My youngest daughter babysits for families from our church.
This morning, she babysat for a special family with two daughters.
This afternoon, she babysat for a precious family with four sons.
She loves each of the children and they love her right back.

There is such a difference between girls and boys…not just anatomically but in the way they are wired…in their likes and dislikes…in the way they play.

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I just finished baking.
I have a special baking cabinet in my kitchen with all the essentials.
Flour, sugar, brown sugar, spices, baking powder, baking soda, chocolate morsels…
Every time I open that cabinet, it brings me back to my childhood.

I have always heard that smells, more than sights or sounds, can trigger a memory.
I really think that is true.

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I am going to physical therapy for Achilles tendonitis.
It is getting so much better and I am so grateful to the wonderful physical therapist that has been working with me.

As I was at my appointment this morning, I was watching all the people.
All of us have had a level of discomfort that brought us there for different reasons.

One mom was there with her young son.
He was waiting while she was being treated.
He was three years old.

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I was baking this afternoon.
I thought about the neighborhood where I grew up…and Mrs. C.
She had three children, much older than me.
In fact, her two daughters babysat for me when I was little.

I used to love to go to Mrs. C’s house.
She and my mother were friends.
When everyone else had rugs, she had hardwood floors.
When everyone else had store-bought ornaments on their Christmas tree, she had handmade ones…with wonderful strands of popcorn wrapped around from top to bottom.

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When my youngest daughter was in second grade, we visited her new classroom and her new teacher on the open house day.
The school was a building she was familiar with, since she had been there to support her brothers for different events and concerts.

As we walked inside, on that open house day, we passed the cornerstone in the front of the building. We must have passed that a hundred times before, but her new found awareness of math made her take notice.

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After my mother died, I was thrown into the kitchen somewhat unwillingly.
It was either learn to cook or eat pizza…often.

I wanted to learn to cook.
I had watched my mother a bit, but the kitchen was her place.
Cooking was not something we did together.

My best friend, all those years ago, lived down the street.
Her mother took me under her wing.
I spent so much time in their home.
Mrs. F was a wonderful cook and an excellent housekeeper.
She exuded hospitality.

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