To the six children sleeping upstairs

To the six children sleeping upstairs in the one large room, late in the month of august 2017,

                Your father asked me the other day why I had abandoned the blog I was so eager to start back at the beginning of summer. I told him I felt like I could not find my blogging niche, “all the real bloggers have some unbelievable talent to share,” I said. “There are the mother/chefs , the mother/photographers, the mother/artists, the mother/decorators, the mother/stylists, the mother/athletes, the mother/authors , the mother/homesteaders on 0.5 acres of land feeding entire cities” I lamented. “I feel more like the jack of all trades/master of none.”

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  Your father is a very optimistic man, very patient, very encouraging. We compliment each other well: he sees the glass half full, I see the glass completely empty about to break at a moments notice into a million sharp pieces of glass.  In a heroic act of lifting up his emotional distraught, needs to fold 10 loads of laundry, there’s no more ice cream left in the house, will we ever be able to afford air conditioning, are you absolutely positive there is no more ice cream left? pity party, he told me that my motherhood was my gift and that this gift was my niche.

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He said, “ just tell your story.”

So here I am, writing to the only audience that will ever really matter without worry or thought of curating these words to fit a certain voice. I will write our story in between all of the meals, laundry and muddy boots that perpetually smell like creek water. I will write our story in between kissing the chin(s) and neck of our sweet baby Faustina who is always drooling and therefore always undeniable but also irresistibly stinky. I will write our story after I chase our chubby legged, chubby bellied, cubby cheeked, curly headed Emmy Jo, never a cuter two year old in all the land. I will write our story after I hug and kiss sweet Pippy girl, the biggest joy bursting out of the smallest package. I will write our story after the blue green eyes of Gigi sparkle in synch with her toothy five year old grin. I will write our story after my strong willed Adelina explains again why something isn’t right and how she is determined to fix it. After I sit and talk about the “unusual and very interesting” water bug pulled out of the creek and now sitting on my once clean kitchen island, only boy surrounded by five girls, God Bless you now and always and especially when they all are teenagers, sweet and soulful Augustine Michael, I will write our story.

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 One day you can visit these letters I typed on the black laptop sitting on that old farm table painted 17 times in 15 different colors, in the kitchen of your childhood home, the farmhouse that was once your mother’s dream that your father worked so hard to make a reality. I hope that you will see past all of my run on sentences and ridiculous lack of brevity and know that I found my niche in all of you. My greatest gift were the stories we wrote together. May these letters serve as reminders that there never was anything but love in between all of those pennies being pinched.

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