I am thankful for the internet and other people's blogs. I have a blog that I follow and the author is also doing the thankful November thing...and one of hers really just hit it on the nose and was what I needed. Here is a little snippet of what she wrote....
"the opportunity I am afforded to have stewardship over these sweet
six (three) little angels for a time. Not everyone does, can, or will have this opportunity here on earth. I need to remember that I am being afforded the opportunity of a lifetime. However brief my time with them may be, it cannot be matched by any other experience and I should treat it with such value." She is thankful for opportunity.
I have to say I am thankful for opportunity too...the opportunity to love my children every single day and for the sweet honor it is to be their mommy.
She kept repeating in her post "Just love 'em" which is a great motto and reminder when it comes to raising these little people who know just how to tug on my heart strings, as well as push my buttons.
When Mike was three he wanted a sandbox,
And his father said, “There goes the yard, We’ll have kids over here day and night and they’ll throw sand and it’ll kill the grass for sure.”
And Mike’s mother said, “It’ll come back.”
When Mike was five, he wanted a jungle gym
With swings that would take his breath away
And bars to take him to the summit,
And his father said, “Good grief. I’ve seen those things in back yards, and do you know what the yards look like? Mud holes in a pasture! Kids digging their gym shoes in the ground. It’ll kill the grass.”
Between breaths, when Daddy was blowing up the plastic
Swimming pool, he warned, “They’ll track water everywhere and they’ll have a million water fights and you won’t be able to take out the garbage without stepping in mud up to your neck and we’ll have the only brown lawn on the block.”
And Mike’s mother said. “It’ll come back.”
When Mike was twelve, he volunteered his yard for a camp-out.
As the boys hoisted the tents and drove in the spikes,
Mike’s father said, “You know those tents and all those big feet are going to trample down every single blade of grass, don’t you? Don’t bother to answer. I know what you’re going to say—It’ll come back.”
Just when it looked as if the new seed might take root,
Winter came and the sled runners beat it into ridges,
And Mike’s father shook his head and said, “I never asked for much in this life—only a patch of grass.”
And Mike’s mother said, “It’ll come back.”
Now Mike is eighteen. The lawn this year is beautiful—
Green and alive and rolling out like a carpet
Along the drive where gym shoes had trod,
Along the garage where bicycles used to fall,
And around the flower beds where little boys used to dig with teaspoons.
But Mike’s father doesn’t notice.
He looks anxiously beyond the yard and asks,
“Mike will come back, won’t he?”
by
Erma Bombeck
