Ok, so maybe he had a chocolate peanut butter cup for breakfast. And maybe we all slept in well past the point of no return. And maybe the children didn't brush their teeth before school. And maybe the wee lad threw himself down in a fit in front of the door, refusing to put on jacket (or socks, or shoes). And maybe I yelled. A lot...
Read moreOn (not yet) moving, scraps and all
I'm smack dab in the middle of a bath fight. A wet and naked three year old sits on me, the laptop precariously balances in my left hand, and a screaming match is being had over two nearly identical yellow cars.
Just a typical Wednesday night with the wee three...
We appear to be in a season of non-movement. Things are happening, to be sure, but it feels like we're frozen here in time while the rest of the world chugs right on along without us.
Read moreUntil change finds me
I read her post today, and she poses a question that hurts and hopes in equal measure:
What does one do with all these half-painted dreams?
I wish I knew.
I put mine in a box, stored high on a shelf in our closet, visiting infrequently, afraid to look in. I see them in maps and pictures, displayed in a ratty apartment I can't wait to break free from. They call out to me, taunt me, frustrate me...
"You're not there yet," they say.
I look to those clouds of change, after a hot and dry and unbearable summer, bringing in wind from a hurricane, dying down in our plains. Rain half-heartedly falls in desperate spits.
"Go, please go," they say.
What does one do with all these half-painted dreams? I pray, I sing songs (slow, tearful notes of hope), I go to the grocery store, I fold laundry and pick up legos and make my bed. Every day... Until change finds me.
