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Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Scribbles and Scrambles ~ Carving

My oldest daughter and I don't have conversations anymore. Not that we aren't talking to each other but more like with 4-5 or 6 little ones running amok there are just zero complete conversations. We speak in snippets. 

Which makes me grateful for texts. If I haven't heard from one of my kids for days, this happens with my man-child. Which reminds me...I need to drop him a howareya text. I can get a temperature reading with a text. "How is so and so?" (So many. My grandchild count for Easter was 8. How did that happen? Older daughter mentioned that she's sorry she's such a breeder. Hilarious since her five are adopted or foster, so not true. However, she did make me an instagrandma of three and I'm so grateful for those little stinkers!) 

Texting and snippets of life conversation are a season of life. I have reached a point where I feel like not everything has to be talked about or shared. That it's okay to pick up where you left off. Kind of like what's going on in the world, if it's important you are going to hear about it. 

But sometimes relationships and sanity and passions require creativity.

Both of my daughters blog. So oldest daughter has asked me to carve out time weekly to meet with her at a coffee shop and tandem work on our writing. Last night was our second adventure. 

The amazing thing is that in the car rides back and forth and standing in line to order and getting things fired up we do get to have conversations. And then we write. I began to plot the second novel, the follow up to Out of the Frying Pan. And I finished a couple of important blog posts. 

I came home to a house I probably wouldn't have done much with had I stayed home. And besides, I had cleaned for an hour between work and writing, looking for a young man's glasses he was certain he'd left at grandma's house "probably in the toys." The toys are sorted and organized and every corner is swept clean and the glasses were not in the toys at grandma's. 

So. There's that.  

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