Gives me goose bumps kind of cool.

Last week we were in Walmart. I was searching for elastic for a Christmas project, and an older gentleman in a motorized cart was trying to get information from a store employee who had none.

“Is this the right thread to hem my blue jeans? Are these needles the right ones?

“Umm… I’m sure they would be fine.”

Yeah, right. They were knit needles that would break in a heartbeat and thread that wouldn’t hold up. So me, minding my own business as I’m prone to do, dove straight in.

“Can I help?” The Walmart ladies nodded and bolted, and the man and I headed off to find the proper supplies. In the course of conversation, I, again minding my own business like I ought, offered to hem his pants for him. What is it about watching older people struggle? It kills me. I just want to jump right in and help, but I always wonder how I’ll feel when I’m there. Want help and wish someone would? Wish people would see I’m not so old and feeble as I look and wish they’d just mind their own stinking business? I just don’t know.

Anyhow. I offered help. I gave him my phone number and told him if the sewing machine he’d purchased at an auction for $10 to hem his jeans that are suddenly too long now that he’s 81 failed to perform, I’d gladly help him out.

He asked where I lived. I told him, and through a bunch of incredulous questions from him, found out our pasture behind our house backs up to his property.

What are the chances?!

We walked away, both shaking our heads at the improbability of it all, and out of an adjoining aisle comes yet another older person, this time a lady, who came over, hugged me, thanked me for helping the man, and told me she’d been listening the whole time and couldn’t stand how cool it was, all that had just happened.

It was a great trip to the store. Far better than most. I couldn’t help but be reminded of this story and remember God’s providence in it all – even meeting friendly neighbors in a stand-offish neighborhood – and making a good first impression, even before I knew he was a neighbor.

That was just cool.

Math brain.

Amount of time it takes for Pierce to shatter the glass plate at the restaurant on the floor after the waiter, who most obviously does not have a one year old, places it in front of him: 1.3 seconds.

Best part about going out to eat on your birthday: not having to clean up the floor under the table.

Number of heads of hair trims I gave on this Sunday morning: 3.

Number of hair ponies and bobby pins used for hair does this morning: 14.

Number of minutes Pierce lasted this morning before going back to bed after staying up later than he should have last night: 38.

Times I’ve had to wash sheets for wet sleepers this week: 1. Progress!

Times I’ve had to scold for mud all over the bathroom: 4. Some dear child is digging a tunnel in the garden. The same dear child can sit in it and disappear up to said child’s chin. Impressive. Dirty, but impressive.

Number of buckling and unbuckling seat belts during out two hour shopping trip on
Monday: 63.

Yesterday I hit my tipping point. The collective number of years I’ve mothered have officially reached the same number of years I’ve been alive. It only goes up exponentially from here.