12 days in 2015

A journey of a thousand miles begins with cranberry jello…

I left home with the vandals 12 days ago.

My mission was to get our son from the airport, on break for Thanksgiving from military school. We would all be together on Lake Conroe.

My first gluten free Thanksgiving complete with cranberry jello, included: a visit from local authorities with aforementioned son, long conversations with family, my editor, my agent, a rejection notice, a new web design, notice of adoption pending for a vandal, a big bill from attorney for aforementioned vandal, boat rides, a near drowning, lots of coffee in my pajamas until noon, a dead deer on ice in the Buick, leftovers, hooch, NO sleep, a car accident, a nut allergy fiasco, a vandal diarrhea incident & a spilled gallon of milk in Target, and I am two hours from home…

I just checked into a hotel with the vandals.

Two hours is two too many hours to go. God bless the front desk clerk who assisted in the hosing of Sam’s car seat. Jesus loves you, woman.

Vandals are bathed. But I still smell like poop. I am pretty sure it’s in my hair.

And the guy in the elevator, we will call him Einstein, who pointed out I, “have my hands full!”


Why do people say this? Talk about stating the obvious.

As the elevator opened and both boys bolted down the long hall he snort/laughed.

And I can only figure he’s jealous.

My entire life is this fantastic all the time. Who would want to live any other way? This is the stuff dreams are made of. These two traveling companions are exhausting, but they are CRAZY in love with me.

Life without them – without any of them – would be no life at all. And I wish I had blogged back when it was cool. My 13-year-old recently pointed out that blogging was so “2012.” But I love the record. And a seasoned author just told me that I should write like no one is reading… And I like that. Because I parent like no one is watching, and then some numbskull on the elevator says… “You’ve got your hands full…”

And apparently I am being watched.

And they are being watched.

And they are fabulous.

But don’t tell them that.

The six humans I call my children bring a wealth of substance to my life. I am not perfect, and they certainly aren’t, but thank God for that too.



Thank God for the journey to find Him in everything.

Thank God for the wonder of maturation – Physically, mentally, and spiritually. How boring would it be if we were spot on? If we had already arrived at the place, we assume everyone has already arrived?


Maybe that is beginnings of my New Years resolution … Or revolution. To bask in the wonder of growth, embracing the mess. Resting in the new season of being an old mom of young sons who make others envious of my fanciful hands full living.

And at the same time entering into a season of older kids, in which case I am young mom, where I boldly believe they will serve The God of Isreal with creative compassion. Believing they will do so without pride or presumption. And! I will believe in them even when others do not.

Even when maybe they haven’t earned the right to be believed in.

They can count on me to take the risk that they are growing in wisdom… As HE who lives in me believes I am.

The wonder of mom life – Much like the uninhibited wonder of toddlers in a hotel.

Unknown elevator buttons to push that set off loud alarms! Hotel security chasing you naked through the parking lot while strangers hose poop out of your car seat! The hotel manager stopping by your room, for the third time, to see if you really need medical assistance or if someone just accidentally dialed that number, again. And of course, a resounding “yes!” when you ask, “Mommy can we eat cheese naked in the cold sheets?”

This is how I want to live.
Two hours from home, no clean towels, with naked toddlers eating American cheese slices in my bed on the cold sheets, watching Elmo… Fully aware I am loved by the Creator of all things weird, drinking wine from a Styrofoam Marriott cup, blogging.

Be jealous.

I have yet to arrive.

“My soul waits in silence for God alone; my hope comes from HIM.” Psalm 62:5

May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained. Love, Jami


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