Saved By a Seven Year Old

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She’s gone and done it again. She’s saved me. It won’t be the first or last time my oldest child has pulled the sunshine out of the dark sky and made my life thousands of times better.

It’s hard to believe that just ten minutes ago I was swirling. Drowning. And she saved me.

We had done so well as a team of the four kids and me at that store. The one I had to go to because at 7:00 it was my only option to get pepperoni and size 12 shoes for a certain growing boy who has worn holes in the toes of his light up shoes.

We had survived the cashier putting all the things we bought in the silliest of bagging methods, leaving me with a cart full of babies and three bags to carry because it all couldn’t go back the way I had it before.

We had survived the fact that McDonald’s trick or treat coupons weren’t for nuggets but hamburgers instead and don’t I get it that chicken has more protein, mama. I get it. Size 12 shoes, remember, son?

We had survived getting groceries inside and babies a snack while we ate.

But I wasn’t surviving the twins needing all the things right at the moment I sat them in their cribs. Never once have the two of them been so needy, so cranky, so ready to let the neighbors know Mama wasn’t enough at that moment. (Thank you teething and growth spurts.) My head was spinning, my world was swirling. I am not cut out for this. I am not ready.

But Arianna was ready.  She saw my tears and suggested I let her hold Isla so I could finish getting Ava ready for bed. She was willing to hold a screaming baby for the sake of saving her Mama. And I agreed.

And we survived again.

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And she saved me. Again. Like she does. Like she always will. My first baby girl.

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