Chutes and Ladders - The Rise and Fall of A Mommy on Meds

This one’s tough to write, believe it or not.  But I’ve never felt more strongly about my desire to share and so, I’ll run with it and let the pieces fall where they may.  Let me preface by saying this is more for me as a form of therapy than for my faithful readers, but maybe you can glean some tidbit of useful info in here somewhere.  It’s actually hard to admit this.  For a girl with no filter and an odd affection for brutal honesty in all circumstances, I’ve been a bit of a “liar, liar, pants on fire” for quite some time now and it’s time to come clean.  I have a sneaking suspicion there is a distinct possibility, a slight chance - okay, I’m 99.99999999% certain - that I like to whine (that’s whine, with an ‘h’ kids, though the other might be addressed a bit later).  Particularly when it comes to my relationship with the man upstairs, I tend to be a bit of a victim, always the martyr, certain my perfect devotion and commitment to His cause is worthy of reward, right?  I’ve been so faithful for so long and so full of His grace.  I’ve been so forgiving, so generous, so loyal despite my suffering.  Doesn’t He owe me SOMEthing?  An easier path?  Help with my intimacy issues?  A good night’s sleep?  A hot cup of coffee and a shower free of tantrums, Spongebob shampoo and headless mermaids, at the very least?!  Nope, not a thing.  He does not owe me a thing.  But He does desire to give me a thing or two or maybe ten thousand.  And this is where it stings and where the rubber meets the road in my present circumstances.  I’ve done some stuff and been a lot of things as I’ve tried to define my role as His daughter, but what I haven’t been is real.  I haven’t been authentic.  And I’ve certainly not been honest with myself or with Him.  

The first week of my withdrawal from anti-depressants brought a lot of agitation, very little patience and a mountain of frustration and anger hurled on anyone within a 10-mile radius.  I wasn’t much fun on the road, in parking lots, at home, or in the presence of anyone with a heartbeat and vocal chords.  I was a bear to live with and God-willing, the little people have short memories on this one.  But I expected this phase and tried my hardest to survive it.  I even expected the second phase.  Week two brought millions and millions of tears and if it’s true that our Heavenly Father bottles and keeps them, I’m pretty sure he had to clean out the glass aisle of every IKEA, Michaels and dollar store for miles and miles and miles.  Talk about letting the river flow!  Good Lord, everything made me cry (and still does).  Commercials, movies, a kind word, a sad story, a mistake, a joke, the Chargers finally winning a playoff game, even the pretty, pretty Christmas lights caused the flood gates to open.  There wasn’t enough Kleenex in the world that week and yes, I chose the holidays to kick the pills so that was a wise decision I might have done differently if given a chance.  But I survived and I knew it was coming.  What I didn’t expect was what came in week three...like a wrecking ball, for you pop culture gurus.  I didn’t expect that the insomnia that plagued me from the sixth month of my first pregnancy would magnify tenfold.  I didn’t expect the severe headaches that made my head feel like it was in a vice all day long.  I didn’t anticipate twenty-four-seven chills, terrifying nightmares (the kind that are particularly excruciating because they involve people you know and love), constant nausea, intense panic attacks, gripping feelings of terror in the middle of the night, and feeling like I was climbing the walls, crawling out of my skin all.night.long.  I was the star of a really bad Lifetime movie.  You see, my dosage wasn’t terribly high and I really thought the withdrawal symptoms would be fairly mild and that is exactly what my doctor informed me when I called him on the verge of tears certain I was having a nervous breakdown.  I filled him in on just how fun the previous three weeks had been and he politely, but more-or-less dismissed me as “having underlying issues” that may require medication and attention beyond his frame of reference.  Awesome.  So it wasn’t just post-partum.  I am 100%, absolutely indisputably, certifiably crazy (ok, he didn’t say that, but that’s how I felt when the phone call ended) and need medication and a really good therapist to function properly.  I had a good cry under a super cozy blanket and then made a decision that I am hoping will alter my relationship with my babies and with a holy, faithful and Heavenly Father for as long as I shall live.

I decided, right at that moment, that medication is not for me.  I didn’t need it before I became a mother and I will learn to be a mother without it, facing these little people and their 4 and 6-year old fury (and sweetness) armed with nothing but my humor, my love for them, my Bible, my pen (or laptop), a community of selfless, extraordinary friends (who have shown up so big for me this time, I can never thank them enough), maybe a good Zinfandel, and a resolve to never, ever stop trying to be the best mommy I can be for them for the rest of my life.  You see, it occurred to me that my life was fairly simple before I was diagnosed.  I was a newlywed, free to come and go as I pleased.  I made my own money and answered to very few people.  Life was good and quite honestly, pretty easy.  I was diagnosed with post-partum and prescribed anti-depressants immediately after the birth of the boy and have been on them literally, the entire time I’ve been a mommy.  Life is not the same now and I am tasked with learning to parent, function and find happiness of my own accord.  I’ve had a sidekick doing the driving for six years and now it’s time for little ole me to take the wheel and hit the road.  I am learning to cope with life while my brain is learning to function again on its own.  So fun!  Please let me state, for the record, that I am more than keenly aware of the necessity of medication in the lives of many, many people and I would never dare to address those cases and I feel an enormous amount of empathy and admiration for their courage.  I can only speak for myself, my experience with anti-depressants, and my journey.  This is where the story begins.  

The mental and physical state I’ve been in recently is immensely indescribable.  I’ve been in an incredibly dark place.  And at the heart of the matter, I’ve learned, are a thousand insecurities and fears that I am only beginning to address.  I’m afraid to share because I don’t want to be a bummer all the time.  I’m usually the sarcastic, funny one.  I’m afraid I won’t be funny anymore.  Will my friends get tired of hanging out with someone who’s down a lot and cries when the sun sneaks behind a cloud, when a stranger looks at me the wrong way, and when my DVR doesn’t record Parenthood because there were too many Phineas & Ferb recordings scheduled?  What if I have a serious chemical imbalance and really do need to be on medication forever?  What if my husband gets tired of dealing with my issues?  It was on my couch at 1:00 in the morning for the third night in a row, sobbing uncontrollably and praying with every fiber of my being when it really hit me hard - so hard that I said it out loud.  “I feel like I’m being broken down to nothing and torn to shreds from the inside out.”  And then I heard it, the still, small voice in my head (and for once, in my heart).  “I will tear this church down to its cornerstone and build it up again.”  And that was a moment I will not soon forget.  He.Has.Not.Abandoned.Me.

I’ve been distinctly aware of the enemy’s plans to ensure this little journey I’m on does not end well.  He’s been awesome at keeping me busy, superb at filling my heart with doubt and near perfect with the fear factor.  And I’ve been trying to remind myself of his presence around every corner.  I quit my motherhood group at the church, feeling that it was another weekly commitment to fill another morning without filling my soul.  I joined a Bible Study, feeling it was time to dust the cobwebs off my Bible yet again and listen to what my God has to say.  I am profusely aware of the likelihood that I will have to withdraw from certain things in my life to draw nearer to Him.  And I’ve been talking, man, have I been talking...to anyone who will listen.  One thing stands out with perfect clarity to me these days, I cannot stop talking.  I am so afraid that if I do, I might slip into a much darker place.  I am keenly aware of the need to keep myself accountable to the people I trust, and ensure that I am keeping a watchful eye on my mental state, where my thoughts are, and that hope is always at the forefront.  I am a born pessimist, after all.  And though it pains me to say, I would love to respond frankly to the daily, “How are yous?” with a polite, “Fine.”  But the reality is that I’m not fine and I cannot forget that, not even for a moment.  But I will be.  And so, I am currently taking every thought captive.  I am searching the scriptures.  I am trying to do more than feed and clothe my children.  I am trying to show up for them, in any way I can muster on any given day.  And in return, God, has shown up for me in ways I cannot comprehend, cannot repay and cannot say I have ever been a party to (or at least have never been willing to admit.  I do so love to whine!).  He has met me where I’m at every step of the way.  I have never felt more loved than I do at this moment.  I stopped counting the text messages today somewhere around nineteen.  There were flowers, hand-delivered, a casserole, super yummy, and an influx of prayers and well-wishes from old and new friends.  He has opened my eyes to the most beautiful, two-sided friendships that bless my heart so much I can hardly stand it.  He has not forsaken me, as I so love to cry out whenever possible.  And I, in my frail, crippled state, am finally ready to admit that I’ve been really far away, unwilling to let go of many things that don’t serve His purposes, unable to see how truly wondrous and abundant are the blessings He’s given me, uncertain that I can trust His promises, unruly, undisciplined, and unlovable.  And still, He waits, unable to be anyone other than who He is, loving, pure and perfect.  

There are a lot of cliches in the Christian community.  Jesus, take the wheel.  Let go and let God.  Yada yada yada!  Maybe some are not without some merit.  But here is the moral in the midst of the madness.  God does not walk ahead of us clearing a path.  He comes alongside us as we work out our salvation with fear and trembling (Philippians 2:12).  He is our help in times of trouble, not our escape from it.  

I have far, far to go.  I have good days and bad and I always will.  This journey called life is not an easy pilgrimage.  It’s the road less traveled, for sure and the bumps and bends just keep coming.  It’s going to be difficult.  It’s going to be ugly at times.  It’s going to hurt and it’s going to wound.  But it’s going to get better.  And for now, I am so lucky to be loved, so lucky to be found, so lucky to be called His daughter.  Love you, daddy.  Hold me close, as only you can.  

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens...

a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”

My time to dance is just beyond the horizon. 

The Great Balancing Act

I have a really good circle of friends these days.  Well, three really good circles of friends.  I have the group I met years ago at MOPS.  The girls with whom I’ve forged honest, authentic relationships.  The girls whose children my children adore.  My BYOG girls...bring your own glue gun because many-a-girls’-night begins and ends with a quick trip to Pinterest.  The girls who have my back on any given day.  I have the “park mommy” group, as I affectionately refer to them.  The girls who like to par-tay (in a very responsible, “I-am-a-mom-afterall” sort of way, of course).  The girls who make me laugh on a daily basis.  The girls who “get” me when I show up at the park with tear-stained cheeks and a bottle of jiggle juice (because it’s the holidays after all and that warrants a midday celebration, right?).  The girls who have my back on any given day.  And I have my lifelong friend group, my sisters.  The girls I don’t speak to nearly as much as my heart yearns for me to, but the ones I can call on a moment’s notice bawling hysterically in need of a non-judgmental ear and I know - NO, I am 100% certain - they would walk through fire to mend my wounded heart.  The girls who have my back on any given day.  Each of my groups is so very, very different on so many levels and yet, I could never choose one over the other, because at the end of the day, they all have my back.

It’s been said that life is a great balancing act.  It’s been said that variety is the spice of life.  It’s been said that most things are good...in moderation.  I think I’ve proven each of these true at some point in my life, but currently, I’m focusing on the balancing act and so I’ve spent a great deal of time mulling over what it means to keep all the various parts of my life in balance and yep, once again, I’m falling miserably short.  So before you go gettin’ all “She seriously needs an intervention” on me, hear me out.  I am not self-loathing on this one.  I’m not being too hard on myself...again!  I simply want to explore what it truly means to find a healthy balance when it comes to all things mommy/wife/friend/Christian (insert any other role you currently fill here).  Sooooooo...

I’ve taken those personality tests that identify your personality type, how you interact in a group situation and the role you fill in your circles.  I am always the hub.  I never aggressively lean one way or the other.  I am a veritable rainbow on the personality test color wheel.  I don’t love to organize, hence, I’m not a “blue.”  I’m not great at the support and encouragement aspect, so apparently green is not my color.  I’m definitely not a red.  I can’t stand leading the charge.  And yellow doesn’t suit me well either, because I am certainly not an eternal optimist, despite my best efforts.  Yep, that’s me, right there in the center, trying to maintain the peace, keep the rhythm flowing smoothly, and ensuring everyone in the group is copacetic.  Apparently I’m adaptable, flexible and coherent, depending on what the situation demands.  I guess I’ve mastered that whole balancing act thing, right, so I’ll end this little diatribe now and chalk this one up to a little boredom and some insomnia, right?  Hardly.  You see, when I’m with the MOPS girls, I know that I can lay it all out there when it comes to my parenting skills (or lack thereof).  When I’m with my park mommies, I know I can share just how deep my love for Zinfandel is and they share my enthusiasm.  When I’m with my lifelong friends, I know I can vent for 2 hours straight and they’ll never tire of my human weaknesses and mommy struggles.  I know that when my sarcasm rears it’s ugly head in some groups it will meet with disdain and in other groups it will meet with laughter.  You see, when it comes to my circles of friends, I have struck a perfect balance.  I take from each of them different things and they each serve different purposes at exactly the right time.  The conversations are never one-sided and there is a consistent give AND take when it comes to our needs and the unique contributions we each add to the group.  But when it comes to my children, I simply do not have a clue who I am supposed to be at any given moment.  I am a bit confused and believe me, I am open to suggestions on this one.  Wait, I suppose there’s a small chance I can figure this one out by the end of this blog, so please refrain from calling me with your words of wisdom just yet.

You see, as mommies, the guidance we are expected to provide and the values we are  expected to impart to our children seem to contrast.  We have been called to a higher purpose, to leave a legacy, and to impart life lessons that are a bit of a dichotomy.  Balance does not seem to fit in.  We are called to be fully present, but not hover (these fun mommies and daddies are called “helicopter parents”).  We are to give our children roots, but wings as well.  We are to set boundaries, but give them freedom to become who they are meant to be.  We are to nurture in them self-confidence and self-awareness, but ensure they are others-centered in their approach to life.  We are to give them a healthy dose of reality of the evil that exists in our world without instilling in them a spirit of fear that prevents them from living a joyful life.  We are to teach them tolerance when it comes to the beliefs of others, but ensure they have an unwavering commitment and ability to stand their ground and firmly defend their own beliefs.  Son of a motherless goat!  Are you kidding me?  If the middle ground escapes ME, how on God’s green Earth am I supposed to teach my littles how to strike a healthy work/life/family/friends/health/happiness balance???  

The Bible has a little bit to say about this (she says with a mischievous, 4-year old smirk, when really she knows the Bible has a TON to say about this).  What does it mean to be “in balance?”  So let me lay the formula out for you like this: contentment = balance.  And if I were to illustrate it for you in this common core world we are currently railing against, there would likely be a scale somewhere in there with a million little happy faces on each side.

What I’ve learned over the course of the last 56 minutes is this.  We’re never truly going to master finding the balance in all areas of our lives.  All we can do is make a conscious decision to be content with our present circumstances, keep our eyes fixed on the author and perfecter of our faith (uh, that would be God), and my hope is that the scales will somehow manage to even out in the long run.  I think Paul was on the right track when he said in Philippians 4:11-13: “I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.”  You see, Paul was at some point or another, on both ends of the spectrum trying to find a middle ground and the only firm foundation he ever stumbled across was the truth and purity of God’s word.  And simply put, THAT was enough to steady his uncertain feet, still his restless heart, and ease his anxious mind.

At the end of the day, don’t we all really just want our children to be content?  Maybe balance is a concept far too complex to settle our weary hearts.  Maybe what we really need is rest, the deep, therapeutic rest that comes from contentment, from being okay with our present circumstances, from understanding that in God’s plan, the scales will never be balanced.  Our sacrifices and offerings will never tip the scales in our favor.  The price that was paid for our iniquities, the love that was poured forth to cover our shortcomings, the grace that was extended to secure our eternity cannot be matched.  And one final note on balance.  When it comes to finding contentment in the day-to-day and finding our footing, one thing that needs no balance is the love we have for our babies.  We are to love them unabashedly, fervently, without excuse.  Smother them with love and adoration.  Be amazed by their presence in your life.  They deserve no less.  

Ooooh, and here’s another fun one because I failed math and apparently I’m making up for lost time, plus I’m finally learning how to find special characters in the Pages/Word application on my Macbook...

NOTHING ≥ God’s love

Spray It Don't Say It

Is it really so wrong to use a water gun to shoot Bubba and the Princess in the face each time they misbehave?  To stand my ground as a mommy and reclaim my rightful place as the head of the household (when hubby’s not around anyway), the keeper of the peace, and the supreme authority over all things pint-sized and mad as hell? I think not and before you go getting all wild and crazy on my Facebook page, let me elaborate.  These days, I feel I have no other recourse.  So first let me provide a bit of background for our current state of affairs.  The PJ is quite collaborative and agreeable these days.  He has officially “turned a corner” as we say in the world of toddlers and tiaras.  But with the Princess, I have officially hit rock bottom.  The lectures are no longer working.  The time outs have run their course.  I have banished each and every “favorite” toy to the top shelf of my closet.  Even the “Here I am, on your level, looking at you eye-to-eye” hugs seem to have lost their healing power.  I can no longer compete with the tantrums that come at 10 minute intervals and last 56 minutes.  My attempts to reason have been met with a mountain of insults, no, a mountain range of insults.  I’m an English major with an extensive vocabulary and no words.  Are they too big for the five S’s?  Can I still swaddle them (without a visit from the cops)?  And let me be clear that I am NOT asking for advice.  As it was with the colic that resolved only when it was damn good and ready to, I.Have.Tried.Everything.  Or maybe not.  And so it is that I am currently mulling over the idea of adding a blinged out holster which will house a very efficient and intimidating water gun to my wardrobe.  I will let you know how I fare when my little experiment is well underway.  

Sometimes when I get so caught up in the daily battles I lose sight of just how significant the war is.  I ought to be wearing fatigues, enlisting in training camps, and stockpiling supplies for the long haul.  Parenting is no easy undertaking.  I’m fighting for the future of my babies, for their health, their minds, and their souls.  You see, for some wild reason my Heavenly Father has appointed me Commander and deemed me capable of giving them breath, life and a voice and teaching them how to use them in a way that not only glorifies Him but touches the lives of each and every soul they encounter along their journey into His arms for all eternity.  The influences that will go before them, walk beside them and try to trip them up are not minor nuisances; they are tools and weapons of an enemy who fancies himself quite powerful and is not far off the mark.  Woe to me if I fail at this challenge!  And so it is that the task of suiting up my little soldiers, outlining for them the game plan, tending to their battle scars and inspiring them to press on until the war is over has fallen to me.  What I do with it is entirely within my means.  I can read books and educate myself on current parenting ideologies.  I can consult Counselors and Behavioral Analysts.  I can renew my subscription to Parenting Magazine.  I can seek the advice of those who have gone before.  I can fall to my knees and pray (which I have definitely not done enough).  I can hide, check out, numb the pain any way possible, beg for a maternity test because clearly these cannot be MY children, and argue for the six thousandth time that they are not too old for the Safe Haven Act and most Firefighters would be thrilled to find them on the front steps of the Firehouse.  But all kidding aside, what I cannot ever do is give up on these little creatures who have put their faith and trust in me as their mommy.  Failure is not an option.  You see, I DID ask for this.  I signed up whole-heartedly to carry their little bodies for nine and a half months and their hearts forever.  I made a choice to have them and I will now make a renewed choice to love them, guide them and lead them to the best of my ability.  

So now that the sappy, heart warming stuff is out of the way, I must address the question, “What DO I do when the bombs are falling and the white flag is so far off in the distance I have a better view of the moon during a lunar eclipse?”  Enter my current parenting work in progress, Operation Spray It Don’t Say It 2013.  I am left with no other alternative than to laugh.  I will find - no, create - humor where there is none to be found.  I will steal moments of laughter at the most inappropriate, inopportune times and I will make no apologies for it.  They have delighted in my downfall time and again and I might just, for once, have a giggle at their expense.  I will give it a go first thing tomorrow morning when I will no doubt be awoken to the Princess’s sweet, sweet, voice as she greets me warmly with numerous requests to “Make my breakfast, stupid Momma!”  in a decibel that puts Motorhead’s lead singer to shame.  And I will let the masses know how it goes in hopes that they too, might glean a moment of laughter in an otherwise abysmal moment of misery.

Thrive people, thrive!  Go the distance (Target, water toys aisle).  Do not be swayed by their Strawberry Shortcake undies, their tiny little button noses and rosy red cheeks.  Pay no attention to their pleas for mercy.  They are meant only to weaken your defenses and level the playing field.  The playing field is not level.  Their physical size is merely a front for the mental Goliath that lives within each of them.  Do not be afraid.  Do not be swayed.  Stay the course.  Ready?  Aim.  Fire!  

How Truly Sweet

Sing to me when the daylight fades like an old friend reminiscing.

A song that gently stirs in me a truth I've long been missing.

The beauty of your sacrifice that settles in my soul,
The sweetness of your grace that whispers, "In me, you are whole."

The bittersweet reminders of the price of being free.

The lengths that you would go to for the cost of loving me.

The quiet resignation to your presence in each day.
Fills my cup, lifts me up, gives me hope to find my way.

How your mercy falls like Heaven's rain and washes clean my slate.
For the day when face to face we'll meet, my wandering heart can't wait.

Now take this heart in need of mending,
All the wounds that I've been tending,

Take away my selfish pride,
And find me when I run and hide.

Show me all that waits for me,
When I return on bended knee.

And I will seek you in the valleys, exalt you in the heights.

Sing your praise when the sun shines bright, cling to you in the darkest nights.

And on that day when last we meet,
My soul will sing, "How truly sweet,"

To meet my Savior face to face,
And rest in His unfailing grace.

Home

I’m not sure why I feel the need to hear every detail of every horrible tragedy, why I glue myself to CNN waiting on baited breath to hear the particulars of why, how and what next, and why I have to discuss it at length with those around me.  And I’m not sure why, in the wake of the Connecticut shooting I cannot tear my thoughts away from those sweet angels and their grieving families even for an instant.  I’m not sure if it’s healthy, normal, necessary or justified.  Some say the media sensationalizes tragedies such as this.  I wouldn’t disagree.  Yet still I can’t seem to turn off the television.  And so, in nothing more than mere curiosity, I pose this question to myself and ask for a bit of guidance from above.  

Perhaps in my anger I want to ensure that justice somehow prevails.  Or on a smaller scale, that we, as a country, learn some grand lesson, affect some sort of change, or alter the course of future tragedies.  Perhaps I, as a mother of two small children myself, feel that if I can grieve just a little bit more it would somehow lessen the unbearable suffering of the ones who lost their babies.  Let’s be honest, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to answer the question of why and so it may be more realistic to tackle the question of where.  Where is God in a horrific tragedy like the massacre of 20 innocent first graders in Newtown, Connecticut and seven other innocent souls?  I think if I can answer this question in a way that satisfies my restless soul, I may be able to sleep for an hour or two tonight.  

It’s funny how I always tend to condense my feelings into four simple words.  Every diatribe on suffering and loss begins with, “There are no words.”  But the truth is there ARE words.  There are words of anger, bitterness and frustration, though they most likely won’t surface until later in the grieving process.  There are words of agony, torment and anguish.  And though it’s tough to admit, there may even be words of desperation and hopelessness.  “How can I go on?  Can I go on?”  I can only hope those words are met with quiet whispers from our Heavenly Father that gently offer solace and hope.  In Psalm 22:24 we are reminded that “...he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help.”  There are words to describe how most of us view the shooter, none of which I can put down on paper.  But if I’m honest with myself and can see beyond the anger to the word of God I cling to in these times, perhaps I can find some words of grace and understanding to deal with those.  The reality is that even the most heinous and unimaginable crimes can be met with mercy and forgiveness in the Heavenly courts.  

The truth is that when tragedy strikes, God is right there in the middle of it.  We need only to call His name and open our eyes.  And when we, in our finite, weakened state cannot find the words, it is then that He speaks to us and through us.  2 Corinthians 4:8-11 encourages us, “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair, persecuted, but not forsaken, struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.  For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our mortal flesh.”

So I must say that has always been one of my favorite scriptures, because I love the jars of clay analogy.  It’s true, when we are cracked and broken, the light of Jesus shines through, but we have to choose to allow it to do so and that’s not always easy.  As I typed that verse, the line “not driven to despair” really struck me, because as a mommy it is so easy for me to be driven to despair.  When the innocence of children can be snatched in an instant, when I no longer feel safe sending my babies to school and I’m faced with the grim reality that the two sleeping darlings in the next room could easily have been among the 20 precious angels who lost their lives yesterday, when the fear and anxiety wells up within me to the point that I can barely breathe, despair seems to be the only emotion that fits.  And I suppose the only way I can answer back is to trust in the divinity of a God who is bigger than my fleeting emotions, bigger than the ensuing debate over gun control, bigger than our need to understand and most certainly big enough to fill the hole that’s left behind.  So as I grapple with the “Why” and “How” and “What Now?” and cannot help but picture the faces of those sweet, sweet angels, I’ll remind myself that my God lost a child also and did it willingly, for me.  

We will rightly and eternally mourn the loss of all the victims.  We will pray as a nation for the ones they left behind, for healing, for comfort, and for sweet memories to forever fill the halls of their homes.  And as their mommies and daddies justifiably long for one last smile as they arrive home from school, their Heavenly Father will now greet them at the door.  And I imagine as they gaze upon His lovely face, bursting at the seams they will excitedly announce, “Hi Daddy, I’m home!”  And they are now...home in His presence, home in His tender embrace, home in His kingdom eternally, and home forever in our hearts.

The View from the Middle

There are very few things I can actually control in this life.  For instance, I can totally bypass the dollar section at the bullseye boutique (no thanks to those fabulous higher-ups whose strategic marketing landed it smack-dab at the front of the store!) and save myself $2,117.  I can shut off the tele, spend some quality time with the kiddos, save them a brain cell or two, and let some other mommy keep the network afloat by allowing a super hyper, faithless yellow sponge to babysit her little darlings.  I can even choose to forego a half hour argument over why it isn’t okay to flatten the kitty’s ears while he’s sleeping in exchange for five minutes of me-time.  I cannot, however, manipulate the weather, affect real change on capitol hill (let’s face it, I am a Republican in the state of California after all), force the San Diego Chargers to actually finish a drive on any given Sunday, or convince the princess that the potty is a necessary evil.  But there is one thing I have only recently come to recognize as entirely within my control.  So today I wave my magic wand (which oddly resembles a spatula these days), snap my ponytail, twitch my nose, and wait for the magic to happen.  Wait for it...wait for it...wait for it...sorry, I had to refill my wine glass.  Here it is: you, actually have the ability to change the way you view your circumstances and consequently, tip the needle on your joy meter a bit to the right.  And yes, I said joy meter.  I can say it another way if you’d like.  You can change the song that’s playing in the depths of your soul from “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” to “Here Comes the Sun.”  Some call it a worldview or filter.  I like to refer to it as the gift of perspective.  And believe me, it is truly a gift that we have been given...the ability to look at any situation and process it any way we’d like.  We can control our own capacity for joy based purely on how we choose to see things.  So the next time your dolphin floaties spring a leak and you find yourself struggling to stay afloat, ask yourself, “How’s the view from down here?”

Is the mountain insurmountable, an obstacle so large to even contemplate tackling it would be physically exhausting?  Or is it possible the view from the top is so breathtakingly gorgeous the journey to get there seems like a walk in the park?  Are you a victim or a vessel?  Do you view the challenges of life as suffocating and unbearable, believing the only way to avoid another heartbreak is to become fast friends with your pillow for 24 hours a day?  Are you a seemingly innocent bystander, never quite able to crawl out from under the rock or find a solid footing in constantly shifting sand, always searching for the pity party around the corner in need of a guest of honor?  Or are you a vessel, relishing the tough times as opportunities for spiritual, emotional and intellectual growth?  It is quite possible that in these times, God has given you a rare opportunity to speak on His behalf, to sing praises in the rain - or perhaps, a torrential downpour at times - to send some glory His way and redefine faith.  How do you see things?

Are you certain the homeless man on the corner is really in it for the vodka or is there a distinct possibility he may actually possess enough humility to stand on a street corner with carefully chosen words that never seem to say enough scrawled on a cardboard sign and beg for help, soul exposed to ridicule and judgment from random passers-by who justify their ambivalence by telling themselves, “I don’t have any cash anyway.”  How do you see things?

Have you arrived at the intersection of bitterness and ungrace, certain that the ones who have hurt you - intentionally and unintentionally - are forever undeserving of forgiveness?  Have you hardened your heart so successfully not even the angriest bird can penetrate the fortress you’ve built?  Or by some small miracle, have you seen beyond the betrayal to the hurt in the ones who have hurt you, knowing somewhere deep inside they too are wounded souls longing for someone or something to fill the void?  How do you see things?

Do you see things through filtered lenses, as the world wants you to see them?  As the politicians want you to see them?  As your family wants you to see them?  Or do you see them through rose-colored glasses, tinted red as the blood of Jesus, holy and pure, true and unchanging, powerful and eternal?  Might I suggest there is enough heartache and pain in this life without adding fuel to the fire.  Next time the tendency to fan the flames kicks in, perhaps you should douse it with water instead.  Trust me, there is enough to reduce it to a pile of smoldering ashes - the glass is more than half full in God’s house!  For once, if not always, silence the critics and your own accusing voice and tune in to the sweet, sweet voice you hear when you find yourself falling.  Let the words of a loving savior ring in your ears.   “Be strong and courageous.  Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” ~Joshua 1:9

And because I haven’t met my question mark quota in this little diatribe, I’ve got one more for you.  When your pace slows and your doubt increases, ask yourself, “Am I a weary traveler on a road wrought with speed bumps and potholes or am I wounded warrior whose faith in something bigger simply will not allow me to believe life’s hurdles are meant to trip me up rather than build me up.”  If only for a moment, allow yourself to believe you have a loving Father who desires nothing less than the best for His children, the most coveted glittering prize, a precious gift, an eternity in Heaven with you (yes, you).  His grace is sufficient, His word is true, His love is extravagant, and the view from up there is always unfiltered.

Let the River Flow

It was around 3:37pm yesterday when I began to ask myself if there is an age cut-off for the Safe Haven Act. I think the men in any given firehouse would gladly take the princess in if they knew how minuscule her chances of surviving another day in this house are with the attitude she’s been toting around this week - or my chances of survival, for that matter. Is there a slot large enough for me to surrender myself, I wonder? At the very least, THEY have access to very large fire extinguishers that may come in handy somewhere around the twelfth “snit” of the day, as my mother-in-law refers to it. Now that I think about it, is Safe Haven meant for her safety or mine? Because clearly I am the one in harm’s way these days.

It was around 4:14pm yesterday when I realized there are no ear plugs large enough to drown out the wee voice that once was music to my ears. Wee.No.Longer. And with no hesitation my daily plea has become, “Turn down the main, Skid Row! Can’t you see I’m a woman on the edge???” Indeed calling her the princess has backfired immeasurably. Somehow, somewhere along the way she has come to believe she is no longer a princess, but rather, the queen. And I, a mere servant in her court, a hired hand, a peasant. And so it is from the depths of my weary, defeated, pitiful soul I cry, “Uncle, uncle, I give. Sweet Jesus, hear my pleas. Remove the pint-sized demon from my baby girl and give me back my angel!”

It was around 6:17pm yesterday when I found myself lying in the fetal position beneath a makeshift fort I had fashioned out of a Snuggie, patchwork quilt and Minnie Mouse fleece throw attempting futilely to keep the enemies at bay. I was playing my own version of hide and seek, whereupon I “accidentally” forget to tell them there is a game underway. So there I was, lying in a heap larger than the seven loads of unfolded laundry at the foot of the bed, feeling defeated for the seventeenth time that day, when it suddenly dawned on me. It had been a very long time since I’d had a good cry. Let me be clear. No soft whimpers shall ever grace these halls...or feebly constructed forts for that matter. There is only one cardinal sin in my eyes when it comes to living with a two-year old, self-professed diva. Show.No.Weakness. A true toddler can sense fear and let’s be honest, at this point in time, I am truly afraid of the princess. I am literally afraid that she will be waiting around the next corner with a two-by-four, brass knuckles, or worse, a bad attitude and an insatiable hunger for chocolate goldfish that will not be denied. But I digress. If I intend to show any amount of weakness in this house by doing something as ridiculous as crying, I better really make it count.

It was around 6:23pm yesterday when the floodgates opened and the pent-up frustration and exhaustion of the last several weeks began to flow. It was one of those really freeing, drawn out, physically exhausting cries. And it was magical. I think I may have unknowingly signed up to cry on behalf of mommies everywhere who were feeling the same defeat as I in that very moment. And for one brief moment, nothing else mattered. I was just a girl with a box of tissue, mourning the loss of her freedom and sanity, and everything was right with the world for one brief moment.

It was around 6:49pm yesterday when they found me (and yes, I was still alive - the epitaph will have to wait). And the battle raged on long into the night, but something had changed. I had changed. I was renewed, revitalized, ready to tackle whatever sippy cup came my way (at 97mph, mind you). And God saw what He had done and it was good. And He rested. I, on the other hand, could not sleep, as usual. But it was okay. I actually stole some quiet moments to do a little research on the cost of a share of stock in Kimberly-Clark, the company that manufactures Kleenex (it’s currently $69.82 by the way).

It was around 12:34am this morning when it came to me. “Jesus wept.” ~John 11:35

Man, that guy really was a genius. Even the most perfect man to ever walk this Earth knew that a good cry is worth it’s weight in gold. Hey, if our toddlers can do it and our Savior could do it, why can’t we? And so I leave you with this. Let it out, ladies. And if you need a shoulder to cry on, please don’t call me. I’ll be playing hide and seek with a box of Kleenex and a can of camouflage paint.

Miss Matched

Ok, so here’s the thing. It has become abundantly clear to me lately that the little 2-year old, self-professed heir-to-some-throne, somewhere in America I call my daughter really does believe she is a magical fairy princess. I see it in the attitude that daily screams (implicitly AND verbally), “I am here. Notice me! Bow down to me! Provide goldfish at my beckoned call! And do not even think of saying ‘no’ to me!” I see it in the sweet little, “Nooooo’s” that resound throughout our halls oh, let’s say, about every 6.3 seconds. And I see it in every outfit she meticulously chooses each morning. Oh wait, each hour, because yes, she MUST change clothes every hour, on the hour, as if her little pint-sized life depended on it. And I’m not talking about a new dress. I’m talking 4 new skirts, all at the same time, 3 pairs of underwear and the ONE tank top amidst the thousands that seems to scream her name every.moment.of.every.day. Why??? For the love of all that is holy (and most of her wardrobe is at this point), why can’t she let her mother pick an outfit for her? All kidding aside, let’s delve into this battle I call the Great Wardrobe Debate of 2011.

What’s really at the heart of the matter here? I, being the super organized, ghetto fabulous, mother-of-the-year that I am, seek only to present to the world, a well-put-together, darling, proper, presentable child any mother would swoon over. An honorable intention, right? And she, being the strong-willed, simple minded, new at the way this whole mother-daughter relationship thing works, child, seeks only to destroy me and my good intentions. Sounds about right, doesn’t it? Sounds a bit nutty, if you ask me. Here it is, ladies. Wait for it...we’re nutty if we believe our little mini-me’s can see even a fraction of an inch beyond what we see. ‘Cause here’s how it plays out in our minds. “She is a reflection of me and the job I am doing with her. What will others think if she doesn’t match, look clean, and well put-together?” And here’s how it plays out in her mind. “Purple is pretty. Green is pretty. Put them together, twice as pretty!”

So I have no choice but to dig deep and try to fathom why the mixing of Play-doh colors does not bother me in the least, but an outfit that doesn’t match sends me so far over the edge no amount of therapy can bring me back. So I’ve been mulling it over incessantly and I think I’ve got it. It’s become increasingly obvious to me since I became a parent that the path I deem “appropriate” for my babies is actually the exact opposite of what God intends for them. Bear with me. I’m not calling myself a failure (not today anyway), just exploring and comparing a worldly point of view with God’s truth about the matter. You see, I see my babies as a reflection of me and so, I want them to look composed and presentable to the world. Sweet smelling babies = successful mother, right? The problem is, my view of presentable and God’s view are entirely different. I’ve been conditioned to think that I must appear as if I’ve got it all together, a Superwoman of sorts, able to leap tall-buildings in a single bound, or at the very least, get in and out of the dollar aisle at Target without running over another mommy’s toes with my cart. I must make it to the early soccer game, bring the best hot dish at MOPS and be on time, be met at the classroom door with cheers of, “Junior did an excellent job sharing today,” volunteer to host the weekly playdate, not raise my voice for more than 3 hours straight, have the cleanest toilet on the block, AND make a mean meatloaf. Right? Pause for effect.

Breathe. Here’s the good news. God laughs at my view of presentable. His view looks a little more like this. Are you comfortable and confident in my love for you? If you are, you’re ready to face the world. Go and make disciples of the nations - even if your shoes don’t match. You see, we view our children as reflections of us and God views us the very same way. Scary, but freeing. Ask yourself this...what exactly is it that you are reflecting of your Heavenly Father? Love? Compassion? Grace? And most of all, Need? Do you need Him? Because I truly believe THAT is what He cares about, so much more so than the color of our socks, though frankly, I think he prefers the frilly lace ones with the pom pom balls on the back!

The truth is that most of the time, my outfit looks great (please don’t hunt me down on Thursday to test this one out), but on the inside, my clothes are lying in a pile on the closet floor. And I believe the heart of God would beat so loudly if I let the world peek into my closet rather than glimpse at the false front I so often present to try to make myself feel worthy. Am I raising babies that look good or babies that look to God? You see, in her pint-sized, not yet scarred, 2-year old mind, the princess truly believes when she puts that 4th skirt over the 3rd she has crossed the threshold from little girl to magical fairy princess. What if I believed that whole-heartedly in the reflection God sees in me? That I am so passionately loved despite my appearance? That I am deeply accepted despite the way I feel on any given day? What if the world saw the blood of Jesus rather than the coffee stains on my tank top?

Most days I have to break out the handcuffs to get the princess to let me brush her hair and so, it’s difficult for me to look at those darling little curls and not hear the words, “Child, what happened to your head?” ringing in my ears. Perhaps now I’ll look at her and see a crown of thorns beneath the faux-diamond tiara and remember that my Father does not care if hair number 4,214 was out of place. And when princess insists on her favorite dress (from 2009) and I’m struggling to button the top 3 buttons on the back that no longer close because she’s just had her seventeenth growth spurt, I’ll see the lashes my Jesus endured for me and remember that a perfectly buttoned shirt could never hide that. And when no amount of jelly beans can convince her that shoes are a necessity on the playground, I’ll think of the great sacrifice my loving savior made for me as I’m washing her feet at the end of the day and I’ll smile. Because I believe sometimes when we refuse to listen, our sweet, sweet Father has no choice but to find gentle reminders such as these to whisper in our defiant ears, “I do not care how the world sees you. I see you as flawless, clothed in righteousness, precious and holy, set apart for Me.” Now zip up your jacket and go tell them how much I love them.

Two.Years.Old.

Nuff said!

Stuff on my kids #3, #4, probably #5, not sure how many!

It's been awhile folks, so I have some serious catching up to do. I find myself more the blog follower these days than the blog writer. But alas, enjoy! And sorry about the lack of Bubba pics. He's not quite the ham the Princess is these days.

Run for Your Eternal Life

I posed the question to myself recently, “If you could choose one word to describe yourself what would it be?” And the only answer I could surmise was, “Defeated.” Simply stated, I am losing. I’m losing the battle for sleep. I’m losing battles with my children on an almost daily basis. I’m definitely losing the battle of the bulge. And I’m sure to lose what little I have left of my mind any day now. There is no pit boss belting out my name in response to, “Who’s the big winner?” I’m more likely to be the one face down in the glitter gulch – the big loser, that’s me. Give me an inch, I’ll probably take a centimeter, because that’s about all I’ve got room for right now.

So I think it’s time to stop throwing for the end zone and take a knee. So that’s it. I’m closing my play book and heading to the locker room. And it is at this point my Jesus whispers, “Sweet child, take your hands off your ears and listen closely. I have you right where I want you. Stop pining and check your back pocket. You’ve already won.”

Make no mistake. There’s no white flag of surrender in my rearview mirror. I firmly believe I’m called to “press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.” (Philippians 3:12). But the finish line at the end of the race looks a little different from this angle. There won’t be a gold medal around my neck, only a garland of grace to adorn my head. And there won’t be a trophy engraved with “Best overall,” but rather a book with my name written somewhere around page 6,327. And I will not be the one waving from atop the highest step on the podium. I’ll most likely be the one on my knees, weeping uncontrollably. Yep, the race is pretty clear to me now. I crossed the finish line years ago when I said, “Take my heart.” And I claimed my prize that very same day, a prize I did not deserve, but humbly accepted. The redeeming work of Calvary was and is enough. Let it be, girlfriend! There once was a man who loved His children so much He gave up the one thing any parent simply could not bear to lose. And to this I am called, to throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and run with perseverance the race marked out for me. And now I run only because my heart knows no different, because I long for better days, because in my loss, there is great victory.

And the beauty in the race is this. When I look in the mirror and see a big loser, somewhere in the back of my self-deprecating mind, I hear a voice that drowns my own and reassures me, “You are the one Jesus loves.” Oh, to live in that love! To think half as highly of myself as Jesus thinks of me. To feel the joy He feels when His daughter comes running home and falls into His arms begging for mercy, forgiveness, and rest. I have always fancied myself the prodigal’s daughter, testing boundaries, pushing limits, and going it alone until I finally make my way home again. And then it weighs on me like a forty-three pound toddler, “Why am I running again?” I have already won. I received my prize a long, long, long time ago, on a hill, by a tree, where I met my first love, my Savior, my Jesus. Game over!

Heavenly Father, bless my friends and family with perseverance and rest, strength and weakness, joy and pain. Reassure them that though the faces they see in the mirror might not seem appealing, you see them as flawless, as you intended them to be. Amen.

Remember, if only for today, YOU ARE THE ONE JESUS LOVES!

Dazed & confused...but slightly encouraged

I was highly encouraged by a guest speaker to my MOPS group this morning whose words gently reminded me that I hold the keys to both my husband and my children’s hearts. Let me get this straight. I am not only charged with feeding, clothing and meeting the basic needs of bubba and the princess, but I am also responsible for the maintenance and care of their souls as well. Ugh! Of course, at the end of the day they will rest safely in the palm of my Heavenly Father’s hand, but in the interim, little ole me has the power to make or break their spirit in a thousand different ways. I am the guardian of their tender little hearts. What a terrifying thought! I might even go so far as to say that it feels a bit burdensome. So as I ponder the way I have raised my children thus far I am left with no other option than to throw up my hands in shame and disgrace and cry, “Dear Lord, what on Earth were you thinking?!”

Psalm 8:3-5 When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?

And who am I that you find me even vaguely capable of molding and shaping your precious little ones into fully functioning adults, putting their faith and trust in you always and seeking your face all the days of their lives? I mean, are you kidding me? Most days I can barely muster the wherewithal to brush my own teeth let alone find the time, patience, and at the very least desire to not irreparably damage my children for all eternity. The responsibility of “training my children in the way they should go” weighs so heavily on my heart and chest I can barely breathe, but for some reason you have planted these seeds in my life and deem me worthy and capable of watering them on a daily basis. And so, I humbly, but more often hesitantly accept the challenge and set about on this journey of motherhood once again, and today, Thursday, October 14, 2010 (one for the record books) I believe I may have actually done more good than harm to these two little munchkins that sit before me watching Alvin and the Chipmunks as if they were Jesus, Mary, and Joseph themselves.

There is something very profound that occurs when God assembles a group of ten women with very different upbringings, ideas and temperments and they each exude the courage to be vulnerable and honest from the get go, laying their souls bare for each other to examine. A divine appointment, if you will. And so I have been more than blessed today by my new girlfriends whose willingness to share parts of themselves they find unsavory at best touches my heart on the deepest level. I have always been a bit of an over-sharer myself, lacking the filter that says, “Hold that one back for awhile. You don’t want to scare them.” But I truly believe my ability to get to know others is solely based on my ability to let myself be known. If I get real with them, they feel a sense of relief and comfort knowing they can get real with me. Perhaps the fear of judgment is left out of the equation and the playing field is leveled. Needless to say, I left my group this morning feeling rejuvenated and encouraged, ready to spend some quality time with my babies, investing in their souls, if only for a few hours before naptime.

We built a fort in the living room and plopped ourselves down on a tower of pillows to watch a movie. And there on the floor, snuggled by my side, my darling PJ turned his precious face to me and whispered, “Momma, I like you. I had a great day.” My heart wept. What have I done to these children to make an hour on the floor feel like a day at Disneyland? Has my screaming and yelling and lack of patience traumatized them past the point of return or is there hope for me yet? Does God trust me that much with their future choices, actions, path in life, and even success as a husband or wife? Or at the heart of the matter, am I really just responsible for their general well-being and how they feel about themselves at the end of the day? I’m not sure which idea scares me more. I think I’d like to use a lifeline. Hello, Jesus, are you there? Help a mother out, would ya? These kids are going to need all the help they can get. So here I sit, praying for a miracle and feeling overwhelmed. And once again, with nowhere left to turn but back...all the way back to the beginning, the Bible.

2 Corinthians 4:6-7 For God, who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.

I’m going to try to break this down to the most fundamental level. My hope, my help, the wisdom, the patience, and the power to love my children and care for their souls comes from above. How blessed my children would be if I daily tapped into the Heavenly resources that so freely await me anytime I ask. Why is it that the “doing” is not quite as difficult as the “remembering to do?” I can remember to put gas in the car and change a diaper every few hours, but remembering that my babies hang on my every word and look to me for security and acceptance is far too great a task. What a sad, sad world I’ve created for myself. The power to become the mother I so desperately long to be God says is already within me, a treasure found in a jar of clay, cracked and flawed to let the light of a loving Father shine through for the world to see. I guess that’s a visual aid I can wrap my hands around. You know, the Bible speaks of clay again in Isaiah, as God is described as the potter and we, putty in His hands, so to speak.

Isaiah 64:8 Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.

Really, Father, really? I am putty in your hands, ever-changing, far from perfect and now I am expected to be the potter and take a spin on the wheel, molding my children from the ground up? Most days I’m lucky if I can carve a donut out of a can of neon pink Play-Doh and now I’m supposed to turn these two little mini-me’s into priceless works of art? God has quite a sense of humor, but I’ve heard it said that He does not call the qualified; He qualifies the called. So again, I wipe the cobwebs from the jar of clay collecting dust on this shelf I call my heart and offer up this simple prayer. I can only hope to someday fashion treasures not perfect and refined as we will someday be, but loved and loving, worn and weathered, flawed just enough to let the beauty and wonder of your love shine through for all to see. The treasure we claim in our jars of clay is not the work of our hands we pridefully exhibit to a world hungry for success, but the work of the cross we humbly preach to a world thirsty for redemption.

I woke up this morning pondering what lessons I would teach my children today and found instead, that I am learning more from them on this journey than they are from me. In their eyes, I’ve seen fear and anxiety, anticipation of what their day will look like based on my mood. I’ve seen the reflection of a tired, worn down, impatient girl longing for some quiet time who now understands that I am no longer just the clay, I am a potter as well. I am a sheep and a shepherd. I am a child and a mother. I am a canvas and an artist. There is one thing my children did learn from me today though. I taught them that their mommy has a lot to learn, but she is a humble “student,” a blank slate, an empty page, and God is the author and perfector of her faith.

Lord, teach my babies that though their mommy is finite, You are infinite – in wisdom, in love, and in boundless grace. Amen.

Stuff on my kids #2

Oops! I missed one and how could I forget this...

But while I'm at it, the bear suit made an appearance way back in January.

More to come...

A New Series

Allow me to "steal" an idea, if you will. I've come across several recent blogs in which the author has created a series to which they add when an opportunity arises. One friend blogs occasionally about "things she loves," my sister told me about a blogger who consistently writes about "things he wants to punch in the face," and one of my all-time faves is a guy who posts about "stuff on his cat," literally, he takes pictures of his cat with things stuck to it. And so as I thought about a common theme in my life, the only thing that came to mind was my kids' obssessions with trying stuff on. And so, when I say "steal," I mean kindly "borrow" the latter blogger's idea and I will call my new segment, "stuff on my kids."

Allow me to demonstrate with photos of the last several months in which my darling babies have taken their fetishes and ran with them. There is this little ditty in which my beanie babies test out their winter hats.

This gem of my sweet, and let me affirm, very masculine son, bubba.

And of course, the princess getting ready for her debut in the shower.

Ah, but lest I forget the most recent snapshot of little princess testing out her brother's new suit of armor.And thus begins the first of many posts of "stuff on my kids." Let the games begin, folks. Much more to come...

Here's where the story begins

Do you ever ask yourself...

Have I let it sink in, or has it merely scratched the surface? Have I taken stock and counted each and every blessing today? When I tell them “I am the one Jesus loves,” do I live in that love, or am I still pining for it? Have I come to the place of rest in the shadow of your wings, or am I still toiling on the ground? Do I lie awake at night thinking of how I will protect my babies when the enemy comes near, or do I recognize that they are yours and yours alone, entrusted to me for only a short time? Have I surrendered, or am I still behind the wheel? Have I even remotely grasped the magnitude of your power, the abundance of your grace, the depth of your love, and the lengths you would go to – and have gone to – to call me daughter and friend? Have I been changed, as you stand unchanging? Have I forgiven myself, as you have forgiven me and made me pure?

Today was emotionally exhausting in the best way possible. As I listened to the testimony of one you call your own, I heard the pain that still lingers, saw the hope as it unfolded, felt the joy of things to come, and fought back tears. I felt as though I was looking in a mirror and took a good, hard look at where I stand on this journey. A thousand questions came to mind, and though I can’t say I was thrilled with all the answers, I am at peace knowing that I am right where I am supposed to be. Your timing never ceases to amaze me. Lord, you have my heart, you know my story, and I am confident that you will not stop writing until every chapter is complete, every wound is healed, and every tear has been bottled.

When Toddlers Attack

I’ve spent the last month trying to come to grips with the fact that my sweet angel, PJ, has finally fallen into the trap of the “terrible twos” that I was so certain I had miraculously avoided. Now in all fairness, bubba is also contending with an ear infection, lack of sleep, and a somewhat new baby sissy and simply cannot understand why he is no longer the center of everyone’s universe (though I’d like to tell him secretly that he is, indeed, still the center of mine and will always be “my special son”). And so I find myself, once again, dealing with a very strong-willed, stubborn and let’s face it, just plain HUGE physical force that I can no longer control. Let me illustrate. On a weekend vacation visiting with in-laws, we thought it would great fun to visit the aquarium and zoo on consecutive days. Both did not end well. I spent the day at the zoo trying to corral perhaps the wildest animal that place has ever seen. Seriously, even the lions were begging me to remove him. My solace came around 2 o’clock, after a peanut butter sandwich and some chocolate milk. The aquarium did not go quite as well. The trek from the puffer fish to the second level of the parking lot carrying my 42 pound son, kicking and screaming, was made even more enjoyable by the pouring rain and starving baby girl that awaited me in the back seat of the car. And for the third time that week, I locked the doors and waited for close to an hour for PJ to stop fighting and give in. He did not. I climbed in the back seat and held his seat belt closed long enough for the drive home while Grant drove. Those were, however, the worst days thus far (if you don’t count the trip to the pediatrician’s office today, wherein two nurses and myself fought diligently to hold him down long enough for the doc to check his ears and I might have caught every sixth word she said amid the wailing and screaming and repeated attempts to flee the room or at the very least, kill the lights). A typical day, on the other hand, consists of a mere 4-5 meltdowns and numerous attempts to sit on, kick, or knock over the princess for no apparent reason.

I have spent hours upon hours trying to reason with my child, all the while forgetting that even though he uses words like “impressive” and “fortunate” and calls me a “genius” when I suggest lotion for his dry cheeks, he is still a two-year old child. I have spanked and I am not afraid to admit, purely in frustration. I have forced numerous “time outs” to no avail, taken away all of his favorite toys, which I found he really CAN live without, and have locked him in his room and watched incredulously as he broke the childproof doorknob lock off again and again. And now, way beyond my breaking point and purely at a loss, I throw my hands up in surrender and cry, “I give!” You win, my sweet, sweet, boy. You are the master manipulator, the king of the castle and I simply cannot compete.

So here, at the end of my rope, I am now seeking the advice of professionals. My pediatrician had little to say on the matter and referred me to a child psychologist who affirmed what I have since discovered on my own. The only way to survive this period is to simply not react. I am currently “attending” to my child (positively reinforcing without instructing or asking questions while we play). I cover my mouth when I feel the urge to cry and instead, find myself laughing. Let’s face it, at times like these, is there really anything else we can do? And I’ve noticed small improvements already. Here’s what I really struggle with. Why do mommies take everything so personally? I have called every friend and mommy I know to vent, hoping all the while to hear them tell me that indeed, I DO have the most difficult and challenging child on the face of the Earth. Believe me, I know there are much worse situations and I am now praying diligently for the sanity and safety of those mommies and their babies. But it just seems that if someone would validate how tough my struggle is at the moment, I might not feel like such a failure as a mommy or that I somehow caused this behavior in my frustrated, little angel of a son. The truth is, I put so much pressure on myself to be a good parent and what I’m failing to realize is that I am a good parent, simply because I love them both so much and have the desire to do right by them. Don’t we all just want happy, healthy, well-adjusted children who will grow up to be the same in adulthood? Don’t we all just want them to love us unconditionally as we love them? And truth be told, don’t we all just want a spa weekend in the Hamptons with the nearest diaper thousands of miles away? I guess what I’m really learning on this journey is that it isn’t about PJ’s behavior at all. It’s really about my response to it and what I am supposed to be learning at the moment. Don’t they say that it’s actually our children who teach us life lessons? So what is it that I am to glean from this challenging period? At the end of the day, I’m not as big of a failure as a mommy as I sometimes feel. I mean, they both still want me 24/7 so I can’t be that big of a downer, right? It is not my job to raise the perfect child. It is my job to love my children the best way I know how and to seek guidance and wisdom from the only one who does love my children perfectly, my Heavenly Father, my hope, my Jesus.

And let me just say, straight from my heart and completely unabashedly, the one thing I have been lacking in my parenting is peace and I have known all along where to turn for that. Emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted, I come on hands and knees back to my first love, back to my Jesus and cannot wait for the intimacy I’ve been missing for way too long. It is time to draw near to the one who’s been waiting to hear from me. It is time to draw upon the strength that will carry me through these trying times. It is time to give my babies what they’ve needed all along – a mommy who loves them so much that she would carry them kicking and screaming ten thousand miles in the pouring rain if that’s what they need to feel her love.

One final thought, the best advice I’ve received so far is to nurture your child’s heart first and the behavior will follow. What a concept, right? So simple and yet so packed with truth and wisdom. And now my “and on the bright side” moment for today…as I was putting the finishing touches on bubba’s PB&J today, he began to scream as usual, “MOMMA, I WANT…” and stopped mid-sentence. He got up and came into the kitchen and quietly stated, “Um, 'scuse me, momma, can you please put my bib on?” My darling little angel is already on the road to recovery, or better stated, I am on the road to recovery and bubba is waving furiously from the sidewalk, waiting for me to catch up.

Life isn't always good in the mother hood

So today is a good day to be a mommy and I am thankful that there are no messes to clean up, boo boos to mend, or tantrums to tune out, and as I relish this moment, I am thinking about my dear friend who rarely has days such as this. My “I love being a mommy” days are pretty few and far between and I am so not afraid to admit it. And so I sit here wondering, “Why do we feel like we’re bad mommies when we so much as hint that we are not enjoying every moment?” Let me lay some groundwork. I am not one of those women whose sole purpose in life is to be a mommy. I wish I could say that I want nothing more and nothing less, but I’m no liar. The truth is that I wanted a family and would never in a million years change my life as it is today or regret my decision to have children in any way, but I have other dreams and aspirations waiting on the horizon for me to wave the burp cloth of surrender and pursue them. I simply do not want to be a mom who has no life outside of her children. Yes, my children are a giant part of my life now, but there are other facets to that life as well, other talents, other gifts, and other desires I’d love to explore someday.

They tell you being a mother is hard. They tell you you’ll spend countless nights without a minute of rest. They tell you you’ll be an emotional wreck from time to time. What they don’t tell you is that you’ll likely feel ashamed if you don’t enjoy every minute of it. Maybe I’m the only one, but as much as I love my babies, I think motherhood is a fairly thankless job, at least in the early years. You exist to meet the needs of another human being and get very little in return. You are stretched to your limits, pushed to your breaking point, and then asked to give just a little more. Yes, it’s difficult, but in ways I never imagined. And I guess I’m just tired of feeling “less than” for not being afraid to admit that.

I watched that movie, Marley and Me a few days ago and in one scene, Jennifer Aniston tearfully relates that she has given up every part of herself that made her who she is for the sake of being a mother. I swear I’ve had that conversation verbatim with my husband. So many of the things he fell in love with disappeared when I became a mommy. They should warn men of that; perhaps the divorce rate would be much lower. Hey guys, your wife will change drastically when she has children. She must be all things to all people and that means, many of the things you adore about her will fall to the wayside for a while. But I have to believe they return as our children grow up. I have to hold out hope that I will one day be that carefree, risk-taking, free-spirited, independent woman I once was.

And in the meantime, I think our society needs to be a bit more forgiving of the moms who don’t constantly boast of the rewards of being a mother. Sometimes those rewards don’t surface until much later. I think we need to temper our stories of success and our moments of joy with the moments that we’d care to forget. Chances are, when you are on your 375th cry of, “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me,” there’s a very good chance thousands of other mothers are mumbling the very same thing at that very same moment. What every mommy needs is a little encouragement, a little understanding, and a whole lot of, “Oh yeah, me too” words of comfort. It’s okay to be less than perfect. It’s ok to have 67 frustrating days for every 3 joyful days. It’s ok to wish you could just sleep when you want to sleep, take a sick day every week, and eat a meal while it’s still hot. What we do is no small feat. Let’s face it; sometimes it’s trying, at best.

Hang in there mommies, you’ll survive the early years. Soak up every fleeting moment of contentment, share the little things that make you smile and the huge things that make you wish there was a vineyard in your back yard. And if you intend to give yourself any chance at all, ask God to be your guide, because Lord knows none of us can do it without Him. And when you feel like the worst mommy ever, give yourself the grace He gives you and know that you are not alone. And with that, this morning I sat down to read my Bible for the first time in like, a hundred years and my darling PJ came running out of the room yelling, “Mama, what doing, mama?” He then proceeded to sit beside me, hold my hand, kiss me and say, “I wuv you Mama.” And that ladies, is why we do it.

Get up and dance, already!

From my all-time fave, Almost Famous: “They don't even know what it is to be a fan, you know? To truly love some silly little piece of music, or some band, so much that it hurts.”

I have recently become a fan of a fairly new band called Jack’s Mannequin. Already a huge fan of The Fray, I had been intermittently checking their website for upcoming concert dates and almost fell out of my chair when I saw that they were finally touring on the west coast AND were playing with Jack’s Mannequin at Irvine Meadows (yes, it will always be Irvine Meadows to me, just like The Big A will always be Angel Stadium). And so, I rallied the troops (Stacey) and we went to see the show two days ago.

I found it intriguing that me, a girl with quite possibly the least amount of rhythm in all of Orange County could barely contain my excitement and so, I was forced to tap my feet and even sway a bit from time to time. I said I lacked rhythm; did you think I’d actually even attempt to launch into full dance mode? And then I saw them, two rows in front of us and just a few seats down, two of the most excitable, young, teenage girls I had ever seen at a concert. They were dancing and singing and screaming in their shrill, girlie voices at the top of their lungs, every word to every song. And I, as I had done many times before at many different concerts, should have launched into attack mode immediately, verbally, and even physically mocking their every move. But something was different this time. I started thinking about those girls who broke into hysterics at the mere mention of The Beatles. And then it occurred to me. I think I secretly am one of those girls. I mean, in all fairness, it was never really just a band that got me choked up so much as my intense love for their music, and I could easily see why these girls were so excited. I suddenly realized that all my previous mocking was most likely pointed at myself, at my own inability to just let go and let myself celebrate something that moved me.

I’ve always been so acutely aware of everyone around me, and so terribly concerned of what they will think if I look silly that I fail to allow myself to fully enjoy even the best of shows. Well, short of the Go-Go’s concert before I became so completely self-aware. I’m one of those girls who has to have a fair amount of liquid courage before I hit the dance floor, and by fair amount I mean depleting the bar of its entire stock of Vodka, sprite and sweet-and-sour mix. I refuse to leave the house without a shower. And forget about public speaking, even if I could claim the title of Nobel Prize winner on a particular subject. Let’s face it, I don’t even like opening gifts at my own parties because I can’t stand the thought of all eyes on me. Those things are neither here nor there I suppose, but when it comes to dancing, I don’t think it’s a confidence issue so much as I have no delusions about my inability to move with even a trace of fluidity. Seriously, even that old guy on the Magic Mountain commercials puts me to shame. Now I know some of you could actually bring back the cabbage patch and be labeled “innovative.” I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my people now. I’m talking to the Ronald Millers of the world, the ones who believe strategically waving both arms above your head for an entire set makes you a pretty good dancer. It doesn’t. And just so you know, mocking famous dances of the past is pretty transparent too. Come on people, you know who you are. You’re the wedding guest who revives the running man and the kid-n-play under the guise of a joke, hoping to fill time on the dance floor until others figure out that you simply can’t dance to save your life.

And so I wonder, how much joy have I missed out on by not allowing myself to get caught up in the moment and just let go? How many times have I restrained my enthusiasm to remain cool and collected? I mean, doesn’t the same principle of, “’Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt,” apply here? And the conclusion I’ve arrived at is this, yes, it is better to remain a wallflower than to be a laughing stock and the subject of many future jokes. It is better to keep some shred of dignity than to deem yourself “that girl.” Don’t get your panties in a bunch, kids, I’m just kidding. No, I don’t believe it is ever a better decision to censor yourself when it comes to passion and your love of basically anything (well, anything pure and honest and legal anyway). Think about it. God does not want us to hide our passion for Him, does He? Doesn’t He desire that we let our light, our love for Him, shine? Does He not ask that I be a city on a hill? And if, in fact, He wants me to express my enthusiasm for Him, His word, His grace, etc. in that manner, why not my love and passion for the simple things in life that He has so graciously surrounded me with as well? Why not stand up and sing or even dance when you hear a song that makes you smile from ear to ear. You know, the songs that remind us of a particular time in our lives, the songs that flood us with sweet memories and choke us up so fervently that we can barely manage to continue to sing along? Seriously, next time you feel the urge to stand up and act a fool at a concert, allow yourself to forget that you are surrounded by thousands of others who will likely point fingers and laugh at your antics and imitate your less-than-smooth moves. Chances are those people are wishing they had the guts to do the same.

Oh, and on a side note to Jack’s Mannequin, now that I know you are originally from Dana Point, I fully intend to stalk you (in a very non-threatening, legal manner, of course) every free minute I get. Your music seriously makes this self-professed Ronald Miller want to stand up and dance.