Love

My mom has 9 kids. For real. I'm not talking like 4 kids of her own, and 4 of her husband's kids, and 1 niece that has always been like a daughter. No. She has birthed 9 children. She was a girl scout leader, a 4-H mom, a farmer's wife, and a teacher. She is a God fearing woman. And she has two masters degrees.
She is the nutella of motherhood.
 
This woman survived crappy diapers and mucousy vomit and gum in her carpet and rocks through windows and smart-mouth back talking and bad grades on report cards and calls from principals and kids past their curfews FOR FORTY YEARS.
Now that is love.

It really doesn't matter if you are Waylon's mom or my Mom or Ghandi's mom. Parenting is hard.
But I love it.

I think it's really weird when people say things like, "I could never do what you guys do every day."
Uhhh, yes you could.
And you would.
See he's my son. I love him unconditionally. It's what parents do.

So I know I tend to go on and on about the crap on my walls or the kid on my kitchen counters or the homemade cake torn to shreds. I get a little wrapped up in venting and I forget to stop to appreciate the bigger picture.
I have three amazing, beautiful kids. They are healthy. God has blessed me in ways I never could have dreamed. And He has shown me the meaning of love.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. 1 Corinthians 13:7

When you become a mother, you bear all of your children's burdens. You believe in their innocence, and hope for their future. You endure all their hardships. And for this, you are given love.
Whoa.

Obviously the Katzer Valentine's Day party was a real hit.

I have a problem.

I am always late.
Always.

I know it's a problem.
I'd like to blame this partially on genetics (my sister has the same affliction), and partially on the fact that people hold their standards too high. (Hakuna matata, I always say!)
But mostly, I just like to chalk it up to the fact that I'm only human.
At the beginning of each semester, I respectfully explain to each professor that I really do value their time in lecture, and I will give 100% of myself to them once I get to class, but I will likely not won't be on time. I cite a "hectic home life" as my typical excuse, although I'd really like to open up about my kid's insomnia problems, cleaning up inches of poo water from my bathroom floor and the basement below, and hustling a screaming shoeless 6 year old out the door before I leave for class. But I don't.

This particular morning, 2 AM looked like this:

(Apparently he was thirsty for hot chocolate, mixed to the consistency of sludge).

4 AM looked like this:

(You can't hear Travis cursing into the pillow).

And 6 AM looked like this:

Good morning kids! Time for school!

And that's just not something you can explain to your professor very well.

Let's be honest. I was late for everything before I had a kid with autism. It's just, well, I guess you can say it's my dirty little habit. Some people bite their nails, some people drink too much. I am late all the time. And the kid jumping on my head at 2 AM doesn't help anything.

Ah, but tomorrow I get to wake up very early and sneak out of the house for my day off.... At work. Bliss.