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.  


“Cooties are just an excuse boys made up in the 80’s to get away from girls.” – Gavin, age 8. It took me a while to get used to the idea of being a mom to a boy.  By that, I mean every single time I had one.  Since I am not a boy, it’s all pretty new territory.  They are fast.  They grow fast.  They eat fast.  They get mad and hit and forgive fast.  They are not dwellers.  They have hormones that drive them onward and upward. (Literally up-the-walls-ward.  You should see the footprints over my sofa.)  And none of mine have even hit adolescence yet.  (We’re willing to accept donations for groceries for when they’re all teenagers at the same time.)  I love them.  But, boy, I don’t understand t

Not for Kings

I vaguely remember life before I had to crawl under the table after every meal to scrape up cold mashed banana and sweet potatoes before they hardened into cement.  Back in the old days, I had days off and could sleep in if I wanted.  I read novels.  I went out for coffee on a whim.  I could finish a project in a day.  Heck, I could finish a sentence without interruption!  I didn’t do laundry every day; I didn’t have to wipe the underside of the table after lunch.  And I didn’t have other people’s used food all over my shirt. Understand, I wouldn’t say they’re the good old days.  They are just the old days.  Different.  I wouldn’t trade these laughter-filled, life-spilling-over, achingly swe

Gram negative

I spent last weekend in a very unique position.  Lying on the couch. Some mutant germ got into my system and did what few microbes can claim – it got Mamma sick.  Not just sniffles or a headache, but too-sick-to-move, skin hurts, pneumonia-kind of sick.  I thought about going to the ER to look into getting medicine capable of resurrection, but decided against it.  Mostly, because that would have required moving. My kids realized the gravity of the situation when supper time rolled around and I didn’t budge.  Concerned, my eight year old took matters into his own hands.  He handed the fussing baby to me to nurse and went into the kitchen and cooked dinner.  He made scrambled eggs for the four


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