Heartathon, Day VII (I think-is anyone keeping track?)

This came in the mail today:
It's perfect. I don't know who it's from but I know where it's from: stupid.com. Never heard of it. Has lots of blinky flash icons and annoying stuff.

The packing slip reads: We hope you enjoy your stupid purchase. Thank you for shopping with us.

Shawn, is this from you?
Look how cute it is with jelly!
Aren't gift-bearing mail days the best?? Specially when you're feeling sorry for yourself because you have a peg-legged pirate kid struggling to get around? My poor baby. A little toast with a sweet message from mommy should make him feel better.

Heartathon Day VI even though there's no heart picture

I'm not doing a heart picture today. But I'll give you some pictures of Wilder, who is, in fact the heart of my heart and beat of my beat. These pictures are brought to you courtesy of my friend E, who watched Wilder so I could go to my OB appointment. I dozed while waiting for my doctor to come in. I kindof didn't know what to do without Wilder there and even fidgeted a bit.


I thought we were out of the woods with the leg thing, but after seeing an orthopaedic doctor today, they decided to cast WildMan (since his tibia is a little bent and the stress reaction area was still there, she thinks there may have been a hairline fracture that didn't show up in his 4,006 xrays...because sometimes they take a week to show up). He screamed during the casting process and the only thing I knew to do was sing softly in his ear.
Today, that's really the only thing I know to do.

Ham and cheese

What I'm looking for is simple, really.

It's for you to be my blanket, a warmth and protection.

For you to be bread for my being. My sustenance.

For you to sing sweetly to me, if even off key.

And hold my hand when I can't do the hard stuff by myself.

It's simple,
really.

~mh

I am...

my mother's daughter.

We both really, really, really, really dig people.
We both have round, childlike faces that shave off a couple years from our real ages.
Why, yes, I'm 25.
We both get frazzled. Not gonna lie.
We both use baby oil to remove eye makeup.
We each adore books--not only their content, but the smell of worn, or new, paper.
We each are experiencing new life in Christ.
We're both obsessed with our cameras and will have it in your nose at every gathering.
We're both aware of our stress levels and when we need to take a break.
We're both pretty perceptive and empathetic.
We both need our calendars. How else will we remember stuff?
We're both broken for the suffering of mankind.
We both give our dogs too many fattening treats.
Neither of us are fond of conflict or how to deal with said conflict.

We'd both do anything for our babies.

I guess I'm more like my mom than I thought.

What a lucky thing.

Mommy praying at Sissy's graduation ceremony last May.

Mommy and us playing with makeup. Megan was selling her Mary Kay at discount and we were all bidding...will you take five dollah, five dolla? Ok, five dollah, five dollah.
We laughed and snorted so much. I knew that's what heaven'd be like.

Thinking back to work outside the home

I remember, when I was struggling in my corporate job, a poem Shawn emailed me that sucker soaked that day in healing. I printed it out and put it on my desk, but behind some papers. I wanted to be able to read it when I was feeling sorry for myself, but I didn't want anyone to see the secret words Shawn had sent me.

We're going through the office, purging and cleaning every cranny so we might create a calm space for Eenie Menie. We're not very organized, but I did wander across a crammed folder from work. It houses my resume, some atta-girl emails, my maternity leave proposal (which totally kicked butt), my letter of resignation, some other human resources odds/ends including information on the two graduate courses I took, and that poem.

It was a small bit of paper that spoke to me to not become defeated. To not give up on the daily grind. To not give up on doing my work as unto the Lord. To not give up on the people who needed my loyalty and diligence, and sometimes, a sprinkling of mercy.

Much like I wasn't ready to relinquish that poem, I'm also not ready to give up that tattered yellow folder. It holds memories of someone I was really proud of.

Begin Again

last stanza:
Every day is a fresh beginning;
Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain,
And, spite of old sorrow and older sinning,
And puzzles forecasted and possible pain
Take heart with the day, and begin again.

Click here for full poem by Susan Coolidge

Snow my canvas, the hardened earth my easel, by mh

It's Monday, sometimes the trickiest day of the week. Look in the mirror, like who you are, and understand that you matter. Give someone a mighty hug, phone a kindred, tell a tale, dance ridiculously.

Live the way you want to be remembered. ~Gracia Burnham