Not Normal, Not Sorry

I think everyone wants to feel normal or to know that the way they feel is normal. Hopefully, I can give you some reassurance that being abnormal is...normal. What most of us are allowed to see of other people's lives whether it be an Instagram feed, Facebook post, or even the little time we spend together is generally the best version of ourselves. Case-in-point, I cleaned my house before company came for dinner last Thursday. Aside from some dishes and a quick sweeping of the floor, I have done nothing since. Today is Monday. Currently, every room of our house including the hallway, both bathrooms, the entryway into our house and the back porch are littered with toys, clothes, suitcases, dirt, and garbage. And the occasional dead fly. This is life.

It's not that I don't strive for a nice, clean, organized house and family, but that is not currently my reality. I started to do laundry, and somebody was hungry. I was cleaning the floors and somebody needed wiped. I thought about picking up toys, and then I realized that no way in heck was that going to be my job, but the boys were playing so nice outside (key word: outside), that I let the toys lie. Then I did deep Lamaze style breathing so I wouldn't loose my crap as I tripped over another tractor sitting in the middle of the hallway. Totally normal.

This evening while I washed dishes - the one thing that I can't totally ignore, I watched the boys sit next to each other, cross-legged next to the chicken coop. They chatted, and giggled, and fed the chickens grass. They were sitting in chicken poop. I don't think they noticed, and I didn't care. Despite the ants scurrying across our counter chasing the crumbs that I had failed to wipe up after lunch, my heart was full. This is our normal. It's messy, but I like it.

Comments

Tough Love

We were on our way home from a birthday party not long ago, and Fischer began complaining from the backseat that one of the kids had tripped him and laughed about it. Ross looked at him in the rearview mirror and responded, "Life's hard, Buddy. You're going to have to toughen up." To which his brother responded, "Yeah. You have no idea. Just wait until you're eight." At that, they both sat back in their booster seats and contemplated their life situation for the remainder of the drive home. Evidently, life is smooth sailing in those early single digits, but once you reach the ripe old age of, "I can mostly tie my own shoes and reach the kitchen faucet," it's all hard knocks and rough living. I know this must be true because Sawyer also told his aunt the other day, "It's time to get on it and get myself a car. I'm going to get a Cord Tacoma." I think what he wanted to say, but didn't have the words was,

All I Want For Christmas...

Christmas time is such a fun season. I love focusing on the birth of Jesus with the kids and recognizing the true reason for celebrating. I also relish the magical part of the season that gives so much life to our kids' imaginations and innocents. They are always precious, but I feel it even more so this time of year. Even our oldest hasn't completely given up on Santa, although he has a lot more questions having been around classmates and friends who coolly deny the existence of Santa or Christmas magic. We know it can't last forever, but I'm going to milk it for at least one more season. He is still more or less on board. I think he wants it to be real, so he doesn't dig too deep. Consequently, he and his siblings were all excited for a trip to meet Santa and Mrs. Claus last weekend. I was excited too. I love their reactions, and last year Carter was too sick to go, so this was her first opportunity to meet Santa face to face. The trip didn't di

Christmas Miracle

For better or worse, I don't have a lot of pride. I used to have some, but after the third and fourth child, what little I had vanished. I'd like to be put together. I would like my kids to be put together. I have come to terms with the fact that, 99% of the time, that's not going to happen. When we leave the house, I consider it a win if everybody has on an appropriate amount of clothing and two shoes that match. The first time we visited the orthodontist in preparation for Sawyer's braces, I showed up with four kids in dirty play clothes and one child with mismatched shoes. It just so happens that the orthodontist's wife is the mom of some of my former students, and she was working that day. Luckily, I also hadn't brushed anyone's hair before we left the house, so we made quite an impression. I've been trying to raise the bar ever since, but I seem to keep failing. The next appointment we came straight from the barn and smelled like it, but

Not so adventures of the St. Clair clan...

Search This Blog