I wish I would have kept a journal of the conversations and stories of when my children were small. While I remember many of them, I am sure there are many more lost.

When my youngest son was about 3 years old, we had spent the evening at the ball park watching my oldest playing baseball. We were walking back to the car when my youngest son said,

“Mom, I’m tired, can you carry me?”

“No, I am tired too and God gave you leg’s, so you could walk.”

“But, Mom, God gave you arms, so you could carry me.”

I carried him — I knew that my arms would only be able to carry him for so long.