"Let their flesh be renewed like a child’s; let them be restored as in the days of their youth." Job 33:25

Hope springs eternal. That's what the old adage says. Did it for Job? And to what end?

Taking a breath and holding it tight, to make sure your light inside stays bright?
If it is indeed human nature to find fresh optimism at the start of every new day while being slapped in the face with adversity, then yes the Human Being is a remarkable, resilient spirit. Or rather, the Mothers are...
We have to be.
Three ER visits in one week with my bruiser baby as the threenager challenges the candy striper to a light saber duel. What's one to do but nurse the wrecking ball while he bleeds profusely from split open scar tissue, drink a goblet of boxed wine, and encourage the pint size archaeologist to keep finding broken shards of pottery in our front yard dig site.
Oh yes...and wait for the bill.

It would be nice if I could write, think, speak about something other than my children. Alas, what else is there? There's no me. No semblance of me. Even the other adult in my household, thinks I am a snack preparing, robe wearing, bill paying, life-giving housewife who doesn't know what the word salary means.
Maybe it is true. In the last four and half years I have been pregnant, recovering from pregnancy, breast feeding the babies in which I was pregnant with...this hasn't lent me a surplus of down time to study Websters Dictionary.

Have I left the house? Sure. I've spent hours deliberating if I really need to get three of us dressed with shoes, pack food and mouth guards, strap said lineman into car seats, answer 1000 questions resembling WHY, and get behind the wheel of a car to hit a destination where we will bite, fight, scream, and wrestle until we are back home, safe and sound in the comforts of our rubber room.
Yes, it's morning like this I treasure. Confident and quick on my feet.

Which brings me to this daunting task...to remember what I do hold sacred. That is mine. To find my get up and go when my little people run the show.

 How do I know my youth is all spent?
  My get up and go has got up and went
  In spite of it all, I’m able to grin
  When I think of the places my get up has been...

-Bluegrass Archives

Abandoned 2015 Part Deux

And another unfinished draft...Circa 2015

Staying quiet and the nagging voice of motivation that says, "What the hell are you living inside your head for, get out, get up, write something" are in fisticuffs this morning.

 What moves most of us to change?
Is it the gentle chiding from a respected friend? The gnawing inner voice of shame? The comparing heart of the published words of another? Or is it just the knowledge that you were made for this and you aren't fulfilling that very purpose?

I don't believe the latter.
Runners run. Writers write.
So what am I?

Abandoned 2015

Found this gem of a draft as I sat down on a dismal Saturday morning to initiate my first limping step towards getting my mojo back.

Circa 2015...My the more things change, the more they stay the same.

The house is quiet. And I don't have to be.
He's not lightly sleeping in his crib, butt in air under his new fascination, the fan. He's out with Daddy. And I can blare Southern Rock so loud by greasy hair blows. My coffee cup is safe and sound on the edge of my desk. No little hands pining to feel if its hot (freshly poured) or cold (poured then abandoned). I have a glorious moment in my own home and in my own skin.

I speak too soon. The sliding door announces their arrival. And my fingers stiffen. My brain goes soft. And the idea of writing slips into a fitful dream.  I have a lot to say just not a lot of time to say it. Or my priorities (a real rootin tootin tiny human) don't let me.