She is eleven.

When I am feeling overwhelmed by homeschooling, when I am drowning in the busyness of my days, the endless demands on my time, my energy, my patience, when I bemoan the ever abiding lack of quietness and minutes, much less hours to claim as my own, when I recall my DVR filled to capacity with shows I have every intention of watching but will never quite get to and the movies and books and recreational activities that may have passed me by while I was otherwise engaged with my children, I look at my girl, so grown up, changing and emerging as a young woman before my tired eyes long before I am ready. And I remember.

There is no other way I would rather spend my one, most precious life than giving it to her.