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It felt a little disingenuous, writing yesterday about such a happy thing. Our love story. The quilt which is supposed to remind me, every time I run upstairs to shove a stinky diaper in the bin. Every time I run downstairs to get ice from the freezer to soothe a boo-boo. Every six a.m. wake up call after getting grunted at by my 'tween on my way for the coffee. It should remind me of all the love and the circumstances that brought us here. Truth is though, that it doesn't always — remind me. I am able (much to my own disappointment) to walk past it a hundred times a day and not be moved. Someone carved squares from work-shirts and muslin and collected scraps from church-dresses and quilting bees to create an artful expression and warm their family. Decades later it has made it's way into my life for a reason, and I forget. And even as I write this I understand that I wish for it's symbol to bring light to my day and still it feels dark sometimes. Last week was tough. Maybe it's just January. I've been here before. We're all cooped up. My body isn't soaking up enough sunshine. I have a cold. The easy baby I nursed for the last two years now has his own opinion about everything and guess what? It's the extreme polar opposite of mine. My eleven year old is fully steeped in middle school drama and moody behavior and guess what? He's taking it out on me. My husband was AWOL at work. I found myself snapping.

And I walked by that quilt, seven hundred times, and I still felt dark.

But this place. This place causes me to take a closer look, to put things in perspective and for that, I'm grateful.

His passion and talent.

Giving something back.

A few warmer moments.

Company in my sick bed.

An entire day in NYC.

Wrapped in something I made for him. (Photo and baby toes credit: Stephanie Hatzenbuehler)

A successful project.

Family tradition.

This week I will try harder. I will focus on the positive. I will live up to the story of that quilt.