Once when my kids were younger, back in that season I was covered in toddlers and preschoolers, we met my husband at Chick-fil-A (always a win) after work one night.
When they’d slayed the nuggets and the playground and it was time to go home, I asked our four kids who’d like to ride with Dad, and who wanted to ride home with me.
For those who know me well…it’s a little eerie.
Since the beginning of the year here at Casa de la Breitenstein, I’ve been heading up my own ambitious, highly uncharacteristic Project Ducks in a Row.
Confession: My heavenly intentions for Thanksgiving are often clobbered by my oh-so-real life.
I would love to be preparing our hearts all month for gratitude, but I find myself picking up someone else’s rank gym socks. I would love to be stuffing a jar with slips of paper declaring our thankfulness, but can tend to stave off a little more teenage complaining instead…?
At dinner each night of November, see if your family can collectively think of 10 more things you’re thankful for. Keep a running list.
Display a vase filled with your list written on slips of paper. Alternatively, scrawl gratitude items on kraft paper doubling as a Thanksgiving tablecloth—complete with markers or crayons prompting guests to add their own.
When I first arrived back after living in Africa, it surprised me. I discovered it over lattes, or in the church foyer, or checking out at the grocery store.
I realized a lot of people were hungry, starved even, to be listened to. To have someone look them in the eye, even for a few seconds, and be with them. Undistracted. Agenda-free. Curious. Empathetic.
So guess what I got in the mail this week?
It’s real, folks. After a long…long path here, Permanent Markers releases October 5. (Grab the first chapter free via the right-hand sidebar of my blog, if you’re game.)
My parents, bless their slim pocketbooks, paid for a lot of piano and voice lessons over the years on my behalf. I took piano for 12 years–and to be honest, should be able to play better than I do…
There was the female teacher with the faint mustache and house that smelled like a casserole. The redhead who glared at teenaged-me for not practicing. Sally with her center-parted long hair and laminated flashcards. There was the pianist with astonishingly long fingers who also taught my voice lessons with a broad repertoire of Broadway hits, easing into a few Latin and German numbers.
Thanks to Steven Helmick, a principal of a school of over 1000 and an educator among the top eight Arkansas’ 2014 teachers of the year, for lending his expertise to this list.
So this past weekend was the community garage sale in my small town. Though I’m really aspiring to greater simplicity, a community garage sale is my kryptonite.
I was super-excited about a necklace I found. But when I paired the necklace with a bracelet I’d nabbed for $.50, my husband’s eyebrow cocked. Not a good sign.
So there’s this chance raising teenagers could kill me.
I’m (again) in one of these parenting seasons where hope feels like a mind game. There is indeed a battlefield in my brain, in my soul.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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