I wonder what I'll write about--what tidbits of family life, motherly adventure, forty-something ah-has--that I'll pepper across these white blocks. I wonder whose life I'll touch. And who will touch mine. And how God will use this little blog to help me plant seeds of hope and encouragement, faith and patience, belief in self and ways we can all make our lives a little richer--together as families and couples...and independently as women with voices aching to be heard.
Tonight I celebrate this amazingly little step. It is progress, and progress is hope.
Today wasn't an easy day. I typically hate Mondays. Here's why: It's when my husband, part of the now storied epic commuting crowd, boards a plane back to his second home. His job is in Florida, but his family is in Virginia. I never imagined we'd be living apart--me here in Leesburg, and him taking up residence in Mickey's hometown. But alas, that's what we epic commuting families are faced with given today's bleak economic conditions. My hubby has a good-paying job, and for that, I am incredibly thankful. But the back-and-forth, the constant coming-and-going, takes it toll on everyone.
We miss Dad.
And Dad misses some pretty important family happenings, like our 14-year-old son's first day of freshman football. Four hours, one helmet, one practice jersey, a mouthpiece, a new pair of Nike cleats, and he's a new man. A young man with a mission to win a receivers spot on his high school's football team. 43 all-American kids. One of them is mine...I wonder who'll be bumping into him on the first scrimmage night? I know one forty-something mom who'll be biting her fingernails.
Bump. Bump. I'm here.
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