This past Friday I went to my parents house. I sat on the couch beside my youngest brother, my mother sitting on the floor in front of me as my kids played around her, and we watched old home videos of when I was two and half years old and my sister Anna was ten months old. I was wild and loud- standing on furniture, dancing and stomping and singing, running around and swinging toys that inevitably hit Anna in the face. The living room was littered with toys, and a basket or two of laundry sat in the corner. It was like a photograph of my living room right now. And the kids, well, my children live from the same script- the same wild, the same loud, the same accidental injuries. I looked at my mama and said, "No wonder I call you when it seems like no one really gets it. You get it. You've lived it." But I think that, really, other people do understand my messy living room and how achingly exhausted I am by ten in the morning some days. But the people who
The ramblings of a woman, wife, mother, artist, and Christ follower.