime I got an email, or someone posted to Facebook, or someone tweeted. The only notifications I left on were phone calls and text messages. Still, I heard the call of social media from anywhere, anytime. The weekend before last, I took my phone to a full day of dance competition. My daughter danced 3 times. We were there twelve hours. Nonstop dance, nonstop music, in an auditorium. I thoroughly drained the fully-charged battery on my iPhone. I was connected! I could post cute things about the day. Chronicle life's happenings on Instagram. Do something. Read something. Anything. Everything. And at the end of the day, I felt that sick feeling. 

I resolved the next day never to engage in social media chit chat and news feeds on my phone at a kids' event or any time at all over the weekend.  Nobody out there really cares that Johnny is up to bat more than Johnny-- and he would truly appreciate the full attention of his mother. (I use Johnny and baseball because I don't have a Johnny and no one here plays baseball. It's a universal sentiment for all the children in my family.)

Then there was the Time piece. Right there, just before Mother's Day weekend. I could almost hear an audible whisper: You have long lived this lifestyle. Surely you will step out and join the conversation.

No. No, I won't. Not now. Not this weekend. I won't read what everyone has to say. I won't keep responding here, there, and everywhere. Chasing conversation loses sight of the mission of this blog: encouragement to other women, yes, but mostly to leave a legacy for my daughters. 

My best writing isn't that which engages in up-to-the-minute dialogue. My best writing takes its time. Says its prayers. I'm not a news chasing vehicle and I'm not about promoting myself while fighting for a cause. And this "cause"? It changed my life forever long before it was a cause at all. Attachment parenting matters to me.

I wish that women of the digital age could have learned this parenting style the way I did. 

It first took written form in an old La Leche League publication of The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding that my roommate in the hospital loaned to me when I could not console a screaming newborn Michael, nearly 24 years ago. She was an experienced mom. She stayed up all night, her own newborn at her breast, mentoring me, voice-to-voice, shoulder-to-shoulder. She was Catholic, open to life. It was all grace.  I still look back with astonishment at the provision of it all. I have no pictures of our time. No journal of words. I don't even remember her name, but her legacy lives forever in my family.

That was an old version of the book, written in the voice of the women who founded La Leche League. It read like wisdom from moms at a church picnic. Did you know that La Leche League was founded on the grounds of a Catholic Church at a parish picnic?

Ten years later, I met Mary White, one of the founding mothers. That formerly crying baby was the altar server at a very poorly attended Mass at a La Leche League conference. It was just Mary, her husband, and my family. After Mass, she spent a leisurely time talking to me about big families and raising children in the church, all while my fourth child, Mary Beth, nursed in a sling. Tears still spring to my eyes when I think of the meaning that encounter held for me. She autographed for me a new edition of the book. I treasure the the inscription, but the book remains on my shelf, largely untouched. I still reach for my tattered, older version, the one written before "attachment parenting" was a cause. The one in the voice of wise Catholic mothers.

Mary White told me after Mass how mothering is a beautiful way to live the works of mercy every day, how mothers are especially blessed to extend the mercy of God to others. It was never about being "mom enough," but about being humble enough. Attachment parenting--and so, extended breastfeeding--is about the least of these. 

And the king will say to them in reply, ‘Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.’

All day, every day, serving the little ones with the mercy of Jesus. That's attachment parenting at its essence.

Attachment parenting grows up. And that doesn't mean nursing while standing on a stool. It means that mother and child grow together. It means that when it's not so simple anymore and all their needs can't be met by stopping to nurse, we still listen. And listen. And listen. We watch over three hundred dances because somewhere in there, our teenager is in three of them and she cares about the other 297.

If we are at our best, we do it with our full attention.

The face of attachment parenting? It doesn't reflect a computer screen. We can't let ourselves care more about the cause than about the children who compelled us to learn about the cause in the first place. We can't let ourselves be lured to spend our days chasing philosophies online, no matter how noble those philosophies are. We can't endlessly chase decorating ideas or knitting patterns or news feeds, either. 

I learned attachment parenting in a different age. And I'm very glad of that. I never cultivated a habit of nursing while scrolling my cell phone. I never took a laptop into a child's room at night to keep me company while I kept him company. There were no smart phones or laptops. I was blessed to learn a lifestyle before the distraction of technology and then to live long enough in that stage of life that I could take the early lessons and keep practicing those habits when technology started fighting them. 

It's astonishing how techonology fights them. Truly, if we let it, techonology can destroy parenting as God intended it. A tool for the good can be used for ill to the detriment of generations.

I feel sorry for the young mothers (perkiness aside). It must be so much harder to discern the wisdom of the church picnic from the hip, happening, cool of the attachment parenting "movement." It's not sexy. It's not hip. It's hard work and humble servitude. It likely will make you soft and saggy.

The key to being truly attached, even as they grow, is spending days looking into the eyes of a child, truly knowing our own children intimately and well and helping them to become the person God created them to be.

Attachment parenting requires incredible sacrifice on the part of fathers, when the chldren are infants and when they are older. When they are infants, fathers wait for wives who are nursing mothers. They wait, too, for the time when a child will want them as much or more than they want Mama. I see that so clearly now that I have lots of older children. My kids almost line up to wait for Mike to listen to them at night. I've been with them all day. I'm all childrened out. And all I want is his undivided, quiet attention. But there they are, one by one, asking for him. I can't help but think of all the nights he waited while I nursed them to sleep.

Attachment parenting is thoughtful, careful that we are attached, while still not fostering an entitlement attitude. Just because you can nurse on demand as a baby, doesn't mean you can demand anything you want and expect to get it forever. Actually, the contrary is true. When you are nursed on demand as a baby, you grow up with the sense that sometimes adults are called to sacrifice themselves--their wants, their immediate needs, even their bodies--for the least of these. Good attachment parenting means that we teach our children this same ideal of laying down one's life.

This is where my challenges in social media keep popping up. It's a repeated decision to set aside the pressing online conversation, relinquish the opportunity to join the opinionfest. Attachment parenting is about keeping my eyes steadfastly fixed on my own work--the most important work I'll ever be called to do.  Social media is most definitely about keeping my eyes on everyone else's work. It's fairly benign for me in very small doses, lethal in anything bigger.

I have thoughtful ideas on childhood. I've worked hard to live those principles. I see social media as the most insidious threat to living a life of grace-filled, purposeful moments of joy with my children. This is How to Miss a Childhood and this is The Best Part of a Child's Education. I mean to live those messages and I have to close the computer to do so.

Mother Teresa, upon winning the Nobel Peace Prize, was asked "What can we do to promote world peace?" She answered "Go home and love your family."

What can I do to promote attachment parenting? Go home and love my family. With my full attention. When I do, I will bear authentic witness and change the world.

{Comments are  closed. Prayers are always welcome.}

I might have had a meltdown today...

...and just maybe a boy who has been hugely helpful all week and not at all the source of my frustration turned back as he was leaving to run another errand.

"Hey Mom, you need to listen Scott McCreery sing Dirty Dishes. I'll be back in a bit."

Just in case you need to hear this today, too: