engraven on their hearts

Raising kids is hard.

They are always changing, growing, finding new ways to test the rules or tip the balance, so just when you think you've got things down to an art, finally found a routine, one thing changes, and so everything changes.

I'm a busy person. Sometimes I'm a worrier. (Steve would probably correct this, because I worry a little more than sometimes. But I'm getting better every day, I promise.) And stopping mid-chore to play doesn't come naturally to me. But I think it might be important.

Honestly, most days I feel that I am rushing, trying to catch up with all the growing up they've done overnight, and trying so hard to prepare them for all the growing up they'll do tomorrow. Gracie is going to preschool in the fall. Is she ready? Have I taught her enough to protect her sweet heart and sunshine soul when I let her out into the wide world, beyond the cocoon of our sweet little house? And her friends are moving. Her first best friend is moving, before her birthday. Who is going to come to her birthday party? How will she know that she is special, and good, even if someone is mean to her?

I've been thinking about it. Worrying about it. So there are some things we've been doing lately, and some things that we've done always, to make sure the important things--or at least what I think are the important things--are engraven on her heart.

Baby girl, I hope you know.

you are loved.

I've always told her I love her the way I know best. Always touched her head when she comes to stand beside me, tickled her back and played with her hair, hugged her, slow danced with her on my hip in the kitchen, held her hand whenever she would let me, even if it meant hauling around my twenty-four-pound baby boy with one arm so the other could be attached to my Gracie girl.

And I've told her with words. We've been talking about it a lot, now that she is getting older and so emotionally analytical. She is so much like me that way. She wants to know why people emote, understand what they're feeling. When she was a baby, she would start crying if she heard another baby cry. She cries now, on the rare occasion that she sees me cry. We talk about that. And we talk about being angry, and happy, and frustrated, and shy. And I've told her lots and lots of times, that no matter what I'm feeling, I love her all the time.

Steve was talking to her today, at bedtime, about how proud he was that she had a good attitude when I picked her up from playing at the gym (she never wants to leave). And she told him that he felt happy, because she'd made good choices.

"And how do I feel when you make bad choices?" he asked.

"Frustrated," she said.

But, he wanted to know, but when did he love her?

And she said, when he was frustrated or sad or happy. All the time.

She impresses me. I've told her she is wise. I think she really is.

Like at bedtime, I always ask her, "Did anything make you sad today?"

Even if I know something did, she's either forgotten it, or chosen not to let it keep, because every single night she says, "No." She can't wait to get to the next question. And when I ask her if anything made her happy, she always says yes, and her cheeks dimple up and her smile is 100-watts and she's just bursting to tell me that she loved playing at the gym, and coloring, and eating the pancakes her Daddy made her. There are always at least three things.

And Charlie, now that he seems to be getting over his ear infection, is so happy. He just laughs and laughs.

Parenting doesn't come naturally to me. Or at least not the way I thought it would. I feel so much of a failure so much of the time, because I can't get my kids to eat chicken happily, or I can't remember the last time I dusted, or I am grumpy when awakened at 2am to help someone go potty, or I get bored playing birthday party or naptime with the dollies.

But I don't remember my mom playing dollies, because I don't think she much liked it either. I remember doing things she liked, like picnics, and planting flowers, and talking about mourning doves and sparrows and blue jays. But mostly what I got from growing up with my parents (though I do love picnics and flowers and birds) was a deeply engrained sense that I was very, very loved. By them, and by Heavenly Father.

That's all I'm looking for, really. :)