I’m just that good.

Five minute meals that produced CHEERS… From BOTH kids. Yes, you read that right. Even the boy cheered for dinner!

Kid cheers and lavish compliments, such as, “Mommy, this is the best dinner ever.” And, “Mommy, I LOVE this. You should make this more often!” And even, “Mommy, this is so good. Thank you for making us such delicious food.”

And no, I’m not even kidding.

These compliments are helpful, because yesterday after I picked them up from a friend’s house, I was told, “Mommy, she makes the best food. It’s always so creative. Like today, she put thinly sliced pickles on my tuna sandwich! I just love her food. You should try to make food like that sometime.”

So yeah, the compliments ego boosts came at just the right time…

I make the best dinners ever. Delicious food. And in five minutes.

Tonight’s Best Dinner Ever menu:

Burnt grilled cheese and a giant raw carrot.

Eat your heart out, Rachel Ray.

Yes, I had to spell EVERY word for her out loud. Slowly. Except for “Daddy” “love” and “Annalise Joy.”

Yes, I had to calm 3 near fits after she didn’t form the perfect “G” “K” and “5″.

Yes, I had to give her a time-out for banging the table and snapping “No! I DIDN’T!” when I said she had made a good letter R.

Yes, I got “in trouble” at various moments for: 1) Spelling too quickly. 2) Spelling too slowly. 3) Offering help. 4) Not helping enough. 5) Suggesting that yes, in fact, she can do it. 6) Suggesting where to put it when she was done.

And yes, she’s doing this on Mother’s Day. And she’s using my coffee card that I got for Teacher Appreciation week.

But seriously? MELT.

Stuff like this. It’s why I love being a mom. So really? It’s a Happy Mother’s Day to ME! Because I got myself such an awesome kid. (TWO awesome kids!)

And P.S. My favorite? The Es with lots of bars. Bless her.

Oh yes, and sorry, future Kindergarten teacher. I’ve tried to work on the lower case letters. But honestly? I don’t get paid enough. (Although, neither do you. But she’ll be nicer when you teach her.)

And so I blog again.

It’s just that when you’re not here, I don’t know what to do when one of the kids clogs the toilet with way too much TP so that it won’t even plunge. Yes, again. (Other toilet. Same kid.) Despite me plunging it 27 times to no avail, you were able to fix it last time. I don’t know your secret. Dish soap still doesn’t work for me.

And when you’re not here, I can’t get into the closet with the latch that locks that a certain (other) child shut while I was getting ready this morning. Thankfully, they weren’t in it this time. And thankfully, I was already dressed and didn’t need to get anything out of there. But tomorrow I will. You’d think there’d be at least an outfit or two in all the clothes on the floor, chair, and your side of the bed so that I could put together something, but you’d be wrong.

And even if there were something, it would likely be dirty. And my only drawers outside the closet are: PJs, sweats, undies/socks. At least I’ll be wearing clean underwear while I dress in a pajama top with yoga pants at work tomorrow. Or maybe I could call the fire department to come bust the door in with an axe. Do we own an axe? Because maybe I should just do it myself.

If you were here, I could just ask you that in person. Except I wouldn’t need to, because you would have gotten the closet door open by now. I just don’t know your trick.

In any case, since all the laundry bins are in the closet, nothing is getting washed. So really, I’m not in that much of a hurry. Except to have you home, of course.

Because when you’re home, we can get the mail. I don’t know when I last did that. You’re just always home – and so is the mail – by the time we walk in. So today, when I realized it was maybe something I should do, I couldn’t even find the keys to get it. Where do we keep the keys to the mailbox? This is something I should know.

It’s just that I’ve never had reason to think about it until I did today, right after I watched the garbage truck drive by and realized I maybe should have put the can out. But no worries, because I checked: The can was empty. It turns out all the garbage was still in the house. No one has emptied them since you’ve been gone. Well, I did empty them. But you know how I always set them aside and continue on with what I’m doing? The magic trash fairy never came by to take the bags to the outside garbage. Maybe she’s in New York with you.

So, I took them out myself. But now the outside can is pretty full and pick up day is another week away. Can you tell I need you home?

And also? The housecleaning. Well, you know how I already feel about that. You remember my definition of adulthood: Cleaning the kitchen even when no one else is around to see it. Going to bed at a reasonable hour when you have early morning responsibilities. NOT eating ice cream every day even though you can drive yourself to the store and have your very own money to buy it.

I’m proud to say that yesterday, I did get the kitchen and dining room clean. 67 minutes of tidying, and the job was done. Mopping to come later. And toys and books and shoes that were dumped in the living room to be put away later. But still, those rooms are pretty tidy now. And it only took 67 minutes.

It’s just that those rooms don’t match the rest of the house anymore.

And so, I decided I needed to put a little more effort into this adulthood thing. I didn’t eat ice cream today. Oops. I went to bed at a reasonable hour last night. Oops. I did make a dinner. A good, sit down, semi-healthy dinner. The kind I try to make when you’re here. Instead of cereal, I mean. (Did I tell you the kids have had cereal for more meals than I care to admit and one day we had smoothies for lunch? Only not fresh berry/green smoothies like I’ve made before. Sugary smoothies from Woods. With whip cream. And it actually wasn’t one day. It was two days. Sorry.)

But I did it tonight. A decent meal at the table. It was weird without you. And the problem is, I just don’t know how long is a reasonable amount of time to make the boy sit there and stare at his food before I let him get up having not eaten a thing. And I have no one here to discuss that with. And also? How many meals should I put that same meal in front of him before I finally throw it out? Because baked tilapia and corn and parmesan toast isn’t great re-heated over and over, you know. I like having your input on these things.

And yes, I know what you’d say about the tilapia. You don’t like it either. But the corn? He even got to pick the vegetable for dinner. He chose corn. Parenting 3-year-olds is hard all alone. They make no sense.

And the ironic thing about being a grown-up and making a good healthy dinner is this: it messes up that kitchen and dining room. Real bad. At least they match the rest of the house again.

And about that laundry? I thought maybe I should get some done. And since I can’t get to the laundry bins inside that locked closet, I washed the sheets. Yay for adult-like productivity! Only know what? It’s past bedtime now (darn you, adulthood), and our sheets are still in the dryer instead of on the bed. But why bother rushing to get them on the bed when I’m just going there alone? I might as well just sleep in the living room on the couch. I’ll have to turn the air conditioner off in there, though, because it sounds a bit like an injured cow. I’m just not sure what to do about that. You probably wouldn’t know, either, but at least we’d be not sure together.

I hope you don’t think I’m whining. Because really, I’ve had enough of that this past week. (Week? Wait. You’ve only been gone 4 days. It just seems like it’s been a week.)

How can – in just 4 days – the kids miss you more than they can express in words, but it comes out in their every behavior?

That’s really a rhetorical question, because you know what? It comes out in my behavior, too. It’s clear: We need Daddy!

But no, not whining. Please don’t think that. Just missing you bad.

And the truth is, we don’t want you to come home early. Because you’re doing important work. We’re so proud of you all, and we’re praying for you and the work you’re all doing.

And for those few minutes I did get to talk to you? My eyes filled with tears as you told me about that man who’s house some of you worked on. It’s hard to imagine losing so much and living with uncertainty for so long. I’m so thankful the team was able to help him.

And my eyes filled again, when you told me about the other man you’re all helping with a surprise tomorrow. How he just sat there while you all worked, near you all for so long after you all prayed with him. I think he might have just been overwhelmed, maybe, by the generosity of people serving. Or maybe? He just wants a glimpse of Jesus. I know that if I ever felt like I had a glimpse of him, I wouldn’t want to leave either. I might just sit there all day long to get one more glimpse. Maybe, just maybe, he saw something in all of you that caused him to stay and watch. In the midst of his poor and desperate circumstances, he could see the hands of Jesus at work and felt a little bit at peace. Maybe he just wanted to witness that a little longer. And to just be near.

So no, not whining. Because how could I when we are so blessed? When we have a place to live with dry walls and floor? A way to get from place to place? A life filled with people who love us and care for us? A Jesus who still loves when the kids whine and fight and argue and sass, and I am so incredibly unlovable.

Not whining. Just missing you. Bad. And noticing all you do when you’re here.

And also? Just a wee-bit sad we won’t see you on your birthday. But I know you’re right where you should be. In the palm of His hands is a good place to be.

So, Happy Birthday (tomorrow). I love you so bad.

And don’t worry about us. I think we can make it until Friday.

Moments like when your child gets his/her driver’s license. Expected, a good thing in many ways, but also terrifying and maybe a bit sad as your “baby” is nearing adulthood.

Moments like when your child moves out of the house to go to college. I cry just thinking about it, and mine are only 5 and 3.

Moments like the day your son or daughter comes home and says they’re getting married. Hopefully, you’re elated and this is all a very wonderful thing, even though it might be very emotional at the same time.

Tonight, I got to witness one such moment. One of those “I knew it would happen sooner or later, but how did this happen so fast?” moments.

Matt is still in New York helping with hurricane Sandy relief efforts.  He calls nightly, and while the kids miss him terribly, they haven’t been super chatty…

…until tonight. The second he called, Annalise asked to talk to him. Her conversation went pretty much like this (names have been removed to protect the innocent):

“Hi Daddy! I have a problem. THREE boys want to marry me. THREE. I knew about the other two, but one I just found out tonight that I’m his girlfriend. The first one is _boy#1_. Then _boy #2_ who ALWAYS says he’s gonna marry me – UGH – and tonight, I gave _boy #3_ a hug good-bye. But then he whispered in my ear, ‘You’re my girlfriend!‘ (giggle) So I don’t really know what to do… …Daddy, _boy#3_  is REALLY nice….”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   I get the phone. Matt says, “Really? THIS is the bomb she drops on me while I’m on the OTHER SIDE of the country?”

Hours later, I’m still laughing picturing his look of shock and total bewilderment.

Prayers appreciated. Looks like Matt is gonna need them.

I watched the news and read the headlines and saw the pictures sent around social media. My heart ached and tears flowed for the overwhelming loss and mind-boggling mess.

And then, my life went on.

But long after the waters rose and the winds came and the towns were devastated, the damage is still being repaired. Scars everywhere.

Rebuilding takes time.

Long after the storm ended, 17 willing hearts from a church in the small town of Custer, flew to the devastation to help with the relief efforts. Just one group of many who come, work, and go home while another group arrives to step in where they left off. Because even so long after, there is still much work to do.

People, being the hands and feet of Jesus. Sacrificing. Working. Serving. Bringing hope. Being love.

Long after the storm has ended and my life has long since moved on, help and hope still come.

Long after God promised Abram a child, Sarah gave birth to Isaac. And her heart rejoiced as she laughed.

Rejoicing comes after the heartache.

And long after that, another Son was born. A Son that would bring Light to the dark and stormy world. A rescuer.

Because a loving God doesn’t leave us in the dark, in the midst of the storm. A loving God sends a rescuer. A loving God sends Light.

For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. ~ Colossians 1:13-14

Long after aching loss, broken hearts, wild anger, God tells his story of redemption.

Long after the boy was sick, the scars remain, telling the story of God’s love and faithfulness, and of healing. Because God restores.

And I’m learning… Long after our storms, our scars remain. And they tell our story.

Long after the son left his father and squandered his riches, he returned. And he was reconciled to his father. And his father rejoiced for the life that was once lost, but now was found.

And when parents teach and listen and love and pour Truth into their children and pray over them and weep for them and hold them tight while letting them go, it sometimes isn’t until long after that they finally see the fruits of their labor, the work of the Lord in the heart of their grown child.

And sometimes, they don’t see it at all. And they feel like the storm is raging on and on. And all they can do is pray.

But that is no small thing, to pray to the Rescuer, the Redeemer, who can calm any wave and still any storm.

And even while it may still rage, he still holds you in the palm of his hand.

So what’s your long after story? Is it one of redemption? Reconciliation? Rebuilding and restoring? What’s your rescue story? And what are your scars that tell this story, God’s story?

Did rejoicing come after your storm?

Or are you still in the storm, in the darkness, looking for a way a way out?

Just remember, after the storm has ended, the sun shines again. It always does. And your scars will be your story.

*Sandy Relief team, you are in my prayers as you are the hands and feet of Jesus, bringing hope and being love.

It’s 8AM. We’ve already had enough drama to fill several days. My children. They were not blessed with calm, unruffled, phlegmaticalness. (Yes, it’s a word.) Bless them.

Who am I kidding? Bless ME. And give us grace on this very dramatic average Wednesday. We could use a heap.

But oh how I love these dramatic littles. Their drama (sometimes) brings me much laughter… resulting in further drama. Apparently, I’m not allowed to laugh. Or at least not at them.

So just a couple examples of the average Wednesday drama:

Child 1, while discussing the possibility of doing May-Day flower deliveries, throws herself on the bed in a heap of tears. Because HOW DARE WE leave flowers WITHOUT SAYING HELLO. When I let her know that is just exactly the point – to surprise people who are expecting to see someONE, but just see flowers – she only cried harder. Because that just CAN. NOT. HAPPEN. Ever. “Mom! I can’t NOT say hello when I am at someone’s house that I just love so much! (sob) I mean, how COULD I???? (sob sob, loudly sob)”

Child 2, while getting his ginormous claws clipped after ripping holes in my skin by accident, announces in his most dramatic tone with dramatic facial expressions and dramatic one-handed-motions (the other was being clipped), “MOM. You HAFTA stop. dis. now. Because I am SO DONE getting my nails cut. I have stuff ta do.” Of course you do, 3 year old. Just cutting me to shreds isn’t on the to-do list today.

Child 1, while playing (dramatically, of course. Because all her play is like a stage production), suddenly bursts into tears again, “MOM! I just don’t understand… WHY would you want me to ring the doorbell and RUN AWAY from someone I love so much? (sobs and more sobs)” Oh dear. We’re still on this. It’s now a thing. Bless her.

Child 2, after I got him dressed and walked out of the room unintentionally leaving him alone, he sings – yes sings (and rather well, I might add) - this song from Les Miserables (“Castle on a Cloud”)… “Please do not leave me on my own. Not in da darkness by myself…”

- Let me pause here. Because what just-turned-three-year-old ON EARTH sings songs from Broadway productions to communicate to their mother just exactly what is happening? Mine. MY just-turned-three-year-old does this. Yes. We are dramatic in this house. -

So then I post my comment on Facebook. The one above. A few kind friends post encouraging words. And then this conversation happens:

• Paul Kuzina Love you Holly–your honesty is refreshing, and you will glean much prayer support as a result of it. Holding you up in prayer—Dad
• Holly Priestman ^And dad, were you not totally and completely PROUD that I used such a BIG word? Phlegmaticalness. That’s like a dozen syllables or something. I MUST be your child.
• Paul Kuzina I was wondering if it actually IS a word!
• Holly Priestman Ummmm…. YES. Although FB doesn’t seem to think so. Whatever. Look it up.
  (I have waited YEARS to be able to tell you that! YEARS!)
• Holly Priestman ^Probably even decades. Because I am officially THAT old.
• Paul Kuzina I don’t own a Funk and Wagnall’s. Sorry! (Mom did that to me! She mocked my predisposition to loquaciousness, and this is the result!)
• Holly Priestman Funk and Wagnall’s? You might be dating yourself. I’m not certain of that, since I don’t know what it is, but I’m guessing so…. Try this new thing called GOOGLE, dad. It’s even better than old Funk.
  And you just trumped me. Because now I have to look up “loquaciousness.” Whatever.
• Paul Kuzina Okay, I apologize for ever doubting my teacher daughter. “Phlegmaticalness” is, indeed, a word. (Loquaciousness” is also, I might add.)
• Paul Kuzina Syn: verbosity, garrulous, logorrhea, prolixity, etc.
• Paul Kuzina I personally think “logorrhea” is a good one. That sounds a lot like “diarrhea” of the mouth.
• Marie Scanlon HAHAHAHAHAHA! I love this convo. I love words!
• Paul Kuzina And one last thing…how dated do you honestly think I am, Holly? I just used Google to verify those words. So there! Your old man isn’t too archaic!
• Paul Kuzina BUH-bye!
• Holly Priestman I HATE it when dad says a big word that I don’t understand and ask him to define, only to get a string of words that I also mostly don’t know. Dad, you WOULD like logorrhea. (FB doesn’t think it’s a word either. Underlined in red.) I expect it to come up in conversation soon…
• Holly Priestman My FAVORITE part of this entire conversation: The man who uses the word “loquaciousness” without having to look it up, then leaves the conversation with the “word” BUH-bye.
  I have absolutely NO IDEA where my kids get their dramatic flair.

Dramatic flair? Yes. And maybe also his flair for words. One of my favorite words they say is “butcept.” They use it regularly…

“I LOVE this doll, butcept it’s hard to change her clothes.”

“Mommy, you look really nice, butcept you should probably fix your hair!” Um, thanks.

And so I end with this:

My life is a bit dramatic. Of the 3 and 5 year old kind. It’s the best kind. I so love those dramatic littles (and their just-a-wee-bit-dramatic grandpa who makes me laugh in his wordy drama all the time.)

And maybe, just maybe, I inherited a bit of said drama. And maybe even dumped it by the bucketloads into these children I birthed.

We reap what we sow.

Butcept I am so thankful. Their drama brings so much joy and entertainment. I am blessed.

Now, on with this dramatic Wednesday…

I guess this originated from Mr. Rogers: “When I was a boy and would see scary things on the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’…”

Mr. Rogers was a wise man. A wise man who – it appears – was raised by a wise woman.

Find the helpers. Because we can’t let fear of one rob us of our faith in others.

There are so many helpers, supporters, sympathetic mourners.

Because people care. They grieve. They are there… to support, help, sacrifice. They are near to the broken-hearted, to comfort. They redeem this tragedy by bringing good from it, by restoring hope, joy, peace.

They LOVE.

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And isn’t that just like our God? Just exactly what the Bible says about Him?

He cares.

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” ~ 1 Peter 5:7

He grieves.

“In all their suffering he also suffered…” ~ Isaiah 63:9 NLT.

Because a Father grieves for the pain his child feels.

He is there.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God is with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.” ~Deuteronomy 31:6

He is near to the broken-hearted. He comforts.

“The Lord is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” ~ Psalm 34:18

He redeems and restores.

“Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.” ~ Psalm 130:7 

He is the God of hope, who can fill you with all hope, peace, and joy… if you just trust in Him! (Romans 15:13)

And He loves. Oh, how He loves!

“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” ~ Romans 8:38-39.

“I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness…” ~ Jeremiah 31:3

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And we were made in His image. (Genesis 1:27)

These people, the helpers. Look for them. In Boston, and all over. They are giving us a glimpse of our God, our Helper. “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in times of trouble.” ~ Psalm 46:1

Look for the helpers… And see an image of a living God, full of love.

I’m only 34. I know that isn’t old. My point was, when will I EVER feel like my age? I still consider myself “just out of high school” and am shocked nearly every time I realize just how long I’ve been just out of high school.

Annalise recently attended a birthday party/tea party for her dear friend. It was her first “drop off” party…the kind where parents don’t stay. On the way, she asked if I was going to come in. “Because you don’t need to, Mom. I’m just fine going in, you know.”

After the party, she – with as much of a mature voice and cool-as-a-cucumber attitude as she could muster – was telling me all about the party. They got their hair done, nails done, and did fancy tea-party things. I listened to her relay all the details that she was clearly so excited about with as little visible emotion as possible. I assume because she wanted to appear as grown-up as she could.

And apparently us grown-ups aren’t too excitable.

Details now all shared, we sat quiet while heading to our next destination. Suddenly, she breaks the silence, “Mommy? I mean, Mom? Am I an adult yet? Because after going to Abbi’s party and with my nails done like this, I feel like an adult.”

I refrained from reminding her of an earlier fit over a My Little Pony or her stomping episode over having to share, neither of which seemed very grown-upish. Instead I decided to not crush her spirits and gently told her that no, she wasn’t yet an adult.  Her response: “But I probably will be soon, right? Because it sure feels like I already am.”

Today, I had an epiphany: All through childhood, we think we’re older, we feel older, and CAN’T WAIT to be older. Then we get past the early 20s and we think we’re younger, feel younger, and sometimes WISH WE WERE younger. It’s like our whole life, from 5 to 85, we think we’re 22.

Apparently, 22 is where it’s at. Although, I seriously hope not.

I Googled 22-year-old celebrities and found lists of them. Know how many names I knew? NONE. I’m too old to know 22. But as a friend pointed out in her FB post, I’m also too immature for wrinkles and grey hair.

And therein lies the irony of my life… I’m too old, but yet too immature.

Update: My friend Polly read this and said it even better: “I’m too old to be immature and yet too immature to be old.” Perfect. Who’s with us?

Well, once I can remember how old I am, it does.

This morning was one of those mornings. Today was a family day. No work. No computers. No cameras. Just me, the Hubs, and the kids. We were headed to the Pacific Science Center.

I remember going there as a kid. I remember some of the same exhibits (Touching the sea life? Oh yes. Loved it.) I remember family days and car games and all the stuff we were going to be doing today.

And as I was getting ready and remembering all these things, I started to feel old. The kind of old that starts with this thinking, Who allows young people like me to be a parent??? Don’t they know I’m not ready for that? Then changes to, Oh wait. I’m not young. I’m in my thirties. I remember my parents being in their thirties.

Am I the only one? The only one that remembers things from their childhood and feels O-L-D when observing said things being repeated in their kids’ lives? The only one that has these moments of panic where I realize I’m not just out of high school? But then begins to do the math and suddenly realizes I’ve been out of high school longer than all the years I was ever in school… including pre-school, but excluding college – or at least some of college.

Then this conversation happens in my head EVERY. SINGLE. TIME: Ok. So I’m 33… No wait… I’m not 33…I’m thirty – …34… No wait… I was born in ’78. It’s 199-… NO WAIT, it’s 20–… what year is it, dangit??? Am I that old?… Calm down, old fogey…It’s 2013… That makes me… 33… no wait… I’m 35… no wait… I’ll be 35 when my birthday comes this year… HOLY CRAP. I’M ALMOST 35… I remember when my parents were 35!”

(Funny thing is, I’ve had that same conversation in my head for a few years now. And I went an entire year believing I was 33, only to discover at my birthday that I, in fact, was turning 33. Which was a great birthday present to myself – to not grow another year older. And now, I still think I’m 33. That would make me 33 for 3 years and running…)

Anyway, this conversation that I have regularly in my head gets me thinking (once I figure out exactly how old I am) about what time I have (or don’t have) left. It usually goes something like this:

So, I’m 34. If I live this long 2 more times, I’ll be 112. Not gonna happen. So my life is more than 1/3 over. If I live this long just one more time, I’ll be 68. That’s likely and doesn’t actually sound too old. So hopefully, my life isn’t yet 1/2 over. Which means, my life is more than 1/3 over, but not quite 1/2 over. 2/5 over? That would mean I’d live to be 85. Maybe. Give or take a few (but not too many.) So I still have 3/5 of my life to live. Not too late to make some changes…

This morning, this thought was interrupted right about then by the sounds of children fighting, reminding me that however long I live, I have a job to do now. Which makes me feel just a little bit younger.

The family day was great. The science center was the most crowded I’ve ever seen, but it was still enjoyable. Look at me! I’m not a grumpy old lady! We stopped for dinner on the way home. At the noisy restaurant, we saw a man about in his 60s working with the hostess at finding the perfect table for himself. He apparently requested a quieter area, to which she replied, “I’m sorry. We don’t have an area designated for quiet dining.” And then she sat him directly behind our booth. A recipe for disaster, if you ask me. (Maybe she planned it that way. Just to annoy him for his snooty request.) And despite Annalise’s bumping the back of the booth (also his back of booth), he never once asked us to quiet down or stop jiggling his seat. So even though the waitress spilled Matt’s coffee and dropped a knife on Jacob and brought Matt the wrong entree (he ate it anyway, also a very “not-old” thing to do), and even though Jacob dropped the ice cream right off his spoon six times – three of those times right onto my lap – I’d consider the dinner a success. And I left feeling sorta young again. And sticky. Young and sticky.

Now home, I was no longer thinking about age but was just enjoying reflecting on the moments of quality family time that filled my heart throughout the day. I overheard Jacob talking to his daddy, who was helping him get his PJs on…

“Daddy, I’m starting to get bigger! Den I’m gonna get big… and big… and Big.. and BIG… and BIG. And den, I’m gonna be bigger den Mommy one day! And den I’m gonna pick her up, and put her to bed, and get her all tuckied in. Wight, Daddy? Wight?”

Which, of course, made me teary, and also reminded me of this book:

Which also makes me cry.

And I remember this book making my mom and my Auntie Jill and Trish cry.

Another childhood memory I’m now living out as an adult…

…And so now I feel old again.

First, two is where it’s at. It rocks. Totally.

Secondly, they must have made up this term before they hit the threes. That is where the parenting challenges really kick in. (Says the mom of two kids under 6. Just shush. I don’t even want to hear it.)

On days like today, when the “threes” are rapidly approaching (we’re a mere 25 sleeps away), the “threes” make random appearances. I’m assuming to test the waters. And also to find our parenting weaknesses so they can be better equipped when they – the threes – are officially “a thing.”

Let me just give you a sneak peek into this very average day…

7 a.m. The boy awakes. This always happens simultaneously with, “The boy is raring to go” and “The boy’s mouth begins to move, not to stop until nap time… or much, much later.” I get to spend some quality time snuggling and reading with my sweet – and extremely chatty – two-year-old.

8:45 a.m. The girl awakes. This only happens because her brother and/or the dog has disrupted her sleep so much that she has no other choice but to drag out of bed to find a quieter location in which to continue her rest and – if absolutely necessary – wake up. S-L-O-W-L-Y.

9:15 a.m. Preparing Breakfast. (It’s Spring Break. I can serve it when I want. So what if we’ve been up over 2 hours already and are supposed to be somewhere at 10?) Greek yogurt, toast, carrot sticks, and an egg for the girl. She wants butter on her toast. He always gets peanut butter, because: 1) He’ll eat it. 2) It’s at least some protein. And 3) He’ll eat it. This time, he requests “the other butter.” I ask him 43 more times which butter he wants, just to be sure. Each and every time, he wants “the other butter.” Still not believing he actually wants regular butter, I carry the butter container and PB jar over and have him touch the one he wants. He picks regular butter. So be it.

9:18 a.m. Breakfast now in front of the kids, the “threes” make their first appearance. The boy looks at his plate and gasps. “But! But! I didn’t want that kind of butter!” Typically, this results in the removal of his plate, but I give him a second chance. (I was feeling particularly gracious, since he had to wait so long before I made breakfast. And also because we had to leave in exactly 32 minutes. No time to waste.) He eats his yogurt quietly (I assume to avoid losing it) then throws a fit about the kind of butter on his toast. While I know better – totally and completely know better – I engage in a discussion of “reason” with the boy about his toast, the butter, and why it is he got that kind and should eat it.

9:20 a.m. The “threes” are in full force. Demanding. Throwing fits. Refusing. Sassing. Stomping. Glaring. “Humph”ing.

It’s not even 9:30 and my patience is gone. So is, by the way, the rest of his breakfast. Not permanently, mind you. It will return when he is hungry again.

Which happened about 30 minutes later when we were supposed to be walking out the door. Thankfully, the “sweet twos” returned by then, and he ate his toast without complaint.

The rest of the day was fairly typical. Siblings playing nicely. Sibling rivalry. Some good parenting moments. Some parenting fails. Some random appearances of “irrational threes” mixed in with the sweet twos. And the “grown-up fives” (which are occurring ever more frequently) outnumbering the “selfish fives.”

And then a few situations came up that caused some stress for Matt and I. Don’t worry, all is well. But the added stress resulted in: a few extra parenting fails, arguments (which caused more stress), unkind tones (my own), and an overall down mood for me.

To avoid the downward spiral this “overall down mood” can often cause, the kids and I set out on a walk to the library. The boy rode his bike. The girl and I walked. I carried about 20 books (no joke) in a backpack.

The library is 1.5 miles away. I didn’t really think much of it, but that was probably a bit of a stretch for a 2 year old who just learned to ride. Yet, he was happy. And my girl, who had some heart-struggles today, too, was content the whole way.

It was nice, the walk. Quiet talk. Happy sounds. And a chance for me to reflect on the day…

This day. Not terrible. Not great. Slightly-below-average-with-no-major-life-stresses kind of day.

Yet, lots of mistakes. I made them. Matt made them. The kids made them. Avoidable and Regrettable.

But…

After today, (and every day), Thank you, Jesus.

Because all my mistakes? Yes, avoidable. And yes, regrettable. But also? Forgivable.

All this to say..

This day, and days like today… they make me realize just how much I need a Savior.

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And Thank God for this:

“The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love…” ~ Psalm 103:8