magic quesadillas.

Today was one of those days. You know the kind. The kind of day where your kids fight, cry, whine, and disobey until you want to pull out your hair. The kind of day where, in a moment of weakness, you do something you immediately regret.

By late afternoon, I'd had enough. I took each kid by the hand, walked them to the front door, opened it, and announced that I was fed up. Then, I escorted them into the hallway and ordered them to find a new home. As I shut the door on their tiny shocked faces, a wave of guilt engulfed me.

About 10 seconds later, I opened the door penitently and found a confused little boy and a teary-eyed little girl. I calmly led them to their bedroom and I apologized. Carly sobbed and inside I felt like the world's worst mother. The last thing on earth I ever want my children to feel is unloved or unwanted and that's exactly what I had done.

On evenings like this, where I spend 15 minutes in the bathroom crying and telling myself that I'm not cut out for motherhood, I usually end up calling for pizza or asking Ammon to bring home burgers. But, tonight I decided I was going to follow through with our original plan and make chicken and spinach quesadillas.

The kids joined me in the kitchen, donning aprons, as I chopped fresh spinach and they mashed avocados. They were happy but my heart was heavy still. The quesadillas were cut and piled upon a plate. We sat together as a family and ate, the kids making the most delicious noises. As I began cleaning up the table, Carly wrapped her arms around my growing belly and said, "Thanks Mom. That was the yummiest dinner ever." And with that, my heavy heart lifted.

Sometimes it takes making quesadillas to feel forgiven.