Five months. That’s how long I was planning on living in Eastern Oregon.I loved Boise. I’d never move for good. I had friends there, a good job, and plenty of shopping and things to do. It was just going to be a short season of growing, and I’d be back to my normal life. I’d just agreed to help one of my good friends house sit for her grandparents, who were going down South for the winter. Five months.
We looked at a house a couple of weeks ago. One of at least a few dozen that my husband and I have looked at in the [almost] three years my husband and I have been married. This one had a heck of a lot going for it. There were a few downsides, but that’s what J is good at doing: fixing the imperfect things about a house and making it beautiful. It had a creek running behind
I suck at saying “No.” I don’t know if it really exists in my day-to-day vocabulary. I’m working on it, though. Mostly because I’ve said yes to so many things this year that I’ve started to forget things I never used to forget. The other day, I looked back at a text message that I could have sworn I had responded to, and the poor recipient was still waiting for a reply. It was for something fairly important, and
Ever since I started writing, I’ve had people tell me that I tend to rush through pieces of the story. Usually it’s the little (not-as-important) stuff, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it. As I’ve grown in my writing, I’ve realized it’s because I do the same thing in real life. I tend to skip what I consider the “not-as-important” stuff and jump right into the nitty-gritty real life stuff. I’m one of those people
Life is full of dreams, isn’t it? Dreams to start a family, dreams to land the perfect job, or to meet prince charming. One of my dreams is to buy a fixer upper house of our own, and transform it into a beautiful one that we could call home. My husband works in construction, and I’ve seen the incredible things he is capable of that basically makes it look like a fairy godmother went around waving her
More To Me is based on the dozens of true stories of kids who I’ve met over the years; some who lived under the same roof as me for a season, and others that I’ve met more recently through other means. But all of these stories were from kids who have been in foster care. They told their stories to me, and shared the one thing they wanted the world to know. I took each of their