I’ve been putting a lot of care into my latest posts, practicing my writing skills and feeling out “my style.” It’s been a great exercise, but the downside is that it’s sometimes so daunting that it doesn’t happen at all. So, today is more newsy. Hello, friends!
Until last week, I sort of felt like I blinked and missed most of the summer. We’ve spent a lot of time indoors due to the heat, and Dennis has gotten home from work later than last year, which translated into shorter evenings and fewer family walks. And by later, I mean 5:45pm instead of 5:10pm. Rough, I know.
Incidentally, Dennis has just accepted a new position; one that will set him up for some pretty exciting opportunities down the road. He tends to understate his role, so I’ll say it for him: he’s rising through the ranks at an incredible rate, and I love being along for the ride. (Literally. We have travel plans.)
Last week, we finally filled up on summer. We rented a worth-every-penny trailer that had a separate bedroom for the boys, working appliances, and hot running water. We had plans to camp at Inverhuron with my family, and at the last minute, Dennis & I decided to tack on an early two nights in Collingwood so we could go spelunking and sluicing with our boys. I had not realized how much I longed for spontaneous adventure until he suggested the idea.
If you look at my Instagram account, you’d think that my life is a series of really privileged events: vacation, quiet sunny afternoons, online groceries, more vacation, happy kids, art, baseball games, cute baby, weekend naps, yada yada. Social media gets railed upon for only showing the perfect side of life and failing to acknowledge the gritty mess behind the scenes, and I get it. My account probably falls in that category, too.
In case there’s any doubt, let me assure you, there’s plenty of that around here, too. (Grimy kitchen floor, I’m *not* looking at you.) But, I don’t know… I just am not the type of person to post that kind of stuff. There are plenty of blogs that empathize with the hardships of life and motherhood, and I believe they are helpful and needed, but when my reading diet consists mostly of those posts, I start noticing the hard things even more—and I definitely feel like a martyr.
If it’s true that you become like what you look at, I want to keep recording the moments I want to remember. I hope I can celebrate the life I have, and not dwell too much on the failures. There is One who has completely put them out of his mind already, anyway: past, present, and future.
I hope our kids will look back and have an impression that I enjoyed being their mom. The messes (and yeah, the tears)… yes, they are real; but so is this.
Actually, the mess comes and goes, but these moments are permanent.
After all, I have the photos to show it.