Life as a mother has become a bit more interesting ever since Josie started pole vaulting out of her crib in the morning. While her ability to get out is impressive on its own, the way in which she escapes completely undetected is Ocean’s Eleven worthy. James, like his mother, is much too clumsy to ever do anything undetected. He either trips, makes a loud bang, or runs into a wall before he can get away. Plus, he wakes me up by putting his face and morning breath directly in my face and morning breath, shouting, “Mom, I’m awake! I have to Poop!” pretty much every day. Josie, however, is more like a cat; sly, swift, and too small to set off the alarm sensors. The only way I know she is awake is when I find the mess on the floor, or the chocolate on her face. This morning the mess involved and entire pound of angel hair spaghetti. I imagine she was disappointed when she chewed through the plastic only to realize the pasta was uncooked and not made of marshmallow or fudge. As I frustratingly picked up each extra fragile piece, I began to daydream of the Holy Weeks of yesteryear. I went on mission trips, built houses for the poor, and went days without showering because there was no shower, not because I had to put three small whiny people, who cry that luke warm water is burning them or scream that soap has come three feet from their eyes, in there with me. I thought about how awesome it would be to use my time doing something spiritually or humanly productive, helpful, esteem worthy, this week. The thoughts continued to circulate for most of the morning. Then, somewhere in the middle of “Green Eggs and Ham,” I realized that there was really no place I’d rather be. Thank you, thank you, Sam I Am. I do so very much like eating stale peanut butter pretzels on the floor, with three kids on one tiny lap, and knowing in my heart that I am, in fact, exactly where I’m supposed to be. And let’s be honest, I suck at building houses, anyway.