At 6:30 this morning, I found myself playing matchbox cars with Wyatt.
I had awoken to a hungry Ella-bean at 5:45 and I guess mister heard her. Because I snuck back to our room, laid down, and as soon as my head hit the pillow I hear,
"MOMMY! .... MOMMY! .... MOMMA!!"
This is his new greeting to us every morning. He figured out that if he hollers for us as soon as his little eyes open, somebody rushes in to hush him before he wakes up his sister. We're working on it.
So there I was, laying half asleep on the rug pushing a Chevy Corvette (making the best engine noises this girl could muster) and thinking that I couldn't have imagined what incredible joy my children would bring me. More than that, I was marveling over God's perfect timing and his perfect will. I could have told you it would be all princesses and painted toes when it came time for me to have kids. But God knew I needed dirt, mud and rocks in my life. I needed a fiery tempered son who loves speed, heights and motors! I needed Wyatt.
And there is something therapeutic about putting matchbox cars into a slotted organizer or building evil kin-evil jumps out of bright orange car tracks.
The rest of the (early) morning was spent like this:
Daddy brought a big box home filled with a very expensive something. But all we needed was the cardboard box, thankyouverymuch. We needed it to color on and then push our eighteen-wheeler through- a true tunnel.