Tuesday, January 14, 2014


Instead of making a list of New Year's resolutions, I hopped on the bandwagon of choosing a single word to use as a sort of theme for the year. It really didn't take me long to think of what I needed to focus on this year. I tend to get really excited about things/ideas/projects/any "new" thing essentially, and abandon all else to pursue whatever the "thing" is at the moment. Consequently, I have hundreds of unfinished projects/ideas/business/unmet goals. Basically, I'm flaky.
My theme for 2014 is Thoughtfulness. I realized that if I wanted to accomplish anything, I need to approach everything with a lot more thoughtfulness. Whether it be how I treat my body to accomplish my weight loss/health goals or how I use my creative time, all aspects of my life could do with a little more thoughtfulness.

This way of thinking has already made a huge difference to me and it's only the third week of the new year.

A few days ago, I was sitting in my bedroom alone. Parley and Vi were both napping and the house was quiet. I was startled by the sound of my son frantically calling for me from his bedroom. After repeating "Mommy!" a few times, he fell quiet and had obviously fallen back asleep, so I left him alone. But, for some reason, this little episode triggered an epiphany I'm ashamed to realize didn't happen until my firstborn was two years old.

I am that kid's "Mommy". You may be thinking "duh", and of course, I am his mother. I very clearly remember giving birth to him and I love him more than I thought possible, but the realization of what I am to him, was somewhat startling to me. Somehow, realizing the expectations Parley has of me had me humbly crawling into my bed to deeply contemplate the implications.

It's simple and beautiful that the expectations of a two year-old meant more to me than any other person I had ever met up to this point. I began to see my responsiblities in a new light and immediately prayed to God to thank Him for the honor He has given me.

I get to care for His boy.
His boy who does not hope I will keep his little body fed, but knows that Mommy will feed him "buffiss", "runch" and dinner. (Sometimes without having to be asked.)
His boy who loves unconditionally. Free of pride, he will promptly give me a big hug, eyes full of tears, after being released from the time-out I put him in.
His boy who believes in the magic of "kissing it better" and band-aids.
His bruised, drawn on, roudy, singing, dancing little boy who will grow up to be a man.

I am his Mommy. I have always been proud to be his mother. I have loved Parley in a way only another mother could understand since the first time I felt him squirming inside me. But finally recognizing the confidence he has in me, the pure faith, that makes me want to step it up. And I am grateful.

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