Huey and the Blowfish? (These Are the Days You’ll Remember)

Let’s take a minute to be uncomfortably honest about our inner thoughts on parenting.

We love them fiercely. We also hope we’re not screwing them up as we work our darned-est not to repeat the things we said we’d never do when we had kids someday.

The only perfect person in human form was Jesus, and holy moly it isn’t lost on me for one second how short I fall on the daily from that ideal.

So I do the best I know how, in those moments after I’ve sighed impatiently because somebody grabbed a butter knife and not a sharp knife to cut the butter. How should she know? Isn’t home where you learn these things? Should I really expect her to know where the invisible tablespoons marks would be and to cut on each, when I already removed the wrapper? Jerk moment on my part. So I own it, I articulate it, I apologize, and I mean it.

It always feels super lousy in those moments, because I know I’ve hurt feelings, and that is not okay. I don’t want my crankier moments to alter the trajectory of some of the most cherished relationships in my whole life.

Then I come into the kitchen later to find that not only did she finish the cupcakes, but she wrote a precious note declaring that they arrived courtesy of “The Reverse Easter Bunny” with a P.S. “It’s Ella” and we have the most adorable little chat about how Rett and I were always the Easter Bunny and now it’s her turn. God bless this giving, creative wonder of a human being.

Similarly, I fuss and fret on school day mornings when it takes longer than I think it should for Connor to tie his shoes and finish his breakfast and be ready to scoot out the back door without having to run back in for a water bottle or something else that could have and should have been ready the night before (one day, this advice will sink in, right? Parents of high schoolers, I’m lookin’ at you).

And then we’re halfway to his campus and he glances at the Sirius XM screen before asking me, in full sincerity, “Mom, is this Huey and the Blowfish?”


So the rest of our drive is spent educating this hilarious little lamb with a ham streak about the different decades, musical stylings and eras distinguishing one Huey Lewis and The News from Darius Rucker’s band before he went solo.

My heart rejoices, and it reminds me not to be so hard on myself, when he scoots out of the car only to look over his shoulder and say “Best mama ever. I love you. Bye, Mama!”

Lord in Heaven, I do my level best to do right by these babies of yours that you’ve entrusted to my care.

God, thank you for your grace, for clean slates, and for the unscripted little expressions of love and laughter that you weave between me and these little walnuts of mine.

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