Friday's Free Advice

I'm low on creativity today.   

Brooklyn has the Chicken Pox.

Sydney is officially on spring break.

Jackson is in rare form.

My parents are flying in on Monday.

I've been cleaning my house like a mad woman.

To say this week has been "stressful" would be putting in mildly.

And it's not even 10am...

I'm not one to whine and complain, and certainly have done my best to avoid meaningless drivel on this blog.  However, today I'm feeling tapped.  Maybe you have been here before too...or maybe you're feeling tapped out right along with me. 

So, what would I advise on a day such as this?  For me, it's looking closely at my list of priorities and focusing only on those at the top.  What's on the top of my list?  God, Joel and my kids.  In that order.

If I don't make it out of my jammies today, then so be it.  Contrary to last week's advice, there are days when the "interesting" smell will just have to do!

And that's all I've got.

Where Does Jesus Live?

Exasperated, I sat down, put my head in my hands and whispered a quick prayer for strength and patience.  The following is the conversation that ensued:

Me:  “Oh, Jesus.  I need you.”

Jackson:  “Mommy, Jesus not here.”

Me:  “Yes, He is.”

Jackson:  “No, Mommy.  He’s not here.”

Me:  “Then, where is He?”

Jackson:  “He’s at His home.”

Me:  “Where’s Jesus’ home?”  (Here’s hoping he says something like, “My heart!")

Jackson:  “At His town.”

Me:  “What’s the name of the town?”

Jackson:  “I don’t know, Mama…I don’t know.  Where’s His town?”

Me:  “Does Jesus live in your heart?”

Jackson:  Shakes head, “no”.

Brooklyn eagerly jumps into the conversation at this point:  “Heaven!  His town is Heaven!”

And there you have it.  Where Jesus lives, according to Brooklyn and Jackson.

I Have Confidence

My six-year-old, Sydney, came skipping down the stairs the other day wearing her sassy jeans, pink t-shirt, flip-flops, Disney Princess sunglasses atop her head, swinging her sparkly purple purse on her forearm.  When she met me at the bottom of the staircase she looked me straight in the eye and announced, “I’m ready.”  She was referring to the Kids Praise Company spring musical auditions at our church.  For weeks she had been sitting with her CD player rehearsing each song, especially her favorites, closing her eyes in deep concentration so as not to miss any of the notes.  The day for auditions had finally come, and like she said, Sydney was ready.  

After the try-outs she made her way over to where I was waiting, shoulders back, head held high, and informed me that she got it.  She did it.  In her words, “I did great!”  I had to get a little clarification on the “I got it” statement, seeing that we were surrounded by a room full of children waiting to audition.  She didn’t actually get any part, yet, but was so confident in her performance that there was no doubt in her mind that she had nailed the audition.

That girl has more confidence in her little finger than I have in my whole body.  There are times I wonder to myself, “Whose kid is this?”  She is so secure.  Whether or not she is even singing on key, she believes she’s a superstar.  And I am in awe.

One of my favorite movies of all time is The Sound Of Music.  In it, Maria – Julie Andrews – dances through the streets of Salzburg, swinging her guitar case in one hand singing, “I have confidence in confidence alone!”  It is truly inspirational.  I want that kind of confidence.  And I want my children to have that too.

Sadly, I have to say there is a growing trend in our society that believes in order to instill confidence and achievement in our children, we must remove any factors that may, in fact, set them up for failure.  In his article,"Self-Esteem, Self-Destruction”, George Will writes about a school in Massachusetts that teaches children to jump rope without using ropes.  Apparently, this is supposed to raise their self-esteem because failure to jump rope (with an actual rope) could impair their self-concept for life.  This is insanity to me!  Citing Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman from their book, “NutureShock: New Thinking About Children”, Will writes:

“Children incessantly praised for their intelligence (often by parents who are really praising themselves) often underrate the importance of effort.  Also, overpraised children are prone to cheating because they have not developed strategies for coping with failure.”

Confidence and a healthy self-esteem are achieved, not by incessant praise and equality in sports, but by failure: learning to try and try and try again.  Pride in our kids should not be contingent on whether or not they do well in soccer, ballet or academics, but how much effort and discipline they have put into them.

As we were driving home from the spring musical auditions I had a perfect teaching moment with Sydney.  We began talking about the part she had tried out for.  She monopolized the first half of the conversation by expressing her passion for this particular role.  She could “see herself” playing this part, and was adamant that she got it.  Eventually, I was able to slowly explain to her that just because she tried out did not necessarily mean that she was going to get the part.  I had her think about all the other boys and girls sitting in the waiting room to audition.  There were a lot of children trying out for parts, some of them for the same role she wanted.  I pointed out that there are not enough solos and speaking parts for everyone.  I gently explained that there was a real possibility that she might not get the solo she auditioned for, and perhaps not get anything at all.  Over the next fifteen minutes I listened as her whole world came crashing down.  Was I being mean to my daughter, or destroying her self-esteem by telling her the truth?  No way.  Once she was able to face reality, get a good cry out of her system and talk through her “I can’t handle it!” feelings, she settled down.

Later, Sydney asked me if I was going to be proud of her if she got the solo.  I said no.  I would not be proud of her if she got it, because I was already proud of her for being brave enough to try out in the first place.  I told Sydney that I would be very happy for her if she, indeed, got the part, and subsequently, would be very sad for her if she didn’t.  However, my pride in her was already established because of her bravery, character and simply because of who she is.

Confidence doesn’t come easy.  Children have to learn how to work for those things they really want.  They have to learn to come to grips with failure, and be encouraged to keep on trying - to not give up just because something is hard.  I could care less if my kids get the best parts in spring musicals, make the soccer team or have the best grades in the class.  I believe they are completely capable of succeeding.  And if they are working hard, putting their best foot forward and not giving up when disappointment comes, then I’ll know I’ve done a good job.  I will have given them something far more valuable than a false sense of success.  I will have instilled in them the ability to fail and the ability to achieve – confidence in confidence alone!

Friday's Free Advice

It’s no secret that I have been dealing with severe moderate skin issues this past week.  The zit on my chin turned out to be, in fact, a boil.  It all came to a head (pardon the pun) last Saturday morning.  I spent all day Friday bemoaning my skin dilemma and feeling terribly sorry for myself, not to mention how uncomfortable I felt from the pain and swelling.  I didn’t shower or fix my hair, and it wasn’t until after lunch that I changed from my jammies into sweats.  Overall, it was one of those, “woe is me” kind of days (geez…I can be such a baby!).   

Saturday morning, Joel got up with the kids and let me sleep in (I think I whined so much that even he was feeling sorry for me).  When I finally woke up and joined my family in the playroom, the first thing out of Brooklyn’s mouth as I walked by was, “Mommy, you smell…(pause for dramatic effect)…interesting.”  And that’s when I knew…I was suffering from a common case of the “uglies”, and what I needed was some serious intervention. 

Initially, I wished I could simply climb back into bed and stay there until the boil was all healed up.  I was fully willing to surrender to the “uglies”.  Then I heard the “Mommy, we’re hungry; what’s for lunch?” cries from my three little people, and the harsh, cruel reality of the impending trip to the grocery store began to stare me in the face.  I was going to have to leave the house.  With a festering wound on my chin.  And a swollen jaw and lower lip.  It was at this point that I came up with my cure for the common case of the “uglies” and today’s Friday’s Free Advice: four do’s and a don’t.

Do take a shower – takes the “interesting” smell away.

Do your hair – good hair days are priceless.

Do put on make-up – need I say more?  A little cover-up and foundation works miracles.

Do smile – I caught the “uglies” for the first time in seventh grade.  My home perm had turned my naturally poker-straight hair into a wild and frizzy mess on my head.  I cried my eyes out one morning because I couldn’t seem to get control of my mane (I didn’t have the luxury of quality hair products – it was just me, a comb, and water).  By the time I had to leave for school I had cried so hard that my eyes were swollen and red.  I couldn’t bear to leave the house looking so hideous.  And that’s when I learned the power of a good smile.  My mom pulled me aside, looked me straight in the eyes, and said “Amy, show me your smile.”  I smiled.  Then she added, “When you smile, your whole face lights up, and those red splotches practically disappear.  You’re your most beautiful self when you have a smile on your face.”   And I’ve been smiling ever since.

Don’t wear sweats – I’m all about comfort.  I practically live in my sweats…er…comfy clothes.  There is nothing wrong with being comfortable; however, when the “uglies” have struck, the last thing a girl should do is hide in her sweats.  Put on your favorite pair of jeans, a shirt that doesn’t scream, “Hi, I’m a mommy,” and a cute pair of shoes.  As tempting as it is to throw on sweats when down with the “uglies”, I can promise you that you will not feel any better about yourself.  It only makes the case worse.

Trust me…this little cure really works.  Last Saturday, swollen face and bulging boil and all, I showered, make-upped, did my hair, put on my favorite jeans, trendy t-shirt and ballerina flats, and headed out for the grocery store with a big smile on my face.  While the “four do’s and a don’t” didn’t miraculously cure the boil, they were the perfect prescription for the “uglies”.  And I’ve been heeding this advice all week long!

Reality Check

As I write this post I am nursing a zit the size of a nickel on my chin (it could quite possibly be a boil – it’s a toss up).  It’s hideous, and I am vane enough to be grateful that I don’t have to leave my house today.  Two weeks ago I was having a great hair week.  The cowlicks in my bangs were behaving and the overall look was working for me.  I was having good skin days too.  I felt pretty (is that wrong…I really hope not).  Then, wouldn’t you know it, puberty struck my thirty-six-year-old body - my hair has gone flat while my face has started breaking out.  Hello world, I’ve digressed to my sixteen-year-old self.  I have a zit and bad hair.  

Reality strikes.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my feelings regarding speaking to our women’s Bible study.  I was nervous, and really praying that God would enable me to share the word he had placed on my heart, but also do a good job in the delivery.  Looking out on the faces of women as I was speaking, I couldn’t help but notice a nice, elderly woman in the fourth row back, whose eyes were closed.  I don’t know if she was feeling considerably blessed by my message or if I had successfully lulled her to sleep by the sound of my voice.  I’m going to go with the first option, simply because I can’t bear to think I put someone to sleep while I was talking.  That would be downright embarrassing.   

Once again…reality check.

Just when I start feeling a little too important, I often get confronted by criticism and “please don’t take this the wrong way” conversations.  Some criticism is good, but not all of it is productive or appropriate.  Still, I can appreciate it.  It helps keep me from getting too big for my britches.  I don’t want to be off-limits from the negative side of feedback, just like I don’t want to stop receiving the positive affirmations either.

I call these “head out of the clouds, feet on the ground” moments my reality checks.  Sure, there are days when I’m not in a frame of mind to see the upside of the harsh remark or the blotchy skin - especially those days when I’m feeling particularly insecure about myself (and there are so many).  I’m already face to face with reality, and I don’t need any more help getting there.  But, because I am human, I also know my tendencies to go the opposite direction, and begin feeling a little too important.  As soon as this starts happening, reality comes sweeping through my door and slaps me back down (like my children falling to pieces in the ballet studio parking lot, bodies going limp as I try to heave them up into the Expedition, right after I’ve announced to a couple of the other mommies that I’ve taken two Love and Logic classes and the techniques are working beautifully - sigh).

Good skin and hair are as temperamental as the weather, and my hormones.  A good post, speaking well or just my overall life performance will have highs and lows.  I’ll hit a homerun one week and strike out the next.  The homeruns feel exhilarating.  The strikes are my reality check.  I’m grateful for both.  I need both.  Each serves a purpose in the growing and stretching of my life.

What about you?  How do you handle reality checks?  Do they destroy you or help you?  Any good stories to share?  It’s always comforting to hear from others who have experienced a good dose of reality, and how they’ve managed to get through it.

Art Imitates Life

Last Thursday evening fans everywhere tuned in to watch the miracle of birth The Office style.  Michael got an eye-full when he prematurely marched into the delivery room, Dwight was inspired to grow his business by growing a family, and love bloomed between Andy and the new office receptionist.  I could almost hear little birds chirping sweet songs of spring.  (Birds chirping?  I might be pushing it just a little bit with that last comment.)  Aside from watching Jim and Pam swim through the rush of emotions as they wrapped their brains around the reality of becoming parents, anticipating the welcome of their baby girl, I found myself walking through this awkward forty-five minute journey with them.  For anyone who has become a parent, you know exactly what I mean.  It is both exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time.  

My favorite part of the episode was after the adrenaline died down, baby was born, and the visitors departed, Jim and Pam were left all alone with their tiny infant child.  I could so relate to the wave of emotions they were portraying – ah…sweet parenthood.  And then, as if this precious seven-pound creature had some foreknowledge and insight that this was her cue to speak up, her moment to shine in the spotlight of celebrity, she began crying.  Crying loudly, I might add.  Apparently, she was hungry.  Pam tried to nurse her, but their perfect bundle of joy was not going to have anything to do with it. 

Now for the reality check: the struggle, the stress, the perfect couple-with-happily-nursing-baby occupying the bed next to them, and the awkward visit from a male lactation nurse. 

I immediately found myself transported back to the Cascade Valley maternity ward, holding my 6 pound, 12 ounce baby girl, Sydney.  Joel and I would unwrap and wrap her back up in her swaddle over and over again, just to take a peek at her tiny feet and hands.  I gazed for minutes on end at this sweet miracle, completely mesmerized.  When she was asleep, I was in love. 

But when she woke up, I was scared out of my mind!  And here is where art imitates life.  My cute bundle of joy didn’t want to nurse.  She didn’t want to eat. When she was conscious, she didn’t want to have anything to do with me.  I was heartbroken, in tears and fighting a major battle with raging hormones.  Motherhood wasn’t supposed to look like this.  Nursing was supposed to be natural…right?  A baby was supposed to bond with its mommy…right?  So, what was wrong with me, what was wrong with my baby, and why couldn’t we get this thing right…the one thing that was supposed to come naturally to both of us? 

We had nurses, lactation specialists (all female, thank God), and our pediatrician at our beck and call.  I had so many different hands and machines on my “you know whats” that I didn’t quite feel like a woman anymore.  I was the cow.   I was a milk producer who felt as though she was failing at the one job she believed she was made to do well.  I found myself irritated with my newborn.  Sydney was already getting on my nerves and she wasn’t even forty-eight hours old.  Her strong will and my strong will came head-to-head.  Devastated and discouraged, I sat in my hospital bed watching all the sweet visions of the nursing mother with child go up in smoke right before my eyes. 

Unlike Pam, who was nursing brilliantly by the end of the show, it took us five weeks, a couple of home visits from my lactation nurse, and one or two “mommy time-outs” to finally get the breast feeding thing figured out.  Once Sydney got the hang of it, she became the biggest baby in the church nursery, ballooning to a whopping 20 pounds by the time she turned six months old.  We became pros. 

As Sydney has grown, I’ve seen much of those early lessons learned in the first few weeks of her life transition right along with her- and me.  To achieve the next milestone there is often times resistance.  She will fight it.  We’re maneuvering through some math challenges at school currently, and I can see that same fight or flight attitude flaring up in her.  It takes everything within me to not lose my patience when she is facing a new growth challenge.  Why she resists it so much is beyond me.  But rather than fight along with her, I am learning to relax, listen, observe, and support her.  I can’t make her understand math, or friendships, or failing at something, or whatever “crisis” she may be up against.  I can, however, be her steady support.  Listening, coaching, loving, and guiding.  Eventually she’ll get it.  She’ll overcome.  She’ll succeed, but she will do it in her time. 

The one thing I believe I am helping her learn- and it started in that cramped hospital room with nurses, electric pumps and family members cheering us on- is to never give up.  If it takes until the end of the sit-com, or five weeks of sticking to it, or years of practice and failure, never, ever, ever give up.  If it’s worth anything, then it’s worth the pain and the struggle, the blood, sweat, and tears to see it accomplished.

Sydney is only six-years-old.  We have a long way to go together.  We are both learning and growing.  My hope and prayer is that we will not give up, no matter what obstacle comes our way. 

My best wishes go out to Jim and Pam, fictitious characters who well portrayed a very non-fictional reality for so many of us.  The adventure has just begun!

Friday's Free Advice

And my Friday’s Free Advice for the day is…(drum roll please)…  

Pursue your passions!

Yikes!  What the heck does that mean?  (Seriously, we could go in several different directions with this.  Especially since I just got home from MomsConnect, and the topic of discussion was “ways to spice up your marriage”.)

Allow me to clarify: find out what your God-given passion is, and then pursue it with all of your heart.

My first and foremost passion is God: 

Deuteronomy 6:5

Love the LORD your God with all your heart (passion) and with all your soul and with all your strength.

My second passion is for my husband:

Genesis 2:24

A man will leave his father and mother and be united (cleave) to his wife, and they will become one flesh.

Thirdly, I am passionate about raising my children to know and love God, each other, and live lives of integrity.

Proverbs 22:6

Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.

Beyond these first three priorities in my life, I believe God created me for something very specific.  In fact, I truly believe each and every person on the planet was created and designed for a purpose tailor-made just for them.  God has plans for us, my friends!  That excites me!  Does it excite you?

Sometimes the challenge comes, not from whether or not we believe we were created for a purpose, but from not having a clear picture of what that purpose is.  My $.02 for you today?  Do everything you can to uncover and discover all that God has intended for you.  A good place to start is by going through the book SHAPE, by Erik E. Rees.  (I took a class based on this book through my church recently – it was a powerful journey, let me tell you!)

Once you have a clear idea of what you are passionate about (and you may already know what that “thing” is but perhaps have been too afraid to declare it or step out and try it) I would encourage you to do two things:

• Find a mentor (someone you trust, respect, admire, and who’s walking a few steps ahead of you in the journey) -  Have them coach you through the process of discovery.

• Look for ways to put your passion to practice. - I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, and again, and again (you get the picture); writing is my passion, and that is why I have this silly, little blog.   I am also passionate about working and investing in the lives of other women, thus why I am active in the women's ministry at our church.  I’m learning to put my passion into practice. 

By doing these two things, it is really hard to tell what doors God will open up to you next.  “Do not despise the day of small beginnings,” Zechariah 4:10 (paraphrased).  Where once there was a tiny seed, there will, one day, be a giant oak tree. 

Don’t be afraid to step up and out. 

Seize your moment…

Give God your life…

And pursue your passions with all of your heart!

Culture Shock

I'm a mom, and I blog, but I wouldn’t call myself a “mom blogger”.  

About three years ago, a friend of mine shared a little secret with me.  Her secret?  She had started a blog.  (I vaguely remembered another friend, several years prior to that, telling me the same thing, although I believe she had referred to hers as a website.)  In any case, I did an internal roll of the eyes and tuned her out.  I tried to put on my best listening face, but I’m sure the fuzzy glazed look in my eyes was all too obvious, because my dear friend never brought up her blog again.  Who knew that a few years later I would start my own (maybe my blog should be named “Humbling…me” rather than “Simplifying…me”)? 

In any case, one statement that stuck with me from our brief “blogging” conversation was that through her blog she had discovered an entirely new culture of people out there in the web-o-sphere.  Blogging was more than just writing and pasting pictures on a website, but was an actual way of life for multitudes of people - specifically, moms.

After doing this blogging thing for almost a year, I’m beginning to see what my friend was talking about: the culture of the mom blogger.  I’ll be very frank here: as much as I enjoy writing and pouring out from both deep and shallow ends of this brain pool, I don’t see myself as a blogger, and I often feel that I am experiencing a type of culture shock. 

Growing up in Kenya, I was an American living in Africa.  With as much exposure I had to the culture of that country, I was never a Kenyan.  When we returned to the States, my homeland, I could relate to a small degree with peers my age, but felt like a duck out of water 90% of the time. 

When I moved to France, I really wanted to immerse myself in the culture.  I wanted to become as French as I possibly could without becoming weird.  I did well my first six months, diligently working on language skills and French etiquette.  Then, one day I woke up, looked in the mirror at my American frame, tired eyes and greasy hair (I had been asked to refrain from showering every day as it was seen as a waste of water…not kidding here!), and realized I was French-fried.  I’d had it.  I was done with stinky armpits and unmanageable hair.  I was sick and tired of sitting down to dinner at eight or nine o’clock at night, only to spend the following thirty minutes talking about the food rather than eating the food (can we dig in already…I’m starving!).  As much as I wanted to be European chic, it just wasn’t in me.  I came to grips with my American/African/wanna-be-European-ness and decided to be myself: wearing GAP, shaving my legs, and washing my hair every day. 

Yet, here I am again, feeling like a duck out of water.  In my pursuit of chasing the blog dream, I have been confronted with the realization that - unlike a large percentage of mom bloggers - I don’t home school; I don’t have 10+ kids (that might be a slight exaggeration, but not too far from the truth); I don’t have a home business; I’m not frugal (although I’m growing in that area); and my internet proficiency goes as far as “cut, paste, e-mail and send”.  I blog to write.  That’s it. 

I see the importance of networking, but I find myself unable to relate to all these mom bloggers out there.  (Twitter is going to be my undoing for certain!)  There are groups and lingo, hashtags and conferences and multiple posts uploaded all day long, and I don’t have the time to read, comment, follow, carpool, manage children, cook dinner, do ministry prep, keep a house clean and a hubby contented all at the same time.  I wonder…are these women wearing their computers in a baby sling so that they can tweet every other minute while searching for “hot deals” and recipes online, blog about their lives, while changing diapers, teaching arithmetic and producing Martha Stuart-like snacks to their wee-ones? 

Before I burn any bridges and hurt feelings, let me stop right here.  It may seem that these women and I share little to no common ground.  I have three kids, and I feel like I’m managing Noah’s ark.  My children go to school outside the home.  My husband is a pastor, and I feel immensely blessed to partner with him in this calling.  My cooking skills leave much to be desired, but as my hubby puts it, “Hey, I’m not complaining because I didn’t have to make it.  It’s food.  That’s all that counts.”  (Thumbs up to the best and skinniest man in the whole world!)  I abhor doing crafts (too messy for me), and I’m not all that thrifty.  Still, I do believe I share something special with all of the supermom-bloggers out there.  We are kindred in our desire to raise responsible children, to love and support our husbands, pursue our passions, steward our money wisely, and reach out to other moms all over the country/world.  Can we relate 100% with each other?  No.  But in matters of the heart and values that truly count- yes, we can. 

This culture shock and my own insecurity might always be there, but at least I can appreciate the beauty around me, just as I learned to do with my life in France.  I lived in France, but I wouldn’t call myself “French”.  I'm a mom, and I blog, but I wouldn’t call myself a “mom blogger”.  However, I am open and willing to learn, grow, and make some new friends in this vast, sub-culture world of the blogging mom.

What about you?  Do you blog?  Are you a blogging mom?  Are you fully immersed in the blogging culture?  Or are you like me…standing with one foot in and one foot out?  Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions on the matter.  We may actually have something in common!

Stop And Enjoy The Potty Stops

Last week I was one twitch away from losing my sanity when, as I was driving to pick Sydney up from school, Brooklyn piped up from behind me, “I need to go potty.”  Which triggered something in Jackson and he echoed her plea, “I need to go potty, too!”  Even with the destination two minutes away, they ruthlessly insisted that they could not hold it…they needed to go “noooowww”.  

After I scrunched up my mouth, producing what can only be called the “Ugly Mommy Face”, I exhaled loudly and began searching for a feasible pit stop.  Nothing.  We continued driving.  The full bladder cries from the backseat intensified.  I kept driving, stressed out, darting my eyes here and there searching for a McDonald’s or Burger King…anything.  We made it to Sydney’s school parking lot where I parked the car and unloaded my two potty-dancing monkeys in the pouring rain.  They laughed, cheered, and thought this was the best adventure they’d ever had.  I, on the other hand, wanted to get inside the school building and find a bathroom before an “Oops!  Potty-in-the-pants” moment occurred.

When we made it back to the car, empty bladders and happy faces with 30 minutes to spare before Sydney would be let out of school, I sat back in my seat and thought further about this little adventure.  Why do I always feel like I’m in a hurry?  Why is my life a constant frenzy of panic and worry that I’m going to miss out on something or be late?  How is it that my children can turn a potty stop into Disney World bliss? 

Here’s why.  Children know how to live in a perpetual state of joy.  Every little thing in their lives is a reason for celebration.  Putting pee-pee in the potty, tying shoes, making beds, dressing themselves, cracking the eggs for the cookies we make, picking up their toys, and watching the neighbor walk his dog are all reasons to get down and shake their booties.  I wish I could look at life that way.  I wish I could pay my bills with a smile on my face and thanksgiving in my heart that we have the ability to pay them rather than grumble and grunt my way through.  Or twirl and sing when I’ve successfully folded a mountain of laundry, cooked a homemade meal, and swept the floors.  I think I am sorely deficient in celebrating the little things in life.

In the book, “The Life You’ve Always Wanted”, John Ortberg writes:

“God is the happiest being in the universe.  We will not understand God until we understand this about him.  God also knows sorrow and grief.  But the sorrow of GOD, like the anger of God, is his temporary response to a fallen world.  The sorrow will be banished forever from his heart on the day the world is set right.  Joy is God’s basic character.  Joy is his eternal destiny.  And God’s intent was that his creation would mirror his joy.”

I am challenged to stop hurrying my way through life, and take time to stop and enjoy the potty stops.  With my children as an example, who are experts at celebrating the little things, I want to grant myself permission to relish in the joys of motherhood, pat myself on the back once in a while for cleaning toilets and cooking dinner, and not allow myself to get bent out of shape when I hear “I need to go potty” from the backseat of the car.  Rather, I want to rejoice in the fact that I don’t change diapers anymore (which is cause for celebration for sure).  I want to sing in the rain (with a good, sturdy umbrella) and bask in the rays of pure joy. 

We have so much to celebrate - too many blessings to count.  I want to remember that life is a gift; life is about embracing the good and bad as whole, and remembering the One who holds me tightly in His grasp.  I want to be a mirror’s reflection of the One who takes joy in me. 

Psalm 28:7

The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and I am helped.  My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to Him in song.

Distracted

I knew something wasn’t quite right when I heard Jackson squealing with unabashed delight from the other room.  My first mistake was being in the other room.  My second mistake was allowing myself to be distracted by the ever-important task of plucking my eyebrows.  Realizing the inspiration for Jackson’s joy couldn’t possibly be the zillionth re-play of “Dora’s Search For Squeaky”, but had to be something potentially dangerous or illegal (as in, illegal in the Slater home), I dropped the tweezers and ran.  

Sure enough, I was welcomed into the playroom with a white carpet entrance brought to me by Jackson and two completely unraveled rolls of toilet paper.  Not a happy moment for Mommy.  Toilet paper is a precious commodity at chez moi.  Taking a deep, deep breath, I exhaled and, in good Love and Logic fashion, began singing, “Uh-oh” (picking Jackson up), “so sad” (keep breathing, Amy), “I guess we need a little bedroom time” (more for Mommy’s sake than yours right now, little buddy).  I plopped him, kicking and screaming, into his bed.  “When you’re sweet (and after I’ve recovered), you can join us in the playroom.”  Lesson learned:  I will not allow myself to be distracted by unruly eyebrows ever again.

As I was re-rolling toilet paper (like I said, TP is a precious commodity) to the sound of Jackson’s cries for mercy from his bedroom, I recalled another time when this good intentioned Mommy was distracted, and the mayhem that followed. 

The house was suddenly very quiet.  My (then) three-year-old and two-year-old were nowhere to be seen or heard.  My distraction this time was nursing infant Jackson.  Wearing my son, literally, I went in search of where the silence was coming from.  Calling to the girls, I tracked them down by their giggles.  (Giggles coming from behind a closed door is never a good sign.)  When I opened their closet door, I was welcomed, again, by something white.  This time, there were white clouds of baby powder billowing and falling like snowflakes in the air.  Sydney had stripped down to her panties and proceeded to shake the Costco-sized bottle of baby powder all over herself, her sister, and every other poor, unfortunate object in their closet.  Brooklyn’s face was a mask of white. 

What’s a mom to do?  I put Jackson down, reached for my camera, and took a snapshot for posterity sake. 

 

Truth be told, I get distracted a lot.  I start getting into decorating mode and lose myself to tweaking my knick-knacks and Pottery Barn catalogs.  I jump on the computer to look for a recipe, read a blog, or see what my Facebook friends are up to, and I end up sucked in to the ways of the web.  I go to my closet to find something to wear…and I never come out because…I’m still trying to find something to wear.  The distractions are endless, and my kids know this.  They have a sixth sense about these things, and intuition tells me that they live for these distracting moments. 

Distractions can be our undoing.  Whether they are in parenting, in our relationships, or even in our pursuit of God.  It is too easy to get sidetracked and eventually knocked off track all together.

How do we keep ourselves from falling victim to distractions?  I can’t say that I’m an expert on this; however, one thing I know for sure, starting the day with time alone with God does wonders in keeping life on track.  I’m also learning that having a clear and specific goal in mind helps me to stay on course because I know where I’m headed.  Additionally, I believe it’s important to allow myself time to do random, time-wasting activities (but not when Jackson is awake, as evidenced by the toilet paper incident this morning). 

I realize, however, that some distractions are unavoidable.  Life happens, right?  Another key thing that I am learning is to roll with the punches.  I do the best I can with what I have before me.  Like I am trying to teach my kids, you don’t have to be the best, just do the best you can.  Set the goals, make appropriate choices, give yourself a break every now-and-then, and leave a little wiggle room for whatever life happens to throw your way.

Insecurities...And All

I’m a lucky girl.  I am surrounded by some of the most unbelievable women on. the. planet.  Seriously.  They are phenomenal mothers, wives, friends, cooks, home managers, and coupon clippers.  They are smart, witty, pretty, read their Bibles and pray every day.  It is simply an honor for me to be able to hang out with them and to know them.   

The challenge, not surprisingly, is that I am, maybe, fifty percent of those things, about fifty percent of the time.  I fall short…a lot.  Oh I try my darnedest to look like I’ve got myself all put together when I leave the safety of my home, but in the back of my mind I know my short-comings, and I never feel quite adequate enough.  As I hear my friends dialogue about motherhood my mind wanders to that episode with my daughter earlier in the day, when I lost my patience and snapped at her.  Or when my son kept begging me to play cars with him and I was irritated.  Oh, I played with him, but I didn’t do it with a sweet spirit (and I’m always encouraging my kids to be sweet to one another).  And so my insecurity continues to grow and grow and grow, like a festering wound deep inside my soul.

How do I shake the insecurity out of me?  How do stop this silly game of comparison (because it only paralyzes me)?  How do I climb out of this pit I’ve dug for myself? 

Here’s how:  I remember what God says about me.  I remember that He is the one who formed me in the womb, and I am fearfully and wonderfully made (yes, that is right…wonderfully).  I know I’m not perfect.  I know I will make mistakes.  But I also know that it is by God’s grace that I can wipe away the past failures and hit the delete button on shame. 

My mom has always said to me that my life is a book (an appropriate metaphor), and every experience, every challenge, every heartache, and every growth pain is all part of the story.  As I morph – transform – into the woman God has created me to be, there will be lots of bumps in the road.  I will struggle with insecurity, but I will also overcome.  I will catch myself looking at other women and thinking I have nothing to offer them but a long list of flaws and failures, while God still chooses to use me, insecurities and all:  mommy mess ups and all, burned dinners and unhappy eaters…and all.  And in the end, because I’m not Superwoman, God gets all the glory.  Any good that comes from my life has nothing – nothing – to do with human effort on my part. 

I think that’s the way God likes it.  And you know what?  I’m okay with that.  I may not be everywoman for everywoman, but I’ll just be me: insecurities, flaws, bad hair days (like the one I’m sporting right now)…and all.

Drop The Ball

Everyone deals with stress in their own special way.  Some people lash out and attack, while some withdraw and end up with stomach ulcers.  Others cry or spend money they don’t have, or pick up old habits they beat years ago.  For me, if you want to know the degree of stress I'm under, all you need do is take a look at my house.  When stressed, my house falls apart.  Clutter, which I hate as much as going to the dentist, fills every empty space, every drawer, and every closet.  I literally freeze up while piles of paper accumulate in the kitchen, dining room, office, and bedroom.  I find facing the menial tasks before me a challenge because all my energy and focus is on the issue at hand.  

For a little over a month, Joel and I were under a tremendous weight of stress.  There are stressors every day, but this was out-of-the-ordinary kind of stress.  We had some major decisions to make, and quite honestly, it was all I could do to just walk out the door with my hair done and a smile on my face.  My poor house sat neglected for weeks.  (I suppose I should set a disclaimer here that my house did not go without being cleaned for two months - I can only neglect to a point – but stacks and stacks of clutter, clothes, papers, etc., were accumulating, and I hadn’t an ounce of motivation to face them and clean them up.)  It wasn’t until earlier this week that closure was made on this particular decision we were facing.  Suddenly, it was as though I had lost twenty pounds.  The burden and the stress began to ripple off my back, and I felt my old-self climbing up out of clutter.

And you can only guess what happened next.  Yep.  This house is in major de-clutter mode.  The other morning I pulled every file out of our filing drawer and began re-organizing, purging, and filing (filing, filing, filing) all the papers, bills and statements that had been collecting dust in our dining room.  And my favorite part has been throwing miscellaneous papers, envelopes, and forgotten art projects away.  I feel great…and I’ve only just begun.  Slowly but surely, my home will be back in working order.

Which brings me to my point in sharing this little insight into my stress management, or lack thereof.  There are seasons in our lives that sometimes overwhelm and bear down so hard on us that it’s all we can do to simply get up and out of bed in the morning.  Have you ever faced a time like this?  I have.  And too often, when we are in those seasons, what compounds the difficulty is the stress we feel from outside expectations – that we have to keep all the balls in the air in spite of the pain or grief or depression…or whatever it is we are facing.  And I just want to say, it’s okay to drop a couple of balls now and then.  It’s okay to let the loose ends remain loose for a while.  I’m not a real fan of a dirty, cluttery house (just ask Joel…he loves to tease me about my obsessive compulsive tendencies), but there are times when my focus and energy are pushed so far in one direction that something’s gotta give.  Something needs to go by the wayside until the pressure has passed and I sense relief. 

I’m not encouraging a life void of discipline, but when a life is in crisis, or under heavy stress, I am encouraging a life void of unnecessary pressures.  Because, my friends, if you are going through a dark season right now, and you haven’t given yourself any wiggle room to let go of a few things, then I strongly believe you are setting yourself up to snap.  And I would sure hate it if someone I knew, or someone who reads this blog, ended up falling apart into a million pieces. 

You know, God’s not expecting perfection.  He’s already got that one in the bag.  If you are at your breaking point, He just wants you to come as you are – frail and weak.  I think He’d tell you the same thing that I’m trying to tell you:  that it’s okay to drop a few of those balls you’ve been frantically juggling, and let Him take care of you.  Eventually, when this tough patch has cleared, and you find yourself on the other side, whole and renewed, then you can pick those balls back up.  You can jump back into your life, but this time complete…restored.

Believe me, I share this because I’ve experienced the breaking point, and it’s not somewhere I ever want to revisit.  That’s why the papers will pile up every now and then, the closets will look like a bomb went off in them, and our junk drawer will look like a junk yard.  I’m learning to quit the juggling act and allow God to hold on to the balls for me because when I’ve overcome the obstacle in my way, the balls will always be waiting for me on the other side, and I’ll be in much better shape to handle them.

A Zest For Something

We don’t get out very much.  This became even more apparent to me when I was stuck in the middle of a conversation revolving around the most recent films to hit theaters.  The women were chatting it up about The Blind Side, It’s Complicated and a host of other grown up movie treats.  Subsequently they turned in my direction, as to not exclude me from the conversation, and asked if I had seen anything good lately.  If Chipmunks – The Squeakquel counted then, yes indeed, I’d seen something good.  Real good because, for an hour-and-a-half, my three chipmunks' eyes were glued to the movie screen.  

Date nights don’t materialize too often, or as often as Joel and I would like them to.  And when we do get a night out to ourselves we, more often than not, choose to go somewhere conducive to talking and looking at each other, rather than a movie.  It would have to be a pretty good film for us to spend twenty bucks on something that will gobble up one of our rare and precious date nights.  One such movie that I was willing to sacrifice coffee and conversation for was Julie and Julia, which came out late summer, early fall.  Sadly, for me, our schedule was too packed, and we never got a chance to see it.  So, when asked what DVD I might like to find in my stocking for Christmas, I didn’t hesitate to say, Julie and Julia.  And Santa was good to me.

We watched it on a Saturday night.  I remember this detail as I had made minestrone soup in my crock-pot for dinner, and hailed myself as a gourmet genius for producing such a tasty and flavorful meal.  However, as I watched the ladies in the film cut, pour, mix, marinade, stuff and wait, I realized that my idea of cooking was a little less complicated.  I’m a throw-it-all-in-one-dish-and-cook-for-thirty-minutes type gourmette.  I don’t like anything that takes hours, days or weeks to prepare.  In fact, the truth be told, I don’t really like to cook – plain and simple.  I’m not very good at it either.  Seriously.  If you want to know how to kill a dead chicken, just ask me.  My technique is both flawless and consistent.  I believe this is why the crock-pot is my favorite kitchen appliance (besides the dishwasher and coffee maker, of course).  So, while I wasn’t inspired to run out and buy Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”, I was deeply impressed by both women’s passion for food and cooking, and where that passion took them.

The movie challenged me to take a critical look at myself and ask, “What am I passionate about?”  What is it that motivates me to get up in the morning (besides coffee), and what am I willing to face the ups and downs, the growing pains and the dry and empty days for?  Some things are just a given: my love and devotion for God, my husband and children.  Still, there’s got to be more to this time I spend on earth than serving God, loving my husband and raising a family.  And I don’t believe this feeling to be selfish either.  I need to have a zest for something.

My ponderings brought me to writing.  I love to write.  Now whether or not I’ve got the chops to actually write a book that will be purchased by more than just my immediate family, I have yet to see.  Time will tell.  I started my blog for the simple purpose of honing my craft.  If people like what they read then I’m moving in the right direction.  If it stinks, then I need to find a new passion…and quick.  There are days when I honestly wonder if all this work is worth it.  I wonder if I’m really making much of a dent in my dream to be a published author some day. 

There was one scene in the movie that spoke volumes to me.  Julia Child entered cooking school in France.  They were chopping onions.  She was slow…slower than my crock-pot.  While the other students had completed the task, and done exceptionally well at it, she was only half way through her onion.  Rather than throw in the towel and surmise that cooking was not in the cards for her, she went home and started chopping - lots and lots and lots of onions – until her skills had surpassed those of her classmates.  If Julia Child had to actually work at her technique, what makes me any different?  She didn’t start out as the shining star in her class, but as her passion led the way, her name became synonymous with French cooking.

Mine may not be the most widely read blog on the internet (in fact, I can tell you with great certainty that it is not), but I’m going to take my bag of onions and keep chopping until I’ve perfected this skill.  Until I have reached my dream and realized the passion within my heart.  I can’t say that I’ll be cooking up Beef Bourguignon anytime soon ever, but I will be cooking up all kinds of thoughts and words, paragraphs and stories that will, I pray, one day waft through the aisles of Barnes and Noble like the succulent aroma of Coq au Vin or Choux de Bruxelles a la Milanaise.

What are you passionate about?  What dreams keep you up at night?  What are you willing to chop to perfection or “pound into submission” (to steal a line from Julie and Julia)?  What will be your Beef Bourguignon?  I urge you to find that thing - your zest for something – and give it everything you’ve got!

Let’s not waste another second hoping and wishing.  Let’s get out there and chop our onions.  Let’s seize our zest for something and see what rich flavors we can all bring to the table. 

Bon Appetite, my friends!

Legacy - Part Two

Have you thrown a temper tantrum lately?  I have.  I know what you’re probably thinking:  “That’s something I’d like to see!  Amy throwing a temper tantrum!”  Before you get all excited envisioning my five foot eight frame flailing about on the ground, my meltdown was a little less exuberant.  I didn’t realize at the time that my outburst was, in fact, a temper tantrum until we starting dealing with a succession of bedtime battles with Sydney.

Whether it was coming off of the holiday sugar high, or the stress we’ve been under over the past few months, or the fact that Joel was preparing to leave on an eleven-day building trip to Nicaragua with a group from our church, Sydney downright lost it.  And when I say, “lost it”, I mean lost ALL of IT.  Night after night we faced the same drama:  arms and legs twisting and swinging this way and that; blood curdling screams that made our hearts drop to the pits of our stomachs; red-faced angry words that stung and bruised and didn’t make sense all at the same time.  Sydney has always been a challenge, but meltdowns of this proportion are very rare, and this specific behavior hadn’t graced our lives in well over a year. 

While Joel was in Nicaragua I begged God for a hiatus from these explosions.  I think He must have had mercy on me, because, while there were still outbursts, they were manageable.  Either that, or He granted me some much needed wisdom and insight in dealing with them properly.  On one such occasion we were driving home from an outing, and it was late.  Sydney started spiraling out of control emotionally.  Instantly I had the good sense to stop her, and in a calm voice ask her what I could do to help.  I said, “Sydney, I can see that you are upset, and I really want to help you.  What is it that I can do for you right now?”  She sniffled and snorted then said, “I can’t think.  I’m crying.”  I replied, “Then, you need to stop crying and start thinking.  I love you and I really do want to help you, but until you stop crying and start thinking, there’s nothing I can do for you.”  It was like magic.  Instantly anger was diffused, muscles relaxed and she quieted down long enough to think and listen.

I’m not a super mom, by any means, but by remaining calm and thoughtful in an irrational moment, I was able to safely reign in my emotionally expressive child.  This has made me think a lot about my relationship with God.  While I haven’t been physically thrashing my body in a heated temper tantrum over not getting my way, I have been mindless in my cries to God.  In my head I thought things were supposed to go a certain way, and they didn’t…so rather than stop and find out God’s thoughts on the matter, I’ve whined, cried, questioned, and blubbered out selfish one-way prayers.  Sydney’s tantrums have brought much conviction to me.

When I finally drew in a deep breadth and exhaled, God had a chance to speak, to say, “Hey Amy, I really love you and I want to help you, but you need to stop crying first.”  When I stopped crying, and started listening to the still, small voice of my Heavenly Father, He started speaking. 

The following four life practices that I will be implementing this year are what I sensed God calling me to do in that quiet moment of reflection:

• Wait (in silence and solitude) – Psalm 46:10 NIV “Be still, and know that I am God.” Isaiah 40:31 KJV “But they that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength; they will mount up with wings as eagles.”  Before I rush out planning and making decisions, I sense that God is quietly urging me to pause – to wait in the stillness of His presence.  Rather than fret and worry, He is calling me to quiet my mind, seek after Him, long for Him, and He will bring clarity, straightforward answers and peace that passes understanding. 

• Delight in the Lord – Psalm 37:4 “Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.”  When I begin to delight, cherish and take care of those things that are dear to God, then He, in turn, will do the same for me.  And really, God cares a million times more about my husband, children, daily needs, hopes, heart desires and dreams than I ever could.  (I have a strong feeling I will need to practice this on a daily basis.)

• Thanksgiving – Psalm 50:23 NIV “He who sacrifices thank offerings honors me, and he prepares the way so that I may show him the salvation of God.”  Sometimes it’s easy to come before God with a heart of thanksgiving; like after a long-awaited prayer has been answered, or everything in life is going our way.  However, there are those times when thanksgiving is a sacrifice.  It doesn’t come natural.  It may even hurt.  You know that scripture, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is the tree of life”?  Well, offering up words of thanks and gratitude to God when the heart is sick is what I believe it means to offer up a sacrifice of thanksgiving.  I believe God is calling me to thank Him even though I have yet to see the longing of my life fulfilled.  In due time, He will make all things beautiful.  I am going to focus on the hope of what is to come, thank Him in advance for it, even if it hurts.

• Sacrificial giving – Psalm 65:11 NIV “You crown the year with your bounty and your carts overflow with abundance.”  Tithing is a no brainer.  God’s Word instructs us to give Him a tenth of our earnings (Deuteronomy 14:22).  When we do so, we are living in obedience.  I don’t believe God to be a tyrant up there in heaven wielding a big stick, ready to swat at anyone who so much dares not tithe.  However, I believe that those who do tithe are in a much better position for favor, blessing and protection than those who don’t.  God is not legalistic, but He has set these instructions before us for our benefit.  When we don’t tithe it only ends up hurting us, not Him.  That said, even while tithing may sometimes feel like a sacrifice, Joel and I believe God is calling us to re-align our finances and give beyond our regular tithes and offerings – to give sacrificially.  Only blessing can be reaped when we give to that which touches our Father’s heart, especially when that giving isn’t an easy thing to do.

So, there you have it, in a not-so-little nutshell.  This is only the tip of the iceberg, but a great start to what I hope will be a life well lived – a life bearing fruit, pursuing a dream and leaving a legacy.

Legacy - Part One

I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.  Deep thoughts and not-so-deep thoughts alike have been swooshing around in this noggin of mine.  And each time I’ve tried to sit down and start typing them out there would, of course, be some crisis to be addressed – like keeping Jackson company while he sat on the potty for an hour waiting for his “business” to come out into the toilet and not his pull-up, or spending two hours at bedtime dealing with non-stop emotional meltdowns by child #1, or playing referee to a multitude of sibling knock-down-drag-out fights, on top of the day-to-day challenges of raising three kids with the hope that they become well-adjusted, law-abiding, rational adults some day.  Needless to say, time has not been on my side, and the vast majority of my deep musings and insights have completely evaporated in the heat of childrearing.  

With that said, the following is what has lingered profoundly in my soul amidst the crazies in my life.  It is the thought, the conviction, the goal and where I have zeroed in emotionally, spiritually and cognitively over the past few weeks.  The big question to myself:  What am I leaving behind?  What will be my legacy?

A friend of mine wrote on this at the beginning of the month, and it stuck with me, as this was something I, too, had been wrestling with.  When I’m gone, what impression will I have left behind?  What will my husband say of me?  My children?  My friends?  Those God has called me to serve?  Will their words be mere accolades of my sweetness and quick smile?  Or will I have left a fruitful orchard of spiritual substance for my loved ones to feast on long after I’m gone?  My legacy. 

I have high hopes for myself, but fear I fall short more often than not.  I lose my patience, hold grudges, compare, whine and complain, and try very hard to justify each one of these offenses, only to end up staring straight into the face of conviction when I sit down to read my Bible.  I wonder if there’s any hope for me?  (And I’m eternally grateful that the answer to that is “YES”!)

I had a conversation this week that both challenged and encouraged me.  I was challenged to look at my life in the context of a bigger picture…a God-sized picture.  For a thinking person like myself I find dreaming big to be extremely difficult.  I’m naturally inclined to focus on the here and now…not so much the vastness of what can be.  So, in conjunction with my thoughts on legacy, I sat down and started looking at where I want to see myself down the road, and what it’s going to take for me to get there.  Yes.  I want to leave a cherished and rich legacy behind.  Now, rather that simply writing the story of my today, I am challenging myself to begin writing the story of what can be, what I will be, and how I believe God is going to take me there.

In my next post I will share with you the four areas in my life that I have sensed God calling me to go deeper, and how I plan to do so.  I have bigger dreams for my future, but with a keen understanding that big dreams start with small steps - each one building on the next.  For this year I will be incorporating these four things into the DNA of my life, with high hopes that they will become second nature to me, and through them the first step to my dream fulfilled will be realized.

A Taste For Rhinestones and Faux Fur

If it’s fluffy, shiny or covered in rhinestones my girls are drawn to it like moths to a flame.  It would seem that, while I have poured all of my fashion expertise into their young lives since the day they were born, they have developed their own sense of style.  A sense of style quite contrary to mine - one that prefers a little bling, bling and wild colors to that of warm hues, traditional dresses and coordinating outfit ensembles (with matching hair pieces, I might add).  Try as I might to convince and persuade them to tone down their spicy taste in couture, it is to no avail.   In their small world of pink glitter nail polish and cherry lip smacker Chap Stick, black velvet totally compliments hot pink, sequins and faux fur.  My girls put the “girl” in girlie.   

After all these years – all six-and-a-half of them - you would think that I would have learned the valuable lesson of which battles are worth fighting and of which ones to let go.  Usually I’m pretty good at keeping this at the forefront of my mind.  However, the other morning as we were preparing to leave the house for church, my obsessive compulsive controlling nature kicked in to high gear, and I fought for a good thirty minutes with Brooklyn over which coat she was going to wear.  I could have slapped myself silly for blowing such a minor difference of opinion into a full-blown war over appropriate outerwear.  When the grown up rational side of me finally came to, and realized how foolish I was behaving (it’s not like Brooklyn was resisting wearing a coat at all…she just wanted to wear her fluffy, white coat, not her navy, tailored wool coat that I just happen to prefer), I acquiesced and we all left for church smiling…and warm.  Just another example of how far I have to go in this thing called motherhood.

To my credit, I’ve come a long way baby!  Two years ago, when Sydney was displaying her strong tendencies for wild and crazy fashion, I struggled to relinquish the tight fisted hold I had on her wardrobe.  Over my dead body would she be permitted to wear red tights with her pastel pink skirt and coral colored track-jacket.  These days, I have learned to simply look the other way when it’s time to lay out their clothes for the morning.  Sometimes I cringe, and have to fight hard, the urge to intervene.  Other times I find myself pleasantly surprised and impressed by some of their outfit choices.  And I am always there to lend a helping hand or suggestion, but only when asked. 

What I’ve been learning is just how valuable it is to let go of the little things and allow my kids to develop their own sense of self.  There are boundaries and limits in our home that pertain to the rules of the house, and those are non-negotiable.  However, when it comes to clothes, as long as it’s modest and tasteful, I let them have the control.  Let them figure out how to put it all together.  Let them experience a safe kind of independence and autonomy through dressing themselves. 

I’m still working on this, as noted in the earlier part of this post.  The control freak in me still pops up every now and then, and I have to smack her back down with a good dose of “does it really matter?”  Does my daughter’s outfit, or coat, have anything to do with her character development or a core family value?  When the answer is “no” then I have to let it go. 

And slowly, but surely, I’m making progress…and so are they.

Bag Lady

Before I entered the world of motherhood I had some pretty strong (and ignorant, mind you) ideas of what kind of mom I was going to be.  I visualized myself prancing around town toting my offspring in a pristine and crumb-free stroller, with my hair bouncing on my shoulders just like Gwyneth Paltrow and baby Apple.  I was going to get up early every day, shower, do my hair and make-up and would not allow myself to look like the exhausted and haggard moms I spied at the mall, donning their husband’s over-sized t-shirts and worn out sweats, with a multitude of bags hanging from their shoulders and forearms.  Their strollers, encrusted with sticky substances and stale cheerios, grossed. me. out.  I vowed that my children would be forbidden to eat in the stroller, that I would only carry one bag, and I would never be caught dead sporting anything from my husband’s dresser drawers.  My baby would coo and giggle while out and about on our shopping ventures; not scream, cry and throw tantrums like the ones I so often observed parked in goo-infested travel systems outside MiMi’s Maternity Boutique.  I was going to do motherhood right – a one bag, spotless stroller, stylish Mommy, and adorable offspring kind of gal.  

Let’s flash forward about six years.  I am now the proud mother of three, ages 6, 4 and 3.  Our stroller looks like it’s been pummeled with applesauce and bananas with remnants of saltine crackers wedged into every nook and cranny.  It’s a health hazard.  Try as I did to firmly adhere to the “no food in the stroller” rule, a peaceful shopping experience won out, along with goldfish and mushy fruit.  (Anyone with a baby over the age of six months knows exactly what I’m talking about.)  A squeaky clean stroller was just a pipe dream.

Speaking of outings.  Remember my vow to “never be caught dead sporting anything from my husband’s dresser drawers”?  Children, too, have changed my perspective on what is appropriate “going out” attire.  These days comfort is key.  I long to be comfortable.  I have worn Joel’s t-shirts, sweatshirts, socks and ball caps.  And all I’ve worn shamelessly to the grocery store, shopping, walks around the block and running errands.  There have been days on end when not a smudge of make-up has touched my skin.  It’s not that I don’t care about my looks, but looking good tends to take a back seat when I’m absorbed with the needs of my little ones. 

And then there are the bags.  (Oh…the bags!)  They were, in fact, the inspiration of this post today.  As I was preparing to head out the door the other morning I stopped when I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror with bags hanging from various body parts. I looked like a Christmas tree decked out in backpacks, book bags, lunch bags, my purse, coats and sweaters.  “Oh no!  Say it ain’t so!”  I turned from my reflection, blinked my eyes hoping the image was not as it appeared, and snuck a second glance.  Nothing had changed.  I knew right then and there I had become the bag lady. 

Not just the bag lady, but the poor mom huffing and puffing her way through the church foyer, feeling like she has forgotten something, hoping her hair still looks as cute as it did before Jackson’s curious hands touched and grabbed it while being buckled into his four-point harness car seat, and praying that no one will drop on the floor in blatant protest to mommy’s whispered instructions.  I am the mom that I said I would never become.  I’m the icky stroller, multi-bag toting, wearing hubbies cast-off tees, exhausted, and breathless mommy.

In the literal sense, it seems that everywhere we go requires huge amounts of excess baggage.  Just managing all the kids’ miscellaneous items is enough to wear me out – even when they, too, are carrying part of the load.  Which brings me to my “big thought” for the day.  What about all the excess stuff I carry around spiritually?  All the worries, stress, needless expectations I put on myself, the guilt (Oh the guilt!), and the fear…the list could easily go on and on.  Even when I unburden myself to my husband or a close friend, still the “bags” continue to hang from my shoulders or pull on my arms.  While there’s not much I can do about all the backpacks, water bottles, blankets and coats while my kids are young, there is something I can do about the bags I carry around in my spirit.  Those bags are unnecessary, and there is nowhere I can find that God desires for me to continue clinging to them. 

So how do I get rid of this spiritual baggage? 

By setting them down at the feet of Christ.  The whole reason God allowed His son Jesus to come to earth, dwell among us and sacrifice His life on the cross, was so that He could take every care of the world, every sin of every man and every burden we struggle to balance onto His own back and carry it for us.  We love to sing, “I surrender all”, but most of the time once we’ve left the altar where we’ve made that submission, we end up picking up our “all” right outside the door.  The challenge is not so much to spill out our lives in a moment of emotional surrender, but to daily give everything over to God.  Daily lift up our hands and say, “Take my fear today, take my sadness, take my struggles, my finances, my priorities, my family…take every burden weighing on this heart of mine…today.”  And then daily, He can take all those spiritual bags we’ve been dragging around for so long, and bring us the relief and peace we so desperately need and want. 

Psalm 68:19

Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens.

Good Grief and New Beginnings

When Jackson turned a year old I embarked on a bittersweet  journey through grief.  People grieve for a number of reasons: Death of a loved one, a loss of some kind, a move, a change in job, divorce, an empty nest or their team losing the Rose Bowl.  There are so many reasons.  And I believe each one to be valid (and I will add that the process of grieving for any one of these is healthy and good).  It’s an important step, in my opinion, and a necessary one to move on to the next season of life.   

For me, my period of grief lasted about a year.  I wasn’t depressed.  I wasn’t experiencing post partum blues or any sort of clinical or physiological problems.  Simply stated, I was grieving the loss of having babies.  We all have our own issues.  This was one of mine. 

I love babies.  I have loved babies since the time I could hold a baby doll in my arms.  All I ever wanted in life was to get married and be a mom.  I dreamed of what it would feel like to have my own baby – to love, nurture, swaddle and kiss the sweet face of my very own child.  Joel and I had made the decision long ago that we would have three children.  I initially suggested four or five, but judging by the look of horror and downright fear on his face I quickly realized I was going to have to downsize my dream.  We settled on three, and have never questioned that decision.  In fact, after Jackson was born (even as I held his tiny body up close to my face and in a hormonal moment of tears and sweat blubbered, “Oh please don’t let this be my last baby,”) I sensed in my heart that our family was finally complete.  Even through Jackson’s first year, that conviction continued to solidify deep inside bringing me much peace and contentment.

Then my little guy turned one.  And something snapped.  No more babies.  This season I had so long waited and hoped for was coming to a close…and fast.  I felt sad.  I felt a sort of loss.  No more maternity clothes.  No more newborn sleepers and teeny tiny diapers.  No more toothless grins and late night feedings.  It was all passing away right before my eyes.  It’s not that I suddenly wanted another baby - I knew that season was completed.  Rather, I found myself needing to grieve it.

I shared this with very few people.  Most of the time if someone would ask us if we were going to have more children I was quick to roll my eyes and state matter-of-factly, “NO WAY!”  While on the inside I was struggling.  I had my moments when I knew if Joel had shown the slightest interest in having a fourth child I would have jumped at the idea.  It was an emotional roller coaster year for me.  One minute wishing we could have another child, the next minute being grateful that those years had come to a close.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.

Part of the grief was wondering what lie beyond the baby years.  What was my purpose beyond cleaning spit up and changing copious amounts of diapers every day?  I had always looked ahead toward the time I would finally settle down and have children, but I had never looked further than that…to the after part.  And this was where I found myself when Jackson turned one.

It was a good year.  God did amazing things in my life through the grieving process.  And slowly, as that year drew to a close, I discovered new things about myself.  An unexpected sense of confidence began to emerge, and eventually joy unfolded within me as I looked forward to a new beginning that was awaiting me.  A season that consists of making lunches, helping out with homework, sports events, ballet recitals, school programs, sleepovers, communicating with words instead of sounds, and family activities that don’t require strollers, diaper bags, and burp cloths.  A season of being a family, instead of building a family. 

Today Jackson turns three-years-old.  I can hardly believe my 8 pound, ruddy faced baby is now running around, tackling his sisters, playing with his cars, doing his “business” in the big boy potty and talking to me with a mouth full of teeth.  Amazing.  I would be remiss to say that I don’t feel the slightest little pang of sadness as I look at this precocious boy of mine and realize he is no longer a baby.  But that sad feeling doesn’t linger.  It wells up only for a brief moment, and then fades away fast in the pleasure I take in this new season I am entering.  

The grief was good.  I needed to face it, feel it and learn from it.  The blessing here is that I didn’t have to stay in that state of grief.  Once I journeyed through it what was waiting for me on the other side was a new beginning, and thus far I am becoming more and more convinced that I am going to thoroughly love this season as much as I loved the last.

So in conclusion I just want to say “Happy Birthday” to my little man.  Thank you, Jackson, for three marvelous years of growth, laughter, joy and unconditional love.  You are a blessing and a delight to me.  You brought me to this new beginning.  And, oh my, how I love you!

Auld Lang Syne

This girl doesn’t make New Year’s resolutions.  I think I stopped making lists like that ten or so years ago.  Not that there’s anything wrong with New Year’s resolutions, but I have found them to be ineffective for me personally.  Rather, before the New Year begins I take a look back at the year passing, make an objective assessment of how much I’ve grown and any areas that I can see need to be strengthened (as objective as one can be when looking at one’s self, mind you).  Then I look ahead.  Leaving the past behind, I shift my focus towards the future with high hopes and renewed faith of what I believe God can and will do in my life through the course of the New Year.  

This past year, as I wrote a few weeks ago, was somewhat of an unexceptional year.  However, God was still present in it, and I believe will use even the mundane for His glory.  This coming year I look forward to what God has in store.  Whether it be the miracle I’ve been waiting for, or simply the steadiness of His hand in every situation I encounter over the next twelve months.  Above all I expect to look back a year from now and once again see God’s goodness, His providence and His grace. 

So, as the modern translation of “Auld Lang Syne” goes, I will embrace the New Year with a toast to days and times gone by and look ahead with great expectation to the days and times to come. 

And I pray your New Year be blessed too!

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

-Scottish Poem written by Robert Burns in 1788

Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree

Very few things make me want to get up and make a fool out of myself like Amy Grant’s CD Home For Christmas.  Bought in 1992 (yes, you read that correctly – nineteen ninety-two), this CD is probably considered a Christmas heirloom these days.  My college roommate and I played it continuously throughout the holiday season of our freshman year.  We rocked out to “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree”, transforming our hair picks into guitars.  We were the original guitar heroes.  Then, of course, our eyes wet and throats choked up with tears, we would sit on the floor, in our dimly-lit dorm room and listen to the song “Breath of Heaven”.  To this day, when I listen to that song, (hands down the most played tune I own on CD) I can’t help but laugh and cry at the same time.  I laugh as I recall our deep thoughts and musings through tears on how anointed that musical composition was.  I cry because I still believe it is one of the most anointed songs I’ve ever heard.  

Christmas isn’t Christmas until I’ve rocked around the Christmas tree at least a dozen times (pick in hand) and bawled my eyes out to Breath of Heaven just the same.  I honestly hate doing it alone.  It was way more fun with my college roomie.  Maybe it’s time to pass on my pick and fabulous dance moves to my children, although I suspect I may be scaring them a little bit when I get all jiggy with it.  Oh, well.

I’m so thankful to Amy, my college roommate - who is still one of my dearest and most cherished friends ever – for e-mailing me yesterday just to say hi and share this memory with me.  College just didn’t realize our coolness and the awesome dance moves we created in our cramped up shoebox of a dorm room.  We were way ahead of our time.  I’m thankful for my lifelong friend, lifelong memories, Amy Grant, and the fact that I’m still limber enough to pull off a good ol’ “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree” jig.

Christmas is all about giving, and today I’m remembering the gift of laughter my friend Amy has always been quick to give to me.  She inspires me to smile when I want to cry, dance when I want to pout and give when I want to hold on.  I wish I could wrap up a dozen gingerbread lattes, Bath and Body Works soaps and lotions, and thirty minute deep tissue massages and send them all to you, but that won’t happen (for obvious reasons).  Instead I’m just going to share a little laughter (hopefully), and a quick run down memory lane.  Maybe it will inspire you to do the same – to share a laugh or two with some friends (me included…that would be nice!).  Or, perhaps you’re just dying to rock around the Christmas tree.  Believe me, it’s catchy and it’s fun (just don’t rock out so hard that you knock your tree down).

In any case, I’m going to head downstairs now, pop in my Home For Christmas CD, turn up the volume, grab a kid or two, and start rockin’ out.

"Rockin' around the Christmas tree.  Have a happy holiday.  Everyone dancing merrily in the new old fashioned way!"

(Music and Lyrics by Johnny Marks - 1958)