It is too perfect that Her View from Home published my newest post on a day where the boys and I had to go into SEVERAL public places on errands. There were whoopie cushions sounded at the dollar store, ice cream spilled THREE times at DQ, and bully stick butt-poking wars at the feed mill. If you don’t know what a bully stick is, you should probably Google that.
Read full post at Her View from Home –>
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My five-year-old son is going through a tough phase of intense fears, especially at nighttime. For the past two months, he has been coming into our bedroom at least three times a night, sometimes as many as ten, saying he had a nightmare. Most of the time, we don’t think he has even been to sleep yet, so by “nightmare” he means scary thoughts.
The phase has been hard on all of us. Anyone who has had a newborn baby who doesn’t sleep through the night can relate to the difficulty of functioning in a sleep-deprived state. My husband is transitioning into a new career, so he has had a lot of studying to do while still working his full-time job. I’m working two part-time jobs and homeschooling our three boys, so the days require a lot of planning, focus, and energy.
Needless to say, we’ve been drinking a lot of coffee. Continue reading
There was a time in our lives when mornings began with our three sons in front of the television.
They’re up early, always before six, and my husband and I prefer to wake slowly (for the first hour anyway). Turning on the TV resulted in kids sitting quietly while Chad and I sipped coffee and talked to one another about the things we were reading and thinking and planning.
At one point, I questioned the morning TV habit. The kids were always grumpy and whiny when it came time to turn it off and get ready for school or church. It seemed like that hour of television cast a shadow over our mornings.
What would happen, I wondered, if the screen remained black?
Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you
were a child
is singing still.
-From “What Can I Say” by Mary Oliver
This evening, at what should have been supper time, I felt called down to the river.
I stifled the urge for a few minutes, knowing there was laundry to be folded, lunch dishes piled beside the sink, books scattered across the dining room table from the day’s lessons.
But the murmur of the river is persistent. It drowns out the beep of the answering machine and the swoosh of the washing machine and the buzz of the neighbor’s weed whacker.
Something big happened last Sunday.
I was upstairs getting ready for church, hustling (and sweating) like always, knowing I had the solo job of getting myself and three young boys dressed (Where are your church shorts?) and presentable to the public (Whoa, let’s clip those eagle talons!) and making it to church on time to get them settled into kids’ class so I could lead my women’s group.
When I came downstairs after blow-drying my hair, I nearly fainted.
Continue reading at HVFH –>
*Featured image by Amy Vivio photography
Read more Personal Essay here –>
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Happy Friday, Friends! Start your weekend off right with a few laughs from these little ones…
Recently, I came home from the gym, and my three-year-old approached me, asking, “Can you talk like Yoda now, Mommy?”
Wondering if I’d understood him, I repeated, “Talk like Yoda?”
“Yeah! You were at ‘Yoda class,’” he answered, pointing to the rolled-up yoga mat hanging from my shoulder. “Can you talk like Yoda now?”
The lake was calm, except for our speedboat with you and your noisy brothers in tow. You requested more chips, then scoffed at my expected Eat-some-more-grapes-first reply.
“Is it time to swim yet?” you asked.
“We’re heading to the swimming hole now,” Daddy answered.
In the glare of late-day sun, I noticed something on the water ahead. Squinting, shielding my eyes, I called to your father to slow down.
“What is it? he asked.
“I can’t tell – some kind of birds.”
Just around the time my middle son turned five and morphed into a loving, funny little human capable of logic and reasoning, my youngest turned three.
I should have seen this coming – the “threenage” years. I should have prepared myself for the onslaught of destruction and nastiness and upheaval that comes with the threes.
Come on, Harrison! Get your head in the game. Ear plugs. Fresh tennies. Rubber gloves, stat! Continue reading
My boys are three, four, and seven at the moment, so it’s a zoo here a lot of days.
K, most days.
I must say, though, for every stubborn, sassy, screamy moment, there’s also a hysterical one…
Like my three-year-old staring in disgust at my Parmesan garlic Brussels sprouts and asking “WHY are you eating burnt FWOG PARTS?”
I cherish the construction-paper racecars and cut-out flowers you greeted me with this morning – charming expressions of your love and adoration. I’m sure you think it’s Mother’s Day and you owe me something, but honestly, I owe you something, too.