Coke and a Smile

I believe in three things:

First and foremost, God loves me as much as He loves his only Son. He can’t help it. He IS love. He loves you too, just as much as Jesus, regardless of age, weight, gender, race, religion or lifestyle. Anyone walking around preaching something else has missed the point and is lost.

Second, I strive to be the very best momma I can possibly be. It’s not perfect and it certainly isn’t always pretty, (even my flip flops screamed when they saw my non-pedicured little toes emerge from my socks), but it is my very best. I hope The Kraken and The Siren look back and remember all the fun we had and the adventures we took and not how dirty the house always was. And hopefully they don’t hate me for the nicknames. (I am saving up a counseling fund just in case.)

Last and definitely least . . . bum baba bum . . . Coca-Cola Classic can heal all wounds. The Kraken jumps from the back of the sofa and lands inches from his sister just because he wanted to feel like a rocket ship. Sip of coke. Rosie spends an entire night waking and screaming every 40 minutes or so. Can of coke for breakfast. Husband working late again, (those darn sick kids stealing my man). Crack open another can. “Potty trained” son showers the entire bathroom with yellow rain shortly before guests are slated to arrive. Sip of coke and maybe some bleach wipes. Rosie runs over and gives an unsolicited snuggle. Coke and smile. Twenty minutes running around the van attempting to catch a running sonshine to take him to a play date, which scares the living goo out of momma, simply because this child needs to be socialized. Sip of coke and a satisfied sigh of the conqueror (me, in case you were wondering). Let me be clear, I’ve heard all the stats about the time it takes a T-bone steak to digest in coke and that it makes an excellent engine degreaser, and while those thoughts do gross me out, I like my coke. My name is Kip and I am an addict.

But I am at peace, Jesus loves me enough to die, addict or not. Sip of coke.