Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,70

joy, creativity and boundless energy.

The neighbor lady willing to step in and help should I ever need her to remind me not to take myself so seriously.

My sisters who love me no matter what (not always an easy job), and who believed in me enough to submit my work before I even thought of it as work. They do so much: running a business, working for the city, maintaining a family and chasing after You-Know-Who (Daddy, do not go around telling people your youngest forgot your name). They are the cornerstones of both home and community.

And lastly, my Aunt Phiz, who flew all the way from India (not China) to come to my aid when she saw I had gotten myself into a hole and needed someone to hold up a light, show me the way and to pray for me.

You women inspire me.

You are amazing.

Delightful.

Strong.

Smart.

And a bit intimidating.

You are the reason I try so hard and why I take my failures even harder. I see all that you accomplish with your time, all you strive for, all you give, and am humbled at how often and in how many ways I cannot measure up.

You all are my heroes.

Not to slight the men in my life.

My minister, my father, my son and my husband have all shown extreme patience (except Daddy—on this score like daughters like father.) They have treated me with love, trust, goodwill and a colossal sense of humor. Really, for example, only a man who loved a good joke could have pegged me to direct the Christmas pageant after my inept handling of the nursery redo.

Each of these men has taught me something. I adore them all in different ways for it.

But let’s get real, folks.

In the knock-down, brag-out, whiner-take-all brat-race of Mommies and Minivans, it’s definitely a woman’s world. For that I am grateful. The hand that rocks the cradle most definitely rocks!

It’s been suggested to me by these remarkable women (and a few of the men) that I need to take the time now to listen, to learn, to laugh, to leave my fears and worries with the Lord.

It’s not about outmothering the other moms, winning accolades or the desperate need to be liked at all costs. It’s not about playing peacemaker or cake-baker or nursery wall-painter in the small hope someone will pat me on the head and tell me “Good job.” It’s about doing what a woman must do because she is called by God. I am called by God to love and be obedient to His will.

The prayer of Hannah, as evidenced in 1 Samuel 2:3, is still true today. “‘Do not keep talking so proudly or let your mouth speak such arrogance, for the Lord is a God who knows and by Him deeds are weighed.’”

By Him my deeds will be weighed.

It’s sound advice. I think I will take it, do my best and leave the rest with God.

Only thing left to do was hit send, then hit the hay.

21

Hannah couldn’t recall when she had slept so soundly…or so late!

“Nine o’clock?” She forced her eyes to focus on the glowing green numbers a few inches from her pillow. That couldn’t be right. She kept her alarm set for six-fifteen. Even so she never heard it go off. Tessa always woke up well before—

“Tessa!” She sat bolt upright, realizing she hadn’t gotten up once in the night with the baby.

The crisp white sheets slid down to pool in her lap. Glorious sunlight streamed in through a wall-size window.

No coffee pot dripping. No Squirrelly Girl giving the low familiar hooty-whoo sound that the greyhound made to demand to be fed. No Aunt Phiz singing. No Payt showering. No Sam grumbling. No Tessa fussing. And when Hannah got out of the bed, her feet would hit carpet, not scattered bits of dry cereal. Not slobber-covered dog toys. Not Payt’s day-old discarded socks.

“I am definitely not in Loveland anymore, Toto.” She stretched and savored the comparison to the storybook heroine who found herself transported to a magical, unfamiliar world.

“Where people bring breakfast right to your door,” she said even as she picked up the phone and opened the room-service menu.

Fifteen minutes, they had said.

Everyone knew that in hotel-service speak that meant twenty, maybe even thirty minutes. More than enough time to grab a shower and read…

“The paper!” Her column. Last night after she had opened up her address book and hit send, she had put the thing out of her mind. But it was morning