shadowwonder

I constantly have crumbs on the floor of my house.  And dust balls.  I do not vacuum them up, even though it makes me feel like a bad mom.  I just look at them and then think about something else.  This is because I am either too tired, or I have things to do that feel more important.   I do not like cooking for my family; I much prefer picking up dinner and serving it at home.  This is *not* frugal and often feels like poor stewardship.  But I am doing it anyway.  At least for this stretch. My dislike of cooking applies especially to breakfast on school mornings.  On occasion, my kids eat cereal (unwillingly), or Sister Shubert's sausage rolls, or whatever my husband lets them choose on the way to school--usually at Dunkin Donuts or Weigels (local convenience store).  This is neither healthy nor frugal.  But it is what we do. There are many occasions when I would prefer a great work-out to a family meal.  I indulge this ...

Well into the second decade of mothering now, she still struggles to see evidence of the seeds she labors to plant. She talks about compassion, then watches one child’s steely-hearted dismissal of a sibling’s sorrow. She prays for their unselfish kindness, then hears today’s version of the dispute over the front seat. She asks for gentle patience—offers them a glimpse into her own struggle—then loses count of the opportunities they take to bicker over petty annoyances. It’s this part of parenting — the unexpected, unrelenting, sometimes unwanted invitation to navigate the day-to-day; the countless encounters with what looks like less-than-love;   the exhaustion of waiting-and-watching-and-wondering-and worrying over whether the seeds will sprout; the hushing of a quiet question: “this seed-scattering, this watering, this careful tending of their souls’ soil:   is it all for naught?” Yes.   It’s this part of parenting that ...