We had a blow-up this morning. A mama blow-up. One of a kind, I guess, because my boys actually looked caught off guard. Which I guess is a good thing, since that means such blow-ups are unusual? Or a bad thing that I blew-up so much that they didn't know what to do?
Anyway.
When I was younger, the start of a new year meant the start of self-improvement. A clean slate, ready for perfection. Which meant that by January 7th, if I was off on my reading plan, or my do-my-hair-every-morning plan, or my whatever-my-young-self-thought-was-a-dreamy-idea plan, I felt like a failure.
Today is January 7th, and it was not even close to perfect. Not even close. But the beauty of it - when all was said and done, when the 3 of us had all taken time-outs in separate spaces, we came together and hugged and asked forgiveness and wiped the slate clean and moved on.
Love doesn't require a new calendar to say, "Let's start over." Love gives second chances, third chances, seventy-times-seven chances.
This must be why love never fails.
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