What if I headed straight into the clump of trees? (image from usnews.com)
When I left full-time employment seven months ago to stay home with my girls (ages 3.5 and 1.5 now) I knew I’d return to the workplace…someday. I even knew it might not last much more than six months, since our budget is tight. And while we’re very careful (aka stingy) with our money, the “little dips” into our savings are starting to add up. More than I realized. At this point, we’d have to make some major life changes. We’re moving forward with a vehicle downgrade, but selling our house is out of the question. We love our little homestead, and if staying here means me bringing home some bacon, then so be it.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re not in dire straights, but we …
Is your dream written in washable or permanent marker? (image from themotherhood.com)
Do you have a dream? Have you lived it? Have you tried? Have you had a taste only to have it slip through your fingers? Or was it ripped from your grasp?
How far did you chase that dream? Or did you pursue at all? Did you let it go, watch it ride into the sunset? Or did you follow with reckless abandon, sacrificing your money, your time, your life? If God has opened a window. how do we know if it’s closed, or just momentarily obscured? Or how do we know God opened that window at all?
Have you let your dream go, and only lived to regret it? Or have you watched your dream grow? All of us want the American dream, or some dream, …
They make me ugly-face laugh. And that’s a beautiful thing.
There are these girls I hang out with. No, not the one with the diaper and the one who begs me for just “one more” piece of Halloween candy that’s left in the bucket. The other girls. The grown ones. The ones I’ve grown up with, and am growing mature with. Although our lives are all slight variations of each other’s, we all live in the same town. We go to the same gas station. The same grocery store. The same veterinarian. But we have more than that in common.
Every month or so, we get together for a girls’ night out. We head the big city, all crammed in a crew cab truck. We pamper. Sometimes with pedicures, last night it was with massages. We eat. …
I wish I would have. Years ago. (image from: http://shannamurray.bigcartel.com)
Brave.
It’s a word I’ve been called over and over again because I chose to come out of the shadows and tell Eric’s story. My story. The dark one.
But I am not brave.
Brave would have been standing by my parents’ side when the held up protest signs outside of the Cathedral. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been attending all of the trials, hearings and facing his perpetrator. Looking him in the eye. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been telling this story years ago, not more than 12 years after the fact. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been shaking the Bishop’s hand, holding it tightly, and giving him a piece of my mind for orchestrating the cover up. But I didn’t.
I am not brave. I am like …
Best part about this cinnamon roll? Zero Weight Watchers points.
I can’t right now, I have to make lunch.
I can’t right now, I have to change sister’s diaper.
I can’t right now, I have to clean up the mess from lunch.
I can’t right now, I have to do a little work on the computer.
I can’t right now, I have to go to the bathroom.
I can’t right now, I have to fold laundry.
I can’t right now, (insert reason here).
These were all of the responses I gave to my daughter’s persistent question, “Mom, can you play house with me?,” before I gave an exasperated “OK.”
Her eyes lit up. “Good! I made you lunch in the toy room, come see!” I trudged up the stairs, annoyed that the baby wasn’t napping, exhausted from being up with the baby three times the …
I thought I had done a good job of prepping my preschooler for what she might see Halloween night. Ghosts, werewolves, witches, other blood-dripping beings. We’d read books (Happy Halloween Little Critter), and she’s particularly fascinated with Monsters vs. Aliens, so I didn’t think much would phase her. She is only three, but she’s a smart cookie. I explained that these things weren’t real, and that there were just normal kids underneath those costumes. I was more worried about my toddler. She developed a fear of jack-o-lanterns about a week ago, and what do you know, that’s what she was dressed as. I was waiting for her to look down, or see a mirror, and freak out.
This is a great book for prepping little trick-or-treaters, except it doesn’t include the super-scary Scream mask. …