A year. A year? Has it already been so long? Where does the time go? And yet it feels like so much longer than just one year. When I sit down during the day, or at night, or any time, the thought of getting on the computer hardly a blip on my radar, so long has it been that I have fueled my desire to write.
So many things have come and gone, birthdays, vacations, seasons, and holidays. Scariness and craziness the whole world over. There is so much to say and yet the words feel frozen.
When faced with the realities of the world, of the country, of being a grown up, I find myself with a deep desire to curl up in my bed Rip Van Winkle style and sleep it all away. Which is occasionally overcome by an ignited fire to get out and run for office, start a world-helping organization, sell all my possessions and give them money to people truly in need.
Time keeps on slipping...
My baby is no longer a baby, well on her way to being three years old this summer. She is still as spicy as ever (although not so much today as she seems to be feeling quite punk -- hopefully better soon with the help of a healthy dose of Tylenol and a nap). She knows what she wants and what she doesn't and she will tell you with a wild screamy whine and sometimes even body flailing. She adores her big sisters (of course, who wouldn't?) and is constantly copying whatever it is they are doing or saying or wearing.
I'm sure Hope and Paige are tired of hearing about being a good example to her.
Hope and Paige. The two big girls. My big girls. My nine-year-old and just-turned seven-year-old. Have I mentioned how time has kept on going? They are amazing and I know that I have played only a minuscule part in that.
I am so in love with these girls.
In recent news, I have given up Caribou for the last two weeks of lent. Well, I should rephrase. I've given up going out to get my coffee. I am still very much drinking it brewed at home. (No need to worry about the safety of my family.) It has only been five days and I'm mostly over it. Sad, I know. Definitely makes my addiction that much more obvious. (Although I never questioned that it was there.) It kinda sucks. But I know it's not that bad. First world problem and all. So every time I think about the sweet creaminess of my favorite mocha, I try to take it as an opportunity to have a conversation with God and to be thankful for what I have.
I've had a lot of conversations with God these past five days.
So, cheers to home-brewed coffee, being a grown-up, writing again, and time.