On Boyhood

My baby boy turned nine last week. Nine years old! I'm cursing my bad memory for forgetting all the moments I've had with him. I wish I could play all of them back, over and over and over, like a soothing lullaby.

The night before his birthday, as I kissed him goodnight, I cried. He cried, too. It was a beautiful and terrible moment all at once. Time stood still for a few seconds; I remember the first time I held him; I thought I could see him going off to college. I breathed in his goodness, his loyalty, his faith, his fun.

His boyhood.

He awakened on his birthday with excited eyes and a shiny soul. He felt older. He seemed older.

He spent the day in his Spiderman costume, wielding Mjölnir, dressing his sister in a Spiderman costume from a past birthday and carrying her on his back around the house, fighting crime together.

There is nothing--nothing--in the world like a son. He slips his hand into yours, and for a moment, you know what godlike power feels like. Those hands will grow large and strong, and they will do important, ordinary things with extraordinary faith and courage. That little buddy that follows you around the house like a puppy, making sound effects and begging for food at all hours, will influence nations and change the destiny of the world--all for the better.

Sometimes I worry about the future of this crazy planet with people intent on living below their potential, full of doubt and jealousy and rage.

But when I see my son, I can't help but feel an overwhelming peace and assurance that his small shoulders will carry great burdens with joy and strength. His circle of influence will widen and swell, and join with the other valiant sons of the earth. They will be a formidable army of greatness and good.

For now, nine is fine and he is mine. And I couldn't be happier or more grateful about it.

Happy Birthday, sweet son of my heart!

Performance Review

I love my job. I'm just gonna say that up front.

I'm not the most qualified, talented, organized, put-together mom on the planet. I'm just gonna say that, too.

Some days I get some things right. Some days I get most things right. Most days I get some things right. Some days I get no things right. 

But at the end of every day, I am always overwhelmed with gratitude for these amazing people who fill my home and heart with the magnitude of their worth and potential and joy. Trust me: I didn't do anything that right to deserve all this. 

But I am, oh, so grateful!

I'm a hopeless romantic

One of my favorite things in the world is a real kiss.

You know the kind I'm talking about? The kind where the giver means it, wants nothing in return, and leaves you feeling truly loved.

When my sister and I discovered what the PIP button was for on the remote control, we capitalized on its value. "PIP" means, "picture in picture". The viewer simply pushes PIP, and a freeze frame is made and remains in the corner of the television, no matter what is playing on the rest of the screen.

We wasted no time. We put in our favorite movie ("The Princess Bride"), fast-forwarded to the good kiss (Buttercup and Wesley at sunset), and pressed that PIP button as hard as we could. It worked! There was the perfect kiss, frozen and immortalized forever, or until an unfeeling brother came and heartlessly deleted it.

We perfected the craft when we discovered that we could actually move that freeze frame around on the screen. After capturing the prince's kiss to his loving princess, we moved that frame where it belonged: smack dab in the middle of the screen. Who cared about the show that was playing in the now-background? We certainly didn't. And we ignored the disgusted comments from our cold-hearted, disgusted brothers.

They just didn't understand what Victor Hugo knew, "A kiss and all was said."

But we knew.

I guess this is an inherited trait because my daughter was watching The Sound of Music on my iPad the other day, and I later found the photo library filled with pictures of Maria and Captain von Trapp in the gazebo, singing to each other. I couldn't get after her, because that would be hypocritical, but I told my husband. He gave himself a loud, smacking face-palm.

I have this other daughter who has just turned two. She gives more kisses than anybody in the world. Her dad made her that way. When she was being weaned, her daddy would hold her until she would go to sleep, kissing her tears away, kissing her closed eyes, kissing her sweet cheeks. Now she passes out kisses like they're going out of style.

They're not.

At least not at my house.

At some point every day, and usually more than once, she puckers up those big lips and smooches whatever part of me is closest to her. Usually, this is my knee caps. When I'm lucky enough to be holding her, then I get kissed all over the face.

I've received every flavor of two-year-old kiss there is: oatmeal, booger, salty tears, spaghetti sauce, sticky candy, too much lip gloss, baby saliva--just every flavor.

And I'll admit something. I love them all. In fact, she can't kiss me enough.

Deep down, I know that someday, she'll stop kissing me. She won't always have a perpetual runny nose. (I hope.) She'll grow up.

Some prince will come along, kiss her, and take her from me. I just know it. And the truth is, I want that for her. Because my deepest healing and greatest earthly joy comes from the arms and love of my husband.

But I'll miss her booger kisses and all the words they mean: Thanks for the milk. I love being in your arms. I'm wrong, but I'm cute. Thanks for being my mama. I feel safe with you. I need a tissue. I love you.

Nothing required in return. Just an expression of her childlike love--which is love in its most pure and perfect form.

If only I could capture those kisses for always.

Hey, Sis. Where is the PIP button when you really need it?

Changing Pants and an Adage

I have five children with one on the way. There was bound to be a post about poop sooner or later.

This is that post.

You don't have to read it. Consider yourself warned.

It never fails. Sometime during dinner, one of our littles excuses herself to use the restroom, and right when I'm about to enjoy my piping hot dinner, I get the call, "I'm all do-ooone!"

This means, "Mother, you're the best. Will you please come and wipe me? I know it's a lot to ask. I'll appreciate your sacrifice forever,"--only with fewer words. It's the economical way to tell me I'm awesome.

This call has awakened me from a deep sleep, seeping between the ceiling and floor that divides the basement and main level. I've also received this call right as the baby is drifting off, and it has penetrated at least three doors and double that many walls.

The unrelenting summons follows me. Hunts me. Finds me no matter where I am hidden. It cares not my circumstance or mood.

And when I am summoned, I must go--as surely as the person had to go in the first place.

Tonight at dinner, it happened.

We heard the cute little voice coming from the bathroom, announcing her completion.

I left my hot dinner to answer her call. Everything went as well as I could have hoped, and in a few minutes I went back to eating my now lukewarm dinner.

While I was away, the baby-in-potty-training-pants got down from the table and ran behind the couch. When we discovered her, I tapped my husband's shoulder once and said, "You're it."

He was confused. I explained that the baby now needed to be changed. It was his turn. He looked bewildered.

I insisted.

He's a good one, that man. He dutifully, and even cheerfully, went to the rescue. I sighed in contentment, glad to have him on my team, and wondered again how single parents do it.

Not long into my second bite of dinner, I heard his distress signal. "Uh... Mama? Um...I'm not sure how to do this."

I didn't need to see what was happening. I knew what it would look like. You don't easily forget a hunk of gunk in those thick, potty-training panties. By your fifth child, the experience is cemented into your mind.

In my husband's defense, I have to admit, this was bad. So bad, in fact, that I had to laugh. Also, I had to set the baby in the tub and work from there. It was so, so, so bad. He stuck beside me, and I loved that, because the mess would have become much worse if I had to clean it on my own. Somehow it always spreads, like an air-borne illness on the subway, covering surfaces it shouldn't and waiting to further promulgate its nastiness. And it does so at lightning speed.

In the end, we cleaned everything and everyone up, we snarfed the cold grub, and the night went forward as it normally does.

But I think we should change that urban expression to: the poop hit the pants of a toddler during dinner time. It would be waaaaay more accurate.

And I'm betting I'd be able to use it tonight when dinner time comes.

Prenatal Pondering

I have been pregnant now for a few days over eight months. Lately, people have been staring at my belly, and when they finally peel their eyes off of the basketball shape under my shirt, they ask me how I'm doing.

Except for the man who works at Ace Hardware. That man asked me how much longer I had. When I told him a month, he asked if I was having more than one. You should never ask a pregnant woman that.

Not ever.

The honest answer to this heartfelt inquiry is a complicated one. It's long. It's involved--too long and involved for a quick reply to the quick question. So normally, I reply, "Great!" Because that's true.

People don't always buy that, so sometimes I say, "I'm hanging in there." Because that's true, too.

I won't stay this way forever, and I know I'll miss it when it's gone, so I wanted to record some of what I feel, even though the answer is long and involved.

Here's a piece of my heart. I feel:

Excited. This is a lame adjective, but other moms out there will relate. How do you properly label the feeling of anticipating this person you love so much but have yet to meet? I have no idea what she looks like. She hid her face and her profile during the ultrasound. I'm assuming she'll look like a sibling, but still, I have no idea. But I know her spirit intimately. I feel her with me. I feel her excitement, too, and it keeps me pressing forward.

Tired. I probably feel this more than any other emotion. I can fall asleep anytime, anywhere. And I do. I can tell I am a full decade older than when I was pregnant with my first. My husband is patient with the way I pass out on the couch, the floor, the kids' beds, the passenger's seat... But I'm sure he misses the party girl he married. Truthfully, I miss her, too. And I have this sneaky premonition that she's gone for good.

Happy. Sad. Angry... I'm pretty sure I feel every emotion on the entire emotion continuum throughout the course of a day. This is weird for me. Not pregnant, I'm a pretty even-tempered, no-fuss, steady girl. Emotionally challenged might be a better adjective here.

Scatter-brained. Today I was making cookies, and I forgot to set the timer. But when I realized this, I noticed the timer was set and had seventeen minutes left. I asked my husband if I had set that. He confirmed that it was me, and that I had set it for twenty minutes. I had absolutely no recollection of that. It's a good thing I'm good at basic math, because I could fix the predicament by taking the cookies out when the timer had eleven minutes left. But really? Maybe I'm getting alzheimer's already.

Certain. When I went to one of my OB appointments, my doctor asked me a series of questions about my intentions to see this pregnancy to conclusion and the possible scenarios that would persuade me to abort. I looked him in the eyes and told him this baby was no accident. I wanted it. I meant to conceive. I was finishing the race, even if I crossed the finish line on my hands and knees. He must have sensed my fierce resolution because he defensively responded, "Okay, okay. I have to ask. I understand." There is nothing I want more in all of forever than my family. And I am certain this baby is meant to be part of our family.

Swollen. My feet, my hands, my legs, my arms, my face--I don't feel like myself any more. The girl in the mirror is a bloated stranger, wearing my eyes and my smile. I've learned that swollen feet hurt to stand on all day. More than once I have been limping by the time I serve dinner. And then when I sit down, my feet throb. My hands are numb in the morning, and they take a long time to "wake up". Some days, they never do. I haven't been wearing my wedding ring for about sixteen weeks now. I have to wonder, "Will it ever fit again?" I'm not convinced it will.

Thankful. I've tried to make good choices in my life. I feel God's bounteous blessings. But this--I've never done anything that good to receive this. I've felt this way with every baby. I'm convinced that if I had one hundred babies, I would never get over the immense gratitude I feel to work in partnership with Heaven for the creation of life.

Scared out of my mind. Can I really do it? Will I be a good mom this time around? Am I going to fail my baby? I don't want to fail! Will she know how much I love her? Will I be able to give her all that she needs? How can I balance the demands of a new baby with my long list of duties I already have?

I was feeling quite worried the other day, and expressed my fears to my husband. He pointed out that at least I don't do crack. So, there's always that. My home is, by virtue of my drug-free existence, better than other homes a baby could go to, I guess.

Eternally aware. What I mean is, I have been given a perspective that extends before birth and beyond the grave. I feel the truth that we are God's literal spirit children. I know we lived before this life, and that we will live after it. I am sure that life on this earth is sacred and imperative, though short in comparison to the length of eternity. Life matters. Our choices matter. Our progression matters.

Loved. I feel God's love every day, in small, significant, personal ways. One day last week, I was beyond exhausted. I still had a lot to do to serve dinner and lull my babies to sleep. It was especially daunting because they were beyond tired and my husband wouldn't be home until after bedtime. I knew I couldn't go on without divine help. I bowed my head and uttered a fervent, silent prayer, pleading for Heaven to aid me. I was immediately aware of God's sustaining love, and miracle of miracles, I made it through the night before I collapsed in a tired, satisfied, fulfilled heap.

Impatient. Knowing how important it is for baby to cook the full nine months, I don't want this baby early. But, I've done this before, so I know for myself that there is nothing more hopeful, joyful, or full of love than a new baby, fresh from heaven. God extends a piece of Himself to our home, and we are the better for it.

It's always the last month that's the longest. Maybe I'll just sleep it out...

Coming Clean

Confession:

This afternoon finds me trying to muster up enough courage to clean the things in my home that need to be cleaned. So far on the list: the stove, the outside freezer, the dogs and their crates, the guest bathroom, a load of dirty whites waiting in the laundry cue, my toddler, my bathroom, my closet, and...well, me, of course.

See why I have to gather my courage? 

Luckily, for today, I have a clear picture as to what I need to do to clean each of the dirty things screaming for my attention. That is not always the case.

Being the germophobe that I am, I regularly find myself in situations where I am sure that the dirty deed is so great, it cannot possibly be undone. Not even with all the Lysol in the world.

Such a time happened last Tuesday. Our family was at the Blue and Gold Banquet for our beloved cub scout. The theme was Star Wars, and everyone dressed up--except me, because I was sewing a Jedi robe up until the very last minute. If asked about my lack of spirit, I had planned to tell people I was Jabba the Hut, obviously. Strangely, no one asked. I guess they knew that without my explanation.

We took three Jedi masters, Princess Leia, Yoda (who quickly shed her costume and looked more like Orphan Annie), and Captain Hook, a.k.a., I Do NOT Want To Be Darth Vader. With those impressive characters in the cast, I thought that we would be prepared for what the night might bring. The force was strong with us, and dinner was made for us. Nothing could go too wrong.

Or so I thought.

A little while after dinner, my three-year-old was missing. I wasn't too concerned; I just had my eyes on her, and she was happily playing hide-and-seek. The friend she was playing with was also missing.

After a few minutes, the friend's mother (my friend) came to me to report that she had just found our girls.

Are you sitting down?

They were coming out of the Boys' Bathroom, to the tune of a flushing toilet in the background.

When I heard the news, my mouth went dry and my stomach turned. I was envisioning all the breaches of public bathroom protocol that had undoubtedly occurred without my vigilant watch: no toilet seat liner, no toilet paper to hold onto handles, no washing of hands, no paper towels to open the door.

Have you ever been in a boys' bathroom? Have you cleaned up after boys who use the bathroom? If so, I offer my deepest condolences and ask a my profoundest questions. How do they miss so completely? Why does it smell that bad? Did something die in here, like, last month? How long has the toilet paper been gone? When was the soap last used? Why was the flusher so entirely ignored? The wall??? Really? How many "gentlemen" have used this space in its present condition? How many perpetrators decided washing was optional?

Some things I will never understand.

I tried to remain calm. I pulled my daughter close and started interrogating her.

"Did you go into the boys' bathroom?" My voice quivered.

"Yes."

"Oh, Honey! Why?"

"I had to go potty."

"Well, I'm glad you went potty. Did you wash your hands?"

"No."

"Oh, Honey! Why ever not?"

"There wasn't a stool."

"Let's have Daddy wash your hands."

I started wondering how I could make her clean. I quickly concluded, There's just no amount of Lysol in this world!

When we got home, she soaked in the tub for a long time, and I scrubbed her until she was red. But I'm still not convinced she'll ever be completely clean again. In fact, I'm sure she's tainted for life. She seems unaffected though. So I try to distract myself from the thoughts of multiplying microbes with the one thought that gives me courage in my battle to make the world sanitary.

If only my finger dispensed an unlimited amount of Lysol spray. Perhaps with all the Lysol in the universe...

What I Know for Sure

I serve as a teacher to children in our church. Specifically, I am the teacher of the eleven-year-old girls.

This is a great job for me, because I get to be with children (from whom I learn the most), but I don't have to take any of them potty or wipe their noses or convince them to be reverent (which is my day job). So it's a break from the challenges of children and a chance to revel in what makes them so glorious.

For most of the day Sunday, I cried. And cried. And cried.

I couldn't help it.

We were talking about how each of us is a beloved child of God. And every part of me knows that this is TRUTH.

I've understood this since I was a babe. My first memories are of my mom and dad teaching me where I came from and who I am.

But even now, at the end of my thirty-fourth year, it feels so good to know.

I am a child of God.

So are you.

So is everyone.

At that makes it all mean something--mean everything.

On Discovering My Destiny

It was Emerson who said, "The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."

Well if that's true, why have I become the One the garbage man forgot? I didn't decide to be that! I truly, deeply, acutely do not want to be her. Heaven knows I've offered up my share of prayers to be the opposite of that.

But I am.

And so, I've decided the saying should be: "The only person you can become is the person who is destined to wallow in waste," because, really, what does Emerson know about trash anyway? Certainly not what I know.

I grew up in a large family. We single-handedly produced the greater percentage of measurable garbage in the suburbs of Utah county.

Every room in the house had a trash can. One child was assigned to take the trash out every day. We had two garbage cans. We filled them past capacity. The lids could barely close. We hoped the garbage man wouldn't notice.

We frequently called the widow next door to see if we could use the three-fourths of her can that she didn't need, and we filled that up until its lid couldn't close all the way, either. We wondered why the garbage man didn't notice.

There was a definitive rule in our house about never missing garbage day. But we weren't perfect. There were some close calls, for sure.

I have a vivid image in my mind of my 4'11" mother in her pajamas and my dad's snow boots, running down the drive way, heaving the cans behind her, racing the garbage truck with as much desperation and determination as an olympian in the last leg of the 100 meter sprint,  but balancing a towering pile of waste over double her height while she ran.

On those sad, sad, sad weeks when we missed the garbage truck altogether, we had to stealthily slip our extra trash in the neighbors' bins in the dark of night, after they and their watch dogs had fallen asleep. Some people doorbell-ditched baked goods; we shared our wealth of refuse, disposing of it properly and discreetly in the (mostly) nearest receptacles.

But now that I'm grown and raising a family of my own, without a sibling assigned to take my trash out for me, I am crippled in my ability to properly plan for the rubbish removal. And it's been a long lesson for me.

Part of my absentmindedness can be blamed on all those years when we lived in an apartment. It didn't matter when trash day was, because there was always a dumpster or two available to us whenever we needed it. I was in heaven. I could gut the contents of the fridge or a closet whenever I wanted and happily throw them away immediately. What luxury!

We moved into our first house--this house--on a Monday night. The next day, our nice neighbor came over to introduce herself and leave a large plate of delicious, homemade cookies. One of the first questions I asked her was, "When is trash day?"

When she told me Friday, I was elated because Friday has never been able to sneak up on me. I always see it coming; there's always something wonderful to anticipate about Friday. And now I could add Trash Day to the list!

Imagine my confusion when I wheeled our can out to the street first thing that first Friday morning, only to have my nice neighbor sheepishly clarify, "I guess I should have told you: they come at 3 a.m. You'll have to leave it out Thursday night." My heart sank to my stomach like a huge, indigestible brick. This was no way to start my life as a responsible home owner!

I blinked back the tears and acted like it was no big deal, but that image of my half-clad, sprinting mother came back to my memory with jarring force. This could only mean one thing.

I am destined to be the One the garbage man forgot. It's in my genes. I'm marked. I cannot escape the curse. 

I've tried to take this crushing destiny in stride.

One week, when the garbage truck came rolling through the neighborhood at 3 a.m., my subconscious took inventory, reminded me that I had not taken the cans to the street, and awakened me with a startling shake. I threw on my robe, slipped on my husband's big boots, and sobbing desperate tears, I pulled our garbage can to the street. I looked over my shoulder to see the trash man turning the corner; I couldn't be sure if he had already done our side of the street. There was only one thing to do.

 I squinted in the headlights of his truck. I looked up at him with pleading, watery eyes, and whispered, "Please, please take my trash! I can't live with this for another week." When I was sure I had inspired sympathy and action, I sloshed back through the cold sludge on the driveway and stumbled to my bed.

Morning came; I ran down the driveway to retrieve the can, only to find it full. I cried out in despair, "Oh, why don't I live next door to a widow?" I wished mean things upon the garbage man with out any feeling in his cold, dark heart. And for the next week, I rationed the rubbish. If there was any way we could keep the trash, I required it.

Another week, I awakened again, in the early hours before dawn, remembered I had not taken out the trash, and again lugged our can down the driveway, hoping I beat the truck this time. When morning came, I told my husband in a smug voice that he needn't worry, I was pretty sure I had taken the trash out in the knick of time. He informed me that it was Wednesday.

One Thursday morning, when we had twelve family members visiting, I pleaded with one of them to please remind me to take out the trash. He did. The next morning. Friday morning. At 11 a.m.

One blessed Friday morning, I awakened with the familiar sinking feeling in my chest. My joy knew no bounds when I found my empty can on the street with a kind note from our garbage man about how he noticed we forgot and he wanted to help us out. I dropped to my knees in grateful prayer. And to express my gratitude, the following week, I left some baked goods for him.

Slowly, I have come to learn the lesson everyone else instinctively knows. I have to remember the garbage, or rot in it. Those are my only viable options.

I've had many, many weeks of alternating remembering and rotting. Have you ever rotted in waste? It's a terrible lot in life.

But this story has a happy ending.

Two wintery nights ago, Thursday night to be exact, as I was slipping off to sleep in the warm comfort of my bed. I thought of my garbage man, who would have to drive his truck through the icy, cold streets of town in just a few short hours. My compassion and love for this man grew, and I whispered a prayer for his safety and a blessing for his service. I meant every word. And I guess heaven accepted my change of heart and decided to lift the curse.

The next morning, I was casually informed by a different neighbor that if you forget to put your garbage out, you can always call and they will make a special trip--just for you. What rapture!

Maybe my destiny can change. Maybe Emerson was a smart guy after all. I can become the girl I've decided to be:

The One who has the garbage man's number on speed dial.

Hope for the Future

My friend asked for some advice on Facebook. She wanted to know how she could keep her resolution to feel peace when our current president and the state of the nation makes her feel so angry.

This was a timely question for her to pose--not because I have the answer, but because I need to figure that out, too. How in the world are we supposed to feel hope when so much of the world inspires despair?

I've given many deep thoughts about this--which are a rarity for me right now--and after many hours of speculation and mental exertion. . .I still don't have the answer. At least not fully, anyway.

But I found a large portion of the answer in my children.

Have you ever looked at a child? I mean really looked? I mean looked until you could see through the eyes into the shimmering majesty of the soul?

My house is full of children that I'm nurturing all day long, and still, I must confess that I don't do this enough.

When you really see into the soul of a child, you at once become humbled. You are taught.

There is no guile, no hypocrisy, no malice of any kind. No envy, no hatred, no lies.

There is only endless potential, shining joy, bright faith. Only truth, trust, belief, forgiveness. Only pure, unsullied love.

And luminous, lasting hope.

I'm betting that this nation will be preserved because of the faith and goodness of the world's children who know God now, and who will never forsake Him, no matter how difficult the battle may be.

I want to be counted among those soldiers--the ones who love God, the ones He will never forsake.

A Heavy Load

I've been thinking about the correlation between perspective and reality. Luckily, there is a very broad chasm between the two. The big picture is usually so much different than the little picture. But without the broader view, I wouldn't be able to face the narrow moments with joy--even enthusiasm.

I'll illustrate with the explanation of my laundry room. I actually love to do laundry because it's measurable improvement; that is, I can see that my hard work has actually made a difference. And so much of motherhood is the exact opposite of that.

When my fifth child was born, I had to come up with a new survival plan. What I've developed is: First attend to the loudest scream. Fix that. Then move to the next. The screaming cue is usually filled up-- not with children, but with the mundane tasks of the day.

Laundry is rarely at the top of that list, because with just two or three loads, most everyone can have clean underwear, pants, and a shirt. But to do all the laundry in the house at once (including sheets, blankets, coats, towels, etc.), nothing else can be screaming for my attention. And when does that ever happen?

Well, never, actually.

Over the Christmas holiday, I got really close. I had just two loads left. As the pile of clean clothes on the laundry room counter receded, a glimmer of perspective came into view once again.

There are two important reminders in my laundry room--its only decor.

First, there is a sign that says, "Families and laundry are eternal". This feels so true, even though it's not true about the laundry. (Eventually I'll die, and the laundry won't follow me. But it might be what kills me.)

Second, there is a picture by Walter Rane of the empty tomb. There is no Savior there--only the laundry that He left. I love this picture in that space because I am reminded that even laundry is sacred when its purpose is to nurture a ransomed life.

Combined, these two reminders give me glowing perspective, imbued with sparkling clean power--just what I need when I'm rinsing out the filth from the clothing of the people I love.

Then enters reality.

I hadn't seen these two items--the sign and the picture--for about four months because the piles of washed, folded laundry were always covering them. The articles in the piles changed, but their height rarely did. In all those months, I was missing the perspective that could have given me the joy I needed in my daily laundry battles.

So I've come up with a solution. Tonight, when the kids go to bed, I'll pull out a ladder and nail those puppies to the ceiling. Surely the laundry won't reach there.

Or, I'll throw in a live grenade, shut the door, and go in tomorrow morning with the Shop Vac and clean up the ashes.

Either way, I've found joy in the mundane. And that's what perspective is all about.

Happy New Year

Guys. I have some great news.

I haven't eaten ANY sugar. This. Whole. Year.

And I've exercised. Every. Single. Day.

Also, I've been patient. Loving. Faithful. Industrious. 

It's just the best year of my whole life. And it's going to get even better. Know how I know that?

Because while I'm typing this, there are only six minutes left until our homemade pizza rolls will be piping hot, fresh from the oven, ready to be consumed.

And there's a one-year-old who is kissing my shoulder with her puckered, blueberry yogurt-covered lips. Even the pizza rolls don't hold a candle to that.

And there's an unborn baby poking me, forcing me to pause and think about the sanctity and miracle of life. I know I can change my future. This year, I'm going to act like it.

And best of all, I've ushered in enough new years to know that I will most assuredly fail this year. But that doesn't matter; as long as I keep moving forward. Every day can be a new start. 

Here's to becoming my best self in the best year ever.

...So far.