This is a post my husband told me to write.

Maybe because he’s tired of me whining to just him about this…perhaps. But more likely because he is wonderfully transparent, authentic, and easy to read. If he’s mad he’s going to pout let you know, and if he’s not, well, he’s just himself. What you see is what you get; his realness draws people right on in. And I want to be that way, too.

Yesterday I took the girls to the library. An acquaintance said hello and re-introduced herself. She is lovely with two beautiful little girls about the age of mine. I made a joke {coping mechanism alert: sarcasm} about how I couldn’t wait for Mother’s Day Out to start back up, and she told me that her girls didn’t do anything like that. Along we went on our merry way of conversation…btdubs I totally think we could be friends…but that’s not what I want to say…sidetracked… When we left I couldn’t get out of my mind a teensy little part of our convo. It was the part right after the no-MDO part where she told me she intended to homeschool. Nope, not even that part…it was the teensiest little tiny part just before that where she said to me “don’t think I’m one of those crazies…” and then she said she planned to homeschool.

That part. That little one. Right there…almost missed it…

You see, I left that conversation {entirely of my own accord} wondering if she was judging me as an idiot who was wishing away the years and wasn’t seeing the loveliness of these bitty days with my girls. {Um, GUILTY, by the way.} And her teeny little cover-over revealed to me that she was doing the exact same thing. Thinking I would judge her.

 

Honest: I didn’t.

I don’t.

 

I really do believe that God has given her the tools she needs in her toolbox to mother her girls.

And I want so badly to believe that he’s given me the tools I need in mine for my own two.  Not hers…not my sisters’…just mine.

 

Her words were pregnant with more than a third child.

So did I do that to her? Did I make her feel judged? Did she make me feel judged? Did we both wind up with guilty verdicts? The answer is a big fat no. As 50% of that conversation, there was nothing she did toward me that made me think for one second that she was judging my choices. But I walked away from there feeling all the feels that she did. And that’s one flick of the wrist away from a hearty tailspin.

I wonder how she felt when she walked away from me.

So, yes, while it is possible that I made this face the moment she said homeschool:

I just don’t think I did.

By the grace of God this moment in our conversation was at the very beginning, and there really isn’t much to go off of to make me think she felt judged by me.

So when did we grow a guilt baby? Because I’m thinking we both had one there in our invisible Moby wraps, cramming one of those hospital green pacis into its mouth to keep it from embarrassing us in front of our {hopefully} new friend. And who decided that it needed to be fed every 2 hours or there would be hell to pay?

Oh yeah. I remember now.

And it’s time to be reminded all over again.

As it turns out, guilt babies don’t cry. They hiss.

 

Sometimes I trick my kids into eating the heel of the bread by turning the heel side toward the inside of the grilled cheese. Partly because I’m crafty but mostly because I’m a formidable figure.

Sometimes when David stops working I sneak into the yard for an hour to weed and snip while he watches the girls. Partly because I’m an opportunist but mostly because I’m a ninja.

 

Allowing for the possibility that I am a complete wimp:

these kids are wearing me slap out.

 

Moms who homeschool, preschool, or think mother’s morning out programs are a tool of the devil: hats off to you.  I imagine your house is also clean.  I’m just trying to keep my head above water here while also making sure my children practice safe poolside practices.

This week has kicked my proverbial parenting tail.  If only they weren’t cute.  I’m convinced that’s how God protects them.

The zinnias are slamming and yesterday bitty G looked at this vase on the coffee table, eyed me all hopeful-like, stuck that cute little finger up and asked “one flower?”

No, baby…all the flowers in the whole wide world.

They bloomed.

They bloomed.

Granted, we were on vacation, and granted, they don’t really look all that hot, but…

they bloomed.

I snipped them so fast and got them into a favorite vase so this is the only picture.

Also {who knew?} they were kind of buggy…so I don’t think I’ll be snipping them in the future. I will just let them be their au naturale selves and keep all the ants outside, thank you very much.

I think they’re a metaphor for this whole season. They were started late {these are actually the THIRD round, you can see here for all the complain-o on the first two, if you please,} the odds were stacked against them, they suffered at the hands of both nature AND caretaker…

 

But, did I mention?

They bloomed.

And guess what that makes me want to do:

yep.  Try again next year.