Clueless

I have no idea what I'm doing.  Honestly.  I came to that conclusion tonight as I was helping my precious baby girl do her hair.  She was freshly bathed, slathered down with lotion and standing there with her hands in her hair desperately trying gather it up for a pony tail.  She is two.
I smiled and felt a little extra beat in my chest.  That was my love meter going haywire. 
But then I stopped smiling because I felt a little overwhelmed with the knowledge that I have no idea what I'm doing.  I'm just a young woman trying to overcome my own problems while trying to raise another young woman.  So confusing. 
I go through these moments sometimes where I feel the task of good parenting is just too great for me to bear. 
But it's not, is it?  Not if I'm seeking in the right places for guidance and counsel.  Biblical, Godly counsel.  So much to remember, so much to impart.  It's not easy being determined to be the best parent you can be -- even if you have no clue what you're doing.

Grabbing my life by the list

When I was in college, my life revolved around lists.  It had to.  I had a lot of classes, projects, reading assignments and study sessions not to mention I was the mom of a very spunky little boy at the time.  Between school, the house duties, working on the weekends, picking up Cy from the sitter's and being a wife, my mind was in a constant whirlwind. 

You know those nifty little notebooks at Target?  I lived out of those.  Lived.  I would go through at least one little booklet every quarter and a half.  Then, I graduated and Facebook and my lists didn't mean anything anymore.  (Facebook was only a mild form of communicating with my classmates to swap study times and homework info NOT a way to keep in daily contact)

Why did I stop making lists??  Uhg.  I really need them to help keep me focused.  Yesterday I finally broke down and made a list.  It felt fabulous.  Every item, but one, was completed and it was such a rewarding feeling.  I'm doing it again today...making a list.  Must resurrect the habit.

Rite of passage

It's Mother's Day.  (was I supposed to capitalize that?)

I didn't get flowers, or a gift, or a card or have the troops rallied around me to shower me with kisses and praises.   I did however, get eggs benedict, made by the most fabulous husband in the world.  The kitchen and all its dirtiness was taken care of by that same fabulous husband and then we went to church.  

My mother's day actually started yesterday when we went on a impromptu trip to the next town over, then forgot the one reason why we went (we were supposed to exchange an item for his mother but left it at the house. hah).  We decided to stop and eat somewhere since it was close to dinner time.  Best decision ever.  D scanned through his phone and found a place that served gyros.  Some of our all time favorite food.  But it was closed.  Lucky for us, the town was small and all of the restaurants were on the same strip.  Even more lucky for us there was a little town fair in progress so we ambled through.  Cute.

Being the mother of these two little rascals has put me through the ringer.   Both of my children have distinctive personalities that try me in different ways.  I'm still alive.  My rite of passage was given and passed.  My children make me better.  I love them unconditionally.  Truly I do.  But I digress.

Back to the tiny little town: The food.  This is where the fun and memories started.  It made me anxious for my children to grow older so I could see how we would all interact.  It was just funny!  Poor D was suffering miserably from allergies so our whole meal was punctuated with his sneezes and "excuse me"'s from the table as he ran to blow his nose.  Thank God he didn't stuff tissue up his nose...but I know he was close to it.  

The kids were in their regular form, a little cagey and disappearing at odd moments.  More than once that evening I found Roma down by my feet and Cylas peering over the booth to spy on the other patrons.  

Everything was funny to us.  But the ultimate was when D asked for a box to take our food.  And then told the busboy that it was for our chickens.  I was mortified.  Really?  The kid just stared at us hoping we were joking then smirked.   When he left, we both bust out laughing.

Danville will never be the same.  

The Kelbas came and left their silly little mark in the minds of those surrounding them that evening.  I'm just glad I'm a Kelba.