How To Be A Preacher's Wife And Like It: Part Three

"Be it ever so humble, your parsonage can be clean. A broom, mop, pail and box of detergent, plus an ample supply of elbow grease, can transform any dingy parsonage into a sparkling set of rooms. Keeping the woodwork and windows clean, the furniture in order and the toys picked up is a matter of bodily exercise, which the Apostle Paul says is profitable.

The habitual appearance of dirty dishes in the midst of an unkept kitchen is inexcusable. Parish duties should never come ahead of parsonage obligations. Your first responsibility is to provide a clean, well-ordered home for your pastor-husband and your family." Lora Lee Parrott

Oh. My. Goodness. I'm so far off the mark it just isn't even funny. I mean, there isn't anything generationally hilarious about this particular passage. Well, except for maybe the bit about dirty dishes being inexcusable. You don't want to see my kitchen on Sunday mornings.

On Sunday mornings I really believe that Satan sends his minions to thwart all of our plans to get out the door. Dishes are thrown in the sink to be tended to later--usually I'm just glad that the children have eaten anything at all. Cups, jackets, hair gel, Christmas play scripts, and tooth brushes are here, there and everywhere. Troy throws the kids in the car. I pat myself down to make sure I'm not missing any vital piece of clothing and run back in to grab somethingorother important thing that I totally need but darn near forgot. As Troy slowly drives down the street, Garrett yells, "Hurry mom!" and I dive in before my pastor-husband gets up to 25 mph. Okay, so that last part is an exaggeration...but not by much.

I would have failed miserably as a 1950's pastor's wife. I doubt I'm having much success as a 21st century pastor's wife but I have to believe I'm better than I would have been 60 years ago.

And, keeping the toys picked up, well, that task is simply futile.

My Toddler

When I got Matthew out of the car at the church this morning he grinned at me and said, "I so cute."

"And so humble," I replied, laughing. I guess if enough people tell a toddler he's cute, he just starts repeating it.

He's been doing this adorable thing lately. We'll be riding in the car and he'll say, "Mommy, yook at me!" If I'm in the passenger seat I will turn to watch him. If I'm driving I will glance quickly in the rear view mirror. He will, inevitably, be sitting in his car seat pretending to mouth the words to whatever song is on the radio. Really, he's just wagging his head from side to side and opening and closing his mouth dramatically.

He did that the entire way to Troy's softball game last night. When we were almost there, Blessed Be Your Name came on. From the backseat, the tiniest voice in our family sang, "Bessed be name of da Yord. Bessed be name. Bessed be name of da Yord. Bessed be name."

And my heart melted into a puddle of goo.

How To Be A Preacher's Wife And Like It: Part Two

Under the section titled, Causes for Conflict, Mrs. Parrott writes, "Difference in I.Q. must be considered. Theoretically, the husband and wife have the same native intelligence. However, in actual cases this is not true. Marriage counselors say that greater happiness is often achieved in homes where the husband has a slightly higher I.Q. than his wife."

I read this part to my husband and, with a twisted grin, he said, "That's why we work so well." I shot him a dirty look and he laughed.

It continues, "However, in numerous parsonages, the wife is smarter than her husband. Unless a proper adjustment is made by both the husband and the wife, this can cause serious conflict in the parsonage."

"Oh," I said, "that explains any conflict we have. I'm actually smarter than you."

Later, in the same section, I read, "There are differences in learning. Obviously, there is a vast difference between the serious-minded young man who took advanced training to prepare himself for the ministry, and his young wife whose main interests in college were social."

Oh. Obviously.

Obviously my husband was a serious-minded young man. Obviously my main interests in college were social. Now you're all making snarky comments about how I majored in Theatre and my husband has a Master's in Exegetical Theology, aren't you.

What strikes me about this particular passage is the fact that my research revealed that Mrs. Parrott had, herself, a Master's in Religion. Maybe she went to graduate school for purely social reasons.

Don't think I'm going to leave you without a wise gem. "Even if the pastor is not able to be gone week ends it is good for his family to be away from the parsonage for at least four consecutive weeks once each year. The new perspective, the complete rest, the change of environment can make an appreciable impact for good on the parsonage household. However, I only suggest this an an ideal, for as yet I have never been away from the parsonage for more than two weeks at a time."

This is very wise advice! I sincerely hope that, as time went by, Mrs. Parrott was blessed with the opportunity to be away for a four week stint. I hope Hawaii was involved. Or the Bahamas. I, myself, would be perfectly okay with four weeks of new perspective, complete rest, and a change of environment involving tropical sand, trade winds, and pineapple. Wait, did she not include that last bit in her original paragraph? Huh. Must have been an oversight.

How To Be A Preacher's Wife And Like It

Before I got married, my friend came across a bunch of books being removed from the PLNU library. She gave several of them to me. Among the gems was my personal favorite, How To Be A Preacher's Wife and Like It, by Lora Lee Parrott. Recent research has revealed that Mrs. Parrott died earlier this year, at age 87. She was an author and a pastor's wife. Her husband also served as the President of Olivet Nazarene University and Eastern Nazarene University.

The book that I have in my possession was published in 1956. Mrs. Parrott was 33! At 33 she knew how to be a preacher's wife? Emphasis on the question mark. Thank goodness...by this time three years from now the mystery will be revealed!

My copy was a gift to a Vivian Kirby. I don't know if Mrs. Kirby donated it to the Point Loma Nazarene University library or if it belonged to someone else in between but more than eight years ago it landed in my hands. The inscription on the first page is written in blue ink and dated six months before my own father was even born.

"Best wishes to Vivian Kirby--and remembering a lovely evening with the Parsonettes. Sincerely, Lora Lee Parrott. Apr. 24-58.

Remembering a lovely evening with the Parsonettes. Oh to be a fly on the wall on that lovely evening. Oh to be a Parsonette. They sound like a lively bunch of pastor's wives. I mean, they had to be the life of the party. Am I right? But the pastorate has changed. The "preacher" has evolved with media, Internet, networking, and the disappearance, in most cases, of the parsonage. I say in most cases because four and a half years ago we were contacted by a tiny church in a tiny town in Arizona that still had a parsonage so I know they exist but they're hardly the norm these days.

The book opens with a forward by Ruth Graham that reads, "If you are like I am you will be tickled to death to discover a book that is both inspirational and very, very practical as a sort of guide book for us preacher's wives. All of us get to the place where we feel the job is just too big for us. That's a good way to feel, I know, but we need something practical to help us to be better wives and mothers. This little book will do just that. It has helped me and I know it will help you too." Well. There are certainly nuggets of wisdom flowing throughout Mrs. Parrott's book but they are bathed in the hilarity that results when a thirty-year-old pastor's wife is reading something in 2011 that was written for the women of five decades ago.

The first chapter is titled, Marry the Right Preacher. Not, marry the right guy, no. Apparently this book was written specifically for pastoral predators. "To marry a successful preacher has been the secret ambition of many fine Christian young ladies," is the very first sentence of the book. What women are these? Perhaps in the 50's many fine Christian young ladies were trolling for a man who, in passing, mentioned a call to ministry but I don't think this translates to the 21st century. I think these days most young women dream of marrying doctors, lawyers, and software engineers.

Later in the first chapter, Mrs. Parrott writes, "Perhaps no one in the congregation is subjected to more stringent criticism than the pastor's wife. She may be criticized for what she has done, or what she has not done, or what she could have done. Not only is she criticized for what she does but for what her husband does, or her children. She will be criticized if she assists her husband too much in the parish work, or criticized if she does not do enough. But if God be for us, this criticism doesn't matter too much." Hmmm...I do think this particular paragraph transcends time. Of course it does go on to say that the pastor is recognized by his, "shaven face, combed hair and conservative suit and necktie..." Yikes. My husband only wears a suit if someone has died. Or is getting married. Or it's Easter.

This book is just so awesome in so many ways. And I haven't even gotten to the part about how it's important, when a girl marries a pastor, that he have a higher I.Q. than her. Oh yeah. It's in there.

I've been saying for quite some time that there needs to be a handbook for pastor's wives. I'm not thinking that this is it. But I think Lora Lee Parrott was on to something. I think she knew that we pastor's wives need to support one another. I think she knew that having your husband also be your pastor is a position that few are called to. I think she knew that dedicating your life to the Church is not without pain but it is also not without reward. Because when one person comes into a saving relationship with the Lord, the ministry is so worth it.

Stay tuned. I plan to share more of Lora Lee's gems with you. Particularly the part where breakfast should include: fresh orange juice, crisp bacon, eggs scrambled in butter, steaming coffee, fresh berries or melon, coffee cake or sweet rolls, and hot biscuits with butter, cherry jam and orange marmalade. Is it just me or is that a lot of carbs?

Cake Pops

The Rock Star saw an infomercial for a pan that makes cake pops. "Mommy, can you make those?" he questioned as he started to run into the kitchen to assemble the ingredients.

"No, Honey, I can't," I replied.

"Please?"

"No. I really can't. I don't have the pan."

"What pan?" he asked as though I was making this part up.

I pointed to the television. "That pan. The one they're selling."

His shoulders sagged. "Uh oh!" He's been saying that lately. Every time I tell him to do something he doesn't want to do or that we can't do something he does want to do or that it's bedtime or that his battle needs to be picked up or, or, or...the list is endless, really.

Minutes later I found him in the kitchen. He was standing on the stool. On the counter in front of him was a loaf of bread, a melon baller, chili powder, garlic salt and cream of tartar.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He held up the melon baller. "I'm gonna make cake pops!"

And It's Snowing

Really, Utah?

Really?

When I spoke at the retreat last weekend I could not go outside in my dress pants, short sleeve shirt and thin jacket (buttoned at the elbow) without melting in the heat. The high that day was 86. But allow me to explain that I was not complaining about the heat. Not me. I like the heat. I love the sunshine. It's good for the heart.

That was five days ago. Five.

Today it is snowing! Yes, southern California, you heard me. Here, where I live, in the frozen tundra that exists between the Wasatch and the Oquirrh mountain ranges, it is snowing on October 6th. It is currently 40 degrees outside. That's a 46 degree swing in five days. Unacceptable.

For the record, I do not find this amusing.

I'm going to make Utah go to couples therapy with me as I do not feel that my needs are being met by this ridiculous display.

Batten down the hatches, Utahns, you'll feel warm again at the end of May.

Does anyone in Florida, southern California, Arizona or Hawaii need a speaker for any winter conferences? (Other states where winter temperatures stay above 55 degrees may also qualify). I figure if I can travel somewhere warm at least once a month I might be able to endure my fifth season (and by that I mean October-May) of being cold deep down in my bones.

Not cool, Utah. Not cool.

Sick Boy

Sick toddlers are no fun. I'm sure it's even less fun if you're him.

Last night, at Troy's softball game, Matthew produced a diaper to rival all icky diapers. Ever. It coated his shirt, his shorts, and his legs. He ended up in just a hoodie which did have poop on it but significantly less than the rest of his clothes. He proceeded to sit in my lap and complain that his tummy hurt.

I thought we were in for a long night.

But then he slept for eleven hours straight, woke up, and puked.

Well, really, he woke up and barfed about a half hour later. This prompted Troy and I to rearrange our day so that we could take turns at home with him while still making most of our commitments. I am thankful for my husband's job. When I have Bible study he can come home for a couple hours to be with a sick kid.
Matthew laid around the house most of the day looking sad.

But even when he doesn't feel well, he holds the secrets of the world in his eyes.

If I was old and senile and blind I think I would still remember the vast chocolaty deliciousness of my son's eyes.

He's a little better now. He's resumed pointing his finger at me and bossing me around. Earlier in the day he didn't have energy even for that.

Secret Ambition

In high school, I was on a mission trip. I don't remember why I ended up on a small stage in a tiny church in Mexico doing a sound check but I did. I don't remember why I suddenly did a bad rendition of Michael W. Smith's "Secret Ambition" but I'm sure it had something to do with my flair for the dramatics.

The other day, out of the middle of nowhere, from some dark recess of my mind, "Secret Ambition" began flowing from my vocal chords.

I still really like the song. I love the awesome 80's sound. I appreciate the lyrics. So I looked for it on YouTube. I've seen the video before but it's been years, more than a decade I'm sure. Passing time and a degree in Theatre might be what makes the video so humorous to me.

0:12- Oh, Smitty. That outfit was not timeless. That hair was not timeless. That hair toss, however, just might have been. Nice vest.

0:27- That man is way too Caucasian to be Jesus. Did no one on this production realize that Jesus was Jewish?

0:31- Entire Caucasian cast. With mullets.

0:35- Smitty doing his best "Young, Brooding, Christian Recording Artist" smolder.

0:43- I think we have those exact costume head pieces in the the storage room at church.

0:58- Is it just me or does that woman have a subtle French manicure?

0:59- More of the bad costume head pieces. I can't handle them. Make them go away.

1:08- Is this supposed to be Israel? It looks like Sedona.

1:36- Smitty really has this brooding thing down.

1:44- Random symbolic birds.

1:50- Wait. That's the temple? It looks like cardboard boxes spray painted white.

2:01- Oh. Bad. Purple. Head. Piece.

2:21- Adorable little girl. American. Or French. Or Canadian, possibly. Not Jewish though. No.

2:30- Passionate Smitty attempting to dislocate a shoulder.

2:46- Those head pieces were a really bad idea. The bushy red beards may be a worse one.

3:16- Violent fist pump from Smitty.

3:19- Is that Pilate? With an 80's mustache?

4:02- Smitty croons at the sky, his thumbs firmly planted in his spectacular 80's denim.

4:08- We actually had those exact Roman officer costumes at our former church. Really.

4:10-4:30--The best part of the entire video. I mean, a video can't capture the awesome sadness and glory of Christ's crucifixion but there's nothing 80's about those twenty seconds.

4:41- Smitty spins in circles. It is somewhat reminiscent of children that spin around until they fall over. Except Smitty stops short of actually falling over.

5:25- Caucasian actor's head appears to float in a pond.

5:32- Smitty is, apparently, a narcoleptic.

Bring It

It's the same every time.

I'm digging deep into the Word. I have a Strong's concordance opened next to me, a notepad, and supplemental books spread around me. I'm so terrified that I'll quote something wrong or misinterpret a verse. So I study. I study the heck out of whatever the Lord has impressed upon me to talk about. I get an adequate grasp on the material, compile it into some kind of a cohesive presentation, and I get really excited.

I go over the material. And over it. And over it. At first I chuckle at my own jokes. Eventually they stop being funny and I wonder if anyone at the conference or retreat will laugh. I'm still excited. Out of my mind thrilled, really, that the Lord has given me an opportunity to share my deepest passion, Him, with a group of women.

Then, about 48 hours before the event, I start to feel an impending sense of dread. Why did I agree to do this? What was I thinking? I am ill equipped. I'm convinced that God sends this uneasiness so I remember that no amount of preparation makes a bit of difference if I'm trying to do it on my own. I beseech Him, "May you speak through me!"

This morning my eyes flew open at 5:28, forty minutes before I needed to get up. I couldn't fall back asleep. I rolled over and woke up my husband. "Will you go speak for me?"

"No." He mumbled.

"You can wear the heels," I replied.

He laughed groggily, "Then definitely not."

"I'm going to text Christina*. 'Can't make it today.'"

"I think that'll be the end of your speaking career," he said, the sleep lifting from his voice.

I laughed, "I think that would be the end of my friendship with Christina!"

I don't know why, but I was particularly nervous this time. There wasn't really an explanation for it. I packed deodorant because I was sweating profusely before I even left the house.

It's the same every time. I listen to several powerful worship songs. The songs vary but one thing remains the same, they have to be songs where I am thrown before the throne. I pray. I go over my opening in my head. I contemplate throwing up but decide against it because bits of regurgitated breakfast in the speaker's teeth is just never good. In the end, someone says my name and I walk forward. Usually I have the thought that suddenly I have no idea what I'm going to say. I think, "Oh God," and I'm not taking the Lord's name in vain. "Use me."

After my first session today I had the thought, "This afternoon I am going to bring it." Immediately I felt the Lord impress upon me, You are not going to do anything. You are going be quiet and let me move.

As I was telling my mom about the first session and the fact that God rebuked me when I said that I needed to bring it she said, "You need to pray that you would get out of God's way."

So that's exactly what I did. My mother is wise.

It's the same every time. I'm bouncing off the walls excited to bring God's word. Then I'm nervous as anything. Then the event actually happens and I get to tell people about my Jesus and what He's done. Then I am almost euphorically happy and I wish like mad that it wasn't over.

Heaven. Man. Eternal praising of the Lord. Eternal worshiping of the Savior who extends the free gift of grace to us. In heaven it will be all euphoria and no nerves. In heaven it will be Revelation 4:8 "...day and night they never cease to say, 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!'"

Bring it, Lord Jesus. May your kingdom come.

*My friend who also happened to get me this particular speaking engagement.

Heard Around Here

If you've been here for longer than a month, you know that my youngest son has a problem with cussing. He really likes to make the words fork and frog sound like the mother of all curse words. Well, you can add ass to the list of words he likes to say.

I needed to get gas after I picked Garrett up from preschool. "Okay," I said. "Let's go get some gas!" Matthew is at that stage where he repeats everything. Garrett was so proficient at repeating that it earned him the nickname "Echo" and I remember those days well. From the backseat, I heard Matthew's tiny voice say, "Yet's go git suh gas." Except that gas was distinctly missing its g.

Yeah. That is not a sentence I want to hear coming out of the mouth of my two-year-old.

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Garrett asks a lot of questions. We've always been very determined to answer his questions with age appropriate responses but not to lie to him or say that we'll tell him when he's older. He started asking questions about childbirth at a very young age.

He always wants to know the details of his birth. Why did I have an oxygen mask on at one point? What, exactly, did I say to daddy while I was giving birth? How long did I stay in the hospital? Yesterday, over lunch and after another round of twenty questions, I fired one at him. "When you get married, do you think you'll have kids?"

"Yes," he replied, "everyone has kids."

"Well, not everyone."

"Some people can have as many kids as they want!" He informed me since he knows that mommy and daddy probably would have more if it was really that easy.

"Yes, that's true," I said. "I really hope that you can have as many kids as you want."

"Yeah. I think I'll have, maybe, fourteen," he smiled. I almost said something about how that's insane but I kept my mouth shut. After a moment or two his eyes got big.

"If I had fourteen kids I would need a huge table!" He exclaimed.

Pampering+Chocolate+Praise=Amen & Amen

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Tonight, the conference begins. Of course, it's my understanding that tonight is a pampering time and free dinner for ministry wives followed by prayer and praise and chocolate! What about that doesn't appeal to my heart? Nothing. All of that just sounds like a little slice of heaven on earth.

Dinner=Good.

Pampering=Even better.

Chocolate=Now we're talking.

Prayer & Praise= Hallelujah!

Few things warm my soul as quickly as the gathering of evangelical Christian believers in this valley. I'm so excited for this weekend. Several days ago I was praying and I just kept asking God to show up this weekend. In the quietness of my heart I felt Him impress upon me, "Expect it." It was a somewhat startling response, actually.

I started thinking about it. Why wouldn't I expect Him to show up? Why would I feel like only my heartfelt begging would make the Lord present? He's going to have the captive attention of 125+ women, to think He might not show up is preposterous. So I'm expecting Him to make His presence known in a powerful way. And I'm praying that He'll use me to accomplish His will.

Some 25 Years Ago

I wonder if there was ever a doubt in my parents' minds that I was going to be dramatic.

I think I was five in that picture. In fairness, I also think that I would have been incapable of sporting that head wrap on my own. My mom must have helped. I totally look like some incognito famous child. Add the ridiculous sunglasses and I simply reek of the theatuh. Dahling.

The Battle Belongs to the Lord

Last night I ended up at the after hours clinic. Late in the afternoon I called to ask the nurse if she thought it was a reaction to the flu shot. She suspected that it could be but thought the doctor should see me anyway--especially when I mentioned that I had a conference this weekend. The doctor looked in my ears, which weren't hurting. He looked at my throat, which wasn't hurting. He listened to my lungs--which felt fine. Then he asked whether anyone in my house had been sick and diagnosed me with, nothing really.

He said he thought I was trying to fight off a common cold and having some kind of slight reaction to the flu vaccine. I left with a prescription for Prednisone but when the doctor started explaining side effects to me I asked if I might take Ibuprofen first and see if it worked. He thought that sounded like a good idea. He'd already told me that Prednisone might cause me to have difficulty sleeping and might make me bloated.

I had an image of myself, extremely swollen and bearing dark circles under my eyes, shuffling up to the stage on Saturday morning. In the image I was also incredibly disheveled, although I think that was more a product of my imagination than anything.

I did fill the prescription today just in case I needed a heavy weight in my corner come Saturday but I have no intention of taking it. I looked up all the possible side effects on the Internet and I really don't want to deal with any of them.

Headache- I don't want one. I've had enough lately.

Dizziness- Onstage? I'd likely topple off. I'm not coordinated anyway and falling off the stage is always a distinct possibility.

Difficulty falling asleep- I don't want to be tired. Enough said.

Inappropriate Happiness- The idea of inappropriate happiness makes me inappropriately happy. I have images of hysterical laughter while everyone in attendance shifts awkwardly in her seat and gives a sideways glance to the woman seated next to her.

Extreme changes in mood- "Which conference was that again?" Betsy asked her friend. "The one where the speaker laughed hysterically for no good reason and then burst into tears," Wanda responded.

Changes in Personality- See Extreme changes in mood.

Bulging Eyes- Yeah, that's, just, never good.

Acne- I still deal with a honkin' zit here or there as it is. I do not need acne. Although, this conference is open to teens so maybe they'd feel more connected.

Thin, fragile skin- I'd have to make sure not to talk too animatedly with my hands...you know, out of fear that my thin, fragile skin might go flying off.

Red or purple blotches or lines under the skin- I'd have invest in a lot of flesh colored concealer to handle that one.

Slowed healing of cuts and bruises- I'm not planning on getting cut and/or bruised while speaking but, well, you never know.

Increased hair growth- Where? A long luxurious mane just in time for the conference would be fine. Unless it was on my face.

Changes in the way fat is spread around the body- Sign me up. Not.

Extreme tiredness- See Difficulty Falling Asleep

Weak muscles- "Can I get a chair up here? I've been speaking for five minutes and my muscles are incredibly fatigued." And, wait, this is like a side effect akin to what I'm trying to cure.

Irregular or absent menstrual periods- I have PCOS so what else is new? In this case would two negatives come together and make a positive?

Decreased sexual desire- Well. Now. This one wouldn't really effect the outcome of the conference. To my knowledge.

Heartburn- I get heartburn with some regularity and I can say that I'd prefer for it to stay completely away from me during any and all conferences.

Increased sweating- Okay so we've established that we're not taking this little gem of a medication. I'd much rather have an aching body than be known as Pit Mark Girl.

Since the doctor didn't really diagnose me with anything to speak of, I diagnosed myself with a case of Spiritual Warfare. Sometimes Satan doesn't even try to be subtle. When I said aloud that I wasn't going to let some severe muscle pain stop me from preparing, he threw something else at our family. I might have to put oil on my socks and walk circles around myself. But my God will have the victory.

2 Chronicles 20:15 "...Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s."

Aches and Pains

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And then come back over here and cure me of whatever is making me ache from my neck to my knee caps.

I've had a hunch all day that it's some kind of weird reaction to my flu vaccination but I'm not having any fun yet. The majority of the pain is located in my back and arms but it radiates to, well, everywhere else. If I sit still enough I hardly remember that I hurt. Then I jump up to do something and I feel like I'm going to topple over, dead.

Maybe there was a little bit of Satan in my flu shot and he's trying to thwart my plans to bring the Word of God to the conference this weekend. I have news for him, my God is a whole lot bigger and I expect Him to show up in a mighty way.

If I still feel like the living dead this weekend I'll have pop some serious pain killers so that Satan doesn't win the battle (just the battle, never the war). Although, perhaps popping pain killers and then public speaking is not the very best idea I've ever had.

How's the Painting?

Every time we drop The Rock Star off at school and his teacher is the one unloading kids from cars, she says something like, "He is so sweet."

Today she said, "He's just the cutest. I have to tell you a quick story. The other day his table was working on writing and the other table was painting. He turned around in his seat and said to the other table, 'How's the painting going guys?' I mean, who does that? He's adorable."

I smiled and said, "Thank you. He's never met someone who isn't a friend."

She replied, "Well, I just love it."

When I picked him up from class today she looked me right in the eye and said, "Thank you!" I raised my eyebrows. "He really adds so much to my class!"

"Oh," I said, "Well, you're welcome."

Garrett has always received a lot of attention in preschool. He's been the energetic one, the one who says random, funny things, the one in the transracial family, the one who talks nonstop. I am thrilled that this year his teacher is loving how friendly and sweet he is. And I see his confidence with school boosting almost every day. I couldn't be more happy with our decision to send him to that particular preschool to begin with and I couldn't be happier with our decision to put him in a third year there.

Today we were walking and he reached up and took my hand. I looked down at him and smiled, "Do you know that I love you so much it sometimes hurts and my heart feels like it might burst?"

He nodded. "Yeah, mommy. I know you love me."