I crossed my arms and gazed up at the top shelf. This is silly, I thought. I don’t have time for this. Besides, it'll probably make me sad. But the temptation was too great. That big plastic tote in the basement storage room was calling my name.

“Girls, come down here and help me with this.”

“What in the world?” Madison stared at the massive container. “What are you gonna do with that?”
                                                                      
“I just want to look at it,” I said, sparing the details. My kids wouldn't understand. To be honest, I didn’t understand. 

Maybe I was just a sappy mom feeling nostalgic. Or maybe I was having a midlife crisis. Whatever the reason, I knew one thing. My girls were growing up fast – and I couldn’t shake the urge to revisit the past.

I stepped onto a chair, grabbed the container and slid it toward the edge. “Ready? Here it comes!” Three sets of hands eased it down to the floor.

As I pulled off the lid, a neatly folded blanket caught my eye. You know the kind. I think every hospital in the world wraps newborns in those thin white blankets with the pink and blue stripes. I held the blanket to my chest, remembering how I used to swaddle my babies. This may take a while, I thought.

Over the next few minutes I found all kinds of treasures. Tiny baby shoes and pink frilly dresses. Soft baby rattles and glossy board books. Snap-up-the-front jammies and adorable hats. 

Each little outfit triggered sweet memories of the girl who wore them. I remembered toothless grins. Wobbly first steps. Cuddles on the couch with a Pat the Bunny book. The smell of baby lotion after a bath.  

I remembered Thursday morning playgroups. A backyard slip and slide on a hot afternoon. Baby dolls. Curly slides at the park. A little girl's hand that fit perfectly in mine. 

The clothes dryer beeped from upstairs, interrupting my thoughts. “Back to reality,” I mumbled, tromping up the steps.    

I pulled an armful of warm jeans from the dryer. Good grief. Emily’s jeans were practically my size. And Taylor was right behind her.  

Taylor’s volleyball shirt hung above the washing machine, ready to go for her next tournament. My mind drifted. We sure have fun watching Taylor play volleyball. I’ll never forget the night her eighth grade team challenged us parents to a game. For the record, we won.

Behind Taylor’s shirt hung Madison’s gymnastics leotard. I love watching that girl compete. I’d swear I'm more nervous than she is.  

Then I saw Emily’s cheerleading outfit on top of the dryer. Who could’ve guessed that our quiet, reserved Emily would give cheerleading a try? But she stepped out of her comfort zone and now she loves it – and I love watching her shine!

I caught myself smiling. Babies are nice, but teenagers are pretty great too. They can carry on actual conversations. They can play real games like basketball and volleyball – instead of Candyland and Hi Ho! Cherry-O. They watch shows like Downton Abbey and Gilmore Girls rather than Teletubbies and Barney.

It’s funny how time fades certain memories like stinky diapers and long, sleepless nights. Truth is, every age has its challenges and every age has its charm.

I'll bet my girls have “treasures” right now that I won’t want to part with. The dress Emily wore to eighth grade graduation. Taylor’s softball uniform. Madison’s gymnastics medals.

I got two important reminders that day in my laundry room. First, it’s fun to remember the past, but it’s even better to enjoy the present.

And second, I need to buy another tote.

Hey everyone! Do you know someone that might enjoy my writing? Invite them to check out my blog! Just click on my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/SheriZeckWrites and invite them from there!

Thanks - and have a great week,

Sheri

Hi everybody! 

Thanks for stopping by. This week I'm writing for the Quad City Moms Blog. Click on over and check out Sheri’s top five ways snow tubing was even better than sledding as a kid. If you're suffering from cabin fever, hopefully this post will encourage you to get out and have some fun!

Take care and have a great week,

Sheri

The weatherman said a storm was coming, and this time he was right. Fourteen inches of wet, heavy snow bombarded our area last week over a two-day period. It definitely disrupted some plans. Flights cancelled. Schools and businesses closed. Many lost power. 

I’m not a fan of nasty roads and frigid temperatures, but I did enjoy the view.

Everywhere we looked – the ground, the trees, the house, the swing set, the pool (oh how we miss that pool). Every inch was covered with a thick blanket of snow.

Then I noticed the tiny tree outside our front window.

Layer upon layer of snow had piled up on that poor little tree. I wondered how much more it could take.

There are times when the storms of life also disrupt our plans. I’m sure you've been there.

It could be light flurries, like the daily grind of never-ending loads of laundry and dirty dishes. Or dealing with problems at your child’s school. Or tending to a sick kid with the stomach flu.

Other times it’s a major blizzard. A job loss. A broken marriage. The death of a loved one.

I remember one season in my life when a major storm blind-sided me. The crushing weight of it all pulled me further and further down. I was buried deep. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dig myself out. Finally, I reached out to God.

“Please help me,” I prayed. “I can’t carry this anymore. I’m just not strong enough.”

He didn't necessarily stop the storm, but He definitely sheltered me as I walked through it. 

Has something been weighing you down? God wants to lighten your load. You don't have to lug it around anymore. After all, He is stronger than any storm. Let Him carry it.  

I clasp my hands together and take a deep breath. Butterflies swirl inside my stomach. You’d think I was the one about to climb onto the balance beam.

But I really want Madison to do her best. I know how hard she has worked. I know how many hours she has practiced. I know she wants to do well.

And so it begins. She jumps on the beam and a row of judges begin dissecting her every move. They take notes. They search for the slightest error. Oops, she swung her leg too much. Oops, she paused there. Oops, her toes aren’t pointed. Oops, she wobbled a bit. Deduction. Deduction. Deduction. 

It’s kind of scary, knowing that someone is watching and waiting to catch your every mistake. Strangely, it reminds me of writing.

Now I know what you're thinking. Madison does her thing under pressure in front of a hundred people and a panel of judges. Sheri does her thing while wearing pajamas and sipping tea in the solitude of her comfortable home. But stay with me here. There are plenty of opportunities for a writer to feel judged. Like at my first writer’s conference.

I sat down with one of the speakers for my one-on-one session. While most attendees were pitching story ideas or submitting articles, I needed only one thing: a sign. A sign that said I wasn't totally crazy for thinking I might try this writing thing. I handed over my paper and forced a smile.

“I’d just like your overall feedback, please.”

She took the paper, cleared her throat and started skimming through my article. I sat quietly, twisting my ring around my finger and staring at my shoes. From the corner of my eye, I watched her draw a circle around a paragraph. She scribbled something in the margin. I glanced her way.

Wait, did she just smile? Oh my goodness she laughed. Was that a good laugh or a bad laugh? 

Finally, she placed the paper on her lap and turned to me. Over the next few minutes she gently shared helpful tips to improve my writing. And thankfully, she also gave me a sign.  

“I can see you have the heart of a writer. You think like a writer. You’re able to take an event and pull the truth out of it.”

Alight then. That’s all I needed to hear.

A short time later I joined a critique group. Yes, a critique group! I mean, you’re just begging to be judged when you join a critique group. It’s like saying, “Here. Read this. I’ve put everything I have into it and I’ve poured my heart out for everyone to see. Now, rip it apart and tell me what’s wrong with it.”

It didn't become any easier once I started getting published. Now I was sending story ideas and articles to real-live editors. I’d hold my breath; hit the “send” key and obsessively check my email for some kind of response. A response that would basically say either, “Nah, I’m not interested in this,” or “Say, this isn't half-bad.”

It’s great when my work gets published, but even that brings a new kind of scary. For example, I've been told that Guideposts Magazine currently has two million subscribers (which translates to around six million readers.) That's six million readers with total freedom to express their opinions and comment (especially on social media) however they see fit! 

But I’m learning something through it all. Whenever you put yourself out there – whenever you try something new or out of your comfort zone – there will always be someone that’s happy to critique you.

When Madison is unhappy with her gymnastics scores, I try to ask her these three questions:  

“Did you have fun?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Did you try your best?”

“Yes.”

“Did you learn something from your mistakes?”

“Yep.”

“Then try not to let it get you down. You had fun – and you did the best you could do for today.”

And I should probably take my own advice.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against constructive criticism. My writing only gets better after my critique group takes a shot at it. But I do need to keep the right perspective. I can’t let the opinions of others discourage me.

I like what Elizabeth Berg said in her book, Escaping into the Open. She said, “Never mind what anyone has to say about your work, be it good or bad. Know that it’s necessary that you love your work, and let yourself do that.”     

At the end of the day, I need to ask myself: Did I enjoy writing this? Did I do my best? Did I learn from this experience?  Most importantly, do I love my work? Only I can answer those questions. Only I can be the judge of that.