I’ve got enough negative words in my own head about myself. I don’t need more. You don’t need more. We’re stuck in an ugly, losing game sometimes. Heckled by our own hearts.
This past week, I reached an age I’ve been dreading. No, it’s not 50. But I’ve spent months avoiding thinking about this birthday, so there
I remember reading the list in the What to Expect Book carefully and following every detail. Like I was making a lemon meringue pie. Or replacing the water pump in a car. I had never washed a newborn before! I needed detailed instructions.
May Your unfailing love be with us Lord, even as we put our hope in You. Psalm 33:22
Still, the beautiful ideal to me is a hard but simple farm life and a dining room table school. But that’s not my life at all . . .
I think every mama on this Monday morning will say a prayer. Whether she believes in God or not. Because someone has to watch them. Someone, please.
What is it about sitting in the presence of someone cooking a fresh meal that soothes?
If anyone anywhere very desperately needed to take her own advice, it would be me.
One day, my memory will be even worse. And I will be the lady with the cats and the books and the unruly garden, living on spinach dip and tortilla chips and feeding Dave TV dinners.
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