If you could pack up and leave on vacation today, where would you be off to?

I close the computer screen and lean back on the chair. Digesting my discovery has made me excited. I feel like I need to run. Scream. Go somewhere.  Do something. But what?
The vacation package I just found would be nice. If I could pack up and escape today...would I go?
My left hand finds my enlarged belly of it's own accord. Oh yeah, that's right, there's that. And that limits my options. I mean, would I even be able to fit into any clothes right for the weather? Or would I be able to wear a swimsuit? Would I want to? Would it ruin the fun of the vacation if I couldn't?
My soul years to be free. Go somewhere warm. Sunny. Where I can relax. Enjoy alone time. But also be surrounded by people. Where is that magical place where I can forget about all my worries? And how can I get there? Is it safe to fly with only a few weeks left in pregnancy? Would my husband be up for going with me? Would my son? Would I? Is this all just a "grass is greener somewhere else" thing? Or do I really need to get away before I'm tied down to this house for the next year?
I open the computer screen. Glance at the flight prices and make a decision. If I am sacrificing everything in my life to raise another child, then being a little selfish right now, and taking my family on vacation is worth it. We deserve that. I deserve that.
I click on the vacation details and start going through the selection process. When I'm done, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. We leave tomorrow. At noon. What will I tell my hubby? Will he be excited? Or upset? Will he be okay with taking am unexpected week off work? Sure hope this all works out. Too late to change my mind now.
The hours before Ted gets home turn from hours into snails. I wish I could speed up the time.
When he finally steps through the door, I throw my arms around him and welcome him home. He's instantly suspicious. His face wrinkled in concern. 
I guide him over to the computer without a word and show him what I've done.
We're going to visit some of our favorite friends in Hawaii!

Describe your memories of a piece of furniture from your childhood home

The wooden children's chair is set on top of a massive cardboard box. It's supposed to be hidden. Out of reach from my little hands. That fact alone makes me want to see it more than any other treasure hidden in the basement. How it got on top of the box, in the open, is beyond me. I must take advantage of this opportunity. Who knows when it will present itself again?
I find a smaller box and push it up against the big one. It's sturdy enough to hold my weight as I climb, my body now surging with excitement that I might get to see the chair up close.
The box holds and before I know it, the chair is sitting within my grasp. 
The polished wood is carved in an ornate style that I can't identify. It's old. I know that. And the wood is worn, chipped in some places. The back support looks brittle, like it could disintegrate under my touch. I want to run my hands across the surface. To feel what my ancestor's hands felt. To experience what they've experienced. But in the back of my head, I hear my mom's voice, telling me to never touch it, because it could break. And I don't want it to break. Not only because it would make my mom upset, and I don't like to upset her, but because I don't want to ruin something so priceless.
The chair crossed the plains with my ancestors. With how old it looks, it might've even crossed the ocean. It is one of the only things my mom was given from her family that has been in her family for generations. And it calls to me. Why do relics bring such mystery and charm? What is it about them that beckons? Is it the stories they could tell? Or because they are one of a kind? Or is it because they hold value, more than any riches could buy?
I hear footsteps coming down the front stairs and shuffle away from the chair. My admiration time is up. I need to hide, or get back upstairs without being caught snooping through my parents' old stuff.
I make it around to the back stairs and out of sight just in time. My mom is calling for me. I act like I don't hear and climb the stairs as quietly as possible.
That was fun. Thrilling. I hope she doesn't notice the chair out in the open. Or the box I moved.
My mind hums with happiness. When will I get to do that again?

Complete this thought: "Today I Hope..."

The clock on the wall reads 10:37 pm.
I lay there, staring at the red letters, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I've been looking at those numbers count up for the last hour. Why can't I sleep? My body is beyond exhausted. Growing a baby, keeping up with a three year old, and staying up with the chores has kept me busier than my last full time job. But my mind is going a thousand miles and hour. Did I do a good job at teaching Hesston something new today? Did I let him help me clean up enough? Did I let him finish his projects? Did I feed him healthy enough? Did I let him play outside for too long? Did I fulfill my duties as a wife and mother? Did I show Ted how much I love and appreciate him? Did I give him enough love? Do I show him enough support? Does he know how much I need and love him?
The questions are endless. They go in a circle, over and over. Then the scary ones come in. Like, what would I do if someone broke into the house? How would I escape? How would I keep Hesston quiet? How would I defend my family? These types of questions make me grumpy, because these are questions I shouldn't have to answer. Why can't there just be good people everywhere? Then I wouldn't have to worry about things like this and have a plan to defend my family.
The clock now reads 10:49 pm.
I've just wasted another twelve minutes of sleep. I tuck my pillow under the left side of my enlarged belly and try to find some semblence of comfort. I give up after a few tries, realizing comfort is overrated.
Burning acid rises up from my stomach into my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it keeps coming up. I keep thinking this baby must have some awesome hair growth, either that or the old wise tell is just something to keep the mind off the pain. My mom says it's my diet. Maybe I really am eating too much. Or not healthy enough. I did eat some of Hesston's Easter candy today. But how could I say no when he gave me a puppy dog look and was sharing so well?
A little grunt sounds from the other bedroom. Then a rustle of sheets.
"Daddy Lion?" A pause. "Momma?" Hesston's sleepy voice is followed by the sound of his feet hitting the floor. Then rapid footsteps as he flings his door open. "Daddy Lion? Momma?" His summoning has woken up Ted, who rolls over and lifts his tired body out of bed. I can hear his body groaning as he stands up and gently directs Hesston back to his room.
A feel a lump of guilt in my chest. Shouldn't I be the one going and putting him back to bed? After all, I don't have to go to work tomorrow. But I guess in a way I do, even if it is stay home and keep things together on the home front. A little relief eases the guilt. But then I feel bad about having relief that Ted comforted Hesston instead of me. What is wrong with me?
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Should I wait up until Ted comes back to bed? Should I show him support by staying awake until he can get back to sleep? Or should I just try to get some sleep while I can? Ha ha...if I can.
I try to round up my crazy thoughts. Taking each and every one of them and putting them in an imaginary file folder that I will lock up tonight, and reopen in the morning. It takes another ten minutes to sort through all the thoughts and file them away. But soon, my mind is clear, and the file folder is stowed in the back of my mind. The thoughts threaten to escape, but I keep the lock firmly closed. Instead, I decide to think of one thing. Something that will keep my mind off everything else. A heart comes to mind. Love. I will focus on love. Today I hope that I showed my boys how much I love them.

If you could go back in time exactly 10 years and give yourself some advice, what would you tell yourself?

The truck door slams as I pull it closed behind me. The lifted, white Ford diesel pickup was harder to get into than I thought, especially with my tight jeans. I wonder if I ripped a hole in them from the climb. I quickly check while my date rushes around to the driver's side. Nothing like making a first impression with a huge hole. Thankfully, the seams are still stitched together. Barely. Guess my social life isn't the only thing hanging by a thread.
Finding something suitable to wear was hard. I have to look just right, and it's been a while since I actually cared how I look. Dressed to impress, but not overly so. Not casual, but casual enough to be able to be prepared for anything the date could include. It's like a dance, trying to guess the move of your partner before you know what it will be.
Tonight is another one of those for me, another first date. Even though I'm only twenty years old, I've had so many first dates, I've lost track. I really wish they were over. I am ready to be done dating. My soul is ready to settle down with someone I love and who loves me in return.
A surge of anticipation and adrenaline races through my system. What if he doesn't like me? What if I do something stupid? Do something wrong? How many more of these dates can I take? I shove down my worries and paste on a smile. 
My date, Steve, jumps into the cab. He makes it look effortless. Must be because he's got about ten inches of extra height than me.
As he shifts the truck into drive, I take a moment to check him out, because come on, let's be honest, physical attraction is a big part of dating.
He's cute, in a non-assuming type of way. Athletic build. Broad shoulders. A total cowboy, complete with Wranglers and a plaid shirt.
I've dated a cowboy before. I didn't think I would do it again, especially since a true cowboy only has one thing on his mind: When's the next rodeo. Guess I will have to find out if he's a cowboy or farm boy. The two can sometimes be hard to discern from each other at first, but there is a huge difference.
His side profile is like a portrait. I want to paint it, capture how perfect it is, even though I'm not an artist. A pang of insecurity pops in my belly. My side profile is something I don't like about myself. I concentrate on keeping my gaze toward him.
He turns to look at me as he asks me where I want to go for dinner.
I can't help but add his gentlemanly manners to his good qualities. The fact that he opened the truck door for me, and how he's asking me where I'd like to eat instead of just deciding for me. I like a man who has respect and consideration for those he's around.
I ask him what he feels like, hoping that he will give me some sort of hint. I hate making the date decisions all on my own. If I am to end up in a relationship with this guy, I want it to be a joint thing, not one sided, where he or I make all the decisions. Been there. Done that. Not going back.
He takes a few moments to think before he suggests a great pizza place in town. I love the idea, and quickly agree. 
As we get into the restaurant and take our seats, I make sure to sit up straight.
My whole list of things to make sure I do on a date pops into my mind. A checklist, if you will. My date doesn't have to be perfect, but I do.
Sit up straight until conversation begins. Then lean in and engage not only with words, but with eyes, facial and body expressions. After all, body language makes up for a lot more than words.
Listen. Don't dominate the conversation. If anything, ask most the questions and then pay attention. The details are key. And stories. You can learn a lot about a person with the stories they tell.
Be polite. Thank them for their good manners. Everyone can use a little appreciation now and then, especially if they deserve it.
The list goes on and on. I won't bore you by continuing. But it's perfection. Truly. I've gotten it down to a science. Most of my first dates turn into planning second dates before the night is over. It's not something I'm cocky about, it's just that I've been here so many times, I've got it down.
As I sink into my pillows later that night, I review my evening. My heart gives a little leap in my chest, because to be honest, I had a really good night. Not only did the conversation go well, I feel a great connection with Steve. And connection is everything. If you can't connect, then how are you supposed to form a relationship?
I run my fingers over the top of my comforter, wondering how my life will go. Will I be looking back in ten years, thinking my problems were small and insignificant? Will I be regretting my choices? Will I make the right ones? Marriage is such a huge part of my future. And I want my future to be filled with happiness and success. So the decision of whom I will marry is kind of a big deal. In order to find my Mr. Right, I need to be Mrs. Right. I hope that day comes sooner than later.
************
Ten years later...
Life has turned out much better than expected. Not thanks to me, but to God and how He guided and directed my life. Not only did my Mr. Right find me, he is more than I could've ever imagined. The funny thing is, once I stopped looking for him, he found me. That's my first piece of advice. Stop looking for Mr. Right. You will find each other when the time is right. And no, my Mr. Right is not my date in this story. But Steve was a very nice young man who I am sure has made some special lady very happy in life.
Another thing I wish I could go back and tell myself is: to be myself. I tried so hard to be perfect and make everyone else happy. By trying so hard to please others, I lost myself in the mix. Forgot who I was. It wasn't until I began to just be myself that I found out who I was and what I wanted out of life, and in someone else (to love me for me, not the perfect person I was trying to be).
Lastly, I would say to hold your head high. This was an extremely rough time for me. I had just gotten out of an abusive engagement and I was trying to figure out what a healthy relationship was again. I had low self esteem, and thought that if I wasn't perfect in every way, then I wasn't worth even considering as a human being. But I realize now that no matter how beaten down you are, that you're still important. Still loved. Still have a purpose in life. Don't give up. Hold on. Life does get better.

Think about a time you were recently in public. Describe what you were doing from the point of view of a stranger observing you.

The door chime alerts me that someone has entered the bakery. I dust the flour off my hands and walk to the counter.
A little boy's voice fills the air. He's talking so fast I can barely understand him. He stands at the display shelf, staring at our selection of doughnuts. He's clearly excited about the prospect of having one by the high tone of his voice.
Pulling on the suffocating disposable gloves I'm required to wear before I handle food takes me a moment to collect myself before I greet the customers.
"How many would you like today?" I ask the lady, I presume is the little boy's mom, standing next to him.
She looks a little flustered, but wears a smile. Her eyes dart around the store, then land on the doughnuts her son is pointing at.
"Umm...we've never been here before." Not exactly the answer I was looking for. "But, umm, can we get a chocolate one?"
I glance down at the little boy. He's pointing at the chocolate glazed doughnuts. I grab one and place it on a tray.
"Anything else?" I scrutinize the mom as she looks over the rest of the doughnuts.
Her hair is in a messy pony tail, that she somehow pulls off with a trendy shirt and sweater. Her skinny jeans are tucked into cowgirl boots. She must be from out of town. Not many people wear boots like that around here. As my eyes scan back up to her face, I notice she's hiding a baby bump under her flowy shirt. I wonder how many weeks along she is. Is that what drove her into our doughnut store around lunchtime? A pregnancy craving?
My stomach twists at the thought of being pregnant. Even though I'm in college, working to pay my way, and getting good grades, having a baby would crush all my future plans. As soon as I'm done with this small town, I'm headed to the city to get a real job. Of course, making doughnuts all day isn't exactly rocket science, and the owners are more than fair with wages and hours, I do aspire to do more with my life. Being a mom can come later. Much later.
I look the woman over again. I wonder how old she is. If she planned her life to turn out the way it has. Did she always dream of being a mom? I can tell by the way she talks to her son that she loves him. Her soft replies to his demanding questions are better than I can say of most moms, mine included. Did she learn to be kind from her mom? If so, I have no chance at being a good mom. Better leave that one to someone else.
"I'll just get a chocolate one too." She interrupts my thoughts. It takes me a moment to remember that she's talking about the doughnuts.
I place the second doughnut next to the first and take it over to the register. Best get this order finished before I botch it.
The little boy is standing at the counter, his blue eyes full of anticipation. You can practically feel it rolling off him. His blond hair is gelled in a hip style, and his clothes are a cool enough to make most grown men jealous. Clearly his mom has taste.
He must take after his dad, because his mom has brown hair, and a tan complexion. But their blues eyes do match. That must be what she passed on to him, a genetic trait that connects them as each other's.
The mom grabs a chocolate milk from the fridge and sets it on the counter. Her cell phone and wallet follow. I assume she is ready to pay.
"Will that be it?"
"Yes, thank you." 
I put the order into the register, trying not to pay too much attention to the huge diamond ring on her finger. She must be married, to a generous man. The way her eyes sparkle and constant smile lights up her face, she must be happy in her marriage too. That kind of happiness you can't fake.
I wonder if I will end up as lucky as this woman, with an adorable boy to show for it. Is that what I want?
I think back over my life. Being raised by a single mom, barely able to make ends meet, let alone go out for over priced doughnuts during the middle of the day, I never imagined myself getting tied down to someone for the rest of my life. Couldn't imagine myself making that commitment. But maybe, just maybe it is worth it.
I wish I could ask her about her life. Ask her about what makes her so happy. Is it her son? Is it her husband? What makes the light in her eyes fill the store with warmth? She has the answers. I know she does. If only I could ask.

If this week had a theme to it, what would yours be?

Back in the Game
The last five months have been filled with sickness, whether from pregnancy or seasonal illness. I've been home bound, locked away in my little refuge. But this week, I've broken free. We've had more activities, and people to share them with. I feel refreshed. Energized. Like I'm finally physically back in the game of life. It's been too long. My soul yearns for the social engagement, even if my body is still fragile. My spirit is ready to be freed.

Where do you like to do your journaling? At a desk, in your bed, at the coffee shop?

I twirl the pen between my fingers. It's been too long since I've last written. I need to update my life.
The last journal entry reads like a bullet point list. I've been doing that lately, falling into the habit of just listing major events. But what I really need to write about are specific experiences, or cool things we've been doing, or maybe even neat little Hesston stories.
I read the last line of the entry and turn to the next page. The blankness stares back at me. Where to begin?
I lie back on my pillows and pull the covers up to my neck. Closing my eyes, I run through the last couple months of my life. So much has happened. How do I record it all? Gah...I need to do this more often.
My comfy bed calls for sleep. But I have a mission to do. If I don't take advantage of the quiet time now, I'll never get to it.
The clock ticks off another minute. I have about an hour before Hesston will wake up.
Taking the pen to the paper, I begin to spill my life onto the page.