Y'all. On this uncharacteristically dreary Florida Spring day - this happened. For 30 straight minutes my girls voluntarily played downstairs by themselves while I enjoyed salad, and French Bread, and Pottery Barn eye candy.
I wondered what it would be like to "shop" for the kids' bedding for a "summer home". Then I remembered it's rude/sinful to judge people who do and also, pastors don't generally have summer homes so it's a bridge I'll likely never have to cross. Phew. Because we all know it's easy to judge until you're the one being handed a summer home.
No one touched me or called my name. I think I heard Marilee flush the downstairs potty 83 times, but I let it go for fear that correcting her would draw attention to the fact that no one was touching me or calling my name. I checked later. She didn't flush actual items. She's just fascinated with the flushing "button" as she calls it.
Also, at some point during this day, I laughed hard with the girls over the sheer joy of bubbles.
Jesus loves me. This I know, for he throws a girl a bone when she needs one.
The end.
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