I had a hot fudge sundae for lunch. And a coke zero.
I need not tell you what kind of week I've had.
I will say this, however. I came to a very important conclusion this week, and I came to it today (right before consuming the sundae).
My kids are not me, nor are they extensions of me.
No one will ever be able to accuse me of going at parenting half-heartedly, of that I am certain. And yet, will my children "turn out" perfectly, like cookies from dough made with room temperature butter and placed on a cool cookie sheet and pulled from the oven at exactly the right moment? There is no way to tell. In fact, unless you are a cookie-whisperer like my mother, the way our cookies turn out is completely out of our hands. Thankfully, cookies are not exactly like children. Thankfully, children have a loving and sovereign Father taking much better care of them than we are. And thankfully, when it comes to cookies, I have a husband who'll happily eat the first dozen no matter what. To be honest, Daniel is the only reason I still bake cookies. Being the perfectionist that I am, I wanted to give up on the unpredictable little devils at the end of our first year of marriage.
"Please don't quit on them," he said to me back then, "I like them way too much."