thankful

Two years ago, on the eve of Thanksgiving, I wrote this little letter to Charlie (who was yet to be born!).

Last year, on the eve of Thanksgiving, I wrote another letter to 9-month-old Charlie.

Now, here's another letter to our almost 2-year-old!

***

dear Charlie-warlie,

You're delighted with blinking lights, evergreen trees, and all things Christmas. I took you to the mall today, and you smashed your face against the railing, staring with baby-wonder at the giant Christmas tree towering above you. Back at home, we put up our own Christmas tree, and you literally ran in circles, you were so excited. 

You woke up from your nap with messy hair and pink cheeks. You wore bright blue socks with skid protectors on the bottoms, because your feet usually move too fast for your body. I talk a lot about how you're a persnickety baby, and how you're a fussy napper (which is true)... but not enough about how smart you are. How funny you are. How handsome you are. How badly you need a haircut, but how I don't want to cut your hair, because you'll look too old. (Oy vey, tears. Really? I need to get to bed...)

Anyways -- I speak for your daddy and I when I say that we are thankful, thankful, thankful for you. It's cliche, but if you ever read this, you won't care. Kids want to hear how much their parents love them, right?

Right.

So, we love you. THIIIIIIIIIS MUCH. {{stretches arms out as wide as possible}}

(whenever I do that, you look at me sideways, giggle, and go back to playing with your trucks. all business.)

Love,

your momma.

p.s. here are a few pictures of some other things I'm thankful for. (I'm grateful for big, obvious things too, of course... but I'm also thankful that I've got the ability to be thankful for funny socks, and coffee, and big plans for a mantle that really don't mean too much in the light of eternity... and yet, they're still gifts, given to be enjoyed. What a huge blessing... 

Ok, sorry. On to the funny sock picture...)

monday morning

Monday's not hitting me too hard this morning. We left Charlie with my in-laws over the weekend, and I missed him. I didn't expect it -- FREEDOM FROM BABYVILLE had been calling my name all last week (it was a rough one) -- but all day Saturday, I heard his little voice in my head whenever we saw a Christmas tree (his current obsession), or when I watched little kids dancing at the wedding reception ("Marty! That'll be him someday. Awwwww!").

So today, when he woke up and climbed onto my lap with a book, I melted, and we snuggled. 

Apparently, getaways are good for a mommy's soul.

A few other items of note:

I really need to get new mascara (anyone have any good recommendations?). My current brand runs into my eyes and BURNS, causing giant, painful teardrops at the most inopportune times... like, for example, during the bride and groom's first dance on Saturday night. Yep, it sure was a touching moment. But the DJ was giving me the weirdest looks, because I was wiping my eyes and sniffling and blubbering all over the place. (It HURT. Stupid mascara.) Marty was shooting from another angle on the other side of the dance floor -- he came up to me later and said, "Wow, hun. You ok?"

Curse you, cheap tube of mascara.

Here's another good one: The night before the wedding, we ran over to the 24-hour WalMart at midnight because I needed a pair of pants for the next day. (I brought a skirt, but the forecast was chilly and windy. Not conducive to skirt-wearing.) Typically, I really, really dislike WalMart. (Trying to avoid the "hate" word here, but it's a close one.) Not for snobby reasons. (I've heard people say they won't shop there because of white trash, or because it smells bad. oh PLEASE.) Nope, it's not that. WalMart and I have a history of bad run-ins. I can never find what I want. I always run into crabby people there. The lines are long. Charlie threw his first shopping tantrum in a WalMart checkout line. etc. etc. (So really, WalMart, don't take it personally. It's not you. It's me.)

Anyways, I found one (count it -- ONE) pair of pants that might work. There were two different sizes that could have fit me... and no one in the place who could open the stinkin' dressing room. (It's midnight, people. Come on, WalMart employees, get on it. Doesn't everyone go shopping pants-shopping at WalMart, at MIDNIGHT?)

So, I bought the smaller size.

(Wrong move, chica. Lay off the pop tarts.)

I wore my skirt the next day.

And that, my friends, is the sum total of my slightly-awkward weekend wedding moments. 

Wedding pictures, coming up soon!

on: how I don't have it all together.

See this bowl? I really love this bowl. It was a wedding gift from a sweet coworker. It's been on my table ever since we got married. I really love this bowl. (Did I mention I really love this bowl?)

I think God noticed my love affair with that silly bowl, and decided He needed to teach me a teensy lesson. But first, a quick side-story.

I've been reading Loving the Little Years: Motherhood in the Trenches. It's so, so good. Reading it makes me feel like I can do this whole momma thing. I got to this chapter where the author talks about stopping sibling fights (as if that's a problem for us right now... still, I liked what she had to say). Basically, instead of sending kids to their respective corners when they're fighting over a toy, or trying to get the "He Said, She Said" story out of each individual... what this mommy does (my paraphrase) is talk to them about the importance of people over things. She says that the emphasis should be placed on "maintaining fellowship" with each other -- and so, she asks her children, "Is that toy worth breaking fellowship with your brother/sister?" or "Isn't your sister/brother more valuable than that toy?" The point is, considering others is more important than getting your own way.

Alright. Back to the bowl.

Marty was fixing our dining room light the other night. He was fiddling with the cord, doing some rewiring. And then, CRASH! Down came the (heavy) chandelier. Right onto our dining room table. And, fatefully, sitting on top of our table was the aforementioned bowl... except now, it was shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

My reaction was a bad one. I'll spare you the details.

But listen, here's the point: I was all proud of myself after reading that chapter in the book. "I'll just file that tidbit away for when my kids are fighting over a toy. Come on, kids. This is an important life lesson. No breaky-breaky the fellowship between you two. Cut it out, grow up, etc. etc. {all said in a wise, sage-like parental way}."

And here I was. Breaking fellowship with my husband, over a broken bowl.

I'm not sure how to wrap this story up... except to tell you that my love of pretty things is now 

(1) out in the open,

(2) one of my vices,

(3) in the works of changing.

Because people (particularly, husbands) are much more important than things.

Glad we got that all cleared up.

Also. If you happen to see a bowl like the one above... don't tell me about it. I'll be buying something unbreakable, or very ugly, instead :)