What good is a worry box if it’s always full?

It’s not just full. It’s overflowing. It invades my other boxes. It keeps me up at night. It invades the box meant for thinking of others.

Because it’s full of thinking of others who aren’t thinking of others (With me here?).

I worry about dear ones who aren’t doing so well. I see how they are limping. I worry for their future, for their eternity.

And the miserable part is no matter how much I talk and remind quietly in love or in -not so quiet- pleads, I can’t change anything. I have my worry box stuffed full with things I can’t change. For people who don’t want me to help them.

And the thing I forget, the one thing I don’t remember.

Is thinking of the ones who are right beside me, guiding me.

Thinking of the ones who actually appreciate being thought of. Ones who help me. The ones who make striving that much easier day to day. Ones who are trying to walk this path in obedience, trying to set a good example.

I forget to thank them. To thank God.

Because my worry box has overflowed.

I ought to have a box labeled Faith instead of Worry; because it’s in that box, where those thoughts belong.

I need to pray. And have faith.

Because truly;

what good is a worry box if it’s always full?


They are sleeping in the backseat. I’m sitting in the dark car. Under the carport. It’s raining and dark outside.

I glance over to the house and count how many loads it is going to take to get my two sleeping toddlers into the house plus the bundles of stuff we’ve accumulated since we departed this familiar place 4 hours ago. 4. Got it.

okay. 4 loads. 2 diaper changes. 1 paci search. 2 sets of pJ’s. 26 teeth to brush. 14 stairs to climb  x 2.

2 books to read. 1 child to nurse. Prayer to be said. Lights to go out. 2 Childs to be brought to my bed (whaaaat??? After all that!!!?)

And ffff-finally I get to brush my own teeth. Maybe stretch a little. Say a prayer and snuggle in next to my munchkins and say goodnight.

And be thankful to the husband who instead of being able to crawl into bed with the rest of us is out there trying to keep the roof over our heads and our pants a little too tight.



mommy shoes

I feel like a little girl wearing Mommy shoes. Sometimes I can get my stuff together and walk past a group of people and my clip clop is – just so – and no one notices or if they do they think I have it all together all of the time because they assume I know how to walk -just so- 365 days of the year.

but the truth is

I don’t. I pretend. I try. I fail. I try again. Sometimes I make it good and sometimes it’s enough to pass.

I wear mommy shoes and carry wet wipes and diapers in my purse and have toddlers around my legs.

I told Emmett before he turned 3 that at his 3 year birthday he is going to be done with his pacifier (Aka deedee.) We were gonna hang it on the deedee tree!

His birthday arrived and I asked him if he was ready. He assured me he was not.

Two evenings later he comes up to me at 9 pm and says “mom I’m ready to hang my deedees on the tree!”

I got overly excited and we bundled up and went out in the pouring rain and hung up his pacifiers on a bush (it was closer to the house then the trees and it was cold and wet and dark!).

I took pictures and cheered him on and we went back in the house and I shut the door and he turns to me and says

“uh mom… we forgot my deedees outside!”

to which we spent 2 1/2 nights of crying and waking up several times and saying no to the bawls and pleads for the deedees until finally on night 3 I went back out in the cold dark wetness and found two soggy pacifiers to which I brought to my son in the middle of the night.

and he grabbed one in his hand and stuck one in his mouth and curled up and went back to sleep. Peacefully. Like everything was finally okay again.

i don’t know if I failed that one miserably or just so-so.

Because im just pretending. I’m just a little girl trying to fit into mommy shoes.


dear diary

I used to write a diary.

It didn’t have a lock. None of them did. One time a few years back I loaded a garbage bag full of them and brought them to the end of the driveway to be picked up.

Gone. Forever.

Noone cared. Not even me!

I was relieved, in fact. To not feel like every time I cleaned out my closet I had to pull out the umpteen notebooks scribbled with Karissa loves (insert crush of the week here.)

But something interesting happened the summer I met my husband.

I quit writing diaries.

I didn’t see it happening at the time, I can just look back at it now.


because that summer he became my diary. He became my soundboard.

If I needed to write something I wrote to him.

If I had a bad day, I talked to him.

If I had an amazing idea (I’m full of them!) and I needed to express it I sketched and we brainstormed and discussed about it together over a cup of steaming hot coffee.

And the best part about my diary? It listens. It comforts. It warns. It enlightens. It laughs. It cries (at very very rare occasions in fact maybe like once?).

I hope you have someone in your life that is your diary.

And if not just wait. Be patient. It’s working its way toward you.

Strings attached

Material things. Am I too attached? Probably. Definitely.

I have strings attached to all of the objects around me. They have different densities.

Some are thin and if I pull hard enough i can tear the string and scribble .50 on a piece of tape and stick it to it and place it on a folding table in the garage and watch it go away with someone else who is most likely deciding on how thick of string they are going to tie onto the object and then tie it to their heart.

This makes decluttering a difficult task.

Here goes… if I move this out of the way, and this and ooooh this too…ahhh so much better… now to the garage sale pile you go!

Wait a minute I can’t get rid of this!(Screams my heart from deep depths).

This was from grandma! When grandpa died she gave this to me because she didn’t know what to do with it and now I don’t know what to do with it but when she dies I will love to have it because I will look at it and think “oh I remember when grandma gave this to me because she didn’t know what to do with it!” and every time I have a garage sale for the next 60 years of my life I am going to look at this and wonder if I should finally just put the .50 on it and watch it delicately enter the hands of a stranger (NOOO!!!!) that’s my heart with too tight of strings screaming from deep inside. From depths unkown.

And so this battle with my heart strings is a yearly battle at that time of decluttering.

Nevertheless I am going to enter the battle once again.

Best I declutter because I gotta make room to come to your garage sale and tie some strings to your .50 cent items.

obsessing about obsessing

Design. Am i alone in this obsession? I think not… I know not.

Because I walk into Main Street Station or Rusty Glamour and see booth after booth that is obsessed with designing.

Home decor. baby clothes. binky clips.

Shelves that the husband made off the pic that the wife showed the husband that the wife on Pinterest pinned that her husband made (Does that make any sense?).

I run into friends in town, at church, meet them for coffee;

the stylish ones have their hair in a top knot sporting Swedish clogs or Sorels and their black leggings are rolled up just two rolls at the bottom and their baby is wearing one of the outfits they sewed using the pattern their friends friend designed and a pixie hat their mother in law knitted –

– and we are all just obsessed.

I’m relieved I’m not the only one! But possibly I’m the only one that keeps obsessing over being obsessed?

I can’t pick up a bottle of soap and just use it.

I check out the shape. I examine how it’s sitting on the counter. Is their clutter around it? Is the back of the soap with the ingredients and bar code showing?

How many times did the designers design this bottle before they made the final decision to have it jut out right here and in right here and how did they pick the print for the bottle?

How many people were involved in the design of this product?

But it’s also possible that I am having these thoughts because I purchased the spendier method soap instead of the generic brand because it was designed to look good on my counter.

And so I am struck by the thought that even the most ordinary things can be aesthetically pleasing (no duh!).

I then move on to the next object that most people don’t obsess about. And I redesign it in my peewee brain. Obsessing even more.

And so I can definitely admit that I have an obsession.

But maybe (hopefully) writing it down will make me obsess less (doubtful).