Remember that time I went to Las Vegas to run a half marathon because I needed motivation to run regularly so I can still fit into my skinny jeans because I love food way too much to do so unless I’m pounding the pavement? That was the weekend that Thing 2 knocked out her two front teeth.

Because that’s the way life goes.

My mom was taking care of her that day, and they were at bible study. Thing 2’s class was on the playground, and apparently the little dare devil decided to jump onto or off of the monkey bars. The details remain unclear, but Thing 2’s account of it was, “I was on dah playgroun’, an’ I was on dah monkey bars, an’ den I went ‘weeeee!’ Den nobody catched me.”

(I was going to play a video here, but I can’t work the technology, which is totally annoying, and also why I need a technical assistant. Interested in applying? I pay in gummy bears. Meanwhile I’ll just put up a photo.)

Toothless Wonder

One tooth was lost on the playground, the other shortly thereafter at the dentist’s office. And a molar was cracked. A molar not ‘scheduled’ to fall out until she’s twelvish. I was just going to let it be, until I found out that without a bridge, she could develop speech issues, and speech therapy is way too much to wrestle into my schedule, so new teeth it is.

Only insurance doesn’t cover a bridge, because it’s cosmetic. Oh, and they don’t cover porcelain crowns either, only silver. And this is a tooth she will have until middle school. All said and done — close to $800 in dental work. Thank goodness we keep an emergency fund for rainy day expenses like that.

See? That’s what some people do. They forgo fancy restaurants and fun new toys so that when unexpected expenses occur, they can cover the cost. If we were too poor for whatever reason, the group of mamas and grammas at bible study that day all offered to pitch in their own money to help us out, even though it was none of their faults. Communities rally, given the chance.

And I’m sure the dentist would’ve been willing to work out a payment plan, had it come to that.

Anyway, today was the big day that Thing 2 got her new teeth. She was a trooper, the dentist and his assistant were awesome, and my little hooligan is so proud of her new teeth.

When we got home, she climbed onto the kitchen counter and jumped off. Time to start socking away cash into the rainy day fund again…

Smile, Cheese Ball!

Sunday marked the 39^th anniversary of Roe versus Wade, the Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion. If you’re one of my eight regular readers, you know that I am adamantly against abortion. I’m also pro-choice (the decision happens at the sex part, not the pregnancy part), pro-birth control, and pro-women.

My heart breaks for women that have had an abortion, and now have to carry around the weight of what they’ve done their entire lives. I wish I could take that pain away. Since my M.O. when I can’t think of something eloquent and perfect to say is to shove scripture at you (God always says it better than me anyway), I’ll just tell you what Psalm 103:12 says:

As far as the east is from the west, 
 so far does he remove our transgressions from us.

God loves you. And I love you too. And I have the deepest gratitude for the ladies that have come forward and shared their stories about how ending their pregnancies brought them anything but peace and freedom.

A good friend of mine, who has asked to remain anonymous, wrote the following. She is one of the loveliest women I know; strong, smart, capable, compassionate, a wonderfully devoted wife and mother … the list could go on. I cannot imagine her as this scared girl with how I know her today.

I hope that her story can change one mind about carrying to term. I hope that it brings hope to another post-abortive mama, that she is not alone in her sorrow. I hope that it brings perspective to anyone that condemns the mother instead of the culture in this pro-abortion era we’re living in.

Thank you for writing this, my beautiful friend.

I was 23.  I’d just gotten out of my first serious relationship, which lasted 5 years and was very physically abusive by the end.  Anyone who’s been through that will understand how I was left in a very emotionally weak and confused state.

I started a relationship way too fast with a really great guy who had baggage of his own.  I was enjoying my freedom and finally sowing my wild oats.  We were both responsible employees who worked really hard at our jobs, and we were playing hard on nights and weekends.  Too hard.  Less than 3 months into the relationship I was pregnant.

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism.  Maybe I really have changed.  Maybe it’s both.  I can’t wrap my brain around who I was and what I did then.  Not because it was so evil, but because it was so weak.  Almost immediately, and without really considering any other choices, my boyfriend and I decided I would have an abortion.

The reasons seemed simple and valid on the surface, but I now see they were complicated and based in distortion.  The reasons I listed to the few people I told (who happened to all be people I knew would tell me I was doing the right thing) were that I was worried the baby was already messed up from the partying I was doing before I knew I was pregnant (if I’d stopped then the baby would have been fine) and that I couldn’t take the time off work.  I didn’t know how I would support the child.

I didn’t want to hurt my mom more than I already had.  That turns my stomach now, and it’s why I remain silent.  Not because she would judge me, but because she would love and forgive me, grieve for her lost grandchild and be mortified at the notion I did this for her.  No, this secret will at least go to her grave.

Nevertheless, the reason I had an abortion has nothing to do with my uterus, my blood-alcohol level, my bank balance, my age or my boyfriend’s character.  The reason I had an abortion is that I didn’t feel I was worthy or capable of motherhood.

I saw myself as trash, so I trashed my baby.

The truth is it would have been hard, but we would have been ok.  I wouldn’t have lost my job, my family would have rallied around me and my first child would be where she belongs… with me.  And if I didn’t have that support system she could at least be with a family worthy of her and I wouldn’t be haunted by the ghost within me.  I would be MORE free, and I would be MORE empowered had I chosen life.   I know this.

But that’s not what happened.  What happened was one cold, dark January morning I prayed for the first time in a long time.  I asked God to intervene if this wasn’t His will (what an absurd statement).  Then I heard the familiar clunk of my boyfriend’s boots coming up the stairs to my apartment, followed by his knock.  Those sounds usually brought a smile to my face, but they never would again.

We had to travel to another town.  When we stopped for gas halfway his truck died.  He had jumper cables, but the person we asked to help flat out refused .  No one does that.  No one does that unless you prayed for sign from God to not have an abortion.

They really are mills.  There was a security guard at the front door where we signed in and showed id.  It must have been a very important tooth I was having pulled.  Then the regular clipboard paperwork.  The waiting room was packed.  Only one other woman had a male accompanying her.  After a while I was called back for a blood draw, then sent back to the waiting room until the next thing and the next thing.  I can’t remember the whole pre-op process, but mark my words — we were cattle.

I eventually got the “counseling” I had promised.  I was handed pill after pill interrupted by a stack of waivers to sign.  The administrator asked if I was sure I wanted to do this.  I said, “I guess.”

I was sent to the waiting room one more time until the drugs kicked in.  You’ll forgive me and probably be relieved I’m not going to go into too much detail here.  A man I refuse to refer to as a doctor proceeded to suck my child and a piece of my soul out of my body with the shop-vac from Hell, then left.  A nurse stayed.  I think they gave me some more drugs and about a half hour later we were ushered out the back door.

I went home and watched Stella Got Her Groove Back.  The next morning I woke up and returned to my life as if nothing had happened just like the pretty pamphlet said I would.

It worked for a while, but a couple of years later I just started unraveling.  Reality hit me.  What I’d done.  What I’d lost.  What was permanent.  I was drinking way too much, and I sabotaged my relationship.  At this point I had come to the realization that I had indeed killed my own child and would have to live with it for eternity.

Those who “supported” my choice were scarce and uninterested in what I was going through now.  No baby, no loss.  However, if I’d miscarried at the same stage of pregnancy the loss would have been valid.  This is where post-abortion syndrome is born.

A post-abortive woman has the burden or karma of having to grieve for their child, but they often do it alone.  On top of that they have to process their hand in it.  These feelings are often attributed to the guilt the pro-life movement puts on post-abortive women, but when this started I was pro-choice and remained so for a long time.  This is a real loss.  If you care about women, if you trust women as George Tiller claimed to you won’t minimize it.

The last shreds of denial and escape were aborted when I married my husband and had my first child.  Thank God something compelled me to share my experience with him early in our relationship.  There are so many women carrying this around and NO ONE in their life knows.  He educated himself on what I was going through and is still loving me through it today.

I finally found an online message board where I practically lived for over a year.  I went through the grieving process just as if I’d lost one of my living children today.  I will never go to a place that dark again, and yes, I considered suicide.  I’ve now healed and forgiven myself as much as I ever will.  I wish I could go back, but I can’t.  There’s no place to go but forward, so I’ve done my best.  I’m also loathe to give that darkness one more iota of time or energy.

The pro-life community provided hope and love and dried my tears, while the pro-choice community told me I was imagining things.  Thanks for nothing, sisters.

Nowadays, I’m not so much concerned with winning the argument over when life begins and whether abortion should be legal or not, as I am that women are making serious, permanent decisions without knowing what they’re in for, be it physically, emotionally and/or spiritually.

Just a heads up for them.  I’d give anything to go back and get one for myself.

Circa 1983 with my two big brothers. Jeff is the one holding me. Greg is wearing a Return of the Jedi shirt. My younger brother Steve hasn't been born yet.

My brother Jeff died 26 years ago today. Six days before Christmas. Nineteen days before I turned three. I remember him a little bit, but they’re probably memories of memories at this point, clung to and worn into soft fuzziness over the years.

I sat on his teenage shoulders to pick oranges, and then I stood on a chair in the kitchen while he let me ‘help’ him squeeze them into juice.

He let me pluck the strings on his guitar.

I stood at the baby gate during naptime and cried for him. I didn’t need no stinkin’ nap.

A car hit him. It was a random accident that caused a head injury that took his life. I remember this part; it’s been cauterized into my brain, made even more poignant now that I have my own children. I didn’t witness it, but I heard my mother screaming.

If you’ve never heard a mother screaming as she’s realized tragedy has struck her child, I don’t recommend it. The movies got nothin’ on real life, man.

I don’t know how my parents bore the loss of their eldest child. Growing up, having a dead sibling in the family was ‘normal’ to me, because I barely knew any different. But my parents knew. And they survived.

They put on genuine happy faces the days each of their other three children turned fifteen, the age Jeff never reached. They gave us great Christmases every year full of friends and family, even though this season marks the anniversary of his death. We went on vacations booked for five instead of six.

I never fully appreciated it until I became a mama myself. I know my kids drive me bonkers sometimes, but I don’t know how I could go on living if something were to happen to one of them. My parents didn’t just live. They thrived.

Mom and Dad, thanks for being such rockin’ parents in the face of tragedy. You guys could’ve shut down, you could’ve split, you could’ve become lost, but you never did. You taught me how to be a parent, and how to take a deep breath when life gets rough, because no matter how bad things may seem, my children didn’t die today. How can I not pull myself together over spilt milk, when you did it over death?

I love you guys. I’ll go hug your grandbabies now, and tell them funny stories about their Uncle Jeff.

He will always be missed.

So every few weeks, I get into this strange mood where absolutely everything and anything bugs the crud out of me, and even though I know I should just let the nail polish spilled all over the bathroom by Thing 2 go, I end up softly banging my head on the wall while counting backwards from 100.

Then I remember that I’m a chick and I have hormones. So I pour a glass of wine and lock myself in the bedroom while the children proceed to absolutely destroy the house and I attempt to regain my sanity. As a warning, I might even g-chat Leif at work:

I am nothing if not considerate.

Then Ashley will ping me with some fascinating factoid about the dangers of sex swings (so she’s heard*) and how real friends will help you move bodies. In five-inch heels. In the mud. Everyone should have a friend like Ashley. But you can’t have her. She’s mine. Go find your own Ashley.

See? I’m totally moody. And apparently possessive.

Then Larry will ping me and tell me that my segment on his show is popular, and that will cheer me up, and also remind me that I have actual work I need to be doing, like writing about the crazy train that is Glenn Beck, but then the kids need feeding, cleaning, and tucking into bed, which requires another glass of wine and not a small number of deep breaths and then they’re down and wow two glasses of wine when I forgot to have lunch is a bit much so maybe I’ll make a sandwich first because I’m obsessed with sandwiches and that sounds perfect and tasty and delicious — and oh my gosh just go to bed and stay there!**

Finally finally finally get the kids settled (I think they were a wee bit skeered of Mean Mommy), sandwich made and consumed, and sat down at my computer. And then this post came out of my head instead of the one I was supposed to write.

I was going to write more (maybe) but Leif just came home. With more wine.

I’m outs.

*Don’t worry Ashley’s mom. It was purely contextual, I swear.

**This is what us professional writers call a run-on sentence. I’m using it purely as an example here of what you should never do when writing professionally. Or something.

No really, I did. We got the decorations up, the kids got gifts, we made the rounds to all the various relatives within driving distance … but I missed Christmas. I remember sometime in late February or early March, sitting down to catch my breath, and thinking to myself, “Ok, I’m ready for Christmas now!”

I’m not sure what it was, other than having a two-year-old at home with me, being the Class Mom for the second-grader (and all the scholastic frivolity that includes during the holiday season), and picking up several extra posts over at The Stir because so many of their more regular writers were on vacation … Oh, and coordinating the Christmas Tea Party for the ladies in my church.

I was kinda slammed last December.

This year, I’m determined to enjoy every gosh dern second of the magical holiday season. I think I’ll even take a class on wreath making. Because when would that skill not come in handy? Wreath making is a trade, people! It employs elves at the North Pole almost year round.

It’s only October, yet I’m already kindling my Christmas Mojo. The day after Thanksgiving, I’ll put some Bing Crosby holiday music on, pull out the decorations, make hot cocoa for the girls, and go to town decorating our plastic tree because we can’t have a real one since Leif is allergic to everything that grows.

But before Christmas is Thanksgiving, and before that is Halloween, and a certain eight-year-old of mine wants to be Dani Phantom. Of course she does. And that was only her second choice; her first was to be an actual ghost. Nope, not dress up like one, but actually be one.

I love that kid. I love her so much that I’ll make her a dang Dani Phantom costume. Because I love that she wants to be a kick-butt ghostly crime fighter. Maybe I’ll teach her how to make wreaths this December. She’s going to have mad job skyllz by the time I’m done raising her.

Any suggestions for how I can make her glow?

It’s 5:15 a.m. and I’m awake. I’ve been waking up at 4 recently, unable to go back to bed after my third bathroom trip of the night (thank you, childbirth) because by that time I’m no longer exhausted enough to drown out my darling husband’s snores with sleepiness.

Side note: Isn’t snoring the worst sound in the world? Ok, maybe the third worst, following nails on a chalkboard and cats in a blender. Not that I’ve ever heard cats in a blender. But I can imagine, and it’s not pretty.

Sometimes I can jam earplugs in and throw a pillow over my head and find a couple more hours of elusive rest. But I’ve had this cold recently, and the stuffy nose and the cough and poor tender head make me ache while I wait for the meds to kick in, and by the time they do … I’m pretty much awake.

By the time the clock hit five, I knew I was done, so I threw the covers off and headed down the hall to write this very post. The light was on. Huh. Strange. Stranger still was the sound of the TV. Ok, no longer strange.

Here’s what I found:

This little goober didn’t go to sleep until nearly eleven last night, even though she was put to bed before nine. It was the same old But I Need game, which (I’m pretty sure) children have played since the dawn of time. You know the one.

But I need a drink!

But I need to go potty!

But I need my night light!

But I need socks that don’t bother my feet!

But I need a hug!

But I need a different song on the ipod!

But I need to be tucked back in!

You get the idea. Anyway, my little non-sleeper was out in the living room watching TV. Which she is not allowed to do on school days. Apparently, she thought that rule only applied to afternoons and evenings, so she forced herself awake after six precious hours of sleep to enjoy some tunes.

New rule: No getting up until 6:30.

Except for Leif. If he wants to get up pre-crack of dawn and leave me to sleep in peace … I’d be ok with that. Love you, Honey!

So I wrote some stuff last week that I’d love for you to read. Click, read, comment, share – especially share. Word-of-mouth is where it’s at, baby. Plus, I really can’t afford fancy advertising. It’s ‘spensive.

The Occupy Wall Street goons are still on display. President Barack Obama feels their pain and understands their frustration. Iran thinks they’re swell. Iran also stones rape victims for ‘sexual immorality.’ As a general rule, I like not to agree with Iran on pretty much everything.

Obama called Mitt Romney a flip-flopping flip-flopper, which is completely true, of course. However, there’s this saying that come to mind about glass houses and throwing stones…

Priorities in Topeka are messed up, y’all. Social welfare programs and inflated benefits and pensions are not more important than legally protecting victims of domestic abuse.

Did Top 7 with Ashley today hopped up on cold meds because I caught Thing 2’s first preschool cold. I was trying to explain cloture, but since it’s totally boring and procedural, I replaced the word ‘cloture’ with the word ‘boobs.’ Way more entertaining that way.

Thankfully, Thing 2 was feeling better today, so she went back to preschool for the first time in a week. But now Thing 1 is sick, and has been out of school since Tuesday afternoon anyway, because there were parent-teacher conferences on Wednesday, and teacher in-service yesterday and today.

By the way, Thing 1 is a delight to have in class, especially with her engaging story-telling. Plus she’s not flunking out of Mandarin, so yay!

But given that Leif worked from home last Friday, it’s now been eight days since I’ve been at home by myself. Which is probably why I think I’m going to try to go to Vegas next week for at least part of the Western Republican Leadership Conference.

I did get to go out downtown last night, which was fun. I met up with a twitter friend, Debbie, who was in town on business. She does something super smart for the Navy, like Leif does. Only I don’t really know what either of them do. Something with sharks and laser beams attached to their heads, I’m sure.

I played with guns this week. Well, a gun, and I didn’t even really get to play with it — just hold it. My dad and brother bought some new toys (Mosin-Nagants to be exact), and let me hold one. My dad told me to pose with it, and true story, I put the butt on my shoulder like a bazooka. I’ve watched True Lies too many times, obviously. Next up: Actually learning to shoot one of those suckers.

And now I have to officially get back to serious writing. Heh. That sounds so stern and maybe even scholarly. That’s not me. I guess I should say time to get back to writing political op-ed. There. Now I  sound totally cool.

Actually, now I probably sound like the time in eighth grade when I thought I was cool because I was the flag team captain. Yup, I’ve always been this awesome.

The most ridiculous attempt at a family photo in the history of photography. And families.

My sweet precious firstborn baby girl turned eight years old last week. Holy crap I’m getting old. One of the disadvantages to having kids so young is that I don’t get to lie about my age. Um, yeah, I was 12 when I had her, that’s it…

But this post is not about me, or the wrinkle between my eyebrows that I’m pretty sure Thing 1 is responsible for. Nope, this post is about my newly minted eight-year-old, her fantastic party, and her wonderful friends.

All summer long, Thing 1 proclaimed her desire for a) a Pump It Up party and/or b) a surprise party. Pump It Up is this awesome party place filled with those giant bounce house and obstacle course inflatables, then they give the kids pizza, and when it’s time to go, you gladly hand them a small fortune and one of your kidneys because you get to leave and they clean up the mess.

In order to accomplish both of these tasks, I told my 7-and-three-quarters-year-old that she could not in any way, shape, or form have a Pump It Up Party unless she got a job and paid for it herself, and that she probably wouldn’t be having a fancy a party this year, since I had a trip planned and wouldn’t be home until the day before her birthday.

A few weeks before the Big Day, I booked the Pump It Up party for the day OF her birthday. Then I sent out an evite to the parents of her entire 3^rd grade class, telling them to ohmygosh please keep it a secret because Thing 1 was dying for a surprise party. Altogether we had eighteen third graders and one little sister.

On Monday morning, I reassured the birthday girl that I’d be coming to her class at snack time with cupcakes, and that Daddy would be home early from work, and she could pick where to go for dinner. She seemed ok about not having a party. My kid is awesome, y’all.

After round one of Operation Sugar Kids Up, the kids all headed out to recess, and the teacher quietly and excitedly asked me, “Is she really having a surprise party after school? The kids keep coming up and whispering to me not to tell her about her party!”

I did a mental head-desk … I wouldn’t even have told my kid about it, worried she wouldn’t be able to keep the secret. Oh well, nothing I could do about it.

Thing 1 and Friends

A few hours later, I was back at school, picking up the sweetie pie. I had gone to the store with Thing 2 to pick up cake and ice cream, which I stowed under some beach towels in the front seat. Thing 2 (age 3) happily proclaimed to her sister, “We got you birf-day cake!” And then she looked at me like I was insane when I said that we had not, but we could maybe later. “But we got dah cake,” she insisted. I ignored her and turned up the Kids’ Bop.

When we got to the party place, Leif and my mom were already there waiting for us. Thing 1 took it all in slowly… “Wait, why are we at Pump It Up? Is that Gramma? And Daddy? What are they doing here? Mommy…?”

I parked and looked at her and said, “Happy birthday, baby.”

“YOU MEAN I GET TO GO TO PUMP IT UP FOR MY BIRTHDAY???”

“Yup. AND all of your friends will be here in a few minutes for your birthday party.”

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!” I’m still a little deaf in my left ear from that scream. And will forever be amazed that her friends all kept the secret. Chickadee had no clue what was up my sleeve.

No way was I going to miss out on the fun!

So basically, I’m like the coolest mom evah, and Thing 1 died from happiness, came back to life, and then died again. But again, this post is not about me, and it’s not even necessarily about a birthday party.

It’s about how our everyday interactions affect those around us, and how living a Christ-centered life is a witness to the world.

When the kids were playing on one of the climbing inflatables, they started to get a little bit rowdy. The referee/party supervisor looked on with what looked like a worried expression. “You can totally blow your whistle at them if they’re being too rough,” I reassured him. I’m not exactly what you’d call a helicopter parent.

“No, they’re fine,” he said, “It’s just strange… I’ve never seen anything like it before… they’re helping each other climb to the top.”

“Well what do kids normally do?” Inquiring minds wanted to know.

“Pull each other down!” He said with good humor. He asked, “These kids are classmates?”

“Yup. The go to the private Christian school over the hill. They’re a pretty tight group.”

I’ve mentioned before that Thing 1 goes to a school that we like very much and sacrifice quite a bit for in order to send her there. It uses a classical approach to learning that you can learn all about by reading Dorothy Sayers’ The Lost Tools of Learning.

Anyway, there was that exchange, and one later in the ‘party room’ after the pizza had been handed out. Someone asked if they could eat, and the party supervisor said yes. “Wait!” I shouted to the kids, “what do we do before we eat?”

Time for Pizza and Prayer

“PRAY!” said every single one of those eighteen children. So we bowed our heads and blessed our food while the employees of Pump It Up looked on in amazement. I heard more than once that afternoon that this group of kids was one of the greatest they’d ever had in. I was glad they got to see the fruit of parents raisings kids in a Christ-centered life.

Parenting is rough, and some days I hold on by tenuous threads, but days like Thing 1’s birthday give me fuel to keep on trucking. They remind me of why I do this thing called motherhood – because God trusted me with these kids (for some strange reason), and it’s my job to teach them to love and honor Him in all that they do.

How we treat others and how we raise our children are our constant testimonies to the world. Show people that faith in Christ isn’t weird or backwards or inhibiting, but a way to live so that our children build each other up instead of tearing one another down.

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.” –JC

My friend Amelia Hamilton wrote a super cool children’s book called One Nation Under God: A Book For Little Patriots. It teaches some basic facts about the founding of our awesome and amazing country in clever verse along with some great artwork. It is endorsed by myself, and more importantly, Thing 1 and Thing 2. Even Leif likes it!

To get a good feel for what this book is about, read Amelia’s Behind-the-Scenes story on Big Hollywood.

In my possession, I have two signed copies of One Nation Under God. One is staying right here, because it’s become a favorite bedtime story. The other one will go to one of my eight lucky readers! To enter, leave a comment telling me which little patriot in your life will love this book. If you’re just entering to get Amelia’s signature so you can forge checks, don’t tell me. I don’t want to be liable.

No entries after midnight Friday PST. Winner will be chosen at random. As always, don’t blame me if you lose. Blame the machines.

My favorite picture of Thing 2 and me, taken Christmas 2009 by Kristen Bons

Thing 2 starts preschool on Monday. After 3 ½ years of her glued to my hip on an almost daily basis, I’ve been asked a lot how I feel about this.

Right now I feel like I feel when I’m running, and just trying to make it to a certain predetermined goal before I stop or slow down. I can see my finish line. I usually feel like I’m going to throw up, because I usually push myself too far. I mute my ipod because the music becomes a distraction rather than a motivation. All efforts are put toward moving forward, each step, not stopping, knowing that once I make it, I will be better for it. Stronger. Able to go further or faster the next time.

That’s what I feel like right now. All I can see is the finish line. This race that I have been running for the last three years of trying to be a decent wife, mommy, and homemaker while simultaneously trying to launch a career in online political punditry, with no nanny or daycare.

I wouldn’t trade it, but most days there just aren’t enough hours. It is completely frustrating in one moment, and ultimately joyful in the next. Thank God for a cute husband that doesn’t mind if the laundry doesn’t all get put away, or stopping to pick up dinner on his way home.

Also thank God for Coke Zero, Advil, Clear Eyes, and sauvignon blanc.

And of course, these amazing little girls, who can drive me up the wall but also knock me over with laughter. This morning, I asked Thing 2 where Jesus lived, and she happily told me, “Um, in da Bible!” How cute and sweet is that?

A year or two ago, I took the girls dress shopping with me, and in the fitting room, Thing 1 told me I looked ready for the ball in a blue taffeta dress I was trying on. I bought it and every time I wear it, I feel ready for the ball.

I have a thousand memories like these; they are the moments that have made this achy tiredness worth it. Because right now? Right now I’m tired. I am ready to have some time to do my work with a small amount of peace.

My finish line is 16 whole hours a week to work without my eye twitching from being interrupted 27 times a minute with requests for snacks, announcements of bodily functions, demands for TV and/or junk food and the subsequent tantrums that occur when the answer is no.

I bet you I’ll be able to pack the majority of the 30 or so hours a week I work now into that time.

So on Monday, I will cross the line with a goodbye wave and a kiss to my baby, and I will clutch my side and catch my breath and feel the rush of accomplishment wash over me. I will thank God for my health and (relative) sanity, and I will sit and ponder what goal I shall set for myself next.

Because as hard as that last stretch always is … I do love to cross the finish line.