After several bad things happened to me and people I loved, I found myself emotionally spent. Self-care kept me from avoiding a breakthrough, but I drew a line in the sand: I had to figure out how to be empathetic for people and their problems without burning out.
My friend had a stroke (she's my age) and I'm not sure if it's that or the fact that it's spring and I've discovered all three of my children can now officially hold their own bubbles without immediately spilling the entire container wholesale, but these grubby, sticky kids are practically in college next year and I'm just wondering--have we told them everything?
Other than that time mommy got pulled over for speeding, my children remember nothing.
I often find myself in need of something quick and clean to eat after the kids have been fed and sent to bed. But who feels like doing serious cooking at that point? And if I am cooking, I better get some serious payoff.
That’s what’s so compelling about Meg: we find ourselves in her naked vulnerability. When we count our virtues and come up short, also, it's freeing to find we're not alone. The same questions Meg grapples with, we spend lifetimes trying to answer: do we have something to offer this family--this world?
Do we have something in us that matters, inherently, no matter how indescribable?
In the end, it’s this Meg, this thirteen-year-old who has nothing to give, who saves her brother.
I turned 31...recently. I'm not sure what's scarier about being in my thirties: the fact that it's really not that bad or the fact that I really don't care how bad it is. I suppose part of me is still loyal to twenty-one-year-old-Sarah, who would have been appalled at the state of my belly-hiding mumus-I-mean-swimsuits. But that baby Sarah hadn't pushed three children out of her vagina like a superhero SO WHAT DID SHE KNOW?