Minimzing Regret

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one whose heart still hurts over dumb decisions.  Trivial things like wearing my headgear to a sleepover when I was in eighth grade or later, at fifteen, trying to turn a Lisa Loeb song into a monologue for Advanced Theater.  (Since that abysmal, face-reddening ordeal, I haven't been able to listen to a single song of hers without feeling ashamed.)  The events weren't near as ridiculous as how deeply they're etched in my memory.  I'm probably the only person on the planet who remembers.  But for some reason, it still embarrasses me to think about them.

I've made some other, more consequential stupid moves, too.  Lots of lost friendships through clumsy ignorance and entirely too much self-seeking.  I never intended to be a crappy friend, and I didn't even realize I was being one until it was too late.  I always only wanted people to like me and for *me* to feel appreciated, loved, wanted.  And in that me-centric world, I blindly didn't consider that other people had needs I could be meeting.  And I shuffled through friends (much in the way that first-friends painfully shuffled through me), then I ran away to college and repeated my bad behavior on new hearts.

So, I have regrets.  I don't want to make more.  

Since wisdom comes with age, I've been studying the moms ahead of me.  I make a mental note when I read about a mother who said she never thinks back on her children's youth and wishes she'd vacuumed more.  I read and listen; I hunt for simple ways to to implement all the things my heart wants for my kids.  Just this week I added to my (very long term) to-do list the invaluable practice of praying with the boys as I drive them to school.   

There is so much I don't *know* to do that I sincerely want to do.  I don't want to screw any of this up.

I want to raise my kids to love Jesus.  I want to help them sift through what the world offers and cling only to Truth. I don't want to be so wrapped up in my own plans that I waste away the days on memories that won't satisfy.  I want to be present, to be entrenched in enjoying their world, their laughter, their warmth.

I don't want the death of friends-of-friends tiny sons and tiny daughters to make me pause, realize them important, and hug my sons tighter.  It's my goal to always live with the knowledge of death.  And to *always* (even in the frustrating moments) see my children's presence as a blessing.