Breathe deep and backlight
We don't live in a big, huge house. It's probably small to average-ish.
Despite its, we'll call it coziness, there are times when the house feels downright ginormous. Like when Monkey wanders off on his own or the kitchen basketball has up and fled, and someone's world is just ending, y'all.
Or on those far-away game nights waiting for Brandon to come home, laying in the bed pretending not to be the least bit scared but all the while praying hard that tonight won't be the night where I have to actually use my firearm training.
Or, you know, when I clean. Which is maybe twice a year, though that doesn't stop me from almost quitting in exhaustion halfway through because dang it, everything is going to be dirty again in five minutes.
Sometimes the house seems very big.
And sometimes it seems very, very small.
Like lately. As far as my two sweet, precious boys are concerned, everything I've done in the last week or two is wrong. This isn't true, of course. Except I haven't been gracefully handling stress or their endless stream of insults toward each other or their endless stream of complaints over ev. ery. thing.
Surely by now I should know how to deal with this, and not threaten to go off to a hotel by myself for a week or tell them if they don't act better I'm going to sell all their toys.
That was a low moment. In response to a house shrinking by the moment with a cacophony of entitlement and dissatisfaction and abysmal attitudes, mine included.
Thanks be to God for a couple of sixty-degree days and my camera. Who, by the way, has never cried and stomped away from me because I said it was time for dinner.
Just a warm evening and a few deep fresh-air breaths and a few shots into the sun. (Or dawn, for the last photo.) There is healing in the backlight. Praise, praise the Lord.
Boys, I'm not going to sell your stuff. And if I go off to a hotel by myself, rest assured I'll miss you desperately and come right home. After one blissful night of sleep.
Despite its, we'll call it coziness, there are times when the house feels downright ginormous. Like when Monkey wanders off on his own or the kitchen basketball has up and fled, and someone's world is just ending, y'all.
Or on those far-away game nights waiting for Brandon to come home, laying in the bed pretending not to be the least bit scared but all the while praying hard that tonight won't be the night where I have to actually use my firearm training.
Or, you know, when I clean. Which is maybe twice a year, though that doesn't stop me from almost quitting in exhaustion halfway through because dang it, everything is going to be dirty again in five minutes.
Sometimes the house seems very big.
And sometimes it seems very, very small.
Like lately. As far as my two sweet, precious boys are concerned, everything I've done in the last week or two is wrong. This isn't true, of course. Except I haven't been gracefully handling stress or their endless stream of insults toward each other or their endless stream of complaints over ev. ery. thing.
Surely by now I should know how to deal with this, and not threaten to go off to a hotel by myself for a week or tell them if they don't act better I'm going to sell all their toys.
That was a low moment. In response to a house shrinking by the moment with a cacophony of entitlement and dissatisfaction and abysmal attitudes, mine included.
Thanks be to God for a couple of sixty-degree days and my camera. Who, by the way, has never cried and stomped away from me because I said it was time for dinner.
Just a warm evening and a few deep fresh-air breaths and a few shots into the sun. (Or dawn, for the last photo.) There is healing in the backlight. Praise, praise the Lord.
Boys, I'm not going to sell your stuff. And if I go off to a hotel by myself, rest assured I'll miss you desperately and come right home. After one blissful night of sleep.
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