We boarded a plane, lived with a group of people for 10 hours, landed, boarded another plane, landed, rented a car, loaded the kids and luggage and strollers and car seats up and we were there. 

In my memories. 

Driving the roads by memory, the sweeping fields the small one lanes, the dotted red and yellow houses, the old school house. 

And yet it wasn’t a memory. It was all still there. Just like it was last time I revisited the memory.

And just as quaint, as beautiful, as peaceful. 

Minus the screeching toddlers in the back seat and the roaring of wee sings. 

We pulled down the familiar gravel driveway that we hundreds of times ran down to catch the city bus that would take us to the small school house.

I rolled down the window and watched the forest, that we would pick wild berries and mushrooms, pass by. I breathed in the familiar smell of the blossoming cherry blossoms. 

And we finally stopped short of the old house and pull into a new driveway, one that was not here in our childhood days, a new crisp red pure Swedish house.

My sister came bounding down the steps with huge welcoming hugs. 

We were there. No longer in my dreams but really there! 


People and cities and shopping and eating and child care taking and meetings and food and candy and coffee and fika.

We were there. 

For 3 weeks! 

In a country I love, speaking a language I treasure, gathering with friends I admire. 

It was amazing. 

If only it wasn’t an ocean between us! If only it didn’t take two days of jet lag plus 15 hours of air travel (x 2) !

If only it didn’t have a price tag. 

And then again, coming home, back to another country I love and the people I love and the family and things and food and stores and roads and well just about everything I love. 


So from amazing to amazing. 

I am so lucky! 

Sweet secrets

It’s not just open the cupboard grab a peanut butter cup and eat it anymore.


That was years ago!

Well like 2 years ago.

Now it’s nonchalantly slip the cupboard open-magically snatch the peanut butter cup-tuck it in bra strap-meander back to coffee cup / book / couch – slip the chocolate into the face hole ever so silently and savor the sweetness, unknowing to the young child that resides nearby. Or not nearby. But has ears of a dog and eyes of an eagle. 

It’s actually quite a game! It’s exhilarating! My adrenaline gets pumping! And as soon as I conquer one piece I’m onto the next. It’s totally addicting. Not just the sugar, but the means to get that sugar! 

I have inward triumph. 

I feel mighty. A warrior. A secret agent. A top secrets defender of some sort. Plain ol’ smart. 

Because I out smarted my 3 year old. 

And then as soon as I am soaring in confidence, 

I get smacked in the face.

Caught red handed. 

“How did you know!!??” 

And then, 

the begs and pleads. 

Maybe I ought to not even start. But it’s exhilarating. So I do it again.

Hint: once in a while it works to tell them that it’s broccoli. And they make this wrinkled squishy face where snot gets smacked between upper lip and nostrils and you say “do you want some” and they run away so fast and you can eat your sweet savors in peace. Maybe. Hopefully! 


What happens is everything. At once! 

It’s not that I’m busy. I’m not. For instance at this moment I just finished my second americano of the day and am sitting on the couch writing blabbles. The truth is though, that I should be busy. 


That’s what makes me busy. Is that I’m actually pretty un-busy (Is that any different then being lazy??!)

Because in my head, like in my brain somewhere, I think I should be doing this and this and this! And instead I’m doing not that and not that. And making myself another coffee. 

So when you ask me what I’ve been up to first I 


Because I want to tell you I’m busy because I have this and this and this though I’m not doing that and that and that. 

Then I think…

Should I tell you what I should be up to? Or should I tell you I do a lot of

Not doing. 

And so then, because I like to not do

Everything seems to need to be done all at once and I get in a flurry because

The house is messy the dinner needs made companies coming prescriptions need picked up we need groceries I need to go to the gym I need to do yoga I need to fix the hole on your shirt I need to find my wallet to pay the bill that is in this purse somewhere that needs cleaned out and oh I just burned your grilled cheese because I thought I could multi task and remind me to NEVER put good multi tasker on a resume EVER again!! And I may be yelling and screaming and ordering and crying at this point!

And so the complete truth is everything happens all at once

But it’s because all the other times nothing’s happening. 

I aspire to do. As soon as I put down my phone. And finish my coffee. Aaaaand…………………………………….


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.