Life is Like a Novel

I'm the author of my life, creating my own character; me. Only unlike most characters in books, I am real, and I can create, to a large extent, the plot of my life. (Which can be anywhere from exciting and fun to problematic. But it helps to know that a good problem or growing experience is essential to a good novel.) The point is to celebrate and enjoy my life journey.

One of the ways I do this is to remember that sometimes trials can eventually become funny with enough time. Such as the following experience I wrote in my journal several years ago. Names have been omitted to protect the innocent. :)

"My Day From Heck:

A couple of weeks ago I returned home after a shopping trip. My 14-month-old child fell asleep on the way home, so I left him asleep in the truck (which was parked in the garage) because I knew he would wake up if I put him in his bed, and I wanted him to have his nap. While I unloaded groceries, my seven-year-old daughter made herself a PBJ snack and my three-year-old girl wanted some too and was beginning to get upset that I wanted to finish unloading the groceries and bring the baby in before I made her one.

The phone rang at that moment, and it was one of my oldest child's teachers calling with some difficult-to-hear information about said child's classroom behavior. Now most parents do not enjoy hearing such news about someone they gave birth to, at least I didn't, and I was close to tears.

During the phone call, and while trying to defend my child and bring in the remaining grocery bags from the truck all at the same time, my three-year-old began screaming because she wanted her older sister's sandwich and tried to grab it from her. I took her by a sticky jam hand up to her room and closed the door, but that only muted the sound.

When I got off the phone, I was so close to tears that they almost leaked from my eyes. But I didn't have time to just sit and cry since my baby was still in the car, my three-year-old was still screaming in her room, and I still had a mound of grocery bags to go through.

While descending the stairs to the garage from the kitchen, (this was in a four-level split), my three-year-old ran out of her room crying even more because she had wet her pants.

So, thinking things through, I told her to take off her pants while I got the baby from the truck and then I'd come up and help her. But when I stepped back into the house with my sleeping baby in my arms, I heard a man's voice coming from the front door asking, "Is your mom or dad home?"

I sped up the stairs and found that my wet three-year-old had opened the door for a young man selling pizza coupons, only she had obeyed me first by taking off her wet pants, and stood at the door in nothing but a shirt and jam all over her face and hands.

Now at this point I could have just given up, but that wasn't really an option. Instead, I sent the man on his way, put down my baby who promptly woke up, and grabbed a wet cloth to wipe down my sticky-wet daughter, only to find her chasing the man down the sidewalk still wearing only her shirt."

Seven years have passed since this day, and now I look at it and laugh. I also look at it and think, that was a bad day? I've had many since then that would make this day look like nothing. But I try to remember the blessings, and I have much to be grateful for. I also try to imagine that life is like a novel, and a good novel is one where each page and each scene is worth reading.