Quirky.  I like that word.  Kinda means you’re odd but in a kinder way.  I’d describe myself as quirky.  Some of my friends might just describe me as odd.  Anyway, I think quirky is good.  I grew up with a dad who tied coconuts to our pine trees and told everyone they were coconut trees.  He also made a mail box out of tire rims.  We kept that mailbox for many years until we finally got a notice from the post office stating that it did not meet standards.  Funny it took over ten years for them to realize it.  My dad also had a pick ‘um up truck that had “ouch” painted on the side.  My mom spouted out, “Doesn’t that beat a goose a flyin” many a day.  So, I guess I have a right to be quirky.  It was a gift from my childhood.

It gets me to thinking about what my kids will remember about their childhood.  Will they remember me screaming about backpacks and lunches and shoes or will they remember our long hikes in the woods and bike rides?  Will they remember my tirade about getting rid of their toys because they won’t clean up their playroom or will they remember me singing them back to sleep after a nightmare?  Of course, I hope it’s the latter.  I hope there are enough good memories to drown out the times I just didn’t cut it as being a good mom.  I have and will make my share of mistakes.  But one thing is for sure….no one will ever love them more or try harder to make them good people than me.  So I hope they remember their childhood as a good time with lots of love.  Or maybe they’ll just remember their childhood as being quirky.  Which is OK too.


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