The rules elude me about routines and turns. It all looks dazzling. But probably the straight runs between spins are a reprieve. I can almost hear the skaters revving themselves up for the pending hoist into the air. Don't you wonder which part is their favorite? Anticipation? Being airborne? Landing on their feet without slipping? Are they aware of the audience or is the concentration so high it blocks out the three billion people watching around the globe? 

Probably no athlete would make it to the Opening Ceremony if she had nothing but easy stuff in her repertoire. On the other hand a contiguous string of death spirals and cantilevers would likely render the skater nauseous and lame. 

Our lives are a duet of simple and impossible. Having three month old twins was impossible. Having eleven year old ones is easy peasy. A three month old marriage is often all sunshine and roses. An eleven year old one is sometimes impossible. 

Thankfully, I had help when my girls were babies. Not round the clock maid service mind you, but friends who brought meals, and a husband who slogged to work each day to bring home the fakin bacon. God had His hand in it too, infusing me with a daily dousing of syrupy sweet affection for two armfulls of cuteness. 

My eleven year old marriage had help too. The homeschool group we belonged to kept me vertical and going forward simultaneously. And smiling. And waving. And crying.