Table Topic Tuesday. 1/10.

This Table Topic is perfect for a fledgling year.
table-topic-1-10-16

Of course I’d like to weigh less, stress less and screw up less. But, I’m kinda done with counting pounds like counting coins, done with the bitter way guilt ruins my favorite chocolate, done with equating everyone else’s triumphs to personal failures.

Instead, in 2017, I will eat more bacon. I’m already off to a brilliant start. And, sure, I’m going to run a little, too.

I want to be a difference maker (who doesn’t?) so, since Jan. 1,  I’ve made my bed every. single. day. Game changer.

I’m going to write more. Even if it means posting a Table Topic Tuesday on a Wednesday.

I want to hug more. Some of you may crave personal dance space, but hugging is my love language. And there’s not much a hug can’t solve or soften. I’ve read to never unfold from a hug first; you never know how much the other person needs it. What a beautiful thing to practice.

hugs
Hugs for Daddy after he crossed the line of his first marathon!

In 2017, there’s a promise for more magic.

moh
Disney Digression: THIS is happening. A wedding in the most magical place on earth.

And I’m praying to be a better partner: at work, by my sister’s side and for my husband.

More than anything this year, I want to shift into first. Stay tuned for more on that.

My friend Natalie has 2017 goals, too:

For reals for reals…I want to stick with my blog. (Suprise! It’s the goal of every writer who has ever started a blog.) At least one post a week. Must write something other than ads.

Take a peek at her adventures.

Now it’s your turn! Can you pick one goal for the shiny new year?

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A letter to my boys

a look back…

my ft.notes

To my boys:

I may cry tomorrow. Who am I kidding? I’m crying right now.

Tomorrow means another new school year. And this year, both of you will wear official uniforms.

It’s not your fault I’m crying. It’s those collared shirts, dagnabbit. Because they make you look so sure and ready and grown. And that makes me proud and tickled and teary.

We’ll need routine tomorrow and I don’t wear routine well. I’ll be down to minutes, rushing me, rushing you, sighing and apologizing for it. And Tucker—you’ll just smile and say, “That’s okay, Mommy.” And Case—I’ll do one small something, inside-out your socks for you, and you’ll say, “You’re the best Mommy ever.”

We’ll drop you off tomorrow, with fresh supplies and the shiny smiles of a new start. We’ll chat with your teachers and hug you and hug you again. We’ll walk away from the classroom door and…

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