Conquistadors

When we first moved into our home we bought our first grown up new piece of furniture.  A couch.  It was more than I had ever paid for anything to put my butt on.  We felt like grown ups.  We decorated, remodeled, painted and carpeted our new (100 year old) house.  

I put all of the toys in the basement or up in the bedrooms of my boys.  I remember declaring that this was our living space and the boy’s toys needed to keep a wide birth.  They have plenty of room to keep their stuff separate from our grown up stuff.  That was a disillusioned idea at best.

I spend more time transferring items from room to room than actually doing chores.   A random Lego on the stairs, a board book under the table or a crayon chewed up on the floor of my office.  It is always possible to carry something from one room to another in this house. 

A place for everything and everything in it’s place.

Nothing ever stays in it’s place when you have three boy children, a husband and a woman who is still a teenage girl at heart living in one place.  I am not joking about this one.  Ask me where my clothes go when I take them off, or my jewelry…or my shoes.  All a part of my charm. *smile*

I am not a fan of Stephen Curtis Chapman’s music.  It does nothing for me.  However, every time I open my medicine cabinet, I hear his song Signs of Life.   This point of fact actually irritates me.  Nothing like having a song you don’t particularly care for on auto play in your mind.



This toy car has been located in our medicine cabinet for months.  I have yet to put it where it belongs.  I have no plans to.  


This beautifully crafted bird house is sitting on my buffet next to the vinyl classic rock (another musical choice I don’t understand).


This lime green, plastic IKEA piggy bank is my baby’s best friend.  It is very heavy for an almost two year old to carry around because their are coins in it.  We have a blue one too.  The names of my older two children are written on the backs of their heads.  No matter how I try to steer my youngest towards the plush giraffe, one of the few stuffed animals we still have after the stuffed animal incident of 2008*, he asks for these heavy, hard pigs.  Today, one of two sits next to my DVD rental collection…
I know that’s a lot of movies…don’t judge me.

The other pig he carried out the door under his arm….or bicep, considering the weight.


This is a love note that sits on my nite stand.  Beautifully translated and transcribed by my husband. 

The point of this post, if I may…

My children have invaded my body.  They have invaded my space.  They leave things everywhere.  I find things in my purse, in the hedges, under the couch and even in my pockets.  Someday, all of the surviving things will be packed in a box with their names on it.  I will slowly dole them out to my sons, their wives (maybe), my grandchildren (maybe) and as attachments fade, the thrift shop.  

My children have invaded my spirit like little conquerers.  Their flags have been staked in my heart.  I can’t imagine a day when opening my medicine cabinet I will find only toiletries and medication.  I can’t imagine not finding a toy power ranger in my purse.  I can’t imagine that these things will change but they will and it will hurt.

Today I am grateful for the mixture of my life with theirs.  I am grateful for the inconveniences, the discomfort and the messy invasions.  The peanut butter hand prints and the grilled cheese perfume that I leave wearing.  The nite-nite mommies and the failed knock-knock jokes are all scheduled to end.  I can’t find the expiration date.  It’s not stamped on their feet but it’s coming.

No matter how many times we try to convince ourselves that we have plenty of time, it will never be enough.  Ask your parents.  They still pine for you in your diaper, or on your bike or in your…well, probably not the teenage years.  They relish the days that we are now living in.  I intend to spend my life knee deep in the signs of my children’s life.

Bleh, I hate that song.

*The stuffed animal incident of 2008- The day I realized that we had more stuffed animals than children and I could no longer stand my distaste for them.  In the name of allergies, charity and insanity I gave away all but like three to St. Vincents.  They are survived by three little boys and a stuffed giraffe, teddy bear and dinosaur.

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