It is nearly lunchtime on the Monday after Father’s Day. The house is eerily quiet. All I hear is the gentle gurgle of an essential oil diffuser, a snoring pug with a trachea issue, and the hum of a spinning washing machine from the next room. The little dogs are napping under the kitchen table, the big ones have commandeered furniture they ordinarily aren’t allowed to grace. Both cats are lazily stretched out on the bare mattress of my bed as the sheets are nearly ready for a transfer to the dryer. All is calm. All is bright. If a picture paints a thousand words, this Van Gogh is a masterful fake, for the personality of my home this weekend was anything but serene. See, the kids came for a visit.
In this odd era we live in, my family has two very distinct buckets we use for determining where we do go and what we will do in comparison with where we don’t go and what we won’t do. It’s pretty brilliant, actually. We just ask ourselves, “What outcome are we willing to accept?” There’s a “willing to die for this” bucket and a “not willing to die for this” bucket. When my Conroe daughter-in-law called to say they’d sweet talked their favorite DFW photographer to come to them for family pictures, but were now wondering if they shouldn’t just come up to Forney for the weekend and get pics of the entire fam bam, the answer was easy. I was willing to die for this.
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