The Sleepover Manifesto - Why We Won't Do Sleepovers

The childhood sleepover. It is high up there on my Wish-I-Didn’t-Have-To-Deal-With-It areas of parenting, right along with questions like, “When can I have a cell phone?” and “Can we get a puppy?” Sometimes I just don’t feel like I have the energy to withstand the backlash that comes along with saying the hard “no” and doing what I feel to be my parental duty. Especially when “all the other families get to do it” which I hear no less than twelve times a day. “Well, we aren’t the other families, are we?” I hate saying it just as much as they hate hearing it. I’m still waiting for someone to hand me the user guide for these kids of mine, the easy how-to guide for getting it “right” and raising excellent humans and contributors to society. Somehow that instruction manual must’ve slipped out of the diaper bag when we took them home from the hospital. So I’m left to just sort of wing it. For the most part, I try really hard not to parent out of fear. I work hard to make decisions based on sound reason, evidence or conviction. This was one of the reasons we opted to put our kids in public school. We knew that they would be taught some things we didn’t agree with. We didn’t want to hide these differing beliefs from them. Rather, we wanted them exposed to diverse beliefs and opinions, knowing we would have to amp up our game at home to have intentional conversations about how these ideas might contrast with our own values. We don’t want to shelter them. We want to equip them. This felt really important to both Graham and I. Sometimes I have to stop and really think about whether I am making parenting decisions out of fear or out of sound logic. It is easy for the line between fear and wisdom to blur. We make concerted effort to talk to the kids about hard things, to not keep uncomfortable topics hidden from them. We want the kids to know why we make the decisions we do. Enter the the ever-present request for sleepovers with their friends. We were at our school’s science fair when another mom I’ve spoken with only once approached me. Our daughters are in class together and enjoy each others’ company, though honestly I haven’t been hearing her name around the dinner table at all recently. This mom told me that her daughter’s birthday was coming up and I knew what was coming the instant she opened her mouth. She said they were planning a sleepover and that Emma was on the must-invite list. “Oh how exciting,” I started. “Emma would love to come for all the evening activities but we have a ‘No Sleepover’ policy in our house so I would be happy to pick her up before bedtime.” The mom looked at me, obviously a bit shocked. “Like no sleepovers at all?” she asked. “Yeah. Unfortunately that’s our family rule right now,” I told her. She heard the words “right now” and spotted the space for a loophole. She began to push a little and, under the pressure, I accidentally let it slip that big sister had done a sleepover with a couple very close family friends when she was a little older. “I mean,” she said. “I know you don’t know me or anything but….” she faded off. On the one hand, it sounded like she was hearing my reservation. But on the other, she was continuing to press. My level of discomfort was growing and I began to babble awkwardly, as I’m prone to do in situations like these. “We let her sister do a sleepover when she was 9 so we’re waiting until then,” I finished. Now, what I’d intended to be my iron-clad no sleepovers family policy, was slipping. How could I let this lady know, without offending her, that I was not going to allow my 7-year-old to sleepover at her house? I was feeling pressured and guilty. I was starting to second guess. Was I drawing this line out of wisdom or out of fear? This wasn’t the first time a fellow parent had given me pause and caused me to reconsider whether our stance was in fact a bit ridiculous. After backpedaling some more and finally giving her a few more awkward lines about how we just weren’t doing sleepovers with Emma, she responded with “Good luck with that,” and we went our separate ways. I felt sick to my stomach after this interaction. I had nothing at all against this mom in particular. In fact, her invitation was incredibly appealing on numerous levels. It ministered to a tender space in my heart that was hurting for my daughter, who had been struggling socially. I wanted her to expand her friend pool. I wanted to foster better, closer relationships with her friends. In a weaker moment, I might've fully sacrificed my “bigger-picture” values (no sleepovers because safety is my top priority) to remedy the hurts of the “now” (I want her to have friends!) But the bottom line was that I wasn’t okay with sleepovers. I had heard enough from friends about the unsafe encounters that take place when kids sleep together unsupervised and I just didn’t think it was wise. This decision was based in wisdom, not fear. Despite all this, my self-talk after this encounter was pretty ugly. I chided myself for buckling under the pressure and not presenting our philosophy with greater confidence. “Decide something and then own it with conviction!” I tell myself. This will perpetually be an area of great struggle for me. I teeter dangerously on the ledge of caring too much what other people think of me. To cement my conviction, I want someone else to tell me the decision I’ve made is the right one. I’m trying to have grace for myself, to realize not everything in life can be that cut and dry. To allow my own personal experiences to be reason enough. I was still wavering a little on the sleepover issue. There was a sliver of space remaining where someone could have squeezed in a really solid argument to convince me to permiss them. Until yesterday. My 4th grader reported that one of her classmates had shared with her about a co-ed sleepover that he had participated in the night before. After the adults went to bed, the elementary-aged kids present decided to play “Quack Diddly Oso,” a clapping game where kids sit in a circle and place their hands together and clap around the circle to the words of a song. The person who receives the clap on the last word of the song loses. This particular group of kids decided that the loser of each round should have to kiss the feet of all the others. This lasted for a little while until it lost its novelty and they decided to up the ante. One thing led to another and pretty soon the loser’s penalty involved both nakedness and other body parts that need not be named for you to get the picture. Yeah. That was all I needed to hear. These kids are in FOURTH GRADE. Curiosity killed the cat, y’all. And if this is what happens at ages 9 and 10, use your imagination about what might be coming down the pipes in the teen years. I don’t think I need to say more. If ever I needed evidence to cement my opinion, I got it this week. And, for the record, my stance on sleepovers is the same regardless of whether it is girls only, boys only, or coed. We’ve all got body parts that can be used in unsafe ways. And I’m just not willing to risk it with my kids. I think this is wisdom, not fear. So, if ever you want my child to sleepover, I can politely decline and refer you to this here “Sleepover Manifesto.” It’s not personal. It’s just how we’re gonna do it over here. Plus, no one ever gets any sleep at sleepovers anyways.

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Sheesh

Behind all the pretty pictures is a whole heck of a lot of hot mess, right?

We are launching into fall at lightning speed and I feel a bit like that kid who is racing out the front door on one foot, folder clenched in jaw, attempting to stuff his sock-clad other foot into his Sketcher only to see the school bus whiz past his house and fade off into the distance without him aboard. Anyone else out there?

Anyone?

The bus has passed the station and many days I’m unsure whether we made it aboard or not. Somehow my summer-induced amnesia caused me to delusionally forget that with school comes scheduling and homework and exhaustion and emotions upon emotions and we are IN IT deep right now, it seems.

We have one kid who is struggling to stay focused and who is rapidly growing discouraged. She forgets everything (like imagine your definition of “everything” and then triple it and you might be halfway to my definition of “everything”) and I’m pulling my hair out on most days trying to coax (okay fine, drag) her through life’s systems and routines like putting dirty clothes in the hamper, shoes on the shelf, and doing one’s homework. For the third year in a row. It feels like murder every freaking day for both of us and I’m pretty sure one of us won’t be alive next week if we can’t come up with a solution and PRONTO. On the positive, she is playing soccer this season and we are two weeks in and she hasn’t even asked to quit yet. This is the longest she has stuck with something that requires moving her body for any length of time, so I will take it and run with it, even if she does volunteer to “take a break” anytime her coach needs to sub out during a game. This girl is precious and she’s amazing and she’s struggling. I’m not blind to the prevalence of hereditary health disorders in our family so on my desk you will find a fresh packet of papers from her pediatrician, awaiting our call to pursue further evaluation to see how we can help this sweet kid. Sigh. We are IN IT.

Then we have another kid who is launching into her 5^th year of serious struggling. Yikes. Has it really been 5 years? FIVE years? NO WONDER I feel the way I do! She has ping-ponged around through various therapies, all marginally helpful, but just this past year, we finally landed on one that I’m praying will change our world. We are working with some amazing doctors at Seattle Children’s and, though we’ve bounced around through a couple different clinics over the past year, I undoubtedly see the hand of God in the timing of all that has come together for us.

This past spring, after a couple of months of sleeping hell, we got into a phenomenal parent/child anxiety course that I mentioned in a post here. We learned a lot of fantastic, and, not to mention surprising, cognitive behavioral therapy tactics for addressing anxiety, and soon we had a kid who could successfully put herself to sleep again without hours of crying and parental intervention. (I thought I paid my not-sleeping-through-the-night dues during her infancy. Sheesh was I ever wrong!) We naïvely believed we had achieved shalom in the home again, so much so that we actually declined an entirely UNHEARD OF opening for one-on-one therapy with one of the doctors at Children’s. It seemed crazy to take that appointment from someone who really needed it. We were experiencing our own form of “remission” and so we said “Thanks but no thanks. But can you please call us in eight weeks to make sure we haven’t changed our minds?” That last interjection illustrates that, despite temporary brain-lapse moments which I continue to refer to as “baby brain” five years post, we do have a sliver of intelligence left after all.

PRAISE THE LORD IN HEAVEN ALMIGHTY that Children’s willingly accommodated our lofty request to “call us later to check in.” Sure enough, summer started off with more or less smooth sailing. Then July came roaring in and I started to witness more frequent concerning behaviors in our child that left me twinging. They hit really close to home. Too close. So close that I began experiencing huge waves of déjà vu. After one such encounter, I called Graham at work and told him what had gone down. “Crap,” was his only response. I think both of us knew then and there the trajectory we were on but only time would tell.

We were a hot steaming mess by the time August rolled around but thankfully Children’s had called mid-July and I’d had the foresight to say a valiant “YES” to their services and we’d put an upcoming appointment on the calendar. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

I went in to that appointment, like most first visits, not quite knowing what to expect. I can tell you for absolute sure that I did not expect to walk away with what we did: a shiny new diagnosis of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) for my daughter. It’s hard for me to find the words. Though it was 100% the diagnosis I was expecting someday, sometime, at even the next appointment perhaps, it was not what I was anticipating right then, so soon, in our brief 50 minutes together. It was almost as if I had been blind-sided and yet entirely affirmed all at the same time. The diagnosis is undeniable and I would know better than anyone. It’s frightening how many of her symptoms align identically with the way they presented in me when I was diagnosed in 8^th grade. It’s been rather triggering for me to wade through the awful, terrible, wholly consuming murk that is OCD again, but this time as a bystander and coach who also happens to understand the disorder intimately. My poor, sweet girl. 

But the good news? We are in such an amazing program! I literally get goosebumps when I think about how far things have come since I went through my own treatment. I am shocked weekly at the “exposures” I am asked to walk my daughter through. We are teaching her to “talk back to the OCD” and do the opposite of what OCD is telling her to do. It’s so counterintuitive and confusing and amazing all at once.

So yeah. Us Croziers are really “in it” right now, this strange, seemingly-never-ending pursuit of health, wholeness and well-being for all of us. I am still working through my own stuff. Graham is working through his. I’m just waiting for kid three to show his cards and we’ll get him enrolled in whatever form of therapy he needs. Perhaps by then they will have some sort of “buy two, get one free” sort of deal we can monopolize on. Ha! Seriously though, is this just life? Sometimes I wonder if we are crazy for our level of dysfunction. Or if I’m just crazy for thinking our level of crazy is crazier than others? Whatever the case, life is hard and good and rich and challenging and we are doing our darndest to come before the Lord each day for strength and sustenance. Because heaven knows we need it! Onward!

Bravery like birds

I hug her one last time, kiss her cheek, and whisper in her ear that she’s brave. In her eyes, old tears dried at the corners, I see fear, and it pains me. I bite my lip, send up yet another silent prayer, and turn my back and walk away. I feel like a mother bird, pushing her young offspring out of the nest, wishing, hoping and praying that she will open her wings and realize she can fly.

They, the ubiquitous “they,” always say that having kids is like watching your heart walk around outside of your body and I had never understood exactly what they meant until recently. In so many ways, she’s my mini-me. We think alike, we view the world the same way, we share similar struggles. I know the feelings of fear and dread that knot in her stomach this morning, all the emotions raging within, her mind that spins with tormenting thoughts, distracting, wholly consuming.

Her goal today is to get in trouble at school. There are many things we say and do in parenting that we never anticipated. Please take that rock out of your nose. Stop licking your brother’s toes. But asking my child to break a rule? This is unchartered territory, not the advice I’m accustomed to reading in the pages of parenting books. Specifically, we’ve instructed her to disregard her classroom rules and get up, walk over to the pencil sharpener and begin sharpening her pencils during a time when her classmates are seated on the floor and listening to a lesson. She is to stand there, toying with the pencil sharpener and creating a ruckus until her teacher calls her back. This is our baby step toward facing her fear of “getting in trouble.”

It’s counterintuitive and baffling, especially for me, a fellow rule-follower to the Nth degree. She and I, we care so much about what other people think. We’ve lived our lives boxed in on all sides by the opinions of others, desiring perfection, wanting to be found satisfactory. Because alas, on most days, we catch ourselves assessing our worth as based upon what we do, what we have, and what other people think of us.

It is these chains that we are trying to break today, in days past, and in the many days to come. We are undertaking what those in the psychotherapy world would term “exposures,” instances where we intentionally face situations that make us feel most anxious. And then, equipped with “coping thoughts” and strategies, we ride the waves of emotion with the goal of coming out okay on the other side, braver, stronger, relieved and very much still alive. These exercises are a part of a new approach we are taking, cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), a practice that is believed to help individuals overcome anxiety, which is our obvious long-term goal.

All morning, I’ve watched her. I know exactly how she is feeling. It’s written all over her face. I know she will think of nothing else until the triggering deed is complete. I know how it will consume her, how she will think, rethink, overthink and then begin the cycle again. She will obsess over how and when she should approach the pencil sharpener. Should she jump up and run to it right away after her classmates are settled on the carpet? Should she wait until five minutes into the lesson? What if her teacher asks them to bring pencils to the carpet? What if it makes sense to go and sharpen her pencil during that time frame? Will the exposure be void? What if her teacher never asks them to go to the carpet? What if she can’t get the pencil sharpener to work? What if her teacher never calls her back from the sharpener and she stands there sharpening for 15 minutes? What will others think of her?

We rehearse and discuss all morning long. She is plagued. She cannot fathom how this pencil sharpening ordeal will go down without an eternal stamp of embarrassment tattooed across her forehead. She can’t get outside of the situation and see it for what it is. It feels so life-altering.

Experience tells me this is how the morning will go down: she will walk over to the pencil sharpener and her teacher will say a simple “Hey, can you please join us at the carpet?” And then it will be over. All this anxiety over a situation that lasted a grand total of three seconds. No “behavior slip” with her name on it. No trips to the principal’s office. Her permanent record with remain unmarred. Her teacher will still like her. She will not lose any friendships over this. Her friends probably won’t even notice that she was missing at the carpet and they most certainly won’t remember the situation in two minute’s time.

It’s easy being the outsider looking in, but to be the one experiencing it? I’ve been there countless times before and I know it’s the pits. I can hardly stand it, knowing I am pushing my child to do this. Yet I know it is for her best. How often have I obsessed over similar circumstances?

We have been attending an anxiety group “for our daughter” and meanwhile, I catch myself frantically taking notes for me. Everything they present applies to my struggles. They are highlighting all MY behaviors. They are giving voice to the way I view so many situations.

I’m like a schoolgirl on her first day of class, absorbing, inhaling information. I’ve been doing my own therapy too and it’s like all my worlds are colliding in perfect synchrony, pieces coming together and building upon each other. We learn about our inner critics, these voices that tell us we are failures, not good enough, voices that convince us everyone is paying attention and judging. We learn about positive self-talk, our own inner voice that is to replace all the negative ones. We need to create new pathways in our brains. We need to reroute our thoughts onto detours, with the goal of those detours one day becoming the new main thoroughfare. All this is taught at a child’s level, which is apparently just the level I need.

I feel EVERYTHING. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t see it more clearly before. I’m mortified that it took hearing the information presented at a class intended for my child to obtain a full grasp on it. I feel entirely overwhelmed. There is so much work to do. She’s been on this earth for less than a decade and I’ve been here for over three and here we find ourselves, on the same page. I mourn the fact that I didn’t have the tools I needed earlier to combat my anxiety, that for so long I have allowed what other people think of me to govern my life. I feel responsible. It stings knowing my daughter shares my DNA, that she struggles because I struggle. I know genetics are not my fault, but it doesn’t erase how this knowledge pains me.

At the same time, I celebrate our progress. I celebrate the ways God is working in our home and family. The Holy Spirit is moving and empowering and filling our minds and teaching us the way HE views us. More than ever before, we are learning to view ourselves as “fearfully and wonderfully made.” We are countering our negative thoughts about ourselves. We are replacing them with words of worth. We are learning to let go of the opinions of those around us. We are breaking the rules. We are living on the edge a little. Well. The “edge” for us anyways.

And, by the grace of God, we are being pushed from the nest and realizing, Hey. We might just have wings to fly.

This, my friends, is bravery.

Freedom From Food Fights - A New Series!

Let me see a show of hands – How many of you have ZERO concerns about how your children are eating? You are experiencing perfectly-smooth mealtimes and feel totally confident that your kids are getting everything they need and that they will grow up to be excellent eaters. Yes?

Anyone?

Gosh, it feels quiet out there.

If I were a betting woman, I would be willing to put my entire “Dream Kitchen Savings Fund” on the line (which is obviously a LOT of money because freelance writing is known for bringing in the bacon - read: I have yet to get paid a penny but I digress…) and venture to guess that no one out there is feeling perfectly secure about how and what their kids are eating. Yeah, me neither. Just because I have the head knowledge does not make me immune to the pressures of our culture and all the mama guilt about “doing things right.” I worry, just like the rest of you, about whether my kids are going to go their entire childhoods never allowing a green vegetable to pass through their lips. I wonder how many sweets are “too many.” I second guess whether it is really okay that my son, despite the plethora of options before him, consumes only milk for dinner 5 out of 7 nights a week. I get it, people. I’m in the trenches with you.

For a lot of us, mealtimes have turned into something approach with fear and trepidation and even dread. Food fights are rampant. We wonder…

“What tricks will my kids try and pull tonight?”

“Will they even taste anything that I prepare?”

Maybe things have grown so difficult around mealtimes your home that you find yourself asking “Is it even worth it to cook anymore?”

Or maybe you aren’t cooking because life is overwhelming, and time is scarce, and cooking isn’t really your thing, yet the guilt is SO HEAVY and you fear you are ruining your kids forever.

You have come to the right place. Pull a chair up to the table. There is room for you here, too.  

Over the course of my career, my passion for feeding kids has evolved. I have struggled personally since becoming a mom and I have watched those close to me struggle and grow frustrated with feeding their kids. I have spent a lot of time studying this subject area and I see a need for a better approach. I’m excited to share some strategies that I have learned from my professional life as a registered dietitian that will help you face the challenges head on with confidence.

If any of these struggles I’ve highlighted are the trenches where you find yourself, welcome. You might feel alone but there are approximately 126.22 million other families feeling just like you (2017 U.S. census data) so join the party and read on!

I’m launching into a series on my blog where I will dive into some of the common feeding challenges parents express to me and how to handle them. I have many posts already written that I will be re-sharing as well as a whole bunch of ideas for new ones, yet to be written. I would love to hear from you if there is a particular struggle that you would like me to address. Feel free to leave a comment on the blog (or any of my social media platforms) or send me an email and I will do my best to dive into some of your specific concerns and challenges.

You might be surprised that in most cases, the answer is much simpler than you think.

Stay tuned.

Body Talk: "BUT HOW DOES THE EGG GET FERTILIZED?!"

My daughter’s dreams finally came true. And no, it is NOT that she gets to be a big sister again. Let's just nip that one in the bud right now before any rumors get started. It's that she is now officially the proud owner of The World’s Creepiest Toy, the Hatchimal. Have you heard of them? If not, you are lucky. In a moment of sheer foolishness, I told her we would buy her one as her reward for successfully completing her sticker chart (instead of the live goldfish she insisted she no longer wanted). I was desperate. The girl went to school for 9 months last year and opted to actually hang her backpack on the hook and put her shoes on the shelf exactly ZERO TIMES of her own accord. Parenting this unmotivated child is going to be the death of me. Which is why I have delegated that task to her father. Good luck, Crozier!

So, I said YES ABSOLUTELY YES when this Hatchimal magical motivator entered the picture. I neglected to Google it first, this is how desperate I was. Never again y’all, never again. Did you know that real, functional, and contributing-to-society human beings pay $60 for this nightmare-inducing noise-maker? SIXTY DOLLARS!!! I about died when I learned what I had committed us to purchasing.

For those of you favored souls who haven’t yet been introduced to the Hatchimal, allow me to tell you a little bit about it. They were created by someone who must have thought to himself, I should turn a stuffed animal into an electronic and add creepy noises and eyes that flash (in what looks like hot anger to me, but actually just signifies the creature has the hiccups - my bad!) and it will be a best seller!” And surprisingly, he was right. The kids love it. The thing is terrifying, particularly in the dark when you see it in the pile of stuffed animals with eggs gleaming hot. So what does this have to do with eggs and fertilization and sex, you ask? Read on! 

Before you get to the enjoyable phase of actually cuddling the Hatchimal (Is it a bird? An owl? A dragon? A bear with wings? I still am unsure…), you first get to witness it hatching. You see, the inventor, though arguably mildly psychotic, was also ingenious. What better business idea than to sell an over-priced stuffed animal in a large plastic egg and make the breaking of the egg “part of the fun” so that, when all is said and done and the thing has hatched and the child loses interest and no longer wants the toy (which happens approximately 3 hours after hatching), horrified parents can’t even return to the beast and find themselves out sixty bucks. Perfect! Not that this was our experience or anything…

Admittedly, the hatching process was rather exciting. The creature has this hard, plastic beak (which makes it all the creepier if it was intended to be a bear…) and, if you keep rubbing and holding the egg, which needs physical touch just as much as the rest of us apparently, it pecks its way out over the course of about 20 suspenseful minutes. My kids have now witnessed the “birth” of two Hatchimal babies and I experienced some mild alarm as I heard them make all sort of proclamations likening the emerging of Hatchimals to the birth of real, live humans. God help us all, have I taught them nothing about their bodies this summer!? The most inflammatory statement came from my seven-year-old who announced to her cousins “Now you know what it is like to have a baby!” Oh child, I have no words.

I didn’t realize just how far backwards we had gone in the sexual education department until the end of the summer when my three-year-old saw a photo of me and his older two sisters and asked if he was there too. I told him that no, he was still “just an egg” in my belly and he looked at me with mild alarm. “I was in your belly!?! Inside an egg?!”

This was not the first time we’d had this conversation but obviously this takes numerous mentions to fully absorb. He took a few moments to process this information before he continued in all seriousness:

“Was I in there playing with all the chickies?”

Mic drop.

Why yes, Son, you all the baby chicks and un-hatched Hatchimals were having a grand old time in my belly. Thanks for asking. In all fairness, this reproduction stuff is rather complicated. Wait, girls have how many holes? What’s a uterus? Girls have hundreds of eggs but they aren’t all babies? The eggs need to be fertilized? What does that mean?

I’m a huge proponent of having one hundred, one-minute conversations about sex and not one, one-hundred-minute talk. We are making our way gradually toward that one hundred number, give or take a few. There is certainly nothing magical about having 100 sex-related talks but rather it’s simply the idea that we need to be having these short, frequent conversations. It feels like we’ve touched on this topic so many times, but in truth, I’m guessing we are only on conversation number 13 or 14. Which explains why our kids still have visions of little chickies dancing around with them in my uterus. Only 87 more conversations to go and I should have them set straight.

After refreshing my son’s memory about how girls have eggs but that they don’t become babies until they are fertilized by the daddy’s sperm, we continued with our lives. It wasn’t until we were in a massive hot tub with about one thousand other people at a waterslide park this summer that he decided to resurrect the conversation. Children always have a knack for selecting the most opportune times to discuss the act of sex. I have no idea how we got on the subject but he began reminiscing about back when he was in my belly. First, he wanted to know about how he made his exit and so I told him that I pushed him out.

This was obviously quite confusing. “You pushed me out!? How?” he asked. I could see the father sitting three feet away from us in the hot tub beginning to eye me.

Carefully, in the most hushed and intentionally-garbled tone I could muster, I whispered “Well, you know how when you have to go poop? Mothers push babies out of their bellies sort of like that.”

Oh perfect, I scolded myself inwardly. Likening the miracle of childbirth to defecation was probably not your strongest explanatory move, Kelsie. But what was done was done.

My son pondered this thoughtfully for a moment before taking the conversation backward 9 months to the egg phase. “So, I was an egg in your belly?” he reminisced. And then, as if it was the most common public hot tub conversation ever, he practically yelled his curiosity:

“BUT HOW DOES THE EGG GET FERTILIZED!?”

If people weren’t looking at me before, they certainly were now. I acted really cool and casual (read: I was DYING) as I surveyed my audience. They seemed to be ready to simultaneously grab their kids and bolt or send their offspring my way and disappear and let me do the hardest part for them. Though it was mildly tempting to educate the entire hot tub in one fell swoop, I restrained myself and through gritted teeth, told my son “This is a conversation we should continue in private” and we evacuated and made a run for our towels.

This little “incident,” one of many, reminded me of my need and desire to resurrect some notes I took from a MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) talk I heard a few years back. The speaker provided a whole list of books that she recommended as a launching point for sex conversations with our kids. We’ve been slowly working our way through a couple of them over the past month and the kids are enthralled. My husband, though totally on board with the idea of educating our kids on sex and their bodies, is slightly less likely than I to volunteer the topic. But he is fully aware that I have peppered our household with all sorts of literature on the subject. He told me while laughing heartily that last weekend he walked in to the room to find our 3 and 6-year-old seated quietly together on the couch, each eagerly “reading” books about their bodies.

How does this sit with you? Where are you at with introducing your kids to the amazing way our bodies work? Maybe you’ve never had a conversation about sex with your kids and they think babies hatch like chicks. Or maybe you are 50 conversations in and your kids know more names for their anatomy than you ever did. Whatever the case, if you are feeling a bit leery about just jumping right in yet really desire to make this a safe topic in your home, perhaps beginning with a book would help. Here are a couple of titles I would recommend for starters to get you going:  

“It’s Not the Stork! A Book About Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families and Friends” by Robie H. Harris

“It’s So Amazing! A Book About Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families” by Robie H. Harris

If you have other favorites you would recommend, I’m all ears! Happy reading. :) 

My affiliate link is used in this post. To read my disclosure policy, click here. 

A Good Enough Summer

I'm taking a break from my Body Talk series, because, well, summer is ending this week and I have a few things I want to say. I’ve been thinking a lot about seasons lately. I’ve been thinking about how God must have designed them to accommodate our need for variety and creativity. We long for the sunny days summer and, once they are upon us, our expectations turn toward the cooler days of fall. As humans, our attention span rarely lands in one place for any length of time. We like movement, rhythm; we are cyclical in nature.

Not 2 ½ months ago, I wrote about how desperate I was for the close of the school year which you can read about here. We were done with the schedules and the homework and all the things. We were ready for lazy days and for freedom. And now here we are two days from the beginning of a new school year and all I want is schedule and routine and order again. I’m totally over the chaos that accompanies freedom. I’m really to create systems and whip my crazy messy environment (read: my house) into shape.

Maybe it’s the constant nature of my home life that makes me long for school and space and time again. I simply cannot keep up with the perpetual questioning and requesting from the mouths of babes. The people-pleaser in me wants to meet each need. If I don’t consciously fight against it, it’s how I catch myself measuring my success (which, as a mom, is a sure-fire way to feel like a failure if there ever was one!)

Or maybe it is my filthy house - the piles 80 days high of paper and swim bags and craft projects and Lego towers, all stuff that has gone ignored and has accumulated with not a spare moment to address it, that makes me ready for a new season.

Maybe it is the fact that I currently cannot exit the house without three little cling-ons literally bolting to the door and wailing in their distress things like “Why do you ALWAYS have to leave us!?” I could be unlocking the front door to water the plants on the porch and they will come running. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!?” they cry, as if I make a habit of abandoning them. Suddenly the past 162 hours straight I have spent with them amounts to nothing in their minds. All they can think about is how I “always” leave. In my weaker moments (read: every time), I can barely handle it. Feelings of guilt threaten to take over. They send me reeling and I catch myself wondering for a second “Gosh, maybe I am actually a neglectful mom.” Heavens. Seriously?

Maybe it is the fact that I’m an introvert and we have been go-go-going and peopling and socializing all summer long. I sent the following SOS text to a friend recently and it provides excellent testament to my mental state: “All I need is like three weeks alone and then I’d probably like humans again.” Just a mere 21 days alone on a beach with a tropical beverage and I would be back up and functional again. But then 5 minutes after the company departs, I suddenly I feel desperately lonely. As my husband has been known to say, “Sometimes there is no winning with you.” Ha! You can say that again.

So, it’s time for a new season. And I think God designed us this way. Every time another season dawns, the newness might excite us. Or it might leave us feeling anxious and unsettled by the unknown. But it also draws our attention in a unique and needed way that keeps us on our toes. When knee-deep in any one season, it can be tempting to just glance up to take in our surroundings. We glaze over, disengage and stop paying attention because not much changes from day to day. Everything becomes a part of the scenery, losing its potency and so we begin to miss a lot.

We need a new horizon, a new vantagepoint. New seasons jolt us awake again. They alert us to focus in and take account, to reevaluate and check our game plan. They help us realize how worn we really are.

New seasons bring change. As much as we may claim to hate change, it serves a valuable purpose. Change is an inevitable force that presents us with two options: we can stand our ground and stay put, refusing to shift with the tides and grow stagnant and quickly irrelevant OR we can jump aboard the new program and adapt. We need seasons. We need a forced change in routine.

I’m thrilled for school to start on Wednesday. Beyond thrilled. Yet I know when I kiss my girls’ little heads and send them off to the classrooms where they will spend the next 9 months, I will be fighting back tears. They will be tears of sadness, yes, but also there will be tears of regret. A change in season can be exciting but, for some of us, the feelings are mixed. We may look back and not like the looks of what we see in the rearview mirror. While we may be elated about a new rhythm, it is all too easy to fall victim to feelings of regret and guilt for what has passed.

I know myself and, if I’m not careful, I know I will be overcome by a list of summer “shoulds” and “what ifs” on Wednesday. Suddenly I will think of all the things we “should” have done this summer but didn’t, all the ways I had hoped to pour into my children but that I never found the energy to implement. I will regret wishing them gone. I will most definitely question my worthiness as their mother. Suddenly the trips we took to the waterslides, to the wading pool and the lake, the morning snuggles, chauffeuring them to and from art camp and soccer camp and Vacation Bible School, the birthday parties planned, the meals out, the bike rides, the playdates and the berry picking – all these will go absent from my memory. The only things I will be able to recall are the things I intended but failed to actualize.

So, I am writing these words now, in a moment where I am not overcome by emotion, so I can read them to myself on Wednesday when I bid my older kids adieu: I am a good mom, no matter what guilt and regret might try to tell me. I love my kids and I even like them most of the time too. Our summer was good enough.

Does that phrase “good enough” just make you cringe? Oh, how it does me! Who wants their claim to fame to be that they were “good enough?” Or that they planned a vacation that was “good enough?” Well, I can tell you. Exactly no one. But, I am a firm believer that, as a culture, we need to turn this notion of perfection and ridiculous expectation on its head and grow to be okay with the good enough.

My kids had a blast this summer. My laundry mountain towers as evidence to it. They were cared for and loved. And therefore, our summer was good enough. Full stop.

Do you also need to be reminded of these words? Do you need to hear that what you did over the past 12 weeks was enough? No matter what has happened in your life this summer, there is bound to be something you didn’t get to. There is some outing or activity or art project that you had fully and absolutely intended to complete with your kids. And you didn’t. Or maybe it was visions of special one-on-one time with each child that didn’t materialize. Maybe you had hoped to snuggle them in bed every night and talk about their days but reality played out differently.

Mama, where did the time go? The days flew by and yet oh how they dragged on and now a new season is upon you. You might be wondering why you never made it to that new park or got together with that one person you said you would see all summer. Did your hours go toward comforting distraught children? Nourishing them with homemade meals? Cleaning their toilets (even if it was just that one time over the entirety of the summer?) Were you nursing boo-boos? Packing for trips? Folding laundry? Standing outside a bedroom door holding it shut to contain a tantruming child?

So often we don’t give ourselves enough credit. We kick ourselves needlessly. Our expectations are far too high. We wonder if we built enough summer memories with our children. Our minds go blank - did we have any positive interactions with them over the past 3 months? Allow me to answer that question for you: YES. Yes, you absolutely did. Your emotions may be clouding your view at this moment but trust me, you did.

Rest assured tired mama, what you did or didn’t do over the summer is in the past. Fight that twisted corner of your brain that might try and convince you that you “should” feel guilty about what went down. I don’t recall a single verse in the Bible that endorses guilt and regret. These are not from our God.

A new season is upon us. Go forth encouraged that, by the grace of God, you are enough.

A tribute to their Dad

Happiest of Father's Days to the guy on the left, my kids' amazing Dad. 

When we took the plunge into to parenthood, I had no idea what it would look like for my husband to step into his new role as "Dad." 

But let me tell you, he is ROCKING it. The photo above was taken mere moments after he became a father. Just look at his sweet grin as he gazes at our eldest! He is so proud of her and it shows. What has surprised me most about his fatherhood journey has been how naturally everything comes to him. Prior to starting a family, I never really saw Graham around kids, let alone babies, but it wasn't long before I began referring to him as the "baby whisperer." The ease with which he has taken each of our children (and others' children) into his arms leaves me in awe every time.

He is calm and fearless and very little fazes him. These are awesome qualities to have in a father. He approaches life with ease; my how fiercely he loves his brood! When our second born was terrifyingly ill and re-hospitalized as a newborn, he was both a rock and a safe place, tenderly loving and deeply bonded with his sick infant daughter. It was a moving moment for a mother to witness. Graham isn't afraid to show emotion and I am proud that our kids will get to learn from him how experience and show emotion with confidence. What a gift!

I told Graham many-a-times in those first few years of raising girls that he was made to be a daddy to daughters. But now I know he's absolutely made for parenting a boy as well. Just look at the way he is beaming (above) when he held our newborn son for the very first time (above). I can't even. He's smitten.

Graham is the best partner to have at my side. During the infant years, he was always the more patient one when it came to getting a baby to sleep. When I had done and had it, he would step in and send me to bed, replacing my frustrated exhaustion with a fresh willingness to rock and bounce and rock some more. Whether it was sleep-training or binky-eliminating or some other insanity-inducing parenting tactic we were taking on, Graham always formed his stance confidently. Still to this day, he stands unaffected by what those around us our doing; he does what he believes is best for our family of five. 

If you were to ask the kids some of their favorite things about their dad, I'm sure the following would make the list:

-how he tells amazing stories about "Long John Sliver"

-how he plays the "Speckled Frogs" song on the piano while they jump of the living room furniture, er, I mean lilypads

-how he snuggles them

-how he writes songs about tractors and combines that now the whole family knows

-how he takes them on zoo adventures

-how he makes them "flat pancakes" and lets them eat Nutella with reckless abandon

-how he helps them with the hard math problems on their homework

-how he takes them swimming and stand-up paddleboarding

There are days where it feels as though he and I are just plain missing each other on the parenting front. Our desired approaches can be so different that at times it is hard to imagine it's the same thing we want. In our exhaustion, we can cut and tear down the ways of the other. We can argue and disagree and debate over how to train and raise up and parent these souls who have been entrusted to our care. It is easy to get lost in the fog of busyness or get sink ourselves in the harmful trench of the "It's my way or the highway" kind of attitude. 

Yet when I pause and step back, I am always reminded it is the very best for our kids that we are both after. The picture of "very best" that I have formulated in my mind might look different than the one he sees. But it is this same goal we are after. WE ARE ON THE SAME TEAM! We are fighting together against disconnection and disorder and hurt and pain, and fighting together for connection and order and joy and love. This, my friends is a very, very good thing. And there is no other man I would want raising my beautiful brood of three.

I've heard it said before, "The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother."

I absolutely could not agree more. And Graham nails it with this one.

In front of our children, he compliments me, woos me, touches me, prioritizes me, dates me and affirms me. It is one of the most beautiful things in the world to be loved by a man and have your kids stand witness to it. In a culture that prioritizes parenting over marriage, kids activities over date night, it's no wonder we struggle with disconnection and a lack of intimacy.

So to all you dads out there, I leave you with this, your Father's Day charge: Love your wife. Tell her not just that you love her but also that you cherish her, that you adore her. Pay attention to details, to the intricacies of her day-to-day. Date her, prioritize her and see her. This is your challenge.

And to all you mama readers out there, you get a Father's Day charge as well: Honor your husband and sing his praises. Set the housework aside for a moment and focus on him. You may feel tired and exhausted and so totally done, but dig deep for a minute or two to hold him and tell him all the reasons you think he is an amazing dad. Remember that he is on your team. Notice the ways he is supporting you. 

Happy Father's Day to all you amazing Dads out there. You play such a special, formative role in equipping the next generation and so many little eyes are watching you and following your lead.

And a special shout out and HAPPY FATHER'S DAY goes to my main man and the love of my life! THANK YOU for being on my team. I would have it no other way. 

Eggs, Worms, Sex and Pie

Last night we had an exciting dinnertime conversation, exciting in all the ways imaginable.

It all started because we were talking about eggs. My daughter landed the envious role of "Narrator Number 2" in her kindergarten class' upcoming production of Jack and the Beanstalk. Her lines, which she has been rehearsing nightly, set the stage for Jack and the Giant and the hen who lays golden eggs.

We were talking about how magical this would be - to have a hen laying eggs of solid gold. Before I knew it, the conversation had morphed and my five-year-old started out her next sentence with the words "Well, if people laid eggs..."

I saw the opportunity and I seized it.

"Honey, girls do have eggs inside them," I told her. "We don't exactly lay them like hens do, but us girls have eggs in our bodies from the moment we are born."

"I know, Mom," my seven-year-old joined. She isn't one to be left out of the conversation. "There was this one time," she continued, "my friend was telling me how she and her little brother were teasing each other. He told her 'You have eggs inside of you!" and then, to get back at him, she said 'Well you have worms inside of you and that's worse!'"

Graham and I looked at each other, trying our best to hide our grins. Worms, huh? Ha!

Worms? Sperm? Same difference, right? 😉

My kindergartener, of course, found this idea hysterical. I could see her imagination taking the concept to the next level, dreaming up of pictures of little boys running about with squirmy worms coursing through their veins.

"Actually," I corrected, "I think what he was referring to was something called 'sperm' and I'm not sure a boy his age would have that yet."

I couldn't remember for absolute sure so thus commenced a quick bit of scientific "research" (read: I asked Siri to Google it) where I confirmed the fact that boys don't have sperm until they reach puberty. I was pretty sure this was the case but I wanted to feel confident and I was teaching my kids accurately.

None of the conversation was planned but, before I knew it, we were having a full-blown discussion about puberty and the purpose behind the menstrual cycle and what happens physiologically during a period. Then of course they wanted to know why boys have millions of sperm. I spared them no detail and told them that intercourse is for purposes beyond just baby-making so boys need to have tons of sperm so there's enough to go around for those times when parenthood IS actually the goal.

HELLO!!!! (Are you still with me?)

It wasn't our first conversation and it certainly won't be our last. We were on the subject for a grand total of maybe three minutes before the kids moved on and were asking if it was time for pie. Seriously. Eggs, worms, sex, and pie. The topics of our chat flowed together with epic smoothness in their little minds. They were absolutely unashamed, unembarrassed and unfazed and, I have to say, it felt pretty amazing.

A couple things happened during this conversation that I think are important to highlight:

1. Maybe the first one is obvious. WE TALKED WITH OUR THREE, FIVE AND SEVEN-YEAR-OLD ABOUT SEX!! Outloud. Is that even legal?!?? If there is sweat on your brow and you are squirming in your seat, I get it. This definitely would not have been a kosher conversation to be having with kids this age when I was growing up, at least in the community I was raised in. Regardless of our thoughts and upbringings, the topic makes many of us feel reeeeeeeeally uncomfortable. But I know it is incredibly important so I'm speaking up and saying something. The experts today are telling us that what kids need are one hundred, one-minute conversations about sex, not one, one hundred-minute conversation with a side of red, embarrassed faces all around. We need to be interjecting the facts from a very early age, teaching our kids that our bodies are beautifully and wonderfully made, not something to be hushed about, scared of, or embarrassed by. In a best-case scenario, we will be encouraging our kids to ask questions and we will be communicating to them that WE are a safe source for them to come to when they are confused. Frankly, I would rather have my kids coming to ask ME why their sheets are wet when they wake up in the morning or why they feel all tingly when they are around a cute boy than having them find out from another (untrustworthy or potentially inaccurate) source!    

2. We used the real names for all body parts throughout our conversation. We don't do this simply because we are a medical family. Sexual violence prevention experts tell us that using accurate nomenclature for genitalia discourages sexual predators. A predator is much more likely to move on to a more naive-seeming child who refers to his parts as a "wee-wee" or "pee-pee" than one who confidently calls it a "penis." By teaching our kids the proper names for their body parts, we are also helping promote a positive body image and self-confidence. 

3. I admitted when I didn't know the answer. There is no shame in that! But I didn't stop there. I took the next step and looked up the answer to make sure my kids got the information they were looking for (even if my Google searching means of "research" weren't the most scientific). When they come to me with questions with their bodies, I pray my response always begins with "Well honey, I am SO glad you asked me!" I want to keep the lines of communication with them open at all times. I want to be approachable and welcoming of their curiosity, never shaming. And just as importantly, I want them to know we can't possibly know all the things about everything and that's okay. But there are sources out there that do know and we will seek the answers out together. 

How does this topic sit with you? Did it catch you by surprise? Did you come to this space hoping to find inspiration for an upcoming meal only to be shocked by a post about sex and kids? (Trust me, this wasn't a topic I planned on covering today but sometimes the words just fall out). Did you feel totally comfortable reading about sex? Are these conversations you are already having in your home? Do you have some work still to do in this area?

Wherever you are at, chew on these words for a while. Take your pulse and assess any resistance; wrestle with any discomfort. CELEBRATE it if you experience none of these. No matter where you are at, I welcome your thoughts.

I will close with one of my favorite passages from Psalm 139:13-14:

"For You formed my inward parts;
            You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
            Wonderful are Your works,
            And my soul knows it very well."

To know that we were designed by God - every part of us - intricately and intentionally. This, my friends, is a beautiful and sacred gift!

Motherhood: Is This It?

The alarm rings and I am the first one up. This was my goal for it is solitude I’m seeking. I drag myself from bed and head directly to the coffee pot where I wait anxiously for it to do its thing. Then I settle in for the short few moments before I am joined by the rest of the household. Some mornings I opt to exercise. Other mornings are set aside to study my Bible. Sometimes I just sit there holding coffee, pretending to read and basking in the relative quiet.

I’m just a busy mom, rising early and trying to care for my temple.

The instant I left my bed, I heard movement down the hall and a toilet flushing. But she has stayed in her room because she knows it’s early. You could move your big toe an inch and the noise of it would wake her. I hear the hushed sounds of the audiobook she has turned on. I wonder what she is working on. I know she has begun to create; always, always creating, this one. I will soon find out that today it’s magazines. She has formed little books by stapling together folded pieces of paper. Later she tells me she wants us to be the editors. She will gather submissions from all her friends. Who do we know that has a dog and could write about pet ownership? Do we have time to work on the magazine this weekend? Can she sell them when they are finished?

I’m just her mom, just her editor and cheerleader and the one who tries her darndest to keep her big entrepreneurial dreams alive. Only that.

Eventually she emerges from her room, but only to retrieve strong tape and a magnet, she tells me. She has breaked momentarily from the magazine project and she wants to hang her newly-laminated morning routine chart up in her room so that she can check off her responsibilities as she goes along. It’s just that she needs to figure out a way to affix a magnetic dry erase marker to her wall, she says. My coffee and Bible and I are cuddled together on the couch. I tell her that I don’t think it will work because she doesn’t have anything magnetic in her room for the pen to cling to. She says, so matter-of-factly, that she knows but that if she tapes a magnet backwards to the wall, then the pen can stick to it. By golly, she is right! I’m a little dumbfounded. And then the pride wells in me as I wonder at her innovative nature. I cup her face in my hands and get down at eye level. “You are amazing,” I tell her. And she smiles and she scurries away to set up her contraption.

I’m just her mom, just her words of affirmation source and her bucket filler.

The time keeper on the wall reads 6:57 AM and I hear another one shuffling on the stairs. Her clock battery must be running slow because she has made an appearance before seven o’clock for three days running now. I’m back in my spot on the couch, clutching my coffee and trying to read a couple more words of scripture before the day takes me by the reigns. They, my three, usually wake in order of age which makes me grin a little. This next one rounds the corner and spots me, beams, and breaks into a full sprint to my side. She jumps on the couch and burrows beneath my arm before telling me I’m hogging all the blanket. I can tell that she so looks forward to this moment each day, this breath of calm, just the two of us.

I’m just her mom, just her snuggler.

The next burst of activity happens around 7:30 AM. Now it’s the littlest scurrying around, the sound of wheels rolling around on the hardwoods. Eventually he makes his way downstairs, arms always heavy laden with toys. He sees me in the kitchen; by this time, I’ve left my perch on the couch and have started in on breakfast. “I got dressed all by myself!” he exclaims as he barrels into my legs for some affection. Three plus years of hard work and training and my son can finally take care of a few items of business all on his own.

I’m just his mom, just his teacher. Just that.

The silverware clangs together and I’m grabbing dishes out of the dishwasher by the fistful. The blender whirls, the toaster pops and the three-year-old runs to the drawer to grab the plates without my even asking. He wants to know if we are having pancakes this morning, as he does every day. Not today, I tell him. Today it’s English muffins and smoothies. I ask him to grab me a butter knife. “Aye Aye Captain!” he bellows and he is quick to obey. This phrase of his is my absolute favorite. I’m unsure of its origin but I’m 97% sure I have a kid’s show to thank. I promise I don’t make him call me Captain, but I’m not going to lie, it’s sort of fitting. I pour the drinks and lay out the spread and holler for the girls to join us for breakfast.

I’m just their mom, the one who prepares and provides their meals, their nourisher and their Captain.

We finish the meal and they ask to be excused. They are halfway down the hall before I can get out the words: “Have you done your routines?” They run up the stairs to double check. Are their rooms picked up? Dirty clothes in the hamper? Beds made? On a really good day, they make it all the way through the check list. On a regular day, they miss a step or two and leave for school with bedding strewn about and pajamas on the floor.

I’m just their mom, just the organizer, the one equipping them and teaching them responsibility for the future. Only that.

The alarm on my phone is going off again. This time it is to alert us that it’s time to leave for school. Lunches are grabbed, shoes and coats are put on. It is library day for one of them. Shoot! Where did you put your library book? Wait, you had homework? Why didn’t we check your backpack last night?! Too late. Rain is in the forecast so pack a rain coat too! It’s never pretty despite all our best efforts but eventually we are out the door. We look both ways, we cross the street and walk down the hill.

I’m just their mom, their safe keeper and their transportation. I’m doing the best that I can.

The boy and I arrive back home. I look at him and realize I can no longer see his eyes; his hair has grown so long in all my business. I sit him in front of a show to distract him and I gather my supplies. The show features trains and he is happy. I move the clippers quickly, wetting a towel and taking it to his lips and nose periodically to rescue him from the tickling nature of the stray hairs.

I am just his mom and his barber.

The show ends and at first, he protests and asks for another. I tell him no and suggest we play a game instead. His eyes light up as he exclaims “Connect Four!” I tell him to set it up for us and that I will be right there. Another “Aye Aye Captain!” and he’s on his way. He makes me take the first turn, like always. I drop one circular coin in the slot and he immediately follows mine with one of his. It's like tic tac toe except the winner must get four in a row instead of three. I slide in another coin and he jumps to “block” me again. What he doesn’t realize is that I can get four in a row horizontally or diagonally, and not just vertically. I manage four in a row three times over, but to him, we win when all the slots are filled. Eventually we aren’t even taking turns anymore, we’re just racing to stuff our coins in the columns as fast as our fingers will allow. We laugh when we run out of coins and he exclaims “I won!”

I’m just his mom, just his playmate. That is all.

Now it’s time for errands. He wants to wear his “tie shoes” and so I bend to loop his laces into bows. He can buckle himself into his car seat on most days now - hallelujah! Except for those days when he can’t. On those days, I help him. But my assistance comes at a cost and I make him give me a kiss or two as payment. Once we are on our way, I reach back my while driving and touch his soft skin. His hand automatically grips mine and I can see him smiling in the rearview mirror. We cruise this way, hand in hand, until my neck and arm can no longer stand to be torqued.

I’m just his mom, just his hand-holder and source of physical touch. Just that.

There is lunchtime and story time and quiet time and chores and a walk or a bike ride and then we are off to pick up his sisters. On most days, it takes nothing short of moving mountains to get the three tired troops up the hill and back home for a snack to reenergize them. Someone always cries. It is obvious we are done. D-O-N-E.

We arrive home and one of them won’t come inside. Instead, she sits on a rock in the front yard wailing, backpack thrown down next to her. Somedays she calms relatively quickly and rejoins us. On other days, I text the neighbor to let her know I am in fact aware of the child scream-crying on my lawn. No, she has not actually been locked out and abandoned by her mean mom. It’s just that I wouldn’t let her go to a friend’s house that we weren’t even invited to after school. Eventually I encourage her inside and I take her in my arms. There is an obvious shift in the tears that is sudden and wild. She is no longer angry, she’s hurt. As I hold her tightly, she tells me her friend is no longer playing with her at recess and threatens to “never play with her again.” These things she’s been holding inside and I am the first recipient. I look her in the eyes and feel the hurt right along with her. “Baby girl, that would make me cry too” I tell her.

I’m just her mom, just her comforter.

The other one is really struggling. Most days have been hard ones for the past two and a half years running. There are so very many tears. She feels chaos and discomfort that no child of her age should never have to experience. She knows intimately the meaning of the words “stress” and “anxiety.” During the period of her life that should be the most fun and carefree, she appears heavy and sad. She feels Every. Single. Thing. And the weight of all these feelings is wearing her down. It wears me down too. Oh, how it wears me down!

I am just her mom, just her emotion coach, her advocate, the one trying to wade through all the chaos and come up for air with some answers. Only that.

There are days when nothing works. We try everything and eventually we just sit and we hold each other. Despite all the tricks and tools we’ve gathered, we don’t have it all figured out and life gets the best of us and coping is hard. So, we cuddle, we talk, we soothe. I tell her it’s ok and we cry some more.

I’m just her mom, just the one who knows her best and who she feels safe releasing all the emotion to.

The other kids start to melt down. They see my attention is monopolized and they want some too. We’re supposed to be doing homework and the girls need to read for 20 minutes each and heaven forbid we try and incorporate physical activity or doctor’s appointments or swimming lessons somewhere in there and, oh, someone should probably make dinner. Did I mention yet that it’s witching hour? We are all beginning to break. Someone hits and gets sent to his room to “take five” and cool off. I must stand there and hold his door closed, and, by the sound of things, the door jamb will likely no longer be standing at the end of this. I’m getting sass and bickering from the other two and I count each one to three and send them to their rooms too, all the while holding my station at the boy’s door. Soon he calms down enough that I can release the doorknob and I too run to my room to send the SOS text to Daddy:

“WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME!?”

We all “take fives” in our rooms and thankfully I have a lock on my bedroom door. It was intended for other purposes and yet it has never come in as handy as it does during witching hour. I no longer have any idea what the troops are doing out there beyond my door. And honestly, I don’t really care. I can’t.

I’m just their mom, just their disciplinarian, trying my dardnest to raise them up in the way they should go. I’m trying my best but sometimes my best just doesn’t seem to cut it.

On most days, my life feels so very, very small. Tiring and small. It’s this smallness that makes me feel insignificant and question what on earth I am possibly doing in this work of mine. My orbit is tiny and each day I climb aboard for another loop around what feels like the same crazy path. We don’t seem to be moving forward. We are circling. The monotony of it all, the daily grind at times makes me want to poke my eyes out.

Maybe you feel similarly? Maybe you too struggle with the significance of your work in mothering? Maybe you are balancing all these things in addition to a career or a desire for a career or even just a longing for a space to pursue your passion.

If so, can I take a moment to speak a work of encouragement? It’s for you and me both.

You do so much. On most days, it doesn’t feel like it. You look back and scratch your head as you survey the mess and wonder “What on earth did I do today? Did I get anything done?” Well, allow me to remind you. Yes, dear mother, yes you did. You got so very much done. You spent your day comforting, coaching, nourishing, wiping, training, teaching, cleaning, loving, answering, transporting, disciplining, encouraging, playing, hand-holding, advocating for, editing, safe-keeping, cooking, cheerleading, dream-stoking, snuggling, organizing, equipping and leading. And that's not even the half of it. You were not “just” momming. You were shaping humans. You were pouring yourself into the next generation of contributors to this society.

You may feel small and insignificant but, this work you do, it matters! So, press on and keep raising those humans to love and respect others, to work hard, to experience joy and pleasure in life, to serve God, and to bask in the love and grace of our Heavenly Father.

Be encouraged, my friends. Small work? I think not.


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When an Introvert Raises an Extrovert

Just popping in real quick to say that I am so thrilled to be over at allmomdoes.com (Spirit 105.3's mothering blog) today sharing about some of my experiences of being introvert raising an extrovert. I would love it if you checked out the article on their website by clicking on the link here.

Can any of my fellow parents relate? I would love to hear about your own experience. Feel free to leave a comment here on the blog.

They don't come with an owner's manual

I remember so well the night I became a mom. I was utterly exhausted. The labor process was long and tiresome, beginning in the middle of the night as it so often does, nature's sick way of making sure you sleep as little as possible before you take on the hardest job of your life.

My baby girl had arrived after an 18 hour waiting period and it was nearing midnight. The last stream of visitors had passed through and gone home for the night and it was finally just the three of us, suddenly family. I was weary and would have fallen into that hospital bed and slept for hours on end were it not for this new and tiny little human lying in the bassinet next to me. She was perfect and beautiful and everything I'd ever wanted and yet I felt undeniably overwhelmed. Graham and I just sat there, bleary-eyed, not sure what happened next.

Suddenly a nurse burst in. Change of shift had taken place and we had a new caretaker. I could tell immediately that this woman meant business. She hurtled herself upon us abrasively, neglecting even to tell us her name. She started flipping light switches and opening and closing cupboards, working briskly and speaking only in broken English. She told me sternly that it was time for us to go to bed now, swatting my pillow and motioning my head toward it as she spoke. She moved quickly as she made a cot for Graham out of the chair in the corner of the room. She shoved it up next to the window and ordered him to get in. It was obvious there would be no warm fuzzies or congratulations or sweet lullabies to welcome us into this first night of parenthood.

With the rapid pace at which this woman worked, one would have thought there was a fire in the room next door that she needed to address next. After situating us to her satisfaction, she hurried to the door and hit one final light switch, plunging us into darkness.

"I go now. You do everything," she told us. "All you need to take care of baby is in the top drawer." And then she was gone. Her final words lingered there in the air.

Graham and I lay there in the dark, dumbstruck. What had just happened? Was this a joke? I was exhausted and tired but the furthest thing from my mind was sleep. I wasn't accustomed to such brisk treatment. I felt like I'd done something wrong, that I was somehow in trouble. Not 6 hours earlier, I had pushed a human being into the world. Our family had grown in number and yet never before had I felt so completely alone, lying stiffly in this foreign hospital bed with a babe by my side.

I looked over at my baby girl, her outline barely visible in the dim room. There she lay, adorned in a hat and swaddled so expertly by a nurse earlier in the evening.

When did she need to eat? I wondered. Do I need to set an alarm to wake her? Did I need to change her diaper? What about her temperature? Should I take it?

I had all the questions in the world and no one there to answer them. I had undergone the biggest career change of my life mere hours earlier for which there had been no training and now I was being treated as though I was expected to just figure it out. No hand holding. No one there to cheer me on and tell me I'm doing a good job. No one to help me address the myriad of emotions I was experiencing. It was simply sink or swim.

I remember awakening around two AM, dazed and confused. There were unfamiliar sounds coming from the space to my right. I startled and jolted upright, the roughness of the blanket covering my legs giving me my first clue as to my whereabouts. The baby was stirring. My baby. I had had a baby. I was in the hospital and my baby needed something. I called out to Graham to wake him. Together we fumbled for a light switch and approached the bundle in the bassinet. She was curling her legs up in the air toward her belly and grunting, like a caterpillar trapped in a cocoon.

The nurse's last words flashed through my mind: All you need to take care of baby is in the top drawer.

I opened the drawer for the first time to survey it's contents. Diapers and wipes. A stack of birth cloths. A thermometer. ALL I needed? Really?

I don't know what exactly I expected would be in that drawer. A magic ball with all the answers maybe. Certainly more than a handful of diapers and wipes.

With experience comes insight.

I know now that that drawer was lacking in so very much. There was nothing in there telling me how to manage all the sleepless nights that would soon be my reality. No instructions on what to do about the pain I would experience when my milk came in. Nothing informing me to be sure to clean behind the backs of her ears before she reaches 5 months of age. There weren't any recommendations on nap schedules. No signs warning me that she may not ever actually nap and what I should do about it. There was no list telling me all the best ways to discipline her. And no insight on how to raise and motivate a rule-follower without sending the message that perfection is the only acceptable option. There weren't any instructions on how to manage anxiety in kids, on what to do when getting dressed in the morning turns out to be one of the hardest things in the world to do. There was nothing there warning me that my child might have high needs and that I might struggle to ever feel adequate enough for her. Everything I needed was definitely not in that top drawer.

Kids do not come with an owner's manual. On most days, this seems like a massive oversight on the part of God. It's on my list of things I need to chat with Him about one day when in heaven. I'm pretty sure our lives would be a LOT easier if these darn kids just came with personalized instructions. We can be the most seasoned of parents and still have our kids throw us curve balls each and every day. What motivates one most certainly doesn't even get a head turn out of the other. A system works for one but reeks havoc with another. One form of discipline elicits a change in behavior in one or two but only magnifies it in the third.

These kids, man. They are here to keep us on our toes! If you're lost and bewildered by a kiddo right now, welcome to the party! They can be driving you out of your ever loving mind one day and then the next you walk downstairs to discover they have Googled "how to knit a scarf" on the lap top and are sitting at the table with a ball of yarn, watching a YouTube video and using two mechanical pencils in lieu of needles.

And then suddenly witnessing all this fills you to the brim with so much crazy love that you can hardly even stand it, seeing her there actually knitting a scarf. These kids. This is parenting at it's hardest and finest.

Though there are so many days when I feel absolutely sure certain members of my offspring were born to the wrong mama, I know in my heart that God doesn't make mistakes. He has given me these little humans to teach and mold and shape. And he somehow believes I am actually fit enough for the job. Sometimes I wonder who is really being taught more in this process - them or me?

No, that top drawer of the hospital bassinet did not contain everything I needed to care for my children. But even had it contained an owner's manual, I probably wouldn't have read it. Sometimes we just have to live it to learn it and we're better off for the process anyways.