My Best Salesman

Sometimes it’s easy to…not exactly forget, but to grow complacent in memory, of the miracle.

He began here…

     And grew to this…

And before I know it, before I quite process the change, this little boy, more interested in Tonka trucks and climbing trees than drawing pictures and learning to read…

…becomes this.

My little salesman has sat with me the last two Sundays at different parishes. His sharp little eyes are on permanent watch for anyone he knows. And when he sees them, he makes good use of his formidable vocal abilities, drowning out the post-church chattings of 650 people walking through a tile-and-wood foyer. “WESLEY! GET OVER HERE AND BUY ONE OF MY MOM’S BOOKS! KATHRYN! BRING YOUR MOM OVER HERE TO GET A BOOK FROM MY MOM!”

Despite all my rationalizations and reflections on balance, I still tend to feel guilty, as if writing somehow takes a part of me that should be reserved solely for my children. And with Nicholas crawling all over me while I sit at the computer, and Alex whining to be played with, I often worry that the kids are going to resent Mommy’s writing. Which is why Alex’s wholehearted excitement and support, these last couple of weeks of crazy selling, mean so very much to me.