I love to write. Today, however, is best left unwritten. This Veteran’s Day, I fought my own battles and waged my own war, along with my small army of five. We came out victorious in the end, but sometimes the process is painful at best. The past weekend was rough. I woke up with a blazing fever on Saturday morning, tried my best to mother from bed, while the kids brought me water, cool cloths, and warm rice bags for my freezing cold feet. Matthew was gone, and it was a sad and strange weekend. Both sets of grandparents were gracious to lend their hands to help with the kids so I could sweat and sleep in quiet. Thank you, guys… words aren’t enough.
Sickness, an opossum in the trashcan, and ornery computers all fall into my “No thank you” category of life.
When I focus on the misspellings, the bickering, the grime, and the general imperfectness of life… I end up just like a little wet rain cloud. It’s not cute. This is why I must write, because when I write, I remember. I remember: I love you, Mom, scrawled across the chalkboard… when it felt like the opposite was true. Someone finally nailing multiplication tables. Five wild munchkins voluntarily starting a game of hide-and-go-seek at the magic hour of hunger, while I finish cooking supper. A surprise cleaning of the bathroom without being asked. An entire day of clean bedrooms. Supper altogether.
In our one-room-school-house, learning doesn’t always involve the books. After the boys presented a reasonable-sounding argument as to why I should allow them to melt a few “useless” cars with the heat gun, I obliged. They showed care and it kept them busy for almost an hour.
While the boys melted cars, the girls enjoyed playing with shapes. I love what a dollar can buy in a thrift store!
My favorite thing last week in school had to be Jack’s letter he wrote to our friend in basic training. I knew in his mind he was thinking: Thank you for defending our country, but he wrote: Thank you for saving our city. I absolutely love it. He even told me today that he loves to write.
Those words made my heart soar, because loving to write isn’t forced, it’s born. Every once in a while, I get to witness the miracle of new discoveries being born in the hearts and minds of our children. It’s worth all the labor and gives me fresh perspective to press on for another day.