playing nicely

Dear E,
Thank you for playing with your little brother so nicely yesterday. He adores you and loves to feel included in your world. You have no idea how happy it makes my heart.

Love,

Mama 

What she said

I realized that I don’t need to blog. I just need to read everyone else’s clever blogs and then compile the highlights in one place. I keep reading things that that make me want to stand up and shout. 

OMG, this writer must be my blog-twin, my internet-doppelganger. I pretty much loved and/or agreed with everything she said. And she said it with grace and honesty. Read it.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/joy-gabriel/kate-middleton-and-the-mom-in-the-mirror_b_3672553.html

“Once you cross the threshold into motherhood, there is no going back. You might feel instantly and with acuity "Help! What did I DO? I'm not ready for this! Get me offa this thing! I don't know what I'm doing!" but it's too late. The curtain is up on the most important role you will ever play and it's OK that you and your body have shifted so that it fits. More: it is right and good. You're not supposed to zip up your old jeans and slip back into your old life.”

And I am also totally developing a blog-crush (hmm, would that be a ‘blush’ or a ‘crog’?) on Jen Hatmaker who writes with wit, truth, and panache. She could be a stand-up comedienne; her material is that good. She has nailed the conversational insanity that takes place between parents and young offspring. I’ve been wanting to study the patterns. I’ve already written about how my kids seem to stockpile demands until the second I enter the room and then they come flying out – like bats out of hell. [Read that post here.] The following dialog seems to preside in our house right now:

Child: a request or a whine

Me: a sensible answer (“not right now”/“let me think about it”/etc.)

Child: “Whhyyy?”

The Whyyys are dangerous things. They make a person crazy. How the heck does one explain Whyyy we don’t eat gummy worms before 8:00 a.m.? Whyyys are the reason parents say dumb stuff like, “Because I said so!”.

Jen writes about this, too, and much more in this riotous gem about the End of Summer Parent: http://jenhatmaker.com/blog/2013/08/16/worst-end-of-summer-mom-ever-a-sequel

She reflects on how she will spend her first hours of freedom after her kids return to school:
“What will I do? I will think my thoughts, which I haven’t heard since June 5th. I miss my thoughts and I look forward to seeing what they’ve been doing. For all I know they could’ve been curing cancer, but they’ve been stamped out by missives like He won’t quit touching my game/remote control/Afro and Could you make me a sandwich/pizza/taco and I am bored/hot/hungry and When are we going to leave/eat/bathe again? My thoughts have done all they can do for these people, and they’ve put in their notice.”
 
And then there is Glennon, dear Glennon (of Momastery fame), who is currently on a well-deserved sabbatical. Somehow the topics she writes about dovetail with sermons at church and with what is going on in my life, so she often seems magic to me. She touched me with her thoughts on loneliness and the internet. It struck a chord with our senior pastor, too, because he quoted her in a sermon.
  
Tom (our pastor) was talking about technology and how it has the power to connect us and the power to isolate us. He cited Glennon’s confession that while she has more than 80,000 readers, she hadn’t had a real, live conversation with a friend in weeks. This notion was already bouncing around in my head because I was working on a devotion and thinking about why Stephen ministry (more on that later) is so valuable: Stephen ministers give the gift of real, live conversations to those who are hurting in an age where face-to-face conversations are becoming rare.

Glennon writes:

“The internet, I think – is turning into a compulsion for me. I’m starting to look to it for my own worth. I’m looking to it for comfort and as a balm for loneliness. I’m using it to hide a little from real live people. And I’m using it to numb my feelings. To zone out. ... The internet is not bad any more than wine or food are bad. But we can use all three in ways that dull our spirits … Every once in a while, I need to silence all the thousands of voices coming at me through the internet so that I can hear God in me. That is the only voice, the ONLY voice, that I can trust will never lead me wrong.”

So, stay tuned. Listen to the voices in your life. Schedule time for face-to-face conversations with those you love and enjoy. I will too. And I’ll continue to regurgitate what other better writers have said so we can all learn together.   

Christmas in July

When it was in the 100s last summer, we decided to make July 25th a Christmas-in-July celebration. For starters, we needed to remember that it would, in fact, get cooler. Listening to Christmas carols in July can seemingly drop the temperature by about 20 degrees.

We decorated the house, strung up white lights, and invited family over to eat some favorite holiday foods. In our clan, that includes monkey bread and an addictive cheeseball recipe that you eat with pretzel sticks. We also baked gingerbread cookies. We read Christmas stories and talked about baby Jesus, crafted winter-y scenes, and watched Frosty. We wore festive red and green. I even drug out the bin full of mittens and scarves and let the kids pretend it was cold outside. It was a huge hit. Here are some favorite photos from that day:

So you can bet that my oldest two children weren't about to let me forget July 25th this summer! We were sad that one set of cousins was not able to make it and that my folks were in Colorado enjoying real cooler temperatures. But we put on season-appropriate ensembles, hung the stockings, fired up Bing Crosby, enjoyed a holiday brunch, and opened small gifts. (Next year I will probably just wrap things they already own.) My crew even blessed me with an early wake-up call, just like the real December 25!  

The night before, Miss E and IMO took turns closing their eyes while the other one hid "gifts" in the stockings—a totally unscripted bonus! Miss E was so thrilled to see the looks on our faces the next morning when we found our treasures, such as a (used) binky for Baby S and a (half-full) bottle of hand sanitizer for me. Hmm, maybe the kids should be in charge of stocking-stuffing from now on? Who needs to spend money on tossed-away trinkets?

I share this not because I want you to vote me Pinterest's Mother of Year but because it was a day when I felt successful as a mom. Those days can be few and far between. I felt like I had given my kids something out-of-the-box that they might remember. I felt present. The practical, bah-humbug side of me wasn't enthused about dragging out the holiday décor knowing I'd be charged with putting it away in the days that followed. (I cannot even handle 15 minutes of Play-Dough, for crying out loud.) But I squashed that buzz-kill of a notion and got it all out anyway. And it paid dividends.

"... Let every heart prepare him room,
And heaven and nature sing,
And heaven and nature sing,
And heaven, and heaven, and nature sing."

progress report (July 18, 2013)

Now is about the time to ask: “So, how is that all working out for you, Michelle? All that appreciating your body, letting your kids be kids, ceasing to compare?”

Well, not so great. I’ve hit the exact day in summer when SAH moms really don’t know if they can spend another single day with their kids. You’re tapped out of creative ideas, it’s blistering hot outside, and their favorite pastime has become irritating each other. I might have also simultaneously hit the exact day in my eight-year SAH career when I wonder if there is much Michelle left at all. She may have been completely swallowed up by her other identity: Mom.

I am a blessed woman; that is for sure. But I am not a balanced person. Not right now. My current personhood is too heavily skewed toward the service of people eight years old and younger. And one of those people is a maniacal tyrant – an adorable, blonde, 30-lb tyrant – but a tyrant nonetheless.

So, yeah, I’ve totally failed on the “letting kids be kids” front. Apparently, I squeezed my oldest son’s wrist a little too hard last Sunday when he and his sister were being squirrelly hooligans in church – attracting far more attention to our row than I’d like. He actually produced big, fat tears on his cheeks, making me feel like that much worse of a mother. Inner monologue: “Great! Not only have you hurt your child in church, but others have now noticed both their unruly behavior and your ghastly response to it!” Mother of the Year!

Miss E was bored and wanted to play the baby, sitting on my lap facing front, then facing back, resting her head on one of my shoulders, then the other. Sucking her fingers. Playing with my hair. E is not a lap child. She is 3' 9" and weighs 44 lbs. With every movement, she would knee me somewhere sensitive and shove my skirt higher on my thighs. Awesome. IMO asked me every other minute if the sermon was over and was also clandestinely driven to touch portions of my body at all times. If you were to have gazed in my direction last Sunday, you would’ve witnessed these two medium-sized lumps playing Twister with me for 58 minutes while remaining partially seated. Hence, the Wrist Squeeze. Ugh.

I realize it is my fault. Who expects a 4-year-old and 8-year-old to make it through an hour-long service without being fidgety? My husband had to work and I’d (thankfully) dropped off Baby S with the childcare angels downstairs. These same two children have done okay in this service, but this particular Sunday they could not hold it together. For the grand finale, Miss E spilled her full cup of lemonade on the carpet in the Friendship Room. Not to be outdone, Baby S overturned his cup on the carpet, too, laughing like a hyena.    

I’ve also used my scary, goblin voice in the last week. I’m not proud of that. I’ve silently cursed my cellulite. I’ve felt envy. But I’ve also experienced triumph and joy. Miss E has completed four swimming lessons without freaking out! We didn't see that coming. And I could not stop smiling when Baby S tried to sing "Happy Birthday" today – messing up both the lyrics and the tune but singing with his whole heart. When he was done, he offered me a piece of his plastic “happy cake.” Thank God for these moments. Had it been real cake, I would’ve eaten every single bite while loving my body and not comparing myself against others :)    

Comparison robs you of joy

This phrase has been on my mind ever since I heard it during a sermon a few weeks ago. “Comparison robs you of joy.”

Here is a quick example: Know the feeling you have after you thumb through a magazine filled with gorgeous, slender, worldly, presumably wealthy women? Women in expensive clothes, drinking expensive drinks, sharing jokes with chiseled gentlemen who also possess shockingly-white teeth? You feel “less than.” You feel un-beautiful. You might even feel unfulfilled, unloved. Comparison robs you of joy.

I realized (once again) that magazines=depression at the salon where I had gone to get a haircut and, therefore, feel better about my appearance. Going to the salon is a huge treat! But ten minutes into the magazine I started feeling hopeless. Even the best haircut in the world wouldn’t make me look like Charlize Theron. Comparison robs you of joy.

Another example: My mom treated my sister and I to a fancy-home tour during the Christmas season. For a fee, you are allowed entry into these insanely beautiful, spacious homes decorated to the hilt for the holidays. Think: crackling fires in imported Italian fireplaces. They smell like leather and Balsam fir. I’ve always enjoyed interior design and architecture. But when I returned home, our house (which I love) looked drab and dated. Our Christmas tree looked chintzy. Nothing was shiny or historic. All I could see were the stains on the couch and chipped dishes in the sink. I felt pouty because we don’t have guest quarters. Comparison robs you of joy.
 
It’s so obvious. Yet we compare. Unwittingly. We compare every single day.

The sermon examined Matthew 20:1-16, also referred to as the “Workers in the Vineyard” story. https://bible.org/seriespage/workers-vineyard-matthew-201-16

To sum it up: A landowner gathered and employed men to work in his vineyards for the day – some began their day early, some began their toil much later. Yet, the boss paid everyone the same wage when the day was over. The ones who had worked the longest grumbled saying they had been treated unjustly even though they were compensated with the agreed-upon amount. It became “unfair” when they learned how much the generous landowner paid their cohorts. Comparison robs you of joy.

How do we stop comparing? How can we rid ourselves of the sour taste of envy? Is it as simple as gratitude? Or flat-out avoidance? If the homes of the rich and famous leave you feeling blue, take a tour on the other side of town, or, don't go. Sick of chicken nuggets (again) for dinner? Serve a meal for people who rarely get a hot meal. Read The Glass Castle, a memoir by Jeanette Walls, about her (and her siblings’) childhood, fending for themselves, picking through garbage to survive. Don’t read Glamour or Us Weekly. Don’t spend too much time at the gym, or worse, the pool at the gym, where it seems everybody is eyeing each other in a silent “who-is-the-fittest?” contest. Are the walls really lined with mirrors so we can check out our form? Or to measure ourselves against the others?

I’m going to start by recognizing comparison when it creeps in and calling it out. Keep the phrase handy in your mind: “Comparison robs you of joy.” Humans will never stop comparing. But we can put our inner brats in timeout. Then open the door wide for gratitude and joy.

 

car wash

Baby S hates the automated kind, but he loved doing it old-school with his Daddy.



in his own happy world

letting kids be kids

I'm trying to be the mom who reacts positively when her daughter shortens a dress with scissors (“Oh, she will be a fashion designer some day!”) but, honestly, it’s more, “What the h__ were you thinking?” She would've been wise to try this in the first half of the day. Shenanigans look more like treachery after 6:00 p.m.

Tomorrow is a new day. Thank God for fresh starts.

My children gift me with more smiles and laughter than I have ever known, but they also excel at getting  under my skin. Several times per day, I  breathe deep and remind myself that they are “just kids.”

Like when IMO, inspired by science camp, asked for an empty pump bottle so he could mix Sprite and soap. He claimed this potion would heal stubbed toes. I cringed as he dribbled it all over the counter and floor and proceeded to rub the sticky, foamy substance on his foot. Some mothers would not become unglued by this. But, sadly, I couldn’t see past the mess I was going to clean up later.

You’d be amazed how many times a day I have this conversation:

Me: “Is that food?”
Child: “No.”
Me: “Well, then, it shouldn’t be in your mouth. Only food and drink go in your mouth.”

My children will probably etch that last sentence on my grave.

I told a dear friend that I wasn’t sure that I was cut out for this job. I love order. I crave a quiet house. I hate stains. Some aspects of motherhood came naturally to me, but many others did not.

On my worst days, I fear that I enjoy babies more than I enjoy kids. Which means I will probably pack up and leave when they reach their teens. No one has a sweet, newlywed moment where you turn to your spouse, peer deep into his/her eyes, and say, “Honey, let’s have a tween.” No, we get warm and fuzzy over babies. And they grow up to do the things that bug us most about own personalities. Ever recognize your bad habits and quirks in your children? I do.

IMO obsesses over things. (Right now, the flavor of the week is Pokemon). He cannot change the channel. He perseverates. My poor Mom also had to deal with a relentless child with a one-track mind: me. Now I have one. Pay back.

Miss E is fiercely independent. We know that most kids go through this phase, but hers is here to stay. In an attempt to keep her from flipping out, I admit that I’ll undo something I’ve already done so she can do it herself. So it’s no surprise that I decline help even when I need it because I want to “do it myself.” As adults, we’re called Control Freaks. (Hmm, note to self: re-brand that.)

It might be too soon to tell what mannerisms we’ll see in Baby S. I will say that he is the bossiest and the most polite baby you’ve ever met… barking orders like a dictator but showering you with affection and gratitude once you’ve filled his need.

I don’t exactly know where I want to take this post from here. I just needed to write. But I’ll leave you with this quote from an incredible Huffington Post article by Steve Wiens, a pastor and writer:

“Maybe it's time to embrace being the kind of parent who says sorry when you yell. Who models what it's like to take time for yourself. Who asks God to help you to be a better version of the person that you actually are, not for more strength to be an ideal parent.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/steve-wiens/let-me-be-the-one-who-says-it-out-loud_b_3209305.html

Amen to that. I'm also asking God to help me see the magic in their messes and find joy in the chaos. They are not mini adults, after all; they are children. Perfectly imperfect children. And our house will be quiet soon enough.