pickles.

a. wear a two-year-old in a back-pack.
b. carry a two-month old in a front pack.
c. chase two kids on bikes, ushering them across streets and encouraging them to keep riding.
d. all of the above

I choose... d. all of the above. (Don't ask me why.)

And about half-way home we all start crying.

The other day while they were playing, Sparky said, "Common little brother, you can do it. We never give up."

My proud mom heart feels thankful for the pickles we get ourselves into. Because we've had a lot of practice getting back out.

We endure. And suddenly our home's never felt so warm. Our sandwiches have never tasted so good. Our nap-times have never been so welcome.