There is nothing easy about Mondays in many worlds, and mine is no exception. It is hard to get myself back into the weekly groove, let alone groove with the lovely cherubs who call me mom.
Today was an exceptional Monday. It was the celebration of child four’s seventeenth birthday. He was born on a Monday.
Aside from realizing that we were celebrating him on the actual day of his birth, I also realized that my age minus seventeen places me a whole year younger than I have always thought I was when my fourth child was born.
My story is always I had four kids by the time I was twenty-eight. I guess this is true. I did. But also by the time I was twenty-seven. And I was closer to twenty-seven than twenty-eight when he was born.
Sometimes we get lost in our own story.
Twenty-three minus seventeen is six. Steve and I were married for six years and had our three lovelies who were 5, 4, and 3 when their newborn brother arrived.
It’s been a full life. Little full. Lotta sap.
I am grateful for my children. I am growing in gratefulness for my unique story.
Tonight as I ponder that Monday seventeen years ago and that not-so-tiny boy cradled in my arms, I think I will hold my thoughts close to my heart and just marvel in the fact that my baby is almost all grown up and that I lived to see it.
Life is a beautiful mess.