I’ve been planning this post for about a week, and the inspiration/time just didn’t come until today.  The change in the weather last week made everything hit the fan, and kept us all out working some late evenings. This weekend marked my oldest son’s 8th trip around the sun.  If you ever want to make a breakfast to impress your kids, stack a pile of powdered donuts on a plate in the center of the table with some makeshift toothpick flags that say “Happy Birthday” and watch their eyes light up.  Hostess (cupcakes), you did it again!  Once the boys were all jacked up on sugar and cherry Kool-aid, we set out for our weekly trip to the recycling station and grandma’s house only to find that grandma was out at the farm helping plant corn.  So, it turned into a day of apartment inspections with their dumb old mom.  That’s right!  Happy birthday (sucker)!  Actually, big brother wanted some time to himself, and the only gift he really requested was some time way from his little brother (no joke)!  So, I dropped little brother off at Uncle Tom’s accounting office, and big brother set out with me to do some inspections.  Together, we are like a K-9 unit, sniffing out marijuana smokers, changing smoke alarm batteries, and switching out furnace filters ahead of our cleaning crews.  At one stop, we were in the second level of an old house where we ran short on 9V batteries.  I sent him down to the car to get another package, and he ended up finding part of his birthday present in the bag…multiplication cards.  Man, was he upset.  Heard about that horrible gift the rest of the day.  Thank goodness he got hung up on that and didn’t dig any deeper to find the “some assembly required” robot in the bottom of the bag.  Mom fail averted! We ran into a good friend next door at one of our inspection stops.  While I was inspecting, he ran up on her in the garden and scared her half to death.  He got a birthday present out of that deal to tie him over until the evening party.  Another successful stop!  We enjoyed a Dairy Queen lunch so we could pick up the party cake and headed down to Uncle Tom’s to check on the little one.  Of course, he had been a “perfect angel.” Sure wish he acted like that in my presence. The afternoon brought much of the same as the boys napped and our WFR team worked to get apartments ready for new tenants.  It was unfortunate that the temps soared to “surface of the sun” highs with gale force winds to really get all of that loose trash piled around the dumpsters moving through town and smelling good.  My poor husband had to spend a bulk of the day in the field working on equipment only to find that he got to spend his time after hours using his truck to pick up trash and haul it to a secure area where it wouldn’t move until the garbage crews came through this week. Yummy.  He was in a super good mood until we got a couple of beers in him. Finally, we got everything situated for the day just in time to rush home for a small party to celebrate the birthday boy.  The adults were all a little strung out from a long, hot day of planting corn and beans, but the kids hopped off the bus (literally) like they could go all night.  We were able to shut her down by dark, which left just enough time for the boys to put together the birthday gifts with dad before bed.  They all love to draw, build, create, and invent. Nothing beats the sight of them all laying on the floor in their jammies reading the instructions and looking for the right pieces.  The perfect end to what Logan says was the perfect day.  And, if that’s how he perceives it, then it must have been.  It doesn’t matter what we do, but we make a dang good team when we do it together.  Welcome Home.

Author’s note: The following is an excerpt from an address that was given at the 2012 Spring Commencement for Graduate and Master’s students at Wayne State College.  It was written the day my grandpa passed away in March 2012.  I felt it fitting for the high school and college classes of 2020 and 2021 as they prepare to graduate this weekend, especially considering the hardships they have faced throughout the pandemic: My Grandpa Hansen, a very wise man, often told me, “Slow down! You’re going too fast!” (Usually in regard to my driving, my pace of mowing lawn, or the time I spent with him and Grandma).  He was not a renowned educator or philosopher by trade.  He was a farmer. He earned a Purple Heart serving his country during World War II and raised a family upon his return home.  This man was dignified in his own right having graduated from high school, a feat that many did not achieve in those days.  His wife made it through the eighth grade before taking on a job as a hired girl to help support her family during the Depression.  Despite their limited educational opportunities, both my grandpa and grandma believed in the value of an education and they never discouraged their children or grandchildren from learning or receiving a higher education.  After all, they felt that education was the only way a person could ensure being able to seize the opportunities that life has to offer.  That being said, this wise man was always quick to say that the seemingly outrageous ideas of his children and grandchildren were the result of a college education.  Nonetheless, he was always proud to hear that they were doing well in school and were finding success in life despite the fact that they needed to “Slow down!” Because, they were going too fast. Surprisingly, it has taken 30 years for those words to finally sink in.  I took these words for granted all through my undergraduate years at Wayne State.  I worked hard, hoping for the day when graduation would come and I could get out into the “real world.” Graduation day came and was soon followed by a full-time job.  And, still, those words kept being said, “Slow down! You’re going too fast.” Two and a half years ago, I had the opportunity to enter into the Masters of Business Administration program at Wayne State.  Life took on a whole new pace as I continued to work full-time while taking one or two classes each semester and teaching undergraduate courses as a graduate assistant.  Things became very hectic as I tried to balance family, work, and school.  Many of us are in the same boat.  Think about it.  We are taught from a young age that we shouldn’t let life pass us by.  We are supposed to be better, faster, and harder working that the person sitting next to us.  However, in many respects, we are “going too fast.” Think back to those late nights and early mornings when you rushed through assignments to beat a deadline.  If you are like me, many of your coffee breaks at work and noontime lunch hours were filled with homework, forum discussions, or research for an upcoming file paper. Some days, we tried to squeeze four hours worth of work into fifteen minutes. Some days, we neglected our family or our home to get our work done. Some days, we got upset with those who care about us the most because we just did not have time to deal with their problems and ours too. Some days, we ignored our jobs and coworkers because we were trying to finish up a big project. And some days, we were ready to give it up altogether because we were just tired of “going too fast.” Those are the days when the realization came that it is time to “slow down.” Throughout our college experience at Wayne State, we have been taught how to be the best at what we set out to do.  This means that we have to go the extra mile to obtain a degree and increase our opportunities in life.  It also means that we have been going fast.  We have worked hard!  The wonderful thing is that we did not give up.  We persevered in much the same way that my grandpa worked all those years to teach his children and grandchildren the value of a quality education and the value of slowing down long enough to enjoy the people and things that surround us.  When it comes right down to it, he was the one who was going the fastest of us all. As we gather today among our family, friends, and peers who have triumphed and struggled with us to get to this point, I encourage each and every one of us to “Slow down, because we have been going too fast.”  Take the time to enjoy this momentous occasion in our lives and revel in our accomplishment with those who care about our success the most.  We have worked hard, but our families and friends have worked even harder to support us and make our dreams come true.  Congratulations and best of luck to all as we celebrate this exciting day.  Today is the day to slow down, have a chat with your grandpa, and enjoy it for all that it is worth.”

The Peters family has been up to our usual summer event schedule.  We stay up entirely too late, we have a hard time waking up every morning, and we don’t get enough time to do all the fun things that fun moms let their kids do (i.e. go to the pool daily).  Yesterday, we helped wrangle some cattle out at the original White Farmhouse, and I was told by my younger brother that I wasn’t any good at helping anymore.  I guess that’s a badge of honor you are awarded when you turn 40.  That, and he says I talk too much.  Old news, my kids have been telling me that for years as they patiently wait for me to get off the phone on a daily basis. Despite the fact that it is summer, one of the things I look forward to every day is the 20 or 30 minutes I set aside with my boys right before bed when we pile up all the pillows, turn on the fan, look for my glasses (an increasingly harder task), and we read a chapter book out loud together.  Our most recent conquest was Superfudge .  Now, if somebody would have told unborn me that in 1980 Judy Blume was writing the story of my life at age 40, I would have never believed it.  But, here we are in 2021 and I’m living out the story in the book.  Well, at least it mimics the antics that take place daily between my uber serious eight-year-old who resembles the older son, Peter, and his fearless five-year-old brother, Fudge, who unintentionally makes Peter’s life miserable trying to be just like his big brother.  Most of Fudge’s emotional outbursts are right in line with that of my very own four-year-old.  Of course, I’m like their mom who simply rolls with the punches and tries to bring them both down to earth when they overdramatize every event known to man from going to the pool and mowing the lawn to dealing with my late evening work schedule.  It can be a little overwhelming some days, but for some reason, it is hilarious to read about it happening to someone else! We have been running pretty hard the last year and a half to make this crazy real estate dream of mine work.  I’ve got a hard working team (both in the office and at home) that gives 100 percent all the time, and we help each other every single day.  Especially on the days when our plans don’t go as planned.  I might say a few cuss words every now and then, but we haven’t trained our myna bird, Uncle Feather, to speak French yet to disguise what he is really saying. (I won’t spoil that part of the book for those who want to read it). Most importantly, I treasure my sacred time with my family, and take great pleasure in the fact that we own a comfortable home that is a retreat for all of us at the end of a long day.  Even on the days when I am absolutely exhausted, my very own version of Peter and Fudge won’t let me skip at least a few minutes of reading together.  I think they need it as much as I do.  Someday, I hope they look back on their dear old goofy 40-year-old mom and remember these sweet summer days that go by just a little too quickly.  For now, I’ll keep herding my very own Peter and Fudge out the door at two minutes past the time we were already supposed to be at our next real estate appointment.  If you hear the yelling, it’s just me giving an “attention getter.”  Don’t be alarmed until you hear the bird speaking French.  Bonjour and Welcome Home! #JudyBlume #Superfudge #summer #40yearold #2021 #RealEstate

My youngest son has taken quite a shine to music during his short life, and, honestly, he is quite good at picking up a tune and repeating song lyrics…over and over…and over…all day long.  His favorite right now floats between International Harvester by Craig Morgan and One Toke Over the Line by Brewer & Shipley (the kid spends a lot of time with his grandpa jamming to the 70s).  However, Luke’s version goes something like this, “Sittin’ downtown at the railway station, one ‘toot’ over the line. Sweet, Jesus!” Which then turns into endless giggles because what little boy isn’t infatuated with toots and farts? So, our entire summer has been filled with singing, a little dancing, and late nights.  Last week, we had the good fortune to roast out at the County Fair for four days.  For his dedication to school, my oldest son was awarded a wristband to ride all the rides at the fair for free on Sunday afternoon.  This Mom of the Year agreed to chaperone him and his cousin while the little one took a break at the farm with his other cousins.  It was a great day!  I spoiled the big boys with cotton candy, ice cream, snow cones, and Mountain Dew, all rare treats.  After one heat of demo derby, the boys and I decided it was time to head home.  I needed to make a pit stop at the home of a client on the way.  Not being far from Bressler Park, I dropped the hoodlums off so they could burn off the last of their energy while I handled my 20 minute appointment.  Much to my dismay, I came back to a park shelter roof littered with trash. After a scolding, I piled the boys in the car and headed home to get a ladder.  They ended up cleaning off that roof and spent the rest of the week cleaning a lot of other things.  Of course, everybody in the park that night knew they were mine. Ugh. My Mom of the Year badge was quickly stripped. All that naughtiness after I had spent the day spoiling them for doing good things.  How can it be??  Each time they act like that, I swear we will never take them out in public again or do anything fun.  Is this a right of passage or just a way to get me committed?  We constantly walk on the edge of being one ‘toot’ over the line.  Sweet, Jesus! Fast forward to this week. Back at the same park.  I was already hesitant after our last visit, but I figured the Holy Spirit would watch over us this time.  After all, it was a church sponsored picnic.  You can about envision the table filled with all of the very best potluck dishes, salads, and desserts.  Of course, my brother and I managed to bring five cousins who refused to eat because they wanted to play.  Before supper even started, one of mine was back with a skinned knee bleeding like a stuck hog.  Forty minutes later, my teary-eyed niece hobbled back to the shelter with a fat lip bleeding like a stuck hog.  And twenty minutes after that, my nephew was heading to the ER with a broken arm.  One toot over the line. Sweet Jesus!  We may never be invited to a church picnic again for liability reasons.  (Side note: my younger brother once managed to slide head first into a door at our church as a young child and had to be rushed to the ER on a Sunday morning as well.  Obviously, these traits are inherited!) God and I talk back and forth on a regular basis, so I had a hard time figuring out where the Holy Spirit was in all of that hot mess while we were in the midst of it!  What I later realized is that these types of hard situations are designed to keep us humble.  I felt the burn of my parent’s shock and embarrassment from 30 years ago when a fellow member came running to find my mom with a bloody rag plastered against my brother’s forehead.  I flashed back to a sword (corn knife) fight with my younger brother in the middle of a bean field that sent him to town for stitches with mom while my dad made the rest of us finish the round to prove a point.  I now know how tired my parents must have already been from working all day, yet they were right there beside us suffering through the punishment together.  I need a constant reminder that I am not superwoman, nor do I function alone on an island.  My family, my business, and I are all surrounded by an amazing network of friends who help us make it through these daily struggles in spite of the embarrassment suffered or the pain endured.  Wow. Thanks for bringing my floating ego back down to Earth.  Sweet Jesus! I do want to take a moment to thank the folks at the park on the weekend of the fair for not calling the cops on my juvenile delinquents.  Also, thank you to the many church members who not only welcomed our families to the picnic, but aided in getting the kids home and also checked-in yesterday to see how everybody was doing.  It’s not everyday that two pastors accompany a trip to the emergency room.  My nephew is going to make a full recovery thanks to the prayers and well-wishes.  For now, the kids are on lock down to try and keep everybody safe until school starts.  And one final note, if you see me waiting downtown at the railway station, one toot over the line, just leave me be.  Welcome Home.

There is a hooked to the unloading auger at our family farm right now. Its sole purpose for the season is to auger the harvested grain into the bins as trucks brimming with bright yellow corn and soybeans are unloaded. My young nephews can amp it up and get the auger running when the semi drives across the unloading dock, which saves their dad a few steps.  My own dad bought that tractor with 600 hours on it back in the 1980s.  With over 6,000 hours now, “The 42,” as our family has deemed it, is a reliable tractor. It is a jack of all trades being used throughout the years to spray countless loads of herbicide, haul tons of manure and silage, and push snow with the loader attachment.  I still remember the day a cocky teenager managed to get a front-wheel assist John Deere stuck in a snow drift on a flat field. Realizing the trip was taking too long, her dad came to the rescue with The 42. His sixth sense must have told him to just bring the loader instead of the pickup because he would have to dig me out. Many long summer afternoons have been spent in that tractor hauling chopped hay, haylage, and corn silage.  That’s how you learn how to drive as a farm kid.  One day, your dad tells you to ride along out to the field, gives you a five-minute tutorial on the way about all the gears, levers, and pedals, then sits on the arm rest after you hook up the first wagon and tells you to drive.  All the way to the silage pile, your dad pulls the steering wheel one way or another to keep you centered on the road while telling you everything you are doing wrong.  You get another ten-minute tutorial on how to back into the silage pit, again chastised for turning the wheel too far or the wrong way the whole time. (Word of advice, your tractor driving skills will never, ever meet the level of skill required to pass “dad standards,” even when you think you’ve done the perfect job.) Then, you unload for the first time while trying to figure out what the wild arm flailing from the guy on the ground means.  Either you weren’t jerking the wagon hard enough or you jerked it too hard like a dumb kid trying to break every piece of equipment you touch.  Finally, dad unhooks the hydraulics and sends you on your first solo voyage. Just like that. Only a parent who knows their child can have that kind of faith.  All the same, you crawl out to the field in 6th gear because you are scared of the repercussions at home if you damage or destroy something, only to get yelled at once again by the cutter driver because he had to wait two minutes for a new wagon. By the fifth load, you have the radio so loud that you can’t tell if you’ve blown a tire or thrown a fan through the side of your front engine panel. Adult wisdom and consequence have crushed all of my unabashed teenage naivety found in The 42. Hooray for responsibility. (Sense my sarcasm?) Although it has lost some of its staying power throughout the years as parts, pistons, and o-rings have worn, The 42 still can pull a heavy load up a hill with minimal downshift.  The steering isn’t squirrely (yes, “squirrely” is a highly technical lady-tractor-driver term in case you didn’t know) like some tractors tend to get over time. It drives straight and true so long as the driver isn’t trying to take a call while on the road.  If you drop her into 4th gear, open up the throttle and lock the rear differential, you can power through the slick silage near the foot of the pile to get to the unload position. The gear shift pulls back hard into park, and you have to push in the clutch if you want to jump from 6th to 8th gear without throwing yourself through the front window.  It can push a faulty hydraulic hoist through the floor of a wooden wagon like nobody’s business and make you cuss the entire time you have to scoop the wagon empty by hand.  The cab is dusty and there is a pile of wrenches on the dash shelf in case you need to beat on something in the field. The rear window squeals like nails on a chalkboard when you slide it open because of all the dirt and debris in the track. And, there is still a push button AM/FM radio mounted over the steering wheel that will get you some hot country, Z98, and Spanish mariachi no matter how deep the draw.  On a hot day, if you get her on a steep enough sidehill, the A/C condensation will drip out of the ceiling and land on your left leg for a little wake up call.  And, even at full bore, that A/C won’t keep you quite as cool as you think it should. The paint is faded, and you have to slam the door three times to get it shut tight. She’s a runner.  Many lessons in responsibility, reliability, trust, and taking care of business have been learned while in the driver’s seat.  I’ve done lots of daydreaming in that cab.  I’ve studied for tests, taken naps, made dates, planned a wedding, picked out baby names, negotiated deals, and even formulated a business start-up.  It is a place of great inspiration…of solitude and solace.  A place where I can witness the vastness of creation and contemplate my part in it.  Yeah, highly technical lady-tractor-driver things.  Never underestimate from where it is you come and where it is you want to go.  But, first, you have to learn to back up that wagon into the silage pit according to dad standards.  Welcome Home.

God Cracker (n.) meaning communion wafer.  Used in a sentence, “Mom, I want a God Cracker!” My boys have always been inquisitive about how things work and tend to ask frequently if they can engage in the same activities as adults.  During a Sunday church service several weeks ago, my son made a unique observation. We were nearing the part of the service when it was almost time for communion and there was discussion in our pew as to whether or not our younger son could partake in the sacrament. My husband and I, being of a traditional mindset, have chosen to make the boys wait to commune until they have received the proper instruction about the sacraments and their meaning from the Pastor. Of course, the five-year-old started in a downward spiral of negotiation about wanting a “God Cracker” (communion wafer) of his own to eat.  I found the terminology so funny at the time, but have pondered the sincere tone in which he said it like many other words he has so very seriously created in the last five years. I began thinking to myself, “This kid probably understands what is happening right now much better than most adults do.” Since that day, I have really been trying to listen and engage with the boys more diligently.  I realized how much I am missing by simply pushing their needs to the wayside for the sake of getting things done at the office or at home. Quite honestly, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks.  It is hard to deny that 2020 and 2021 have been monumental for real estate.  However, with the rewards come great sacrifices for any parent working a seven day a week job. The two small humans whom I have the privilege of raising often have to spend hours at my workplace.  Fortunately, I have one who is taking a shine to being behind camera and another who can read a tape measure better than Bob Vila.  Bet you didn’t know that a five-year-old and an eight-year-old are becoming the office heavies! Don’t be calling the labor department just yet, though.  They get paid in milk and cookies. Despite the time we work together, the boys still spend a large portion of their day at school or in the care of someone else other than myself or my husband.  Could it be that their sudden interest in my work is just so they can spend time with me? Could it be that their constant requests for me to snap a photo of them in their “tater tot” (tank top) shirts, to stay home and play on a Saturday afternoon, or to watch an episode of PBS Kids in the rocking chair is a cry for just a little bit more mom time?  Kids are intuitive. Somehow, the day my five-year-old coined the term “God Crackers,” he knew just what his mother was missing. It is no secret that I thrive on the many entertaining anecdotes and conversations that my children offer. I mean, who else could teach me to sing a Chris Stapleton song like this, “Baby, I will be your pair of shoes [parachute]?!” They are both at a formative age where they are consistently developing opinions and perspectives about the world around them.  In most cases, I have never looked at such things from those perspectives before despite numerous encounters. These observations have grown to be a part of our normal vernacular at home as we adopt their vocabulary into our own daily use. To see the world through the eyes of a child may truly be one of the most sought after sources of joy. It is a welcome relief in our household as my husband and I approach our 10th year of hate and discontent (and I say that in the most lovingly sarcastic way possible) since the blessed wine and hula hoop dance of 2011.  This milestone has given pause for reflection as we enter into a seemingly quieter time of our life filled with daily routine as well as a special kind of exploration and observation through our very own children’s eyes. A younger, more idealistic Trisha Peters was going to marry a farmer and be a stay at home mom, much like my own mother.  I was going to have healthy homemade snacks for our four kids after school and teach them to read chapter books and write cursive before Kindergarten. In reality, my kids got the older, career-driven Trisha Peters who throws a smushed package of Mini-Muffins and a Diet Coke in the back seat of the car as we head to the next house showing.  Nonetheless, they give me daily grace for my shortcomings, and I am giving them as much time as I can right now. So, please forgive me in advance if I don’t get my Christmas cards sent out, if I choose not to donate to the next school fundraiser, or if I don’t show up for Chamber Coffee and Business After Hours. I’ve got years to work on my Citizen of the Year nomination platform, but I’ve only got a super short time to hear about the kid that farted really loud on the bus who then forced all the other kids to open the windows and yell out, “It stinks in here!” (True story from a third grade dreamer.)   Fortunately, God knew I needed two little boys to make the world go round and then he gave me some God Crackers to keep me from flying off into outer space.  Welcome Home.

My oldest turned nine smackeroos on Sunday, and I felt it was time for some reflections on the latest trip around the sun. If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed he was going on 23 based on his ambition to help keep our world going round this week. We’ve had quite a few late nights between a sewer backup, a hot and heavy start to planting season, and the everyday dynamics of our real estate office. I can always tell when this boy needs a rest because he morphs into a back talking, sarcastic, eye rolling, anxious little creature. Of course, he refuses to quit (except when he has 15 homework passes to use up in the next seven days), and insists on helping with every project from start to finish. He is our main mowing guy, errand runner, International C driver, and inventor of new mechanical equipment. When he commits to a project, he gets incredibly frustrated if he has to call on help from his elders. (Changing out smoke alarm batteries this weekend proved to be just that kind of job. He loved fitting new burner pans to the correct stove styles, though!) He is the perfect blend of serious sarcasm that brings me humor and joy, and he is learning how to use it without sounding offensive to others! Most importantly, though, he is truly concerned for the well-being of others and constantly does wellness checks on people who are important to him. His skills for calling on people and talking on the phone have improved considerably in recent months. That being said, a incident occurred at school a couple of weeks ago that truly opened to my eyes to a new chapter that wasn’t written in the parenting handbook. (Oh wait, you didn’t get a copy either?) That particular chapter is all about the moment you realize you can’t protect your child from everything. Case in point, my son was in the restroom between classes at school when an older student came into the restroom, wadded a piece of chewed gum into his palm and smacked it into my son’s forehead as he exited the stall.  The gum got stuck in my son’s hair. Shocked and embarrassed, he was sent to the school office to get some assistance removing the gum where he was given the third degree about the incident. A couple hours later, I received a call from the principal explaining what had happened, but also noting that the older student could not be identified. The gamut of emotions I felt while hearing the call were comparable to the seven stages of grief. I was in disbelief followed by an intense feeling of sadness and anger leading into the feeling that I wasn’t there to comfort my son who was surely mortified. I stewed on the situation from noon until the time that school got out trying to determine how I would breach the subject with my son. I knew he wouldn’t want to talk about it. I kept thinking that I needed to help him, figure out who would do this to him, and approach the school and the older student’s parents about this.  Seriously, how can this happen? Then, I saw my son for the first time as he walked to the car that day with his head down. As he got in, he jokingly said, “does my hair look OK?” Because, like his goofy mother, we cope with bad situations by turning them into something humorous. He knew that I knew something had happened, and I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but all I could muster was a long hug. He would talk when he was ready, but he was also going through his stages of coping and I had to give it time. Now, I’m sure many of you are thinking, this really isn’t that bad. You are right. Things could be worse. Boys will be boys. However, for an almost nine-year-old, this was a life changing event. We are using it as a teaching tool—a way to prepare for something worse if, Heaven forbid, that time ever comes. We have discussed the importance of knowing your surroundings, looking people in the eye and studying their features, paying attention to a person’s clothing and build, and reading their approach so as to be able to recognize danger and get out of harm’s way. Not fun stuff to discuss with an almost nine-year-old, but definitely a lesson that he and I are both taking to heart. Although we did pin-point the identity of the older student through the power of social media, we agreed it fruitless to take the issue any further than our kitchen table. My son is very good about learning his lesson, side stepping the drama, and moving on. A powerful tool that even his own mother needs to be reminded of every once in a while. Through all this, we added a chapter to the parent handbook that needed to be written in our own way and in our own time. I can’t always be there to protect my kids, but I can give them the tools to prepare themselves to do so in my absence. In the past year, we have likely added many similar pages to the book of life as we know it.  My primary hope is neither one of us has to go through those stages of coping anytime soon. Unless, of course, we cover it up with our sarcastic humor. Then, we will simply ask you if our hair looks OK and offer you another piece of gum to replace the one you misplaced on our face. Here’s to the Nines! Welcome Home.

Per usual, I am little behind on my Mother’s Day tribute this year, but you should all expect that from me by now. As is the case for most, time is a precious commodity these days, and things hit me at some of the most unlikely moments. This past weekend, I was sitting in church doing my Sunday “meditation” for the better part of the sermon (my kids accuse me of sleeping, but I’m really just “meditating”), and I was thinking to myself of all the seniors who just graduated and what a joyful day we had celebrating their achievements. This led to reminiscing about my own children and their achievements since birth. That joy was interrupted by sorrow as we mourn and try to rationalize the loss of several young people taken from their earthly life unexpectedly this past week. Soon, I was shedding tears just thinking of all the faith it takes to survive motherhood. From that first flutter you feel in your womb to the first day of school to handing over the keys to their first car, every moment is a lesson in faith. How much faith does it take for a mother to let her newly turned 16-year-old jump in the car and go hurdling down the highway at 65 miles per hour? (I guess I’ll let you know in 6 years). Every single event requires unleashing every ounce of faith in your body and trusting that you have done everything you can to instill the values and ability in them to handle what lies ahead. There is no being on Earth who has faith like a mother. There are many days when I feel just pretty mediocre about the job I am doing raising my kids. I tried to be “supermom” for a while and soon realized that wasn’t the life for me. I always put work before play. I let the kids watch too many stupid, mind-numbing videos on YouTube. I make them do things they don’t want to do all while yelling at them to do it. Yet, they still tell me how much fun it is to find great dumpster dives from dirty old apartments. They love showing college kids how to change their furnace filters or start their lawn mower. It’s at those moments when I step back and renew my faith that I am doing something right. Having faith like a mother is a daily struggle that occasionally needs affirmation. For some reason, it always comes at just the right time. Then, the next day, the cops stop your husband outside of work to do a child welfare check because your kid decided to walk down to the shop while you are at a meeting volunteering your time to help others. The clock instantly resets and you have to take some time to restore your faith in your abilities to be a mother again (true story)! If there is one thing I can offer to the other mothers of the world, keep doing what feels right to you. Revel in the affirmations, the graduations, the scholarship applications, and the occasional hugs from your not so little kids anymore. Nobody else in this world knows your children as well as you do. Trust them, but know their limitations and yours as well. Most importantly, keep the faith. Tell the other mothers you know what a good job they are doing with their kids, too. We are all in this together! Nothing I have experienced compares to having faith like a mother. I’ve got one who believes in me, and I am well aware of every opportunity I have given her to throw up her hands and quit (THANKS MOM for never quitting on me)! Welcome Home.