Welcome to the place of overflowing grace in the midst of messy motherhood.
There are a lot of kids up in here, a lot of noise, and a lot of life. It's raw and real, and often sticky.
But I wouldn't trade it. (Except maybe the sticky part.)
Join me for the journey.  

Growing Stains

Some of the things I’ve said to my children make me chuckle (much later, after they’re in bed and I’ve eaten something chocolate).  Sometimes, I even remember to write a few down. “Do NOT call him Petunia!” You cannot lap up your supper without hands like a cat.” “Han Solo is not a spoon for rice.” “Ears were not made to hit people with.” “Do not throw flour!” “Real superheros do their own laundry.” “You can’t wear the bee costume because your brother threw up on it.” “If you’d really rather eat dirt than the supper I made for you, then prove it!”  (He did.) “Nail clipping is not punishment.” “You are not allowed to lick the lamp.” “No caterpillars on the baby.” my superheros Of course, they

My Ride to the State (of) Fair

Crunch. That’s not what you want to hear when you turn to back up the Yukon.  Six pairs of curious eyes under the age of 7 looked back at me from the back seats.  (Well, five; the baby faces backward.)  “What was that?” my six year old asked innocently. I ran through the possibilities.  Human?  No.  They were all accounted for, thank God, and the parking lot was mostly empty.  Ice?  The tar was covered in it; a chunk could have dislodged from under the fender… But it sounded bigger.  The options narrowed.  Heart beating faster, I hopped out of the huge vehicle and slipped around the back.  Shoot, I guessed right. It was Ben’s empty wheelchair. It was turned sideways, stuck under the back fen

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I can’t think why it happened.  They were playing dodge ball in the kitchen while I cooked supper.  (In hindsight, perhaps this was one of those moments for which God invented video games…)  I’m not entirely sure Daddy wasn’t involved.  Somewhere in the midst of the over-steaming broccoli and baby screeching for his fallen carrot stick, one of the boys crashed into the glass panel on the door.  I didn’t notice, somehow.  But later, in the after-bedtime calm, I surveyed the evening’s carnage.  There was the mirror.  Split in half. Other than seven years of bad luck, it’s not a great loss.  In the previous seven years, I’ve certainly seen worse.  (The day before, we had fished a metal washer o


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