Mismatched Socks

Yesterday, as we were about to leave for a family trip to Target, Gabriella made a grand entrance into the foyer, announcing that she was ready to leave.  In a dress that was a tad too short, wool shoes that barely fit because they had seen their prime during colder months, and mismatched rockstar socks, she was surely a sight.  So proud of what she had put together, I couldn't help, but be proud too.  After all, she is getting better at dressing herself from head to toe...a clear sign that she is growing up.  Tear.

I must be honest, though.  For a second (ok, maybe longer), I thought about asking her to change.  Having this thought cross my mind made me check myself.  Why would I ask her to change?  What would be the purpose? At what point in our lives do we stop feeling confident in mismatched socks and out of season shoes?  At what point in our lives do we learn to care about what others view as acceptable or appropriate?  

For example, I have stayed away from public pools for a long time...since I had Gabriella.  For those of you that keep asking me to join you, now you know why.  :)  My fear is that someone might see that I have not been able to have three children and maintain my early 20s weight.  Shocker.  Why do I care?  Why does it matter?  Why can't I wear the things that make me self conscious with the same kind of pride that accompanies GG as she wears mismatched socks?  Ugh.  I wish I had that kind of confidence.  The kind of confidence a 3 year old has...

She'd never know that I want to be like her in that regard, though.  And I suppose if I'm being a good example of self-confidence and assurance, she never will.  It can just be our little secret...  hehehe 

I hate to think of the day when Gabriella starts matching her socks.  Until that day comes, I will gladly see God in odd, mismatched pairs that will adorn her feet and be a cause of her smile.

Love,

Mary

Listen

When I came home yesterday, the girls were all down for a nap. Rick was going out to run some Mother's Day errands, so I was left to a quiet house.

Hmmmm...

What to do, what to do...

I could clean...nah.

I could exercise...nah.

My ways to irresponsibly use my time are limited these days, so I walked up to each door of the girls' rooms and listened.  I soon figured out I didn't need to press my ear against the door. What was going on was loud enough to hear if I just sat down right in the middle of the hallway.

From the twins' room, I heard the sweet rhythm of breathing. From Gabriella's room, I heard the clickety clack of her doll house toys and that precious little voice acting out the roles of the pretend family (the Griswolds).  For the longest time, I just listened...

Click here to listen, too.

What a treat, to listen and hear in return those remarkable moments of life.  They are proof.  Proof that life is real.

Yet, for some reason, we choose not to listen.  We allow ourselves to be distracted.  We allow ourselves to be so busy we don't give ourselves the opportunity to listen.  It's a privilege really, but do we treat it as such?

 

Instead of looking for God this Mother's Day weekend, perhaps I will try listening for Him.

Love,

Mary