What Laryngitis Helps Me Hear

Every time I get sick, it becomes laryngitis.  A sinus infection, the flu or a sprained ankle...somehow, after a matter of days, I have no voice.  Well, I have bits and pieces of a voice - put together they sound something like a cigar lounge singer after a bad night.  It's not pretty.  I have learned after years of dealing with this evil infliction that there is literally only one thing that will speed up the healing process - silence.

Now, while silence may be readily achieved by some - hunters, fishermen, mimes - I'm not one of those people.  Asking me not to talk is like telling me to hold my breath for days on end.  I'm either going to fail miserably or pass out.  But I try because as much as I hate not talking, I hate the sexy smoker voice more, and I'm currently on Day 4 of it.  The one benefit of not being able to talk, though, is that all you can do is listen.  One day when I'm older and grayer, I won't remember (or care about) the words I wanted to say this week, but I pray I remember what I heard...

Water splashing in the bathtub
Uncontrollable laughter because the splashes got Daddy wet
Dumdum Deday (I have no idea what that means, but it's Brynna's new favorite sound and she mixes it into every conversation)
A spoon used as a drumstick on the kitchen table
Princess slippers clopping on the hardwood floor
Giggles from under the covers of my bed because someone's playing in "her tent"
Blocks banging on my bathroom floor - I've been told my tile is the best place to build a tower
The squeal that can only mean one thing - the garage door opened and Daddy's home from work
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star in silly voices
Soft breathing from the ball of blonde hair snuggled under my chin

It's ok not to talk when it helps you really listen...

Time Out

While it's not hugely popular in today's society, I have never made apologies for the fact that I believe in spanking.  I absolutely do not believe in any form of abuse, but I most certainly believe in discipline.  The funny thing is that as strong-willed, often defiant and extremely stubborn as she is, we rarely ever spank Brynna.  Because of her personality, she needs to know that she made a choice, so that's what she gets.  She can discontinue her inappropriate behavior (throwing toys, blowing bubbles on my sofa or practicing her spitting in the kitchen) or she can go sit on the step.  It's her choice.  Often she tries not to choose, but she's learned after months of consistent discipline that no decision (and the continuation of said bubbles on my sofa) is the same as deciding to go to Time Out.  She's spent a lot of her two-and-a-half years on the step (my step, Yaya's step, Tania's step, Honey K's step and even once at the entrance of Steve Madden).  On rare occasions that she chooses to continue disobeying even after time on the step, the punishment has to increase so that she learns that every action has a consequence.

Our most recent battles have been waged in the arena of whining.  I'm not sure how every toddler has perfected the exact pitch of voice that sends his/her mother into hysteria, but they are skilled artisans.  How they can say something perfectly normal in a voice that shatters glass in three counties, I'm not sure, but they can.  And they do.  Brynna is no exception.  I'm convinced she sometimes doesn't even know that she's doing it.  It's like she zones out into another dimension where apparently people speak at 140 decibels.  Needless to say, we've spent a lot of time on the step.  After she has a few minutes to calm down, I sit beside her so we can talk about it.  (Side note: As a general rule, if you send a little one to time out, have the decency to GO TO THEM, talk ON THEIR LEVEL about why and LOVINGLY reassure them of your love.  If you send them away and then forget or call them back in to you, you've made no effort to parent and therefore, why would they make an effort to obey?  Sorry.  I just felt someone's toes.  I'll get off the soapbox.)  This weekend, as I sat next to Brynna at the bottom of the staircase in my parents' house, I asked if she knew why she had to go to Time Out.  She said she did.  She said, "Because I was whining and not talking like a big girl."  I asked if she could speak politely and tell me what she wanted.  Her response has stuck with me for days.  She said, "Yes.  Because I want to come be with you."

I had to acknowledge quite some time ago that Brynna did not get her temperament from her father, but instead from her strong-willed, often defiant and extremely stubborn mama.  And like my little bear cub, God lets me make choices and then consistently reminds me that every action has a consequence.  I have recently found myself whining - crying to God in a voice that I'm sure sends Him into parental hysteria at a decibel I'm sure all Heaven would like to tone down.  I have been lamenting my situation, recounting all the things I'm sad about.  Rather than making me feel better, though, all that whining made me feel worse.  The longer I cried, the more lonely I felt.  The louder I yelled, the angrier I became.  And when I had nothing left to say, I sat quietly and realized...God had put me in Time Out.  Of course I felt worse instead of better - He left the room.  Of course I didn't feel comfort - I chose to sit myself on the step, away from the presence of Someone who loves me.  And today my little girl's words are ringing in my ears.  She said she would learn to speak more appropriately because she wanted to be with me.  She realized that her choice was the only thing that separated her from me.  And the same is true for me.

As soon as she chose to obey, I was waiting with all the love her little self could contain.  I'm so grateful my Father waits for me...and you.  What are you whining about?  When you're ready, He's waiting with all the love your little self can contain.

My Sisters' Mother

She's all the things I want to be when I grow up - refined, poised, proper, wise and discerning.
She's the kind of mother I aspire to be - nurturing, unwavering, steady and strong.
She's a friend to those in need.
She's a comfort to those who mourn.
She has a way of drawing out the better person in you without making you feel small.
She won't gossip with you; she won't get all your references about pop culture.
She won't be your buddy because she knows what you need is more than that.
She won't compromise or change who she is.
Her presence is calming even if only felt through a phone call.
Her voice is solace; her faith is contagious.

She is not mine because I was born of her.
She is mine because she was shared.
She is my sisters' mother, and I am forever grateful to Tonya and Janay for sharing her with me.

Signs a toddler lives at your house

• You have abandoned paper towels, napkins, kleenex and other paper products and instead, just use Clorox wipes for everything
• You forget what you were going to say at least 3 times a day
• You mention, discuss or ask a question about bodily excrements at least once a day despite your most valiant efforts to avoid the subject
• You're tired
• You repeat yourself so often you start wondering if people really "didn't hear you"
• You have walked into a room recently and said, "What happened here?"
• You can hear through walls, up stairs and behind doors
• You're tired
• You sometimes wear a dirty article of clothing just so it's one less thing you have to wash
• You sometimes wear a dirty article of clothing because you didn't realize it was dirty until halfway through the day
• You sometimes wear a dirty article of clothing because even though you knew it was dirty, you didn't have the energy to change
• You wake up with the theme song to the Backyardigans stuck in your head
• You have found a sippy cup recently in your purse, car, briefcase and bathroom
• You're tired
• You sing the ABC's while you wash your hands
• You find yourself smiling when everyone else around you is frowning...because even in the worst of times you need only remember the night before to have something funny to laugh about

I asked...He answered

I moved to a new place and found myself feeling alone.  Without the friends who have come to know me better than I know myself, I had no one.  So I asked God…

I asked God to give me friends…and He didn’t.

     So I joined a book club.

I asked God to give me friends…and He didn’t.

     So I spent an entire afternoon with Him.

I asked God to give me friends…and He didn’t

     So I planned social events for my neighbors.

I asked God to give me friends…and He didn’t.

     So I had a conversation with a stranger.

I asked God to give me friends…and He didn’t.

     He gave me a reason to trust Him more.

     He gave me the space to look beyond myself.

     He gave me the motivation to meet new people.

     He gave me the time to listen.

     He gave me a perspective I never would have had otherwise.

I asked God to give me friends…and He didn’t in the way I wanted Him to.  Instead, He gave me more.

What are you asking God for?  What did He give you instead?  Have you even noticed?

Who She Is

I had a profound conversation yesterday.  I spoke to Sailini, who owns/operates the montessori school Brynna attends.  The crux of our conversation was this: So often, kids spend 18 years reacting to the stimuli placed in front of them and then another 10 years trying to figure out who they are when someone stops giving them something to react to.  I know that's kind of randomly deep for a Thursday afternoon, but here's why it's stuck with me.  It's true!  From the toys we give them to the songs we sing to the parks we take them to...we are trying to get that giggle of laughter that only comes from a happy child.  But what we miss when we don't turn down the noise is the quiet moments.

When Brynna walks into her montessori classroom there is no welcome wagon.  There is no morning cheer or loud music.  She has learned, along with her classmates, the routine of putting away her lunchbox, hanging up her coat (yes, it's already coat weather in DC) and changing into her inside shoes.  There is a group time where they sing and interact but then it's time to choose their work.  With not fanfare, she does just that.  No one says, "Brynna, we are going to read.  Brynna, now it's time to sing."  She decides.  What it's produced in my tiny two-year old is amazing.  Parents, brace yourself.  This is going to hurt.  She's her own person!  Brynna doesn't choose the "work" I would choose.  (I know.  I was as shocked as you.)

The quiet moments often don't come until we are out of high school, sitting at a job or on a college campus when we suddenly realize...Who Am I?  Really.  Aside from what I've done or where I've been.  What Am I?  When no one is there to grab my attention and focus it on a particular thing, what will I choose?  Each day, Brynna is learning to make choices and the result is that we see who she is aside from what we want her to be.  (...or is it just me?  Maybe I'm the only parent who has a picture in my mind of who my child is or should be.  Maybe I'm the only one who tries to sway her to like the teams I do or the colors I prefer or the songs I sing or the stores where I shop.  Maybe it's just me...)

At two years old, Brynna has learned what it took me almost 30 years to discover.  She knows who she is.  And I have to say...who she is is pretty fantastic.

Please note: This is not an attempt to "plug" montessori education or imply that something different is wrong.  I was a public school teacher and I often built into my classes a time of just being quiet for a moment.  Many teachers do.  It's not a matter of private vs. public education.  It's not a matter of right or wrong parenting.  It's a matter of allowing kids the space to be just that - kids.  Giving them room to learn who they are and cheering that person on to greatness.  (Even when that person is different than we imagined.)

Confessions of a Tired Toddler's Mom

Here's the deal.  People talk about the "terrible twos."  I'm convinced those people are the same ones who told me pregnancy lasted 9 months.  They've clearly never done it.  They didn't factor the extra month into pregnancy or the two years where you forget what it was like to remember your own name.  And they certainly don't account for the "terrible" phase that begins at 1 and ends at...I have no idea.  I'll get back to you.  But since I'm in the midst of this thing they call parenting, I'm an expert, right?  (wrong!)  What I know from experience is that it's not a terrible phase.  It's one filled with learning new things and being silly for the pure sake of silliness.  It's overwhelmingly, breath-takingly fun.  But it's also EXHAUSTING!  That's the problem.  It's not terrible.  Everyone is just tired.  Mommy's tired, Daddy's tired, Brynna's tired (although she would NEVER admit that and don't dare let her know I told her secret).

So the "terrible twos" are more appropriately called the "tired toddlers."  And here's a day in the life of our house during this phase that (while very cute) has worn out it's welcome in my book.

7:00am (if we're lucky) - From across the hall, we hear one of two things: either screaming that sounds more like a dying cat than a child in need or "Mooooommmy.  I'm awake.  Oh, Moooommmy."  The "Moooommmy" sounds frighteningly like a scary movie.  It's the sound the bad guy makes when he's not ready to actually hurt you but is just trying to make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

7:01am - We need chocolate milk and we need it fast.  It's the first thing out of her mouth as if she spent the entire night dreaming of Carnation Instant Breakfast.  That's what the chocolate is.  Brynna still doesn't eat much, (and don't you dare try to get her to eat meat.  She is a two-year-old self-professed vegetarian.) so we have to give her Carnation each morning to ensure she gets enough balanced calories.  Why the morning, you ask?  Because apparently it has enough sugar and B12 to fuel a plane.  I once made the mistake of giving her some after dinner.  We were up til 4am.

9:00am - By this point we have picked out clothes, changed our mind about clothes, gotten dressed, combed hair, picked out bows for hair (so many opinions for such a small person), made lunch, said 'goodbye' to Daddy from the window, watched Backyardigans while Mommy frantically tries to comb her own hair and gotten in the car (with no help from anyone, thank you very much).  We pull in to the drop off line at school, praying we made it before the cut-off when Mommy has to walk inside and sign the sheet admitting her tardiness to the world.

9:01am - We need Dr. Pepper and we need it fast.  Seriously.  I know it's bad and I try to avoid it.  But the options are caffeine or falling asleep while showing houses.  And the latter is a liability.

2:45pm - I rush to finish one last work task before I head to school b/c once I change from the "Realtor Hat" to the "Mommy Hat" there's no double-duty.

3:04pm - I pull into the parking lot hoping my clock is fast and they'll still be at the door for pick-up.  Sometimes I get lucky; sometimes I have to park for the walk of parental shame because I was late.

6:00pm (if i'm lucky) - After coloring, painting, building Lego towers, walking baby doll, going to the park, going to the other park, riding bikes with friends across the street and watching the same episode of Yo, Gabba Gabba three times (it's the Baby episode; have you seen it?  No worries, I can quote it for you.), Daddy walks through the door.  Poor guy.  I'm sure he says a prayer from the other side of that door every day, not sure what he'll find when he crosses the threshold.

7:00pm - We announce it's time to go up for bath and get a varying form of resistance - flailing on the floor, defiant shouts of "no" or silence (as though ignoring us will make us forget).  We then pull out the bath time piece de resistance - Bath Colorz.  For some reason, by adding a small tablet of color to the bath water, it makes it far more enjoyable.  I don't ask questions.  I just use what I've got.  (And I've got 9 containers of Bath Colorz stocked up in the cabinet.)

7:20pm - Clean, lathered in lotion and smelling like a little piece of Heaven, Brynna bounds into her room to read books.  One of us joins her while the other collapses into a heap on the floor.

7:30pm - Brynna needs to potty.  You have to allow this final bathroom visit of the night or you will spend the next 3 hours going back and forth to the toilet.  After climbing up (all by herself, of course, even though it takes 17 minutes), Brynna proceeds to put on her nightly show.  If you've never gotten tickets to the Brynna Potty Party, it's probably because it was sold out.  Keep trying.  Sometimes Ticketmaster gets overwhelmed.  To clue you in, the Potty Party includes singing, semi-dancing (until she's told she's going to fall in or get a spanking for playing around), more singing, comedy and finally, pooping.  Yes.  Somehow, every night she sits her tiny toosh there long enough until she makes something happen.  (Another reason why you have to allow the final visit.)

8:00pm - The show doesn't always last that long, but there have been encore performances (at the request of the actor herself).  Once she's exhausted all her comedic material and the parent of choice, she crawls into bed, looks at you like an angel and says, "Night night.  I love you so much, Mommy."

And after thanking God for this season of life and asking Him to help me never take a moment of it for granted, I collapse into a heap until the siren sounds to begin again tomorrow.

Lesson Learned

I once heard that your greatest strength will always have the tendency to be your greatest weakness.  I immediately connected that sentiment to my words, and it's held true.  While I can say some brilliant things, I also have the ability to stick both feet all the way in my mouth.  And here's the thing - when the dumb, hurtful or negative remarks leave my lips, more happens than just a slap of my hand to my head.  I shut down.  I feel guilty and ashamed.  I replay the scene over and over in my mind like a courtroom where I am defendant, prosecutor, judge and jury.  And let me tell you...I'm a brutal litigator.  Prosecution wins every time, and I sentence myself to hard time.

This exact scenario played out this week when I made a comment at the office.  I won't tell you what I said because that's not the important part.  The important part is this - until 4pm Monday afternoon, I was convinced that God called me to real estate to shine His light to those around me.  I was sure of my calling and confident in my position.  After my mistake, though, I was anything but the picture of confidence.  I was overrun with questions, confusion and doubt. Surely God didn't call me to be an example of Him when I can so quickly offend someone with my words.  Surely He would be better off if I say nothing - ever - to anyone.  Surely those around me would be better, too.  And in that brief moment, Satan won.

We read in the Bible about "the destroyer" - this evil being that we picture with a pitchfork and horns.  We hear him described as a lion roaming around, seeking those to devour.  But it's much less cheesy and cartoonish than that.  Satan doesn't need a pitchfork or a lion costume.  All he needs is for me to beat myself up just enough that I'll do what I did on Monday.  If I convince myself that God can't use me, then the people around me never have the hope of seeing how much He loves them.  If I hide behind my faults and fears, I've done nothing.  And really, that's all Satan needs.  He just doesn't want people to know Jesus.  That's all.

It's two days later, and I'm still thinking about my mistake.  But today my thoughts are a little different.  Instead of guilt and shame, I feel repentant.  Lesson learned, point taken.  I am not perfect (not a shocker).  I messed up because that's who I am - I'm human and fallible.  I was imperfect when God first loved me and I'll continue to be imperfect.  But instead of this being about me, it's always been about Him.  And that's why I decided to write this morning.  I was talking to God and He assured me that I'm not alone.  That you, too, feel like you aren't quite good enough, smart enough or whatever enough.  Don't stay in that place, though.  I'm a much better example of His love if people know I'm just as messed up as they are.  He can use me so much more if I'm real.  And the same is true for you.  People don't need a sermon.  They don't need to be yelled at.  They need to watch me live life, make mistakes and keep looking to God.

I apologized to my friend at work.  I asked God to forgive me.  The only thing left to do is pick up my pride and keep going.  Wanna join me?

Love Simply

Simplicity.  Love.

Love is not complicated.

Love is simple.

But it’s difficult, and people confuse the two.

Simply – love means always, unconditionally, no matter what.

There’s nothing confusing about that.

The problem is – it’s hard.

When he hurts you, it’s hard to love.

When she’s difficult, those three words are costly.

When you’re tired, love doesn’t come easily.

When it’s not fun anymore, when you aren’t “feeling” it, when you’re distracted by something more shiny and new…

Love is hard.

Love is action fueled by choice. 

Feelings aren’t enough to sustain love.

Moods won’t last.

Choice – “I love you”

Action – I love you

Always, unconditionally, no matter what.

The other day, Brynna and I said ‘goodbye’ to Daddy and went for a walk.  Fifteen minutes later, Daddy already missed us and came to join the fun.  As though she hadn’t just been with him, Brynna took off running, yelling, “Daddy here I come!”  God loves you so much that any time apart sends Him clamoring back for more.  He’s waiting at the end of your steps to pick you up and carry you the rest of the way.  Always.  Unconditionally.  No matter what.

REmind

Ok, girls.  We need to have a chat.  There is an issue and it needs addressing.  Mom-guilt, Girl-guilt or just plain Guilt.  It’s gotta go.

Guilt is defined as “the fact of having committed an offense or crime.”  Did you read that, sister?  Read it again if you need to.  To be guilty there has to be fact that you committed an offense.  In short, you broke a rule.  When you go to work and your baby girl goes to the daycare you have meticulously chosen for her, what rule did you break?  When you take a day off to reconnect with your sanity, what offense was committed?  When you actually finish your plate instead of sharing it with at least one other person, what fact is there of a crime? What was that?  Speak up.  I couldn’t quite hear you.  Did you say none?  Say it louder.  None.  NONE!  You know why?  You aren’t guilty of anything!

As girls, the thoughts that race through our minds can be overwhelming.  They begin going in one direction and before we realize what’s happened, we are 1,000 miles off course.  You started out thinking about your career and ended up flooded with guilt that you aren’t at home with your kids.  You begin to think about a new pair of shoes only to find yourself surrounded by knives of condemnation that you should be thinking about others instead of yourself.  Like an unmanned boat in open water or a Mac truck on the interstate with no driver, your mind was not made to run on its own.  Disaster is the only outcome probable if you turn a boat on full throttle but then don’t steer.  A truck with no destination and no guidance will destroy most everything in its path.  Your mind is powerful.  It’s creative and intelligent.  It can hold a wealth of knowledge and yet be compassionate and kind.  But if you don’t own it, it will own you.  That’s when guilt happens.  So what do we do?  We have to learn to remind ourselves – to REmind – renew your mind.

Start with what you feel.  Whatever it is, it’s ok. You’re allowed to be mad, sad scared or hurt.  But the problems come when we stop there – when we focus only on what we feel and go no further.  Replace what you FEEL with what you KNOW.  Redefine what a successful day looks like.  Rewrite the imaginary rulebook your mind has confused. In doing so, you are steering.  You are telling your mind where to go instead of letting your thoughts drive you to a place you never intended to visit.

So grab a pen and some paper.  Allow your feelings a moment to breathe.  Write them down.  Own what you feel.  Remember…it’s ok.  Then start writing what you know.  If you struggle with this part, start with these…

You can KNOW…

You are a daughter of the King*

You are allowed to make a mistake*

You are loved*

You are blessed to be a _______________ (wife, mom, doctor, agent, friend, sister, etc)

Your need for rest doesn’t mean anything other than you’re human

You were uniquely designed for the life God’s called you to live

You are beautiful

*If these confuse you, then there’s one more step.  Grab a Bible or go online to YouVersion.com.  Read the book of John.  It’s true you aren’t perfect.  You can KNOW that.  You can also rest in the fact that you can stop trying.  It’s never going to happen.  Being imperfect means you can’t get there (to God, Heaven or anywhere) on your own.  Jesus loves you more than you or I will ever comprehend and He did all the legwork.  He made a way; you just have to Admit you aren’t perfect, Believe He is and Confess that He gets to be in charge.  It’s as easy as A, B, C!  (Then call, text, facebook or email me.  We have a serious dance break to do!!)

Flowers by Regina

Like flowers, girlfriends are pretty and extravagantly unique.  They thrive in stability but are seen most attractive when found in less than perfect surroundings.  I look at the bouquet of girls God has blessed my life with and I'm in awe at the beauty.  I thought I'd write a poem about it but after looking online, it appears I already have.  I was doing some research and this popped up - "Friendship is Like a Flower" by Regina.

Friendship is like a flower,
Glowing in its glory,
Each and every seed,
Telling its own story.

As each flower blooms,
And then continues to grow,
More of its strength and knowledge,
Continues to show.

And like a garden,
It blooms much more fair,
When carefully tended,
By those who care.

Once in a while,
You come acress a friend,
Who is as beautiful as a flower,
With a good heart to lend.

So I picked this flower,
And pulled it apart,
And soon all its pieces,
Grew into my heart.

But what I realized,
Is that this flower that grew,
Was not leaves and petals,
But pieces of you.

Your love and kindness,
Your strength and power,
Have helped me grow,
Into my own little flower.

And now with our friendship,
I'll never let go,
And we can help others,
To flower and grow.


(Just to clarify...I literally found this just as it is.  I don't know this Regina but she gets an "A" in my book.  And I was a teacher.  I have legal authority to give grades.)

SOOC

A while ago, I started a weekly challenge with a group of photographers. It proved difficult at times to relate in words what you can capture in pictures. This was one of those times.

It stumped me.  In the interest of full disclosure, I had to look it up.  I'm not a photographer and had never heard the term SOOC.  For those of you like me, SOOC means "straight out of the camera" and is a term used for photos that have not been enhanced or manipulated in any way - they look just as they did in the moment. (If I'm the only one who didn't know that, well...keep that to yourself.)

Today I had some calls to make for work.  I sat on the floor with my computer while Brynna colored and played with stickers next to me.  Suddenly, just as I hung up the phone making an appointment to show a house, I got a blow to the back.  I've never used the Photo Booth feature on my Mac, but I quickly clicked it on.  Had the homeowner been able to see through my computer, this is what he would have seen...

The perfect snapshot of us - who we are when no one is looking.  I'm guessing that's what is so special about SOOC in the photo world - when you are able to capture an image that needs no tweaking but is the exact representation of what you saw.  In my world, it means you are comfortable in your own skin.  You are content with who and where you are.  Some realtors make showing appointments from the comfort of an office with a Starbucks in their hand.  I do so on the floor while simultaneously coloring Minnie Mouse with my free hand.

So "straight out of the camera," this is what life looks like when you're working...and a mom.

Water

After what feels like 3 steady months of rain in DC, I am ready to say that I never care to see a drop of water again.  But even I have to admit there’s so much more to water than rain…

Water holds memories

Water is an ocean that separates my sister from me.

Water is the lake – the first place my family gathers when we’re all together.

Water is pool parties – whether the pool is in-ground, kiddie or a puddle just right for splashing.

Water holds smiles

Water floods my bathroom sink when a certain 3 ft. blonde person tries to wash her hands.

Water cleans play doh off my kitchen cabinets.

Water begs for muddy rain boots and a polka-dotted rain jacket (in Brynna’s opinion).

Water longs for solitude, a soft blanket and a good book (in my opinion).

Water holds my future

Water is the analogy Jesus used to show the world how much He loves me. 

Water is where I went under an imperfect person completely helpless to save myself.

Water is where I emerged at peace, forgiven and free.

People think they make vessels to hold water.  Water holds far more than we could build a vessel to hold.

Rainbow Brite

Rainbow Brite.  I know some people think of rain and promises when they think of rainbows.  I think of Rainbow Brite.  She was my favorite.  When I was little, I had a couple of Barbie dolls and a few My Little Ponies.  But Rainbow Brite was my girl.  We went everywhere together.  I even had a Rainbow Brite sleeping bag.  When you’re 6, that’s the defining factor in what’s most important to you – who’s on your sleeping bag.

There has been much discussion lately about where my little Brynna gets her spunk.  David is convinced she’s just like me.  My parents contend that I was not as strong-willed as my baby girl.  Rainbow Brite got me to thinking, though.  There are parts of us that are a product of our environment and external influences.  And then there are the things you don’t choose, but are, rather an outward expression of who you are at your core.  It may seem like an overly-simplistic comparison, but for me, that was Rainbow Brite.  I didn’t choose a princess.  I didn’t pick a fairy tale.  I had Rainbow Brite and Jem.  And we sat together and watched Punky Brewster. Before life taught me that at times, you are expected to conform, these chicks were the outward expression of my inner-spunk.

So I think I’ll stop suggesting otherwise and accept what I’ve grown to be immensely proud of: Brynna gets every bit of that spunk from me.  And it is my highest priority to teach her that no matter what anyone says, she never has to conform.  She can bring color to a colorless world, be “truly outrageous” and do it all with bandanas tied on her legs!*

*Please note: If you are confused by some of these references, you clearly weren’t a little girl in the 80’s and I’m sorry for that. 

Mother Earth

When I was young, the earth seemed so big.  My grandma’s house felt forever away.  The pictures I saw in books had no connection to my real life.  Over time, perspective helped me realize that I grew up less than an hour from my grandparents’ house (not exactly a distance of “forever”).  And life has taught me so much more than those pictures in books ever could have.

Yesterday, I went to Panera to work.  Suddenly my computer screen showed I was receiving a call via Skype so I put my headphones in and answered.  While the rest of the restaurant enjoyed their morning coffee, I chatted with my friend Mikele.  That wouldn’t be so noteworthy except that Mikele is halfway around the world right now.  She called me from Europe.

When I got married, I had never been out of the continental US.  I remember sitting in awe on my honeymoon, staring at the Caribbean.  I had never seen the ocean before then.  A few months ago, I flew over the ocean that I now live a few hours from.

A year ago, I couldn’t have found Malaysia on a map.  In February I spent two weeks there – hearing the language, tasting the food and experiencing the people.

I know so much more now because I’ve experienced more.  But my perspective is limited to those experiences.  It all makes me think about Brynna.  Kids know about their parents what we choose to let them experience.  If I don’t share where I’ve been, what I’ve come through and who it’s made me, Brynna won’t have a full understanding of her mom.  If I only give her a painted picture instead of the real me, she will merely have a two-dimensional portrait – like pictures in a book.  Just as I have a new understanding and love of Mother Earth as I learn more about who she is, I pray my relationship with Brynna is the same.  She will know that I can relate, I love her unconditionally and I will always be here.  She will know that because I will let her experience who I am and who she is. 

A week of Fridays

The past few weeks have been hard.  David has traveled more since we moved to DC than he has his entire career.  He’s been out of town at least half the weeks we’ve lived here.  Normally, I relish time to draw away on my own, but when you have a two-year-old, the minutes in the day when you are alone are few and far between.  He has been gone 8 days now and the day after he left, I developed a head cold.  (Doesn’t that always happen?) All that to say, I’ve been one tired girl.  Dishes have gone undone, laundry has piled up and my blog almost forgot my name it’s been so long since I paid it attention.

Then came Friday.  After a busy week of real estate and trying to keep up with my little energizer bunny on my own, I was exhausted.  I missed David; I longed for time with my girlfriends; I wanted to be at home where my sister is visiting my parents; I needed a break.  Brynna loves the park so after a few errands Friday morning, we headed out in search of a place to play.  Normally, taking Brynna to the park is anything but relaxing.  I’m not sure who those moms are that sit on a bench reading while their perfect kids entertain themselves, but my park experiences are the complete opposite.  By the time I’ve pushed the swing, caught my flying child as she jumps from the top of the jungle gym, spun the merry-go-round and pushed the swing some more, I’m ready for a nap about the time she’s ready for Round 2.  This Friday was different, though.  Brynna found a couple kids to run around with and after an initial push on the swing, let me sit and watch.  I didn’t have a book to read, but I wasn’t going to push my luck.  Staring blankly into space was fine by me.  When it was time to go, I told BG she could slide two more times then we had to leave.  When she came running over after the second slide, I kissed her I was so proud.  We headed home, had lunch and she laid down for a nap.  Still not 100% after being sick, I did the same.  That evening, Brynna and I had a picnic in the basement (yes, we sat on top of the coffee table) while we watched Cars.  Contrary to the norm, after Brynna was in bed, I didn’t feel like I’d just run a marathon.  There was a peace I needed desperately and for which I was so grateful.

Friday was a good day.  I could handle a whole week of that kind of Friday.  

Party Time

Here’s the deal.  When you go into a store with Brynna you are on a time crunch similar to that of a bomb squad. There’s a lot of pressure to get in, get the necessary items accomplished and get out before the timer expires and there is an explosion.  Before we entered Target we had a conversation similar to the one we have anytime we pull into a retail parking lot.  It goes something like this:

Brynna: What’s wrong, Mommy?  (…because Brynna equates the car being in park to when she stops – that must mean something is wrong.  Otherwise, we’d be moving.)
Me:  Nothing’s wrong, baby.  We are at the store.

Brynna: The mall?!

Me: No, we are at Target.

Brynna: Oh (slightly dejected as it registers that this means there is no playground)

Me: Look at Mommy and listen, please.

Brynna:  Ok (looking out the window)

Me.:  Brynna, look at Mommy.

Brynna:  Ok (playing with her shoes)

Me:  Brynna, look at my eyes.

Brynna:  Hi, Mommy (glancing at me with a big smile before returning to her shoes)

Me:  Brynna

Brynna: Huh?  (Finally looks up)

Me:  We are going in to the store.  You are going to ride in the cart.  You are not going to push the cart.  Do you understand?

Brynna: Yes

Me:  You are going to ride in the seat, not underneath the cart.  Do you understand?

Brynna: Yes

Me:  You are going to sit down.  You are not going to stand, throw things out of the cart or grab aimlessly at things on shelves.  Do you understand?

Brynna: Yes

Me:  If you can be a really big girl and listen to Mommy, you can have a surprise after we leave the store, ok?

Brynna:  A surprise?  Like a Cars movie?

Me:  It depends on if you’re a big girl.  Can you be a big girl in the store?

Brynna:  Mommy!  I did it!  I buckled my shoe!

Me.  (pause for silent prayer)  Good job, baby.  Are you going to listen and obey Mommy in the store?

Brynna: Yes.  And I push cart.

Me:  (another prayer) No, you are going to ride.  Do you understand?

Brynna: Yes

Me;  (one more prayer)

At this point, we’d been sitting in an idle car for 10 minutes so ready or not, we headed in to the store.  After 20 minutes inside and already a trip to the potty, I went to grab some things in the toddler clothing section.  Brynna added her opinions and I made decisions as quickly as possible.  I soon realized she was a little more calm and quiet than usual.  I hesitated to look, preferring to ride out my good fortune but decided it better to investigate.  What was my child doing to stay occupied?  She was removing the stickers off all the clothing.  I turned to find her face covered in long strips that say 2T.  One was precariously placed across her mouth, so I decided not to rock the boat.  I accepted that as a blessing and answer to those prayers and kept plowing through the shopping list.  After a stop to decide between Disney Princess, Minnie Mouse or Dora panties, we moved on, Minnie Mouse panties in tow.

And this is where it got interesting.

In her defense, Brynna was doing exactly as I asked.  She was in the cart, sitting down.  In order to stay occupied, though, she had moved from removing stickers and tags to removing the panties from the package.  She started giggling and I turned to see her spinning a pair of Minnie panties over her head like a helicopter.  I laughed and said, “What are you doing, silly girl?”  The response?  “Look, Mommy!  It’s a party.  A panty party!”

About that time, we passed a little girl with her mom who said, “Mom, that baby took the stuff out of the package.  You’re not supposed to do that.”  To which Brynna replied, “It’s panties!  A panty party!”

Reasons I would not make a good judge on SYTYCD

Tonight was the first episode of So You Think You Can Dance Season 8.  As we sat down to watch, I let out a little squeal of excitement (not uncommon during SYTYCD season).  David looked at me, smiled and said, "Come this time of year, I know exactly where I rank.  It's ok.  I'm man enough to accept my position."  God love him for that.  :)


While anyone who knows me will testify to my open and honest critiques, there is one thing I'm certain of - I would never make it as a live judge.  Why?


1.  My face lacks the ability to lie.  Even when I suave it up with nice words, what I really think is always plastered straight across my face.  Janay catches me sometimes and tells me to "school my face."  I try, but it usually wins.  Before I even realize what my opinion is, it's broadcast to the world right there in an expression.


2.  I lack any and all compassion for a sob story.  Even if that story is legitimately sad, I can't stand that we are spending precious time that could be spent listening to Tyce's commentary on something that has no bearing on your ability to (or more often, NOT to) dance.  


3.  While I can't stand a sob story, I am a sucker for a kid who has overcome.  Give me a young person who was given nothing easily, had the option to quit but chose to grow up any day!  I love them just for the courage to do something that kids with all the support in the world wouldn't often try.  I love the humble confidence they have had to develop but don't take for granted.  Favortism?  Yes.


Other than that, I'm a shoo-in!

Black and White

Black and White.  Yes and No.  Wrong and Right.

How much of our nation’s history has been tied up in this issue?  How much of our own personal strife is a result of this contrast?  There is a secret that has been alluding people for centuries.  It’s not that hard.  That’s not to say there aren’t “gray areas” in life.  There are times that it’s more difficult to see which way to go or what to do.  But in most “gray” cases, the issue is not that it’s hard; we just don’t have the guts. 

It’s a scary thing to acknowledge that there is Truth.  Absolute Truth means that sometimes you (and I) are…wait for it…wrong.  I know.  Shocking.  But there is also nothing more freeing than knowing that there is a standard I can rely on, that there is something that can withstand all my doubts and fears. To know that there is a line between right and wrong means that Someone loves me enough to protect me.

I talk a lot about my strong-willed little girl.  The biggest challenge in raising someone so head-strong is that you can’t falter.  You can’t let up.  Ever.  In a very real sense, she is trying to break me.  She is challenging my authority to see if it’s consistent enough to trust.  She is looking for a crack in the foundation.  She’s searching for proof that I’m not strong enough to be the boss so she should take over the job. If the rules are enforced when I’m angry but I let things slide when I’m tired or talking on the phone, that tells her the rule isn’t real.  If it isn’t Right all the time, it’s not a rule worth following.  How familiar does that sound to our daily lives?  We spend all our time and effort trying to prove God wrong (or that He doesn’t exist) when the root of the issue is that we are kids who want someone to make us feel safe.  Even when she goes to timeout, Brynna knows that at least there is something concrete she can depend on.  There is a line.  She crossed it, and she’s willing to deal with the consequences.  But she had to know if the line was there. 

We have spent so much trying to disprove the Line.  We have tried and tried to convince ourselves that the One in charge isn’t there or isn’t strong enough to lead so we need to do the job.  We need to be in control.  The problem is, you and I aren’t big enough to be in charge.  And neither is Brynna.  If she were in charge, climbing the stair banister would be allowable.  After all, it’s not hurting anyone else; she’s doing it in her own house.  What could be the harm, right?  Brynna doesn’t understand physics just yet.  She hasn’t learned the concept of gravity.  But one wrong step and she’d learn one terrifying lesson.  The Line keeps her safe. 

That’s where our guts come in.  Sometimes you have to man up.  Faith is not for the weak.  It’s hard, it’s often painful and it’s costly.  It takes a strong girl to say, “I want to climb the banister but I know it’s wrong so I won’t.”  It requires self-control, humility and fortitude.  It takes that and a whole lot more to trust that there is Right and Wrong, Yes and No, Black and White.

If you can relate to my Brynna, you’re not alone.  If you just want to feel like someone cares and will keep you safe, I have good news.  There is Someone who loves you more than you can comprehend.  I don’t have to (and I promise I won’t) preach you a sermon to tell you I know how you feel and I’ve been where you are.  Send me an email or Facebook message.  We’ll go have ice cream if you live near Houston.  Or I’ll introduce you to a friend wherever you live.  What to do is never the hard issue.  The question is…do you have the guts?