I'm Rubber, You're Glue!

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet, because honestly, I have worn out way too many people this week with my words, most importantly, the littlest little.  It became abundantly clear to me yesterday that perhaps I am not a woman of few words as I had once suspected.  Apparently, I’m quite the opposite.  A brief history of the princess and I (the one we call Pookie): it’s possible we both like to control things.  It’s more likely we both have an incessant, nagging, life-consuming need to control things, namely, each other.  I find it odd, because typically, I’m more than happy to relinquish control over any situation at the expense of my needs.  I value my sanity more.  I find myself at the center of the color wheel, the middle of the road when it comes to personality tests.  I am more often than not, the “hub,” the one who tries to ensure everything is copacetic and everyone is satisfied.  But with the princess, all my feelings of inadequacy and failure seem to take center stage manifesting in the form of a crazy, ugly control freak of a monster akin to Jason Voorhees on Friday the 13th.  Perhaps she is the only thing I can control in this world that seems to be spinning out of control.  Let’s face it, I can’t even exercise my right to reign over the 17 pound feline, so I’ve set my sights on the next best thing!  We fight like sworn enemies.  We battle like General Custer and the Indians at Little Bighorn.  We have mastered the art of name-calling and manipulation.  And I am not proud.  But I am tired.  And I am ready to affect some serious change.

Wednesday, October 1st, 2014, I picked the food battle once again.  I decided it was time to get a handle on Pookie’s snack obsession, my ambivalence to it, and her Cheez-It-Lucky Charms-Nutella-filled destiny.  The first three days left me feeling empty and disparate.  There have been profanity-filled, insult rich, guilt-inducing “Oh-how-I-wish-I-could-take-that-back” knock down drag outs from sun up to sun down.  We have redefined the term “low blow.”  I have somehow managed to teach my five-year old how to fight like a 40-year old, bitter woman recently off her meds.  My failed attempts to reason with her and explain the detriments of a bad attitude and the bleak, friendless future she faces are frequently met with, “Can we please not talk anymore?  Please just stop talking.”  I find myself walking a very familiar path of exhaustion once again, mustering up one last breath to utter the all-too-familiar mantra I’ve come to know and love, “I give.  You win, pint-sized mini me!”  I have fashioned a white flag out of some craft dowels and a wet wipe and I am waving it vehemently from the darkest corner of my closet, wherein I have chosen to take refuge for the time being.  And yep, you guessed it, in the darkest recesses of my soul, in another of my darkest hours, in my silent escape (which also happens to house my winter sweaters and several faded pairs of jeans), the still, small voice speaks softly to my heart for the four-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-seventh time.  “You’re on the same team.  You’re much stronger together, a house united, not divided.  You’re both drowning in a sea of “me me me” and there’s a life raft within reach.  Get on board!”

So I did a little research and it took all of five minutes to dig deep enough to pull up this little gem.  It’s often used in marriage ceremonies to signify the bond between a husband and wife, but why not a mommy and her strong-willed peanut head?  “Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” ~ Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

So I lay next to Pookie tonight, stroking her hair, singing lullabies upon request and let the reality of our present dilemma sting my soul.  My heart hurts.  Why, oh, why have we decided to define our relationship by anger, frustration, anxiety and pride?  Why have we chosen to be mortal enemies rather than forever friends?  What if instead of fighting like cats and dogs we made a plan to go it together instead of alone?  What if we choose to believe that together, we can accomplish immeasurably more to further the kingdom of God than we can ever hope to accomplish alone?  What if instead of asserting our dominance over each other on an hourly basis we actually set our sights outward to where the real battle rages?  While we’re arguing the validity of shorts under a too-short skirt and debating whose responsibility it is to ensure Barbie and Ken make it safely back to the car after an hour romp at the park, real problems exist in a real world that’s been screaming for salvation for years.  Can we not look outside ourselves for a brief moment in time and recognize that we have the power to heal?  To help?  To model kindness and grace and unity to a world characterized by vanity, arrogance and self-sufficiency?  

Let’s do it, pint-sized warrior!  Let’s show them what real beauty looks like.  Let’s put down the weapons of manipulation and right-fighting and join forces.  Let’s show them what teamwork looks like, or better yet, what love looks like.  The kind of love that says, “I don’t mind if I don’t win this one.  What do you need from me right at this moment?  What can I do to make your heart happy and your soul sing?”  The kind of love that recognizes that our parts are never greater than the sum.  And sadly, the kind of love that is so incredibly contradictory in this day and age we live in, the kind of love that flies in the face of self-preservation, that finds no place in mainstream media and in our schools and on our playgrounds, the kind of love that is mocked and scorned by the so-called “role models” and “heroes” of our time.  But the kind of love that will prevail, will show itself real, will reveal the face of a pure, loving and eternal God once and for all...in due time.  “It is written: 'As surely as I live,' says the Lord, 'every knee will bow before me; every tongue will acknowledge God.’” ~ Romans 14:11

Let’s do this, little angel!  Let’s give ‘em Hell!  (Or maybe Heaven.  Let’s just let this one play out as it should, shall we?)!!!  But for the love of all things furry, chocolate, pink and sparkly, let’s walk together down this crazy path we call life, hand-in-hand, under the banner of an awesome God.  I’m on your side, baby girl, today, tomorrow and forever.

Bugger Off

Have you ever noticed how we allow our present circumstances to define us?  No?  Just me?  Well then, indulge me for a moment or two.  This week, I am a mother struggling to defend our fortress against the mighty, mighty invasion of a cruel and relentless enemy known as head lice.  How it infiltrated our home, MY precious cargo, and our every waking moment is insignificant.  What matters is that it did.  It’s here.  It’s mortifying.  And it is holding on for dear life with it’s 6 tiny legs and it’s uncanny ability to hold it’s breath for an ungodly amount of time.  I have never fancied myself a germophobe, but this week and for the rest of my life, I find myself obsessed with all things unclean, unsavory and unwanted.

The first night kicked my ass.  We discovered the little buggers at 10pm on a Friday night when the hubs was away surfing on a two-day excursion...yay!  Flying solo in the hard times once again, I sent the ever-attentive and slightly grossed out mother out to find the mother load, a pharmacy still open AND in possession of a lice removal kit.  We fared as well as can be expected...one kit.  That meant one child.  So while I diligently shampooed, oiled and strand-by-strand stroked the princesses tresses with a fine-toothed comb for three straight hours, the boy waited patiently on the couch, whereupon he eventually fell asleep.  Being the ever-attentive mom, I whispered a silent “Good call” to myself as I remembered he was not entirely ready for bed and grabbed a Pull Up from his room.  Riddled with frustration over the tedious task of removing tiny pests from our heads, let’s just say discovering that I was ten minutes too late did not add to my bragging rights.  So I may have uttered a not-so-pleasant phrase or two as I proceeded to remove the cushions from the couch we purchased less than a year ago and was temporarily pleased to find that they didn’t appear to be beyond repair.  And so as I carried them downstairs to the patio to air them out, I felt relief for the first time that night.  Goooo me!  And then I went back inside to continue the arduous process of debugging our home and our babies and myself and that is when I discovered the super welcome trail of pee leading from our patio throughout the condo back to it’s point of origin.  You see, the cushions are actually covered with an insulation that doesn’t allow liquid to absorb into the actual cushion.  It just drips off the covering...yay!  So I began to clean up that mess and was met with the sweet, sweet sound of our washing machine, which I refer to as “the death of me,” not because I do a lot of laundry, but because the locking mechanism has been broken for almost a year and emits a very loud buzzing noise every ten minutes when the door loosens.  And though the Angry Birds duct tape certainly adds a whimsical flair to the ordinary, I do not find it at all amusing when I have to remove it approximately 19 times an hour to complete One.Load.Of.Laundry.  Now mind you, when you are attempting to remove lice from your home, you must wash every article of clothing worn for the last two to three days, every towel, every sheet, every pillow case and every blanket.  In our home, this amounts to approximately 917, 322 loads of laundry.  And then you must seal every stuffed animal, pillow and item that cannot be machine-washed in a garbage bag and tie it off for two weeks to allow the little suckers to suffocate and die, thus preventing them from multiplying.  And then, you have to soak every comb, brush, hair clip, barrette, and headband in steaming hot water for 15 minutes.  This was the point in the evening when I gave up.  I threw them all away.  I surrendered.  The little buggers had won.  This had officially become the worst night of my life since I had given birth.  The next day, or week, I should say, was not much better.  I thought I was a slave to the laundry before this little incident!  I became obsessed...with everything!  I prodded heads every two seconds like a mother chimp picking at the fur of her littles, washed everything that touched the carpet for even a fraction of a second (the five-second rule does NOT apply when you have a lice infestation), covered the furniture in sheets and freaked out when they budged even an inch.  Oh, I was super fun to live with for approximately 16 seconds.  My poor babies.  And so it is that on this, the sixth night of our infestation, I have come to the realization that I often allow my circumstances to define my life at any given moment and ultimately, to drown me in a sea of my own self-pity and negativity.  Simply stated, I allow them to overwhelm me.  

It’s like living with an alcoholic (trust me, I have experience with this one).  You wake up in the morning unsure of how you feel, how your day is going to go until you determine their mood.  How they feel dictates how you feel.  And I do this with everything in my life.  If my kiddos are happy and joyful, playing well together (like, for once in their lives), I am happy and joyful.  If I have no pressing, urgent matter to address, no catastrophe to surmount, life is copacetic.  I am productive, at peace, mother-of-the-year.  Life is great.  I am living in the moment.  Everything is as it should be.  Even the songs on the radio are predestined and every streetlight seems to be green.  But if, by chance, life throws a teensy tiny wrench in the program, all is lost!  Suddenly, I am a failure as a mother.  I can do no right.  The world is against me.  And I allow myself to slip slowly back into the depression that I war against on a daily basis.  Yes, I’m not afraid to admit it.  I struggle daily with depression and it’s no fun.  I’ve been free of my seven-year run with anti-depressants for several months now and though I’m terribly proud of that feat, I’m also terribly aware of my on-and-off again love affair with depression.  It doesn’t take much to send me spiraling.  And so it is that I find myself wrestling with the realization that I have allowed a tiny little obstacle such as head lice to nearly break me down to the point of defeat.  No, really.  I have actually felt defeated this week, physically and mentally exhausted, questioning whether I will every truly find peace in the midst of chaos.  So here’s the thing.  They say (or at least I believe) once you’ve been confronted with a weakness or the realization of a pattern of behavior, you no longer have an excuse to allow it to control you, to suffocate you, to define you, or to break your spirit for even a second.  You see, I have a choice.  I can allow my present circumstances to drag me down, define me, and carry me to a dark, pitiful place.  Or I can choose to see them for what they are, fleeting and temporal, a bump in the road that may slow me down, but will not render me immobile, a bug on the windshield that I can wash off at the next service station (seemed appropriate).  I can choose to rise above and view my life from the heights.  I can recognize that who I am and how I feel is not dependent on what is happening to me, within me and around me.  I can rise above and overcome, as God intended.  “He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he causes me to stand on the heights.”  ~2 Samuel 22:34

So where do I go from here?  Well, tomorrow it’s to the salon to shorten this monstrosity to a manageable length should the enemy ever decide to grace these halls again.  And then, to the shower.  But eventually, to the depths of my being.  To the core of my existence.  To the heart of the matter and the deepest recesses of my soul where my sweet savior speaks, as He always does when I choose to listen.  To the truth that’s been there all along.  To the truth of who I am and who He is.  To the part of me that knows that even when the going gets tough, I am tougher.  He built me to withstand and to stand with Him.  He formed me in His image and though that image may appear scarred and bruised and tattered at times, it remains so incredibly beautiful that He could not love me less and He could not love me more.  And in that moment when I allow that truth to settle in and settle the restless, obsessive spirit within me that wants nothing more than to scream at the top of my lungs, “All is lost!  All is lost!”  I can see clearly that the little things will nearly always fade into the background of the big picture.  What matters most when life is dragging me down is that I continue to look up, to the heights, to the author and perfecter of my faith.

The Greatest Story Ever Told

Ok, so maybe, just maybe, I tend to be a bit of an extremist when it comes to my present struggles, whatever they may be.  Perhaps I embellish a bit for the sake of ensuring the point gets across.  Or maybe what I’m communicating in a dramatic, “woe is me, all is lost” sort of way really is how I’m feeling on the inside at any given moment and I just tend to hold back nothing when I share.  Lack of filter rears its ugly head again.  Whatever the case may be, these daily struggles and minor nuances I face as a mommy and wife that pale in comparison to the big picture, feel like anything other than a mole hill.  Yep, I am constantly scaling an insurmountable, unforgiving, no-end-in-sight mountain range, on which I currently find myself stuck in a crevice, crying out for a lifeline.  So for the second time in my short run as a parent, I have chosen to phone a friend.  Enter, the child psychologist or as I like to call her, my last hope.

A little background: the princess has grown fond of the term, “Stupid mommy.”  Though it runs a close second to, “I hate you!”  I, in turn, have grow fond of turning her words back on her, which leads to guilt, which leads to self-loathing and eventually leads to a loss of about 3 hours of sleep and quiet moments of regret and fear of the irreparable damage I’ve done in a matter of moments.  Her tantrums are characterized by nonsense and a complete absence of reason.  My tantrums are characterized by Very.Loud.Screaming.  I can’t seem to stop talking, ad nauseum nonetheless, which is very weird, because she does the same thing.  A typical spat begins with a denial of something the princess wants, Oreos, a Barbie (it hurts my heart to say I blame Target on this one, though, after the whole security/identity theft breach, I’m sure I’ll get over it, thank you very much!), or some candy...and not even the good stuff I grew up with.  I mean, I could understand a twenty minute meltdown over an Abba Zabba, but Pocky, really?  I digress.  Whatever it is, she wants it.  I say, “No.”  And thus begins the battle.  I wear her out with my words, threats, and not-so-calm reasoning, which any four-year old would respond positively to, right?  And she returns the favor with endless diatribes in some foreign language that stirs in me all things ugly and unwarranted and boils my blood to no end.  Let me give you an example.  She takes pride in dressing herself - usually 14 times a day - and skips joyfully to her dresser to retrieve her Lalaloopsy funderwear and Ariel jam jams after every bath.  And so last night, somewhere in the midst of hour two of our most recent civil war, I was showering her against her will and I hoisted her out of the shower, toweled her off - oh, let’s just say, a bit enthusiastically, and not-so-gently nudged her toward her room to get dressed.  There was no skipping.  There were no Ariel jam jams.  There was no funderwear.  There was, however, a half hour of begging and pleading, moaning and wailing and insistent cries that she could not possibly dress herself because she was wet and the only solution was for me to dress her.  And believe me, that is exactly what my servant heart and selfless soul desired right at that moment, to dress my little bundle of joy, wrap my loving arms around her, and snuggle with her under the cozy, cozy covers.  In some parallel universe on some distant planet, somewhere far, far away, maybe.  Or maybe in some sitcom of old (not the new ones where dysfunction is celebrated), wherein some small glitch in the story line seemed to always work itself out within a matter of thirty minutes, give or take a few commercials, and moms and dads had an uncanny ability to keep their cool and espouse some life lesson with patience, intelligence, and a sweet, sweet soothing tone.  But not here on Earth.  Not at that moment.  And not if I had anything to say about it.  And so the battle raged on.  We both lost.

Her need to control me and keep me engaged with her at all costs = my breaking point.  It looks/sounds something like this:

The Princess: “I need to ask you a question.”  At this point, I’m usually ignoring her in an attempt to cling to some sort of sanity.  And she continues, “Say, ‘What?’ Mommy, say, ‘What?’”

Me: “What, Analeigh?”  

 The Princess: “Answer my question!!!”

Me: “You didn’t ask me a question.”

The Princess:  “I’m talking nice.  Why won’t you answer me?  Mah-meeeeee?!”

Me:  “You didn’t ask me a question, Analeigh.  There isn’t anything to answer.”

The Princess:  “I need you to come here.”

Me:  “Where?”

The Princess: “Here.  On this step.  No, not that step, this one right here.  To the middle stair, right here.  I need you to hold my hand and walk me upstairs.”  And of course, by this time, there is no way I am succumbing to her demands.

This goes on for hours.  And though I’ve tried to actually appease her from time to time, thinking that she really just needs me to prove my love for her, whatever request I’ve met is no longer good enough.  And I have reached in to the mommy manual and exhausted what I believe to be all my resources.  I have withheld toys and treats, doled out numerous time outs, spanked, hugged, tried to reason (this one works really well with a four-year old), ignored and removed myself from the situation.  If I ignore her, she follows me and kicks my bedroom door or throws things at the walls.  If I give in to her unreasonable requests, how is she learning respect, kindness and delayed gratification?  If I spank her, who really wins?  To be honest, that only hurts us both.  And if I do somehow manage to mold her into whatever shape I’ve deemed acceptable that day, I’m still left with a feeling of emptiness and sadness.  What have I created?  Good Lord, it’s me, isn’t it?  ISN”T IT?!  I have created a mini-me and while that should be flattering, it saddens me to say that I have created in her all the things in me that I loathe and detest.

I see in her the things in myself I would change in an instant were I to stumble upon a genie in a bottle who’s dying to grant my every wish.  All is lost!  All is lost!  No, it’s really not.  Well, maybe it’s hiding, but it’s not lost and so I began the arduous search and as usual, it ended on a park bench, in a pool of tears, drowning in a mountain of frustration and hopelessness.  I am tired of my own voice, tired of the pity party and tired of the battle and if I feel that exhausted, I can only imagine how my husband, family and friends feel.  And so I dug deep - way down into the archives of my cell phone contacts where first we met - and I made the call to Dr. Rad and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  What seemed like an eternity was really only a day and a half and then the call came.  I vented my frustration and received the much needed validation I had so longed for, as I always do.  Indeed, I have a challenging child.  So what?  Who doesn’t?  But I received the validation my fragile and insecure mommy-soul needed, along with my instructions.  The princess and I will be conducting an experiment.  She will emerge, no doubt, unscathed and better able to understand her behavior and feelings.  I can only hope that I will emerge with all my limbs intact.  It’s a tough one, for sure.  Basically, I am to ignore her and not as I usually do, making sure she knows I am ignoring her, but for her own good.  Literally, the moment she begins to act unreasonable or throw a tantrum, I am to cut off eye contact, no longer communicate verbally and wait her out. I am to become a virtual ghost.  Wow, really?  My heart hurts already.  And when she is done hurling her insanities on me and barking her demands for love and attention, it is only then that I may give her the positive attention she deserves and affirm her with, “Now I will speak to you.”  Now I am guessing that the idea is to cut off the emotional investment I have at that moment and shift the focus to the behavior alone.  I’ve watched those videos where the mom ignores the baby for just one brief minute only to leave the baby confused and bewildered and it breaks my heart.  Don’t get me wrong.  I know the princess is four and she knows I love her, but the idea of cutting off my emotional connection with her even for an instant is not an easy pill to swallow.  But I can do this.  I will do this.  And so I politely thanked Dr. Rad, not fully appreciating the gravity of the experiment I was about to perform, and hung up.  And mulled it over.  Can I really do this?  I will do this.  And I prayed, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change (her), the courage to change the things I can (me) and the wisdom to know the difference.”

And that’s when it dawned on me.  The princess is not my project.  She is not my latest challenge to overcome.  She is not my problem to fix.  She and I are a team.  And as we undertake this experiment and learn how to surmount this speed bump on our road to a deeper, more fulfilling mother-daughter relationship, we will grow together AND individually.  As I learn how to draw out of her the beautiful, soulful, soaring spirit I know is there, that same spirit will rise in me.  As I learn what makes her tick, what ignites a fire within her, and what touches her heart, my heart will inevitably be moved as well.  We are each others teachers.  We are each other’s cheerleaders.  We are each other’s mirrors.  And while I don’t always love what I see looking back at me, I am so blessed to be able to catch a glimpse of the child that’s still there, deep within me.  And I’m excited to set her free, excited to see what SHE will become, excited for her to grow in grace and wisdom.  And I’m so thankful that it is my beautiful, undeserved, challenging and determined daughter who will be the one to teach me.  When you make the decision to have a child, as difficult as it is, you almost have to wipe the slate clean, erase what’s been done to you and by you and start fresh, writing the book as you go.  So here we go, Princess.  Let’s pick up the pen, look to the one true author and perfecter of our faith (our Heavenly Father) for guidance, wisdom and grace, and write the sweetest, most exciting and magical tale ever told.   The End.

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.