We’re human.
We’re real.
We’re not a bunch of two dimensional characters found between the pages of a book.
We are so much more than the plot of somebody’s story.
We are our own story.
Flesh and bones,
Muscles and breath.
We’re real.
So very, painfully real.

A Letter to the Tired Moms (that’s all of us)

I saw you today.

When you came over to visit.

I saw the sweeping glance that took in my house- a quick, but thorough inventory of all that yours is not.  (I’ve been guilty of doing this too.)

The floors clear of any clutter.  Not a speck of unfolded laundry to be found on the couch. I caught the longing in your gaze as you took stock of all the objects you’d love to have on display.

You can’t have that stuff right now and you’re usually okay with that.

But I know.

I know there’s times you wish you could buy them.  All the pretty things from Target that you’ve had to pass by.

I understand.

I’ve been that mama too. Diapers cost money, not to mention all of that formula and food.

But you see, you have a home of fragile things more precious than anything you can find in a store- they’re small, they’re fast and their fingerprints adorn your windows.  Yes, I saw you look longingly at my smudge free panes of glass.

And I get it, more than you might know.

I’ve wiped away the tears of frustration from my very own cheeks.  I’ve been you mama.

Every day of the week.

That never ending battle; that overwhelming feeling of drowning when it seems everyone else is swimming on by free of any problems or cares.  That pure desperation to be more; to do more, but just so very very tired from the constant demands.

Demands for your attention, your time, and your strength and your patience.

You’re exhausted sweet mama.

Please don’t waste precious time trying to clean up that mess when you really need to rest.  It can wait a few more days.  What can’t wait are those precious little ones God has entrusted in your care. They need you more than that mile long to do list.

My little ones are no longer little, they’re growing up and soon yours will too.  And I know you won’t believe me, you just won’t think this next part is true, but one day you’re going to miss that mess of toys, the mountainous pile that seems to have taken over your living room. A pile that defies explanation- how did that all fit in the toy box???

There’s going to be a day that you’ll have everything just as you want it.  You’ll be able to keep your home clutter free for more than five minutes.  No longer will you spend hours picking it all up at night, only to find it all right back where you should have just left it the very next morning.

It’s okay to want to scream at it all.  I have and you probably have too.

Oh friend, how I have been you.

Please, sweet friend of mine, don’t compare your home to mine or anyone else’s.  Please, sweet mama, don’t gauge your worth by the edited images on Pinterest, Instagram or even HGTV.

You’re only seeing  glimpses, there’s a bigger picture and it’s not perfect. Even here in my home, the first floor might look good, but the rest is truly a big mess. Now you know why there’s no laundry on my couch…it’s piled high on my dresser, defying gravity as we speak. And that’s okay.

Life isn’t perfect; it’s messy and loud. Life can be so very tiring, but it can be glorious too.

You’re not a failure if there’s dishes in your sink.  You’re not lazy because you feel too tired to even think about folding that pile of laundry.  I call it Mount Washmore by the way, and I’ve been known to wash the same load three times just to avoid throwing it in the dryer….

Your worth is not measured by how much money you have in the bank or the size of your house.  Or whether you can sit on your couch without pushing a weeks worth of clothes onto the floor; right on top of that fort built out of blocks.

You’re right where God wants you and I’ve been there too. I still am, to tell you the truth.

You’re amazing, sweet mama, don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.


Photographical proof, courtesy of our old house, that things aren’t always where they’re supposed to be.  Child included.


Just wait until they’re teens, when cleaning their room is like shopping at IKEA.  You’ll go in there for their laundry and come out with five cups, two plates and a half eaten pizza.



The Artist of My Soul

Paint me a new day,

Oh Artist of my soul.

Create in me a new heart,

As your picture is made whole.


With each stroke of your brush on the canvas that is me,

I secretly hope for a picture of comfort,

A portrait of ease.


But you’re the Master Painter

Your ways are yours alone.

So paint me as you desire,

Oh Lord, let Your will be done.


Swirling, vibrant colors.

Sweeps of greens and blues.

Slashes of red;

Dabs of yellow.

Your vision is made manifest

My heart daily made new.


Slowly being created is the canvas that is me.

Each day bringing new hues and shadows

Forming a masterpiece-

that I, on my own, could never conceive.


My God, you alone are the Master Artist of my Soul.


Tell Me A Story 



Oh tell me your stories

The ones of old glories.

Of damsels and knights

Of spirits and sprites.

Please tell me your tales

Ones with witches and spells.

Of light conquering dark

Of triumph and lark.

Oh sing me a song

Of a time long gone.

When dragons once flew

And gallantry was true.

Please read me a fable

About the old stone tables.

Of honor and dignity

Of oath and fealty.

I’ll paint a depiction

From your epic description.

Oh tell me your stories

The ones of old glories.



written by: Summer Dulinsky




I love you banana split you must know, but once I take this last bite you’ve gotta go.

I already stole the cherry- plucked it from the top.

And those  luscious sweet strawberries were the cream of the crop.

I relished in your creamy dreams, even while I mourned the loss.

They forgot the nuts and I’m split.  Do I enjoy this divine confection or do I choose grief?

I should have gone to Dairy Queen.

This is a rewrite of an old poem I wrote on Wattpad.  You can find it here under a  Collection of my Chicken Scratch.