I’m not a gourmet cook. I don’t cook things I can’t pronounce. However, I’m well-known in my family for a few things I cook/make well. My sweet tea is almost legendary on my husband’s side. I have a super corn casserole recipe from a Mississippi College cookbook. There is also a spaghetti-like dish I make really well called “Texas Hash.”

Before I explain the significance of Texas Hash and why there is a burnt pot of it in the picture, I’m going to explain something about my writing. A friend asked me a few days ago how I find time to write. I started writing this post last night, and at this moment it is 4:15 am. Writing for me is a form of therapy. I will say that I’m in no way upset about that burnt pot of food, but very mundane things (like burning food) inspire me to write. Sometimes it’s not the big events, but the little annoyances in our lives that try to push us over the edge. I choose to write.

When I was growing up, my Grandmama made Texas Hash. We would always have it with green beans , rolls, sweet tea, and a lime jello dish that had pineapple in the jello and marshmallows on top. She would spread Hellman’s on top of that and then sprinkle cheese. Texas Hash is neat because, unlike spaghetti, the whole dish cooks in one pot… noodles and all. However, one has to watch it carefully and stir every few minutes so as not to burn the noodles.

Last night, I made Texas Hash. As you can gather from the picture, it did not go as planned. I have made this dish for over twenty years, and NEVER once have I burned it. Fortunately, it makes a lot, so there was plenty and I put it in a new pot (to the left). It tasted fine and everyone got fed. How could I be so careless?

The truth is, I wasn’t as careless as I was distracted. See, while it was on the stove burning (I mean, cooking 😂), I was doing laundry, unloading a dishwasher, and taking care of a toddler. My intentions for all of these activities were good, but I wasn’t focused on just one thing. I was pulled in too many directions. All of the activities I was doing were good and worthwhile, but I was putting too much “on my plate”(I’m so sorry about this pun).

God has been putting a word into my heart for about a month now, and that is “intentional.” I have been feeling burned out, just like that that dish last night. In my head, I have literally had an ongoing script. “One more dirty diaper, one more load of clothes, more college paperwork, more work activities…. more, more, more.” It has left me with a feeling of being overwhelmed and under appreciated. Every time I feel this way, I hear Him saying, “Do this for me, not for anyone else.”

The little things are the big things. One more diaper means my toddler is clean and feels loved. One more load of clothes means my family has clothes to wear, one more meal(even if not perfect) means my family is fed. Should we ask for help? Absolutely! Should our families step up and do their part? Of course. But I’m going to remember that in pleasing Him in the little things, I am doing the most important work of all, and it doesn’t have to be perfect.

Beautiful dish my mother brought to me from France. I like to think of the little chicks as my three children.

“Ball! Ball! Ball!” says my youngest. We are on the basketball court down the road from our home. I bring him here to play in the sand and water. It’s actually a beautiful campground on the river. I’m here today because I have what good Southern women refer to as “hand washables.” My washer and dryer at home are the old-fashioned kind, and these are, well, the new kind. The washers have special settings, so one can wash delicates and even a comforter. Cool.

My father-in-law takes Aaron for few minutes so I can get the wash started. I selfishly linger in the laundry room for a minute of peace. It’s been a non-eventful spring break. I’ve spent it at home and decided that I’m not going to be jealous of anyone who has gone to some faraway paradise, city, or, heck, just had some adult time with friends or spouses. I leave the laundry room and see my baby with his Pops on the court. “Thanks, Lynn,” I say. “I’ve got him now.” Aaron loves a ball.

I try to show little one how to dribble, and I run after him on the court. His back is to me. “Gosh,” I think to myself . “His curls are so springy when he runs.” They look like Clark’s curls. This feels so familiar. It’s sinking in now. Yes. Clark and I are playing HORSE on the court and Becca is toddling around chasing the basketball. Afterwards, we will go back across the road to our brick house and I’ll cook dinner. No. That’s not right . We live down the road now and my teens always talk about how much they miss that little house. Clark is about to graduate and Becca is about to start driving. This little one is my only little one and we are starting over again. This is a cycle. I’m grateful and I’m grieving…. at the same time. Shake it off, Katie. This is just the way it is. Children grow up…..

As I take little one home, I realize that my spring break has been fuller than I thought. My family actually ate together, my husband and I watched a movie on Netflix (together!), I played with little one, I took my daughter for a pedicure, and I started a Bible study. I also worked diligently on graduation announcements. I mailed them today. It made me realize that it’s almost time. He’s really leaving the nest… my first one to fly. He will never truly live here full-time again. He will come home, but it will be different. I’m grieving. It’s been an emotional day. I saw him in my youngest today, just for a moment on that court, and it hurt. But today I’m also grateful. I’m blessed. All of my little chicks are here. Today my heart is full, and so is my nest.

Please pray for us mommas that have young adults about to leave the nest, especially those who are experiencing this the first time. Also, pray for God to protect and guide those young men/women in all their endeavors. Blessings to the class of 2019.

Stock photo:Google

Sometimes I feel like my writing takes awhile to get to the point. For those of you that read the first sentence to the last… bravo and thank you. Only once has someone reacted negatively to my blog, and she told me it was too “wordy”. Maybe, maybe not. I just love to write. I once heard a published children’s author give the advice to “write what you know”. Write about what speaks to you, your life experiences, life lessons. I have always told myself not to write when I’m not feeling well or when I’m feeling down. However, I believe those are genuine feelings we ALL have, and writing during those times gives a true perspective. I love being on the mountain. Don’t we all. But the truth is that I’ve grown more and learned more in the valley.

We are on spring break this week, which has given me way too much time to compare my life to others’😂. I’m being serious. First things first. Facebook is not your friend if you’re a mom whose husband works straight nights for a week, your teenagers get to go off and have fun, everyone on Facebook seems to be at the beach, New York, or a tropical island, and you are home not getting enough sleep, doing laundry, and taking children to the doctor. Y’all. I’m not complaining. I’m being REAL.

I really like social media, but I had to do a self-check this week. It started a couple of years ago. See the picture I used for this post? This is a beautiful china called Annie Glass. It costs the life of your firstborn. Just kidding. It IS very expensive, though. I started noticing about two years ago on Facebook that quite a few ladies I know have this china. I also noticed that in everyone’s pictures, they seemed to have the same wall color. I’m very observant, I guess. I began questioning my taste. This went on for awhile, then it didn’t matter anymore.

I did this at Easter, too. I was so proud of myself for putting a bunny on my front door with a big bow. I also got down my pewter Easter tree and hung pretty eggs on it for my kitchen. We were going to eat at someone’s house, so I made cupcakes with Easter sprinkles. Have you seen a balloon quickly deflate? That would have been me. We get there and her Easter decorating was like something out of Southern Living. The desserts were professionally ordered. Mine looked like a ten-year-old girl made them. I felt less than. Stupid me. Why did I bring cupcakes with sprinkles? I noticed her perfect mani/pedi. Mine was done on the floor of my bathroom. “You’ll never live up.” “You’re not cut out for this.” So many lies I kept hearing.

Now, back to spring break. As I was perusing all the tropical photos, trips, family time people were having as my husband worked, I felt hopeless. God spoke to me in that moment, and this is what He put on my heart… almost in an instant. “Katie, be patient.” I immediately knew that He was saying, “I know what’s best for you, and I have good things for you.” Yesterday, I took Aaron to the lake. A friend met me there with her children. I was so grateful, as it can be lonely having a little one at home. We had a nice (and busy) time watching our children. As I looked out to the water, I could hear my teenagers playing and laughing as children just like it was yesterday. I looked at Aaron and it hit me how blessed I am to have had another child.

I still want to go on a vacation. I still question myself and my decorating abilities. I still struggle with feeling “less than” and “left out”. But God says I am His. And I can only trust what He says. Not what others say or think about me, and especially not what I think about myself. By the way, I like my fine china.

“Where flowers bloom, so does hope.”

Lady Bird Johnson

I’m going to step on some toes, but I will admit, unequivocally, that spring is my favorite season. Actually, that is a safe statement. Okay. Here goes….. Easter is my favorite holiday. It’s out now. Y’all can all get mad and move on, okay? Just kidding. I do realize that Christmas is a favorite of many, and that includes men and women. As a Christian, I understand why that would be.. without Christmas there would be no Easter. Absolutely. However, I have my reasons and they might make sense to all of you, and they might not. We all have our own personal experiences, yet some of our experiences are similar.

Like most of you, my family has always had traditions for each holiday. Easter was no exception. I remember the smell of vinegar while dying eggs, and I remember that the purple dye never quite got dark enough. My younger brothers and I would sit at the kitchen table and as we finished dying our eggs, we would put them on the underside of the box the dye came in as there were small holes to prop up the eggs to dry. On Easter morning, we were allowed two or three pieces of candy and we always had a good breakfast (including boiled eggs). An early-morning egg hunt ensued, and because Mississippi weather is unpredictable, sometimes we had to search in the house. One year the hunt was outside, and we didn’t find an egg. Our yard smelled badly for a week!

Another memory is that of my maternal grandmother, Mamaw. She was a master seamstress, and made mine and my cousin’s Easter dresses for many years. They would sometimes be identical, but different colors. One year, I had a pink dress that she overlaid with a white pinafore. I always had shiny black or white patent shoes depending on the dress I was wearing. Easter in the South is beautiful, including the special clothes. Aaron has bunnies on his outfit…. I let my older two pass.😂

Spring has always been a hopeful time for me. I lost most of my grandparents in the colder months of the year… it just seems that spring is a reminder that we have to keep living and trying… and that we can have hope all the while missing someone. I remember as a little girl planting flowers with my Mamaw. She always pointed out the perennials to me. “Remember, we planted those when you were five,” she would later say when I was a preteen. My paternal grandparents lived just down the road and had a sidewalk installed around their house so I could ride my bike on it when it was pretty spring weather. I always think of my grandparents, but miss them dearly this time of year.

I fell in love in the spring. Earlier that winter, my Papaw died. I was heartbroken. A long-term relationship I was in didn’t work out, either. Our beloved Shiner, a loyal fox terrier and family member, was dying. It was all in a month’s time. But there was a special man waiting for me whom I didn’t even realize I had already met. He played baseball for Mississippi College. Those spring games are such a good memory. My Grandmama (my dad’s mother) would go to some of the games with me. She always smiled and never met a stranger. I still have clippings she would mail me about being positive and hopeful. Does anyone see a pattern here? Spring is a time of hope…. renewal.

My youngest child was born on the first day of spring. He wasn’t due until the second week of April. I tried. My doctor tried. My body wasn’t able to withstand the pregnancy any longer, and an appointment for an ultrasound turned into a scheduled c-section for later that day. It had been a difficult and high-risk pregnancy. I was terrified. Aaron was born “pre-term” and absolutely perfect. March 20. The first day of spring.

Since my children were born, we’ve made our own traditions. When my teenagers were younger, we dyed eggs. I really need to start this again. Whatever color Becca’s Easter dress was, I would always buy Clark a matching polo shirt. My teenagers still get a basket, and Aaron has his, too. We hide plastic eggs instead of real and Aaron enjoyed his first Easter egg hunt at church.

The other night, my eighteen year old was talking to me, and suddenly I was listening and looking at my sweet ten-year-old son, not a grown man. I have been struggling with letting him go away to school (although I KNOW he will come home often). I’ve often thought about Mary and how she had to watch her own son suffer and die. Was she thinking about the times when Jesus was a baby and she held him to her? When he learned to walk? Talk? We know intellectually that Jesus is God’s son and came to die for us…. but He had a mother, too, and she loved Him. Easter seems like such a sad holiday to love until we see the end result. He died. He rose. For this reason we have hope.

That, and flowers, of course.

Clark’s homerun ball and the rose he gave me for Senior Night. April 12, 2019.

“Hurry,” I say. “We want to get a good seat.” It’s March 2005, and we’re at the Grand Bay, Alabama, ballfields to watch Clark, our four year old son, play his first t-ball game. I’m holding his one year old sister, Becca. As I look around, I notice how out of place I look. All the other women have on jeans and t-shirts. Wow, this is awkward. I have on white pants, a light green top, cute jewelry, and very short heels. I’ve got to learn this baseball-mom thing.

As we go past the dugout, my little “Shark” (Clark’s nickname) is sitting with his back to me. I can see his curly hair poking out from the back of his cap, and my heart skips seeing the numbers on his jersey. Number 22. My baby. “Will he have fun?” I wonder. I’m a little concerned. He’s only been four for a month…. the youngest on the team. I’ve taken him to practice and he seems to like it. Maybe we will do this next year. I don’t want to be the “pushy” parent. Let’s just see how this season goes. So many thoughts go through my mind.

April 2019. “Hurry,” my husband says. It’s senior night. This is the last regular home game of our son’s high school career. We’re at the MGC ballpark in Pascagoula. Our fifteen year old daughter is sitting in the bleachers with friends. My sister-in-law is at home watching our two-year-old. As I see the other senior moms, I notice how out of place I look. They have on white pants and dressy tops. I have on jeans. At least my shirt is Resurrection blue, our team color.

As we sit by the dugout, I see our eighteen-year-old son. I see his curly hair poking out from the back and sides of his cap. Number 25. My baby. “Is he nervous?”, I wonder. I know I am. He’s pitching tonight. He’s done this for years. I’m proud for him no matter the outcome. My hair is growing bigger exponentially in this humidity. Why didn’t I make time to buy nicer pants like the other moms? So many thoughts go through my head.

When it’s our turn to walk onto the field, Clark gives me a yellow rose and I offer my arm to him as the boys are supposed to escort their moms. Instead, he gives me a big hug, and my heart breaks a little. We walk to where his batting helmet and glove have been placed on the field. As we are walking, an announcer reads from a paper. Clark’s awards. A special quote. Plans for college. I don’t hear any of it. I’m holding back tears. When all the parents have proceeded onto the field, we take pictures. The players go to the dugout. Parents back to their seats. It’s all a blur.

Play ball.

I would like to thank all the coaches that have poured into Clark over the years and encouraged him. Little did I know in the spring of 2005 that we would be looking forward to Clark playing college baseball. Parents, it’s over before you can blink. Don’t take it for granted… late nights, dirty uniforms… all worth it.

Clark, if you ever read this…. I love you. I’ve never been more proud FOR you.. I’m never proud of you. You did it. Remember God, family, ball… in that order.

Foible:(n) a minor flaw in character

Foil:(v) to prevent something from succeeding

When I was a teenager, my mom constantly asked me where my lipstick and earrings were. This might be a Southern “thing” or maybe just a female thing. Whatever it is, it has come full circle as I feel “naked” without either. My generation is the Scrunchie, banana clip, jelly-shoe, electric blue mascara group. We girls had limited choices and now the options are endless. I have a ninth-grade daughter who might as well just stepped right off the cover of Vogue. My ninth grade self? Let’s just say I looked like a “before” picture.😂Although I don’t love getting older or some of the unavoidable characteristics that come with it, I really feel more comfortable with myself than I did as a teenager (minus crow’s feet).

Having said that, I can assure you I stay humble through a very unfortunate (and comical) series of beauty mishaps. I’ve been “foiled” by some beauty products and techniques at times . One could say my foible is trying too hard in the beauty department. Maybe you will see yourself in some of these stories.

Like many young girls in the 1980’s I did some interesting things to my hair. First of all, I’m pretty sure that getting a perm in my naturally curly hair wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve had. However, it doesn’t touch the time my mom and I tried a “new” technique for highlighting hair the NIGHT BEFORE ninth-grade pictures. We had always used a cap on my hair and pulled the strands through to highlight. There was a much easier method, though, and it was supposed to look like the sun had “kissed”my hair. We just “painted on” the highlights to sections of my hair without using a cap.

Y’all. My natural color was a mousey dark blonde. The part we painted was the color of an ORANGE highlighter. My mom was devastated (I laughed). She called her hairdresser who met us at some ungodly hour that night and feverishly worked on my hair. She could only do so much or my hair would break from damage. The next day for pictures I had WHITE hair… I mean, cotton white. I wore a pink sweater with white bows embroidered all over and a white bow in my hair. ON PURPOSE.

Moving on to the face, all I can say is the best lessons are the hardest learned. I went to a “spa party” at a friend’s house. There was a lip product that was divine. It smelled like oranges and was a lip mask that was left on for maybe five minutes then washed off and then completed with a special lip balm. I have decent lips but have never had full lips. It plumped them up and I was thrilled. There was a raffle and I won the product! Using once a day was effective, so I reasoned that using it twice a day was better. The word “reasoned” isn’t really appropriate (I lost my common sense).

I used my lip plumper mask/lip balm one last time before going to bed for good measure because we had field day at school the next morning and I wanted all the parents to see how pretty I was (I’m humble)🙄. I woke up that morning and something felt “off”. I looked in the mirror. Have you seen a grouper fish (Google it)?My upper lip was so swollen it was twice it’s size and my lower lip was shriveled up like I was 120 years old. I had to go to work. I spent the field day trying to suck in my top lip and avoiding stares. Did I mention that I’m stubborn?

My eyes are blue, deep-set, and one is a little larger than the other. It’s a dream come true. No, really. Also, my eyelashes were given out to everyone else before God made me. I try. I REALLY do. Once I used a “pinkish” eyeshadow to match a pink dress (barf). This was at a high school graduation with probably a thousand people. An allergic reaction ensued and I looked as if I was bawling through the whole ceremony. Another time (very recently) I accidentally used mascara primer and waterproof mascara together. My lashes broke off almost to my lash line EXCEPT for the outer and inner lashes. It was like having mascara fangs. My daughter applied fake lashes for me so I could feel pretty at the Mardi Gras ball. One side kept coming off and I could see it poking out when I looked forward. Attractive.

Eyebrows. Yep. They are IN STYLE. I have mixed feelings about the latest harsh look, but that’s just me. They look like caterpillars. My daughter did mine for that Mardi Gras Ball and I was so proud I told her they were “on fleek”. She nearly passed out and disowned me. I’m never allowed to say it again. Also, I’m using a serum to grow out my mascara fangs and I’ve been using it on my eyebrows… I have eyebrows growing now where my eyeshadow goes. Yep. Rocking two sets of eyebrows. Someone call the cops.

We all have our definition of beauty and we all strive so hard to reach it. I have found that it’s always just out of my reach. When I think I am made up and dressed to kill… someone else that I view as prettier comes along and my self-confidence literally deflates. I forget that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made” according to my Heavenly Father. I will never stop liking makeup and getting made up, and hopefully I will have many more funny stories to tell. Humor is beautiful in my opinion, though, so maybe there’s hope for me after all. You are beautiful, too. ♥️

Beauty begins the moment you decide to be yourself.

Coco Chanel

Old adages are usually old because they have stood the test of time. None is more true than the one oft-used by parents whose children have reached late adolescence and/or grandparents. “They grow up too fast,” these experienced caregivers claim, and it is very true. As one who is experiencing this first-hand with a graduating senior and an upcoming sophomore in high-school, I can attest that this is the truth. I also am blessed with experiencing the baby/toddler years again, as well. Basically, I am in a neat position… not an awkward position, but a very blessed one. I would like to address the subject of the older mother… the one who had children later in life, or, like myself, started over.

Dear Older Mother,

I see you. I know it’s hard when strangers give you looks…. especially when you’re with your teenagers and said strangers are trying to figure out who the baby might belong to in the group. Awkward. Or maybe you started later in life or adopted. I know what it’s like to be asked if you are the baby’s grandparent (actually, several times, but who’s counting). The nurse asked you if you got pregnant on purpose? Yep. Been there. I know it’s tough when other moms don’t always include you or you don’t get out much because, well, you couldn’t find a sitter. What’s that? Nope. My teens don’t babysit. They have social lives, sports, homework… they ADORE their brother, but raising him is not their job. Some people you thought were friends knew about your pregnancy but never texted or called? Maybe they didn’t know what to say. Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. Yes, I know it was hard when the doctor said your pregnancy was high-risk and your baby “might” have issues. I absolutely understand. But it’s okay now, so just be thankful.

What I want to leave you with is that you are not an older mother. You are just simply a mother. You have the benefit of loving a baby one last time when others might not. If you have teenagers, you know that they grow up so fast, so you are blessed to have all the wonderful experiences of motherhood again. I can’t promise your little one will keep you young, but I can promise you will stay busy, happy, and loved. God bless you and your little one.

Love,

Mom of three

When I was a little girl, I had a tough time watching Dumbo. I say this because there’s a new version of it out now and I DON’T plan on watching. I literally cannot handle the part where momma and baby are separated and she’s trying to love him the best she can through a cage. Nope. Not for me. Yes, I get that it’s a cartoon. I want someone out there to fess up and say Toy Story 3 wasn’t a tear-jerker. Point made. Dumbo just isn’t my jam. I love babies. I love elephants. So…. no Dumbo.I had no intentions of writing tonight (I’ve already drafted my blog for Thursday), but I couldn’t resist the opportunity.

Opportunity. What connotation does this word have for you? Does it stir emotions or memories? How about regrets…. as in missed opportunities. I almost missed an opportunity tonight. It’s one that I would never get back. One of the utmost importance in the scheme of things. Sneakily mundane and routine.

I got home from work today with a laundry list of unplanned appointments to make, a senior party to plan with limited dates available, the disappointment of missing my eldest’s baseball games this week, and the knowledge that my husband was about to work another five-night schedule spanning the weekend. Fun stuff. My middle and youngest were home with me and I made dinner, fed baby boy, bathed baby boy, read five stories (one several times), and tucked him into bed.

He wasn’t having any of it.

Little one stood up in bed and proceeded to wail. Not cry. Wail. He wailed as if he were cold and afraid. I could here him call out “Momma!” several times. My daughter went into his room and gave him the lovey he had dropped on the floor. She told him it was “night-night” time… all to no avail. “I’m tired”, I thought. “Maybe if I just ignore his crying…”. Something about his tone drew me to him. He wasn’t being difficult. He NEEDED me.

The first image I had of him, his little chubby hands were reaching for me. I picked him up and could feel warm tears on his cheeks… as tired as I was, there was no exasperation or impatience to be found in me. He wanted the blinds open. “Help. Help me. Moon.” he said. I opened the blinds and he smiled at the clouds. Little one rested his cheek against mine and I could feel his breath coming out the side of his pacifier. I rocked him but didn’t sing. He rested his head on me and could smell his freshly washed little curls.

My mind went back to when I first brought him home. I could picture rocking that tiny newborn with his head resting the same way, but so much smaller and lighter… I also remembered holding my other two this way. It was almost surreal as if it was just yesterday but yet so long ago. As if a weight been lifted, all those concerns and disappointments from the day faded and I realized that I could have missed this opportunity to be there for my child.

Opportunity may come in many forms. It may seem routine, trite, insignificant. The chance to brighten someone’s day when you’re not even aware they’re struggling. The dream you have to start something new. Take it or leave it, but chance having regrets. For me, it was a baby calling out for his mama when she just wanted to rest. My baby… baby mine.

Baby mine, don’t you cry.

Baby mine dry your eyes.

Rest your head close to my heart,

Never to part, baby of mine.

Dumbo

My backyard is beautiful.

I’m so irritated because EVERY SINGLE TIME I write I keep telling myself I’m going to share about the time I used a lip mask (yes, that’s a thing). Don’t worry… I’ll get around to it. It’s epic. Ok, men. Don’t leave me now (that sounded wrong… I meant please keep reading even if you’re a male). Most people know by now that I am a very real person… not negative (I even laugh at some things that might seem negative such as lack of sleep or a car breaking down)….but I am real, and so is my life. My writing keeps taking a different direction and I just want to make people laugh, not be a Sour Sally (the Southern version of a Negative Nellie).

Yesterday I posted on Facebook my struggles this week as a mother. My personal opinion is that single parents and military parents whose spouses are deployed should receive some national award. You are amazing. My husband works shifts. Some of these include a week at a time of nights. This means he gets home and the rest of us are getting out the door. This means mom (yours truly) is in charge of meals, doctor appointments that happen an hour away RIGHT after school (the logistics on this would amaze you), reminding teenagers about deadlines, taking care of a toddler, and handling national emergencies. Oh, yeah… I also work full-time as a preschool teacher.

Remember that “loser” sign all the kids made on their foreheads several years ago? Yep. I’m making it and looking in the mirror. I failed. Dropped the ball. Got impatient. Frustrated. I have no excuse and it is what it is. However, allow me to explain. Have you ever had that feeling in your throat when you are on the verge of tears and your throat starts swelling up a little? Okay. Check. Have you told your family you’re going on strike? Check, check. And, drum roll, please……. have you ugly cried? Boo-yah!!! We have a winner! Katie Presley, step down! It’s your lucky day! Does any of this sound familiar? Does it ring a bell? Or do I just hear crickets chirping?

I cried today. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t even beautiful (how come we never look like those women crying in movies? So over it.😂). It wasn’t one of those fainting couch type Southern lady cries. It was a broken, painful cry. It was a “I’m not enough, I messed up, I’m sorry I can’t fix everything” heartbroken cry. Contrary to what I read about “broken being beautiful”, sometimes broken is just that. It’s an ugly cry. A white flag. A feeble prayer. It’s not pretty.

The beauty comes in that after I pulled it together I realized that my reason for “having a moment ” was because I continue to try to please EVERYONE ALL THE TIME… and I can’t (also, baby boy has thrown 5000 fits in two days, but that’s another story). I was disappointed in myself for losing my patience and, honestly, I was disappointed in others for not appreciating me. My bad. If I may address any male reading this, your wife or girlfriend’s temper, tears, whatever it is, is not usually due to anger. I would venture to say that it is cause by feeling OVERWHELMED. When she gets to the point of waving the white flag, throwing up her hands, or even having a cry…. just ask her. Ask her what is wrong and what you can do. Don’t judge, correct, or offer solutions. Ask and be available (y’all are welcome 😉).

Did I find anything of beauty in my brokenness yesterday? Absolutely. When I was at my lowest and felt like the worst mother and wife, I realized that I only felt that way because I want my family to have the BEST. Not the best clothes, cars, and material things, but the best version of ME. That’s how much I love them, and I’ll guarantee that’s you, as well. The beauty is that I can ask forgiveness from God and he gives it freely. I can ask my family to forgive me (most likely they will), and I can forgive myself… the hardest part.

Remember that “you can’t pour from an empty cup”. Take care of yourself so you can be the best for your family, too.

When my soul is empty, my eyes are full.

I am constantly amazed at what my children teach me unknowingly on their part. Even at the ripe old age of eighteen, my eldest college-bound son still gets my input on assignments and we have been working together on college applications and scholarship opportunities. My only daughter asks my opinion a little less as she has been opinionated herself since we brought her home from the hospital. However, she does talk to me about school and other things… which is really her own version of asking for help or advice. The baby obviously needs the the bulk of the attention/help/guidance at this point.

I get surprised and offended (just kidding😂) when people ASSUME (sorry, just did that for emphasis)…anyway, when people assume my two teenagers don’t need me as much anymore. I have also been the proud recipient of the phrase “Oh, it’s like the baby is an only child!”and let’s not forget the oft-spoken “You have two built-in babysitters”. My older two absolutely love my youngest, and they will watch him in a pinch. I had a horrible stomach virus one time and they took him down the street to a birthday party, fed him, and put him to bed. Good kids, those two. However, it is not their job to watch him or raise him. Their jobs are to go to school, make good choices, and be teenagers. I’m here to help them along this path.

The baby just learned how to say “help me”. It warms my heart and breaks it at the same time. When he says this, it implies that I am needed. The other implication is that he has a problem he cannot fix. Whether it is walking down the stairs outside, putting on a shoe, or getting some juice, he has a “problem” that I can fix. This is the heartwarming part. The heartbreak is in what I cannot fix….broken friendships, hurt feelings, self-doubt, and fallen leaves? Back to what I said in the beginning about my children teaching me…. today baby boy taught me a lesson about trying to fix the unfixable.

Baby boy loves leaves. He puts them in his wagon and carries them around. Today he picked up a leaf and kept saying “help me”. I didn’t quite understand until he walked over to a tall oak tree and was lifting up the leaf to the tree. He then reached up and tried to give me the leaf. God bless him, he thought I could “fix” the tree by reattaching the leaf. He didn’t understand why this wasn’t a reasonable solution and I couldn’t explain it to him either. Because I’m alive and breathing, I have some “problems” that for the life of me, I. Can’t. Fix. You do, too, don’t you? The Erin Condren planner hasn’t helped me fix them. The tears on my pillow haven’t fixed them. Neither has prayer. That’s right. I said it. Even with prayer, the problems haven’t resolved. So frustrating!

But praying has gotten me through what seems unfixable. My little one showed me that I can want to fix something so badly that is out of my control and my striving to fix it just like he was striving with the leaf….. well, it doesn’t fix anything. It only makes me tired. Frustrated. Hopeless. However, I can continue to pray and during the waiting I can say, “Lord, fix it.”

And He will. His way. His timing…… without my help.