A new, more focused endeavor.

For those who are wondering where the posts went, I have been spending lots of time HERE:
http://www.themudpiemakers.com/

I will continue posting non-mommy related and more personal posts on this blog, but I am probably going to spend the majority of my time on this new endeavor, at least for now. Thanks for checking it out!

Seeing Spring, Again.

Today I was a rodeo horse, a catapult, a trampoline, a lifeguard, a cook, a librarian, and a merry maid. 

Spring is here. It is impossible to look out the window or drive down the road or heaven forbid embrace the pollen and actually sit on the deck without feeling hopeful and maybe even smiling a little. It is time to open the windows and encourage the kids to discover things; it is time to allow dirt under nails and in hair, to look the other way when they run with sticks and water daddy's flowers with a 2 liter squirt gun.

This time of year always brings me back to the art of seeing. This is a topic that has been exhausted by writers and artists since the beginning of time. For me, I first really became aware of seeing when I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard in college. She devotes an entire essay to the art of seeing—and if you didn't know I am a big Annie Dillard fan, now you do.

I have noticed that my ability to see things changes with my surroundings, my circumstances, and the way the wind is blowing on any given day. When I was studying writing, I was constantly on the lookout for writing material. I needed fresh ideas to fulfill assignments and I saw everything through the lens of a writer. In grad school I found myself suddenly in paradise—taking only art classes: painting, drawing, printmaking. My focus shifted to the endless possibilities of art projects all around me in nature, people, everything. I remember being very aware of colors. I was constantly looking at shadows as much as light; I was on the lookout for light sources and I would squint my eyes to frame in every potential masterpiece.

I was thinking about those days recently and realizing how little time I have to be aware of shadows and light sources, but I'm very aware of the dirt on my baseboards and the old rice grains crusted to the tile on my kitchen floor. Mommy eyes have temporarily replaced these lenses, and it is a wonderful thing. However, I wonder if I incorporated a little more artist into my vision, would we all benefit?

We all know how kids see the world. Their vision is pretty selfish, but at the same time completely uninhibited and spontaneous. They begin the day hopeful and excited to see what adventures they can discover, not drowning themselves in coffee and bothered by having to come up with yet another meal that will please three picky little mouths.

It is easy to be hopeful in the Spring. When the purple irises and the white daffodils are blooming I know that it has happened again; we made it through winter after all and the green and blue is back in full force. The faithful return of blooms helps me combine mommy eyes with artist eyes; it is easier to give suggestions on how to build a better tree fort and push higher in swings and ignore the sand that is tracked in from the sand box.

Tonight as I was brushing my teeth I glanced in the mirror. I saw my sun burnt shoulders and my pink nose. But as I looked more closely I saw lines and dots scattered across the pink—pale white skin dots, a map across my arms and face. I laughed because they are the familiar markings of a mother who has applied sunscreen to multiple kids. A fingerprint on my cheek, a stray streak down the length of my arm. Is this the way it goes? Hopefully I can keep the vision of fresh Spring blooms, crisp and sweet, and let my eyes be more worshipful and loving and perhaps a little less exhaustingly practical.

"But there is another kind of seeing that involves letting go. When I see this way I sway transfixed and emptied. The difference between the two ways of seeing is the difference between walking with and without a camera. When I walk with a camera, I walk from shot to shot, reading the light on a calibrated meter. When I walk without a camera, my own shutter opens, and the moment's light prints on my own silver gut. When I see this second way I am above all an unscrupulous observer."

~Annie Dillard's essay on Seeing from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Van Surfing = Redneck Pruning

Image of the day:

Visualize me driving the van "slowly" across our back yard this afternoon while Steve used his 8 ft. Stihl pruner to trim the tops off our gigantic bushes. Is it safe to surf on a moving vehicle? Is it safe to surf on a moving vehicle with an 8 ft. moving blade? Probably not. It's a good thing most of our neighbors have goats and there is no such thing as H.O.A. in this "neighborhood." 
We are a match made in redneck heaven.

A Strong Prescription for Sitting Tight, and a Fantastic Mud Soup Recipe.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon swinging the baby beneath a tree, watching the kids make splashy mud soup with grass seasoning and rock sprinkles.

Last week I learned a lot about waiting. Half of our little family spent last weekend sick and coughing. The baby had been on antibiotics since Friday but was still lethargic, feverish and just not right. Something was wrong but the Doctor couldn't get us in for an appointment until Tuesday afternoon. My parents had arrived for a spring break visit and were helping us dose out cough syrup, Vick's Vapor rub and hugs on the couch.

On top of all the blah sickly-ness, I had chosen to plead a traffic ticket in court on Tuesday morning in hopes of lowering my $130 fine. I didn't know what I had gotten myself into, but thankfully my dad chose to keep me company and we arrived at our tiny local municipal courtroom ten minutes before 9 a.m.  The courtroom was filled with ragamuffins of all shapes and sizes and varying levels of appropriate courtroom attire. I was thankful for my stuffy nose and my ever-present bottle of hand sanitizer. The courtroom quickly filled with 50 other criminals and traffic-violators, and when I attempted to avoid the wait and pay the clerk to return home to my sick baby they said it was too late. I was told to sit and wait my turn, and thus the week began.

It was obvious after several minutes of “How do you plead?” and “Yes Your honor!” that I would not be quickly leaving after 10-15 minutes as I had hoped. As the dronings of shop-lifters and trespassers echoed around me and the accusations by Officer Lovely (yes, Officer Lovely!) flew, minutes slowly turned to hours. My feet fell asleep and tingled and by the time I spent 90 seconds in front of the judge, the courtroom was almost empty and morning was over. I debated whether or not my time in a courtroom was worth the $50 fine reduction as we hurried home to check on the poor baby.

Mason was very sick. He was pale, feverish and had mostly slept all morning. I held him as we waited to leave for our appointment with the doctor. I held him in the waiting room and I held him as they administered several ineffective breathing treatments. I watched as Oxygen numbers didn't go up enough and as nurses murmured about bad skin coloring and a baby gasping for air. I held him when the doctor eventually told me Mason was being admitted to Children's Hospital and I held him while we waited for our paperwork and further instructions.

Steve joined us and we drove to the hospital where we held the limp baby and filled out more paperwork. We waited together in another sterile-smelling room with people in wheelchairs and more people who didn't smell the greatest and other people who gave us encouraging smiles. It was 5pm and I'd spent most of the day in strange rooms with complete strangers and we held Mason and waited for his room to be ready.

When we finally walked down the hall and took the elevator to the 5^th floor and ended up in a depressing little room with a metal hospital bed shaped more like a cage than a crib we braced ourselves for more waiting. 

And the limp baby couldn't lift up his head anymore; we waited for nurses who were sorting through instructions and paperwork and the Oxygen levels plummeted again. In a short time the baby's 21 pound body was pierced with needles until the IV was in place, blood was drawn, sweet Oxygen was flowing into his nose and beeping monitors were ready to alert us when he needed help. Mason's Xrays came back and they were clear and we finally had dinner at 8:30 while the baby wheezed in a deep sleep.

For the next three days I did not leave the hospital. I didn't go home and I rarely left the tiny room with the cage-crib and monitors. Mason would have a good hour and two bad hours; he slept and I held him in the chair and I quickly got tired of watching commercials on the tiny hospital TV. My sleepy eyes burned and when the kind visitors left I found myself sitting alone, usually holding the baby and waiting. My other kids were home safely. Steve was in Chicago for work until Sunday. I was alone with Mason and I was too tired to do anything but sit in a chair and wait.

I am normally trying to do ten things at once in half the time allotted. When I had nothing better to do than sit and hold my sick baby, when I had no other place to be than a sterile room alone with my heavy thoughts, I inevitably did some sluggish soul-searching.

As I have said before, I am not a patient person, and I know these hurdles are intentional. C.S. Lewis wrote, “I am sure God keeps no one waiting unless that is good for us to wait.” As I stared at a sleeping baby with Oxygen tubes in his nose, while I listened to the suffering of babies crying two doors down, I was again reminded that the truly important things had once again slipped off my radar.

~~

Mason began to improve on Thursday and by Friday we knew we would be going home. It was time to head back to the simple demands of life that always add up so quickly until I allow them to become smotheringly overwhelming. The noise of errands and cooking and cleaning and washing food out of my hair and wearing something other than flannel pajama pants until noon.

The baby was ready and we buckled into the car—exhausted but also rested. Once again I'd been scooped up by the collar and shaken a few times until the meaningless things fell out. I wonder how long it will take me to convince myself I need them all back, tucked deep into my many, many pockets?

Once again it was a Saturday morning and after a week of cold, dreary rain the sun had finally decided to come out. Mason had slept peacefully at home—he was weak, but smiling and glad to be home. My sweet baby was used to me holding him, and I think I will enjoy it while it lasts and just hold him. The other stuff can wait. 

We sat on the swing for an hour on Saturday afternoon in our pajamas and watched the kids make soup. They were so careful—placing ingredients so gently into buckets and stirring with broken pink bubble wands. We waved to them and stared at the spring blooms and breathed deeply with freshly healed lungs.

The Glad Game, Take 1.

This week I have been working on becoming a little more like Pollyanna. I didn't string up crystals in the living room or take a patchwork quilt to Mrs. Tarbell and we haven't been eating steak and ice cream. Yet. But I have been working on playing a modified version of the “glad game.” I am attempting to take potentially bad situations or circumstances and look at them in a different way, and if possible I'm hoping to embark on a new journey of gratitude, contentment, satisfaction: thanks.

One reason is because I have been reading this book. It is a challenge to be thankful for the minute blessings that routinely happen each day without focusing, like we do, on the blah moments.

I was on Chapter 3 of the book when a blissful day, a Wednesday, approached. The birds were chirping outside the open windows, and although I normally detest the sound of birds in the morning (I dislike birds in general) I was thankful for the sounds of spring and warmer air.

The morning started off perfectly. I was showered and ready before 7 am, I spent some precious time with the angelic baby, fed and chatted with my other cherubs, and in no rush snuggled everyone into carseats. The healthful lunch was packed, we were on time, and I was feeling good as I turned into the parking lot because we had read all the books for Griffin's pizza chart, resulting in a free tiny pizza for later--joy of joys! Everything was neatly organized in his school bag for the day. He was well rested and we were good to go.

I walked him through the doors and bent to give him a squeeze (just a quick side hug to avoid complete K-5 humiliation) when I noticed that all the little girls were wearing dresses and all the little boys had collared shirts and neatly combed hair. I looked down at Griffin to assess my next move.

His eyes were goopy and running because he only has one tear duct in each eye and it's allergy season and I forgot to give him a little Zyrtec and some eye drops. Tufts of hair were shooting up vertically from his cowlick and his front tooth (which was on the verge of falling out for 3 weeks) was dangling loosely in the middle of a huge gap in his mouth. He was wearing a black Star Wars sweatshirt and some jeans.

I went from feeling like mom of the year to pitying the poor bedraggled-bedhead-goopy-eyed Star Wars wearing boy that was waiting for my next move. I forgot about Pollyanna and wasn't very thankful for anything as I dragged the other two less than cherubic kids on an unwanted Target trip to buy a picture-appropriate polo. The day spiraled out of my hands, and the glad game was momentarily on hold.

~

Earlier this week I sold a stroller on Craigslist. When the buyer emailed asking for our address I noticed she was using a Blackberry. I gave her our address and politely listed a few key landmarks near our house, and I thought our call had dropped because the line was silent. I finally realized that she would obviously use her Blackberry GPS to navigate her way to our house and she didn't need (or want) to know about the crossroads, stores, churches, or llamas she would pass along the way.

I know it's silly not to use a GPS on a road trip, but I miss atlases. I have been on many road adventures throughout the years and I enjoy reading a map, following directions, scanning landmarks and logging miles. I want to know how many miles it will be before I reach a city, before I'm halfway to my destination, and I want to know what cities are just out of reach on either side of the highway. I don't want to listen to a robotic voice telling me I need to turn right in two miles or that I need to turn around at the next exit because I'm going the “wrong way.” I haven't tried to buy an atlas recently, but I have a feeling most of them are gone with the wind by now. I do know that I have always felt most comfortable with a map in my hand, a plan of action, an agenda, a schedule; I hate surprises and I don't like waiting until the last minute for anything. I'm beginning to think my obsession with control might be directly linked to the lack of thankfulness in my life.

Why do I care about Griffin showing up for K-5 school pictures wearing Star Wars? What is the big deal about using a GPS and only focusing on the tiny digital screen road in front of me? Why do I want to control things when I continuously prove that I can't? And why is it so much easier to play the glad game when everything is going according to my spectacular plans and I have everything mapped out and scheduled in front of me?

It has been another week of cleaning the kitchen three times a day, attempting to keep ahead of schedule, running out of milk and realizing I'm unqualified to do it all. It is hard to maintain order and schedule and control while swerving in and out of three little heads and six small feet, but it is also very easy to play the glad game when I'm surrounded by easy laughs, quick forgiveness and the electricity of exciting daily discoveries.  I am anxious to pursue the glad game more, to make it a habit, because the gifts truly are immeasurable and in every direction imaginable-- whether you use an Atlas or a GPS.  I have also seen that when I allow a little bit of Pollyanna into my life, the realistically optimistic and hopefully thankful Pollyanna, I am much less overwhelmed by my own imperfections. Look out Mrs. Tarbell, I'm bringing you a quilt to sew for the Bazaar.  

**And if you have never seen Pollyanna, this was always our favorite part. The scary sermon by Reverend Ford. Yikes!

Fuzzy Memories and Chinchilla Earmuffs

Today I took the road less traveled and got a speeding ticket. I was driving along Frontage road near the highway; in the middle of a sleepy daydream I was jolted awake by the bleeping siren and neon blue lights of a shiny Dodge Charger and a Ray-Ban-wearing patrolman. I was not in a hurry and I was not driving fast, but I was not paying attention and I was suddenly searching for registration and proof of insurance instead of enjoying a quiet car and a cloudless blue sky. My moment went from insignificant to fateful in a matter of seconds.

I have a horrible memory. Even with the siren and the lights and the accelerated heart rate I experienced today, I will quickly forget the details of what happened if I don't have it in writing (or in court records). Now that my kids are getting older, I have been thinking about what their first memories will be and wondering how much they will retain inside their tiny personal vaults forever. What things will make first impressions in their little minds and what moments will they choose to tuck away in boxes deep in their small souls? They are constantly watching and absorbing; it is exciting and terrifying.

I am in awe of people with brilliant memories. To be a great writer, I think you must either have the discipline to journal constantly or the ability to retain and recall events from the past as though they happened yesterday. I love the writing of Annie Dillard and am amazed and jealous of her ability to retell a childhood story down to the the tiniest details. If you haven't read “An American Childhood,” I recommend it. It is one of the few books I have read more than once; Annie Dillard is the queen of recalling detail and my all-time essay heroin.

All writers and artists are somewhat dependant on memories to prompt new projects and creative ideas. I have always wished I could recall childhood stories like many of my friends, siblings and even my grandparents. My grandma's 70 year old memories are more vivid and clear than many events that happened to me last week. She has a gift for verbally telling a tale, and the art of repeating stories hundreds of times has burned vivid details deeply into her mind. At any rate, my memory is poor and I sometimes rely on my older brother Chad's spongy wizard brain to fill in the blanks of childhood for me.

I was skyping with Chad a few weeks ago and we both agreed there is one memory that will always be our ace in the hole, our trump, our pièce de résistance. It's funny because the details of our experience are murky and scarce for both of us. I'm honestly not sure if there is a story jumbled in the mess of it at all, and I decided to leave it vague—like our memories, rather than ask Mom and Dad to fill in the blanks.

My fondest memory isn't the story of the French foreign exchange student who lived with us but didn't shower for two weeks, although I did discover that my sense of smell truly does heighten and enhance my memories. It isn't the story of having my front tooth knocked out on Christmas Eve in high school or the time my friends and I were detained in police cars after we were caught toilet papering.

Our most precious memories revolve around one little animal with velvety dense fur, beady little eyes and a long poofy tail. In our family there will always be one word that causes our ears to perk up. A word that might sound foreign to some, but is familiar to us. A word that scurries in gently like a fuzzy whisper or the sound of tiny paws running across fresh wood chip shavings. Chinchilla.

If “every man's memory is his private literature” as Aldous Huxley believed, then our chinchilla chapter is full of rising action and conflict. It all started when I was 14 and my entrepreneurial dad was flipping through the LaRue journal. There was an ad for chinchilla farming and I honestly don't know how it all began, but while other kids our age were lazily sleeping in or playing nintendo, Chad and I found ourselves knee deep in filthy wood chips with a barn full of fuzzy chinchillas.

I won't waste time explaining what a beautiful chinchilla “ground squirrel” is. I will leave that to Chinchilla planet.  I will only say that chinchillas are rodents in every sense of the word with the exception of their lush velvety fur. And unfortunately we did not give them little names and keep them for pets in our barn and hold them and teach them circus tricks. Against our teenage wills, we fed and watered and became part of the chinchilla breeder world. Disgruntled, we switched out the wood shavings on Saturday mornings and mumbled things under our breath. Bellyaching, we dumped dirty chips over a ravine on our property and kept track of new chinchilla babies. Sulky and vexed, we complained about the smell and were embarrassed to have 100 things caged in our barn that made us completely different from everyone else we knew.

In the end, which was shortly after the beginning, when it turned out not to be the best time to enter the fur industry, I can't even recall how long we raised chinchillas in our barn.  In fact, I don't know what happened to our chinchilla farm at all, and it's probably better that way.  When I asked Chad where the chinchillas went he said he had always imagined dad in the garage making chinchilla earmuffs. Out of curiosity I googled chinchilla earmuffs and found this: Natural Chinchilla earmuffs for $139. 

For us, the chinchilla story has turned into folklore. It is our ballad and I'm not sure I want to know all the details of why we had them and where they went. The chinchillas brought Chad and I together in a mess of caged ground squirrels and wood chips, shovels and wheelbarrows, brooms and the absence of a Saturday morning in bed. A sound or word will still trigger memories from our bizarre barn business, and the funny thing is, what was once a time of annoyance, disgust, and teenage uprising is now one of our fondest memories and biggest laughs.

There are days when I worry that my kids will experience something traumatic or I will mess up and they will be scarred for life, and I am comforted by the now soft memory of chinchillas. Not only are kids ultra resilient, but if my entrepreneurial spirit takes them on a few crazy rides here and there, it might give them good story fodder down the road. I am also learning that a poor memory is sometimes a blessing; if there is only room for a few memories in the treasury, I can choose the constructive and learn from the lousy.

My kids are losing teeth, learning to pump on a swing set, and growing out of their clothes faster than I can tie a pair of shoes. I'm hopeful that they will be reflective, and I'm anxious to see what childhood memories they will safely preserve. For me, once the chinchilla chapter ended, my memories soon grew fuzzy and funny and perhaps slightly elaborated until eventually it was just nice to have a uniquely eccentric story. New chapters have quickly come, I'm sure there will be a few more sirens and tickets before it's all said and done, and the infinite memories break down into compost in a wood chip ravine.  

Shadowless Groundhogs and the Mary Poppins Syndrome

Like most of you, I was glued to the TV last week waiting to see if Punxsutawney Phil, America's favorite groundhog, would predict an early spring. As the fortunate people at Gobblers Knob celebrated, I attempted to embrace a few more weeks of wintery kid boredom, season colds and flu remnants, branchless trees and colorless grass.

Thankfully I live in the South where the sun is shining and the sky is blue. It is especially hard to complain on a day when it is 50 degrees and we are playing outside. Nevertheless, the winter is long and we are relieved by a shadowless groundhog and hopeful for an early spring.  And if you think you have S.A.D. (Season Affects Disorder) you might want to read this.

We tend to watch more movies in the winter because of the long evenings and the endless, winter afternoons. Last week we watched Mary Poppins, and although I grew up watching Mary Poppins, I've probably seen it over fifty times, this time I watched it with a fresh set of mommy eyes, and I wound up taking away a few things I never noticed as a kid. 

When I was little, I daydreamed about having Mary Poppins for my Nanny. She was amazing: her magical ability to clean the nursery, riding a cartoon carousel, tea parties on the ceiling, etc. She was marvelous. I somehow overlooked all her quirky and mysterious qualities. And I never realized one of her defining characteristics is vanity even though she spells it out in one of her earliest scenes: “Mary Poppins: Practically Perfect in Every Way.”

This vanity really started bothering me in a roundabout way until I eventually began wondering how my own kids perceive me. Do I constantly correct their shortcomings while pointing out my own rightness and “perfection” with a magical measuring tape?

It forces me to really think about vanity, and humility, as a mother. If you ask a mother if her job is glamorous, she will laugh at you. Most people would look at a sleepy, make-up-less mother and say she is generally fulfilling a very humbling and self-less role. I used to think that just by being a mother, by changing diapers and cleaning up puke and scrubbing toilets and wiping noses and being sleep deprived and not killing my kids I was somehow ranked higher in the trophy case of life with a little plaque that said “humble” in super inconspicuous letters.

I'm starting to think that humility has little to do with cleaning up after people or filthy jobs or sleepless nights. I can act like a humble mother all day long, but true humility is a choice, and I believe my kids will be the first to know the difference between the two.

So although it is humbling to wipe away a hidden Picasso-esque booger masterpiece from the wall behind the bunkbeds, I have trouble telling myself I am cleaning it out of humility when I definitely did NOT choose to clean it in the first place. I'm beginning to think humility, in motherhood, is not just about me resigning to cleaning up messes and doing it. I think humility is about my attitude towards each daily task I face as a mom and wife. It's about bringing my own rank down a few notches to serve my kids—not just as a nanny or a maid, but by occasionally choosing to set aside my own “important” daily tasks in order to submit myself to their real needs.  Sometimes I may need to lower myself to really serve them—not just by picking up or cooking, but by sitting on the floor to build a lego ship or brush barbie's tangles. 

I have been really considering the difference between keeping my kids busy and entertained with activities and outings versus the times I truly humble myself to color in a book with crayons or read or sing or play hide and seek. Thomas More reminds us: “The ordinary arts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.” I'm sure this is especially true when raising kids.  I'm not suggesting that we need to sit ten inches from our kids every minute so that they are completely unable to play alone or with each other, but at the same time I wonder how often we tell ourselves we are above simply playing with our kids or that we have "better things to do" than spend time interacting with them and listening to them.

Along this same line, a friend and I were talking recently about how quick we are to judge other moms in parenting skills, household upkeep, etc. I am guilty. And although my house is far from spotless and is decorated like a children's museum that often smells like stale tacos, I admit I harbor some pride in the state of my house and my ability to know where everything is.

Several months ago my pride took a hit when I lost my first library book. I was ashamed when the library sent a few notices that began to look progressively “serious.” I was especially annoyed with myself since I could not even remember checking “Sophie's Wheels” out in the first place. I looked everywhere. I paid a few fines. I scoured the house again. I paid another fine. Eventually I was too ashamed to return to the library and took a complete hiatus. 

By the time I got an official-looking final notice in the mail telling me I had to pay for the book or I would be turned over to a collection agency, I was irritated and blame-shifting. I immediately drove to the library where I paid a rather hefty chunk for “Sophie's Wheels” (which I'm sure is a great book and worth every penny....) Of course “Sophie's Wheels” showed up later that week when I parked on a steep incline and it slid out from the seat and under the gas pedal of the van. It was another humbling reminder that I don't have it altogether, I am incomplete and I am flawed, and I always will be. Am I willing to recognize it and admit it in my home in front of my family or will I blame someone else? 

**I also learned that the Greenville Library System will actually write you a check if you pay for a book and return it later.

Helen Keller said, “I long to accomplish a great and noble task; but my chief duty is to accomplish small tasks as if they were great and noble.” In motherhood, I hope I can do this. Others may look at what we are doing as moms and generically say we are humbling ourselves to serve our kids and our home. Motherhood is a noble calling, and I am thankful for the chance to serve my kids at home!  For me, I question whether each small (insignificant) task is humility if I don't purposefully choose to serve others. Do I assume that by simply doing my motherly tasks I'm somehow gaining points for myself even if my attitude is prideful?

Humility isn't accidental. It is the opposite of pride and arrogance and it isn't just about endlessly making meals and cleaning, it is about setting aside my feelings of superiority, even to my kids to serve them daily. (As a sidenote, when I talk about serving my kids, I'm not talking about meeting their every whim and spoiling them rotten. I'm talking about humbling myself to listen to their words, caring about them enough to play on their level even when I'd rather do motherly chores, resisting anger when I'm annoyed, being patient and talking nicely, not whining about the endless messes, etc.) It all boils down to humility.

In the end, while I am very anxious for spring weather and I am eager to send my kids outside into fresh air, I hope that in these remaining winter weeks I will spend my time wisely. I pray that I won't wish away this time when I am trapped inside the house like a hybernating bear with my sometimes stinky cubs. And mostly, I want to move away from my Mary Poppins frame of mind. Occassionally I want to have a tea party on the ceiling without reminding my kids of my complete perfection and superiority.  Rather than wallowing in my daily acts of “humility” and wearing them around for others to pity while my kids see me checking my practically perfect reflection, I'd rather balance my time more wisely and attempt to humbly serve my kids and my husband.  If we all did that, I have a feeling it would be pretty super-cala-fragalistic-expialadoshus.

Whatever makes us feel superior to other people, whatever tempts us to convey a sense of superiority, that is the gravity of our sinful nature, not grace. --Phillip Yancey