There's a one-armed naked man in the display case

My husband said, "I want you to make our family a priority by being the woman you intend at home." In my head I retorted, "What? Perfect?" And then it hit me. "Perfect" is exactly the woman I have been intending to be. Whatever part of my psyche found that a joke was right on. In just the sixty seconds prior to that thought I had imagined myself as a wife who handles every single episode of being injured with a perfect grace. I had thought of all the meals I needed to plan--perfectly--for weeks in advance, all perfectly balanced, affordable, and appealing to whichever members of my family I happened to be feeding. These meals I would shop for, cook, serve, clean up after, and even have extra frozen as storage for emergencies so that my family would never have a night without a delicious dinner at home.

I mean, really? I--nor any other human--will never deal with every blow with perfect grace. A never-ending stream of perfect dinners is also never going to happen in this world, even for the best of 'em.

So I am far from some of the things I dream of. So what? That's the condition of life. Of being human. I am the woman I intend. I love my family above all else. I never stop examining myself for weaknesses and flaws-- relentlessly I pursue being the best I can be. I grow. I love. I believe. I serve. I am faithful. Even in the face of wrong I strive to do right. I don't give up.

Am I a woman who is always stumbling, always dreaming lofty dreams of loving and serving her husband and children and fellow man in amazing ways but falling short? Well God bless that woman. God bless her! That is a godly woman, and I am proud to be her.

it was an unusual night in that it was just me and J-- well, not counting the ever-present little ones. But there were no older sisters around to engross me. As with every other precious time in life the evening ended with me wishing I had had more time and had done more. We played each other in Wii Fit, but not as much as I wished. We watched a movie, but I wish it could've been two. We didn't laugh together as much as I had hoped (rather, I didn't laugh enough) and we didn't end up cooking together as I would've liked. But we did tease, joke, and generally hang out. It's kind of strange to think of him similar to the sweet little two year old who snuggled me on the couch tonight. He used to be that boy, and now Ori is. Now he's a twelve year old boy who gets caught in the middle of two teenage sisters and two baby siblings. I think often about how our relationship strained and thinned over the years. I think often of how I wish it were some other way. I wish I knew how to connect with him now.

Any time the topic of self-esteem crosses my path I am convinced that I have no such problem; I know I am valuable and worthy of love. But occasionally, on a night like tonight, that wall comes crumbling down. All I see is the worst of me, which looks like a broken person indeed. I see a person who is lucky to be loved.

Mean words, I guess, is what I'd answer if you asked what brought this change about. Or perhaps, it's my interpretation of what was said that's the problem. See? Yet another fault in me, to read criticism into things. Am I blaming my feelings on others? The faults pile up as I fault myself for being faulty.

What a mess. What a mess I am.

Maybe they were mean words, in which case I'm at fault for having mean people in my life and allowing them to tear me down.

I don't know which way is up. I am down.

What ordinarily I see as minor flaws seem major right now. Let me present you with a list of why I am lucky to be loved. Maybe some self-preservation will kick in somewhere along the way before I implode:

• I'm not very flexible with change; I set expectations and feel vaguely disappointed if what I imagined isn't what happens. (It doesn't matter what the expectation was, whether it were a boring day at home or a busy day out.)
• I am ruled by my emotions and I don't understand them. I act in the moment of passion instead of assessing the situation later in peace.
• I am a self-centered friend.
• I'm argumentative. I argue every last thing that is unfair, untrue, illogical, or unclear.
• I am not generous.
• I am not very gracious.
• I have to take good care of myself to maintain my mental health which is set asunder by things like pregnancy hormones, sleep deprivation, excessive stress, or not eating. My physical health has grown equally unreliable.
• I don't stand up for myself. I don't know what healthy boundaries are. I'm afraid of conflict and sometimes scared of others.
• I am too wordy.
• I keep my head in the sand.
• I am too lenient and inconsistent with my young children and not involved enough with the older ones.
• I get hung up on what is "fair".
• I am prone to being cranky.
• I am easily influenced by and controlled by others.

I'll rest my case. The list of things I dislike about myself is much longer, even, but whether I am flabby and unable to keep a perfectly clean home doesn't really factor too much into love.

I may be loved by God, but why can't I be loved here on earth, too? I wish for a love that overcomes all these flaws and goes further, to appreciate my flaws as eccentricities and cherish everything that makes me who I am.

Comments are turned off, so you can't rush in pity to tell me how I am not all of the things I am. Or, if you were inclined to agree with me, you can't tell me that, either. I assure you I don't need any more blows.

So we're moving.

It's only 30 miles, but for this area it's so far that they call it "the North land" or "Northland" as if they're talking about the Holy Land or a country.

My excitement over our pay increase and nice home (in what I call "Rich People Land") are tempered with trepidation. I'll be 40 minutes away from everyone and everything that is routine to me now. Spontaneous YMCA trip with my teen? Not so spontaneous to say, "I'll be there in an hour!" My favorite stores are here. My doctor, dentist, eye doctor... all in this inferior "south land" (not that anyone would dignify it with its own title).

Tonight after work my husband asked me to go to the bank, so I sent texts to my older kids and got a volunteer to go with me to help with the little kids. Guess that won't really happen anymore.

Although that's it-- I don't really know what will happen. I don't know anything about the north land. I know we're moving to be closer to his job, but that's a little shaky too. (The job is guaranteed for 18 months, but what if their new service is a flop? What if we aren't really accepted by the church? We'll be all alone and so far away.)

It's a whole new world for my family. Just don't know what kind of world that is yet.

My one year old doesn't say much, but he's very communicative.

Just now he approached me at the computer desk and handed me his plastic bowl. When I took it he trotted away, looking back over his shoulder to ensure I was following. He excitedly toddled to the refrigerator, upon which sits his choices of cereals. I grabbed frosted mini-wheats and showed them to him. "Do you want this?" No, he shook his head. I put it back and grabbed banana Cheerios. "This one?" He smiled and pointed at the box. So in went the cereal into his bowl and on went the smile to his face. He understood me, and I understood him.

It is like my mom to be drama free to the extent that she didn't let me know my grandpa is dying until she had to notify me that our family picture day tomorrow is cancelled-- because grandpa is dying. Actually, she didn't even tell me that much. Family pictures were being cancelled because grandpa wasn't well. When I inquired further, she mentioned he might not make it through the night.

I was raised by a very practical, down to earth, common sense, hard working woman who came by these traits in a childhood with no room for anything but farm chores alongside her father, my grandpa. You won't find farmers blowing things out of proportion or feeling sorry for themselves, at least not in my family.

So I take the news of my grandpa in a similar vein, as if I've been told tomorrow's no good for planting because a storm's rolling in. But there's a part of me that was never weeded out no matter how sternly emotion was frowned upon and this part of me is trying not to freak out. The tough part of me is very well developed, though, after a childhood full of mom, and I'm not about to write the mush that will trigger the tears I'm holding back.

Instead, I'll just inform you that I grew up in the same small town as my grandpa; he was at my house as often as I was at his. When I spent the night with him I got to go "chorin'" with him in the mornings, and I slept in his shirts. Some children aren't lucky enough to have grandpas who are good and whom they get to see with regularity. I was.

There aren't many old time Missourians like my grandpa anymore, with his distinctive way of speaking and an ornery sense of humor; his spirit, attitude and character formed by an earlier time, a lifetime of hard work and simple living. As an adult I've many times reflected on this and wished I could preserve the piece of history and the goodness that grandpa is. But isn't it amazing easily the distractive hustle of the adult life keeps you from doing what you dearly wished to?

I keep the tears in check knowing that he knows and has known how much I loved him despite not being an emotionally expressive family. He loved me, too, and I know that. And no matter how much time I'd spent with him I'd still be sitting here wishing I had more.