Dear Kids,
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.
Tuesdays are, for the most part, my “home” days. I’ve been hitting the Rise and Shine spin class (at 5:15 am – eek!) so I can get home earlier and begin our homeschool day earlier. You know, that whole trying-to-make-the-best-use-of-our-time thing.
So this morn, I returned home at seven, showered up, loaded the dishwasher and was just about to line the boys up for the Pledge of Allegiance when the middle lad asked the question of the day.
“Will you play with me?”
Now I spend loads of time with my kids, so mom-guilt is pretty minimal around here, but you know what I don’t always love to do?
March is a huge month for birthdays in our family – there are nine among our extended family. When Miles turned three a couple weeks ago, we dusted off the courage-for-immunizations talk.
Last Friday my six-year-old stood before the calendar and exclaimed, “Mom! It’s your birthday!” Suddenly his expression turned somber. “I’m sorry to say it’s your turn to be brave for shots.”
We’re trying not to let the dread of shots put a damper on our month, or the outlandish election year coverage around every media corner. I have to say, this promise from my friend Daniele’s daughter sounds a bit like some of the mumbo jumbo I’ve been hearing on the news lately…
Abby, you might just have my vote come November.
No, seriously.
Enjoy the rest of these quotes submitted by the parents of some truly hilarious kiddos.
I’m honored that a version of my essay, Not My Child: Protecting My Son from a Sexual Predator, is featured today on the MOPS International blog, Hello, Dearest.
For a writer, there is nothing more affirming than when the words of your heart encourage and empower others.
I’m grateful to Leslie Means at Her View from Home for creating the platform for the original story, and to the editors at Hello, Dearest for keeping this important conversation alive.
Thank you. ❤
Read the essay at Hello, Dearest –>
*image via MOPS.org
We’re on the first leg of a new expedition here at the Harrison house, and though we can’t predict what’s around the bend, we’re confident this is the path for us.
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The first thing I did this morning was turn the calendar to February.
January was a bit of a doozy. We rang in the month with pukers, and rang it out with more of the same. That’s parenting, right? Don’t plan anything in the months between Christmas and Easter…
This round of sickness hit our house on Thursday morning. I’ll spare you the dirtiest of details, but let me just tell you that we’ve gone through a 12-pack of toilet paper in three days, and at the end of the day yesterday, there were nine pairs of underwear soaking in the sink. I broke out the dusty jug of Clorox, and if you know me, you know it takes a public health crisis for me to reach for the bleach.
It took five years of time and space before I resolved to write about our experiences with a now-convicted sex offender.
If ever I’ve hoped my friends would read and share a post, it’s now. It’s that important to me — and dare I suggest it should be that important to you, too?
If you leave a comment (and I always hope you will) please do so with compassion.
Thanks for visiting me here.
Stacy
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*Featured image via Canva
Greetings, friends!
Are you partied out? We are two days deep in holiday festivities, and now awaiting the arrival of out-of-town relatives so we can celebrate my aunt and the hubs’s late December birthdays.
The kids have been pretty awesome this last couple days. Minimal fighting. Mostly good manners. Fair display of gift-receiving gratitude.
Hello, Dearests!
I don’t know why I thought a few days before Christmas was a good time for this, but for whatever reason, I sat down at the computer and wrote a post about a time I was a big fat jerk. Click here to read all about it!
May your holidays be merry and jerk-free.
XOXO Stacy
My youngest son, Miles, is two-and-a-half — one of my favorite ages.
Kids this age crack me up as they transition from the baby stage to the kid stage. Miles has this staccato way of talking that makes me want to video-record every sentence.
Recently, our neighbors spotted a cougar on their trail camera, and we have all been more cautious in the woods and yard because of it. A few days ago, Miles asked me to carry him from the car to the house in the dark so the “Too-ger” wouldn’t get him.
Once inside, he puffed his chest up and said, “Guess what, Mama,” emphasizing every word, “If I ever see that too-ger, I’m going to Hulk-mash him and throw him in a bol-cano full of hot lava.”
REVISIONS OF GRANDEUR 