I married a real “fixer-upper”.
No, not a man who needs fixing-up, but one who does the fixing-up.
Here he is putting in a new front door:
What was wrong with the old one?
Nothing, if you like pirates. I mean really like pirates.
I married a real “fixer-upper”.
No, not a man who needs fixing-up, but one who does the fixing-up.
Here he is putting in a new front door:
What was wrong with the old one?
Nothing, if you like pirates. I mean really like pirates.
It’s official. School is now out.
Forever.
Or something like that.
Which is why I’ve been so quiet this week: all the end of the year activities and such.
I did, however find time to make this cute little apron:
There is a tutorial somewhere on this blog, but I couldn’t find it.
So, I’ll tell you myself but only if you promise to save your oohs and ahhs for her.
Once upon a time there was a Heidi.
Heidi had been ill all week, but was now feeling better.
She wanted to thank her readers for their concern.
She also wanted to tell 100 stories about me #34 about another time Heidi was sick.
Heidi’s readers seemed to like the Adventures of Heidi so she decided to tell #34 as an Adventures of Heidi story.
Once upon a time Heidi was 15 years old. Or maybe 14. Heidi does not recall.
Introduction:
As many thousands tens of loyal readers have noticed, I’ve been a bit under the weather this last week.
I am feeling much better now. Thanks for the cards, flowers, and candlelight vigils asking.
Although I was able to spend many glorious hours clutching my stomach in agony sleeping on the couch, there were a few things that I felt I just had to do.
On Saturday, I thought that I was feeling well enough to take my daughter to the school sock-hop.
I know. I’m just that good.
I went because attending was really important to her. (I even offered her money to stay home, but she wasn’t interested.)
And also because at this point in the progression of the demon virus that resided in my body and soul, I was mostly just tired. And congested. But that was about to change.
Without further ado, I present for your reading pleasure:
Would someone please tell that girl that a sock hop does not mean you can’t wear shoes?
I think I have the flu.
Either that or just a really yucky virus.
My last remaining brain cell is engaged in keeping me from passing out.
It could not be bothered to come up with something interesting to share with you.
Instead, I offer you this, a recent photo of one of Girl Wonder’s favorite activities:
She loves going to the dentist. Talk about sick…
Girl Wonder loves stories. Old stories, new stories, made-up stories, true stories… stories that don’t unintentionally rhyme.
But the story she loves the most is the story about how she came to be our girl.
Once upon a time Daddy and I decided to have a baby.
We began praying that our Heavenly Father would send you straight from heaven.
But He said, “Not yet.”
I cried. I pouted. I said, “Why not?”
And he said, “I love you. Not yet.”
I begged. I pleaded. I said, “I want to be a mom.”
He said, “So did your sisters, Sarah, Rachael, Rebecca, Hannah… They all had to wait and so do you.”
I said, “That makes me really angry.”
He said, “I still love you.”
I said, “This hurts.”
He said, “I know, but if you let me I will bring you peace.”
I said, “I don’t know if I can. I’m still mad.”
He said, “I’m here when you are ready.”
I cried. I pouted. I said, “I’m not going to talk to you anymore.”
He said, “I’ll miss you.”
I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
He said, “I know.”
I said, “Please help me. I don’t know how to do this without you.”
He said, “I’m here.”
I said, “I trust you.”
And I gave him my broken heart.
He held it and promised to heal it, in time.
Sometimes I was tired of waiting. Sometimes I took back my broken heart. I tried to carry it myself, but it was too heavy.
He always took it back when I was ready to give it to him.
Five years passed.
One day He told me and Daddy to get ready. You would be coming soon.
He told us that he was carrying another broken heart. One that belonged to your birthmother.
She had prayed. She had cried. She had listened when He told her that you belonged to Him and that He wanted you to be with us.
She said, “That hurts.”
He said, “I know.”
She said, “Thy will be done.”
You were born on a Friday.
It was time for your birthmom to say goodbye.
It hurt. She cried. But her love was stronger than her pain.
We came to the hospital on Sunday. We met with your birthfamily.
We all cried. We all prayed.
The hospital chapel seemed too small to hold so much love and joy and sorrow.
She went home without you but she was not alone. He was with her.
Daddy and I rode the elevator to your floor, but we were not alone. He was with us too.
And then we were all together for the first time.
I said, “I’m your mom.”
Daddy said, “I’m your dad.”
I held you in my arms and we cried. But this time we cried because we were happy.
I prayed.
I said, “You were right. She was worth all the pain.”
And He said, “So are you. Each of my children is. This is love.”
And I wondered and marveled at all He has done for me.
I looked at you and began to tell you a story. An important story. A true story.
A story about love.
“Once upon a time, long ago in a land far away there was a baby born…”
