17 Things Kids Steal

They are thieves. Albeit cute ones, but thieves non-the-less.
There should be fine print somewhere that explains that kids take stuff.

1. shoes
2. scarves
3. anything long enough to be attached to the head and called long hair (i.e.: head phones, ribbons, ties)
4. cardigan sweaters
5. food (or so I've heard from other people...not my non-eating child)
6. your coat - and only when it's coldest and you think you might get frostbite without it
7. aprons "because they hang down like a princess's long dress"
8. headbands
9. iPads
10. iPods
11. iPhones
12. the chargers for above mentioned iThings
13. pillows
14. covers
15. the good spot in the center of the bed, and eventually, the whole thing
16. your sanity

...and your heart

Perfectly Imperfect

There's no such thing as a perfect parent. There are certainly some situations better than others, but even the wisest of us all fall short. My parents are among those imperfect people. They didn't do it all right. There are things I wish were different, and I know they feel the same. But tonight I got a reminder that sometimes even if every memory isn't pretty or every decision correct, you never lose the opportunity to do it better than yesterday. You never stop being a parent.

My best friend had a crisis about a month ago. She had to leave her home and needed to be somewhere safe. At 2 in the morning I suggested she go to my parents' house. I hadn't spoken to them about it, but I didn't have to. A few weeks later I needed to bring my goddaughter on a family outing. Tickets were purchased in advance, and I wasn't sure how we'd accommodate one more. Without asking them, I went to pick her up, and we figured it out later. Their concern was never once about the tickets. Doing what was right for someone I love came first.

A few days ago I called my mom to give her a gift idea for Brynna. We were shopping and BG almost hyperventilated over a TinkerBell doll. In true "grandma fashion" my mom promptly bought out the store. (Of course the grandma logic being if she liked one, she'll LOVE two!) We love how much BG is loved. We want her to be showered with love and blessings. But more importantly, we want her to understand that giving is always greater than receiving. So tonight, she got to open that present, and after we talked about how everyone doesn't have the same things we do, she got to choose one doll to keep and one to give to the little girl of someone we know. Brynna then helped wrap the gift and make a card for Genesis so she has a special present on Christmas.

I emailed my parents (as usual...after the fact) and explained that I had taken away one gift that would have been from them. I apologized for that and the fact that they didn't get to see her open it (which is 98% of the grandparent fun!). My mom's response was that if Brynna learned a life lesson that's what was important. She didn't care that she didn't get credit. She didn't worry that Brynna won't know who gave her the doll. She said she was proud of us for teaching BG something that will impact who she becomes.

My prayer for Brynna has been that I follow God in such a way that she starts ahead of where I did. I have strived to make decisions so she stands on my shoulders and is that much closer to being everything God created her to be. My parents aren't perfect. But my vantage point is from their shoulders. They have taught me to love in a way that can't be told but can only be shown. They have lived out love and because of that, I love with my whole heart. And because of that, Brynna lives in love.

No parent is perfect, but in the midst of our imperfections, I'm so glad mine chose to teach me how to love.

What Depression Taught Me I'm NOT: Part 4

The day I went to the doctor to say I wasn't ok was painful. In fact, I hated it. I wasn't sure who you are supposed to see when you feel like you can't get out of bed. I didn't know what medical code they'd use for "she says she feels so overwhelmed she can't go to the grocery store." I knew I had recently had a baby and for the past year had seen my ObGyn every week, so I started with her. For whatever reason, that made me feel better. It wasn't that I'm "depressed." I just had postpartum issues. It just so happened the medication is categorized as an anti-depressant. Coincidences. All of them.

When we moved to DC, I had to do what you do when you move. I got a new license, dry cleaner, hair stylist and doctor. The day I had to tell the new doctor my story was no less painful. In fact, I hated it too. I also hated the day I tried to get off the medication but was faced with the symptoms returning. To make matters worse, my doctor is very thorough. Not only did he make me explain that first time I met him after moving, but he also makes me see him twice a year to check in. And the man takes notes. Rude. He asks questions and when he's satisfied with where I am, he writes me a refill. He also never fails to remind me that while some people are able to discontinue medication, it's very normal that some are on anti-depressants for most of their life. So there’s that. Awesome.

Today was that appointment. The dreaded refill. But...to my surprise, I didn't hate it. I gave Dr. Huang an update and explained that while I would love to one day not take medicine (other than birth control...we aren't discontinuing that!), I think a refill is best right now. I feel good, but I can be honest about myself and at this stage, myself needs the medicine. Depression taught me that I’m not weak. It takes strength to be honest. It takes guts to tell the truth.

If you've never had to take medicine just to feel like yourself, you can't fully understand. You can't relate to not wanting to take the very thing that makes you feel better. But if you do take that medicine, you know exactly what I mean. If you swallow those pills everyday, you can most definitely relate. You want desperately to call it anything but what it is. You'll cling to "postpartum"or "chemical imbalance" or a host of other titles just so you don't have to say the one thing you dread...

Hi, I'm Regina...and I suffer from depression.

Being willing to say that means you’re not weak; you’re strong.

unwritten

I read about these people who were so overwhelmed, tired and frustrated that the writing of their blog was the only thing that saved them. They talk about screaming kids and piles of laundry and how blogging was the way they coped. I don’t understand these people. When my kid is screaming, the last thing I can think of doing is to sit and write anything. What I want is a drink. And a pillow. And for the love of all that’s holy…silence. How does the laundry get done in these houses where people blog to cope? Does the blog somehow magically spit out detergent? Have they found a way to type and sort socks at the same time? Seriously. I’m so confused.

I’ve said before that when I love, I do it with my whole heart. Recently, my whole heart has been tried and tested. When Tania had to bury her baby, I grieved with her regardless of how far away I live. When Janay had beautiful news, we laughed and praised God together. When Brandy was faced with the hardest trial of her life, I couldn’t blog our way to happiness. I flew her to DC and we sat on my sofa and stared at each other, both as sleeplessly exhausted as the other. When Brynna threw a fit in the middle of the restaurant this afternoon, I couldn’t type a solution. I had to sit in the midst of all those people staring at me like I was poisoning my kid simply because I asked her to eat chicken.

I don’t blog because it can somehow save me. I blog because I hope that somewhere in the middle of my craziness, you can see a part of you. I hope you can find something to laugh at (usually at my expense…I’m ok with that). I hope you can read a little something that makes you think, points you in the right direction or brings you to your knees. I’ll try to get better at not disappearing for periods of time. But know that when I have gone MIA, it’s not because I have nothing to say. It’s because if given the choice to sit and hold my friend while she cries or write about it, I’ll choose to be unpublished any day of the week.

Letter from Lilly

There are so many days that I think "I could handle this so much better if I just knew she understood. If Brynna could just verbalize that she knows the discipline is for her good, that she sees the sacrifices and feels loved and safe and secure." But as parents, we don't get that feedback. It's the one job that doesn't have an annual review or progress report. You don't get to hear what they are thinking. Tomorrow my friends have to face the thing every parent hopes against. They will bury their baby girl who was born Monday with Trisomy 18. Tania carried her to term, feeling her kick and squirm for all those months. She endured the back pain and sleepless nights, the nausea and leg cramps. But a few hours before delivery, Lilly Claire's little heart that formed with a hole in it stopped beating. Tania pushed through that pain so many of us know firsthand but her baby girl didn't cry and look up at her with big expectant eyes. 

As they lay her to rest tomorrow I just keep thinking that there's nothing I can do. I can't ease their pain although I want to with all my heart. I can't make it hurt less. But I can tell them the one thing that might make it a little easier. Maybe if they just knew what Lilly was thinking it'd give them a little smile in the midst of their tears. If she could tell them how she feels, I think it might sound something like this...

Mommy & Daddy,
Thank you. Thank you for loving me so much that you chose to be even more sad right now instead of ending a pregnancy you knew would be painful. Thank you for loving every part of me - even the incomplete parts - even when you knew I wouldn't be like other kids. Thank you for naming me and grieving for me. Thank you for telling my big brother about me. 

Mommy, most of all, thank you for carrying me under your heart. Your heart helped my heart beat and your breaths gave me breath. Thank you for singing to me and praying for me. (Thank you especially for eating good Mexican food!) Daddy, thank you for talking to me and letting me hear my brother's laugh. Thank you for holding me and telling me you love me even after I was gone. Thank you for not being afraid to let people see you cry.

You chose to hurt to let me grow. You chose to cry so I didn't have to. You chose to bear the pain and sadness of my loss and because of that everyone knows how much you love me. People can see that you love Jesus because you chose to love me. 

Thank you for showing the world what it means to be a parent - to love your baby more than yourself even when it hurts. Thank you for loving me enough to give me to Jesus even though you don't understand. Thank you. 

--Lilly Claire

Sometimes you need to hear it again...

I posted this a few weeks ago but someone I love dearly needs to hear it again. And that's how it works. So here's an excerpt. Click here for the original post. 

I recently learned of a church near Vegas who is known for a slogan. They have it painted on walls, signs and shirts. Not far from the strip, it's become their symbol of the open door the church should always have - no matter what you look like, feel, think or do.

It's ok not to be ok.

Toddlers are exhausting. Utterly, completely and totally exhausting. No, you don't want to go outside again. No, you would rather not push the swing for the trillionth time. No, you don't want to get out the paint supplies because you just cleaned the kitchen AGAIN. It's ok not to be ok.

You messed up. The mountain you have to climb to get back what you lost seems too much. It's ok not to be ok.

You are grieving the loss or pain of a loved one. It hurts. Your world looks different today than it did yesterday. You don't have to go on like it's business as usual because it's not. It's ok not to be ok.

You now have two kids (or three or more...). Two is different than one. You have to learn to change diapers with a toddler hanging from your back. You have to discipline one person while comforting another. Schedule is now a curse word because everyone is on a different one. It's ok not to be ok.

You are in over your head. You feel like you might be close to drowning. You are overwhelmed. It's ok not to be ok.

Do you hear me? It's ok. You are ok.

That does't mean it's ok to stay in the place you're in. If you need someone to help, it means it's ok to ask. If you are tired, it means it's ok to let the laundry pile up and eat take-out food while you take a nap. If you are hurting, it means it's not going to hurt forever. It's ok not to be ok.

And it's ok if people know you're not ok. It would make them a little more ok to help you. That's how God designed us - to need each other and to fill needs in each other. It's ok not to be ok. It doesn't mean you failed. It doesn't mean you are a burden. It doesn't mean you don't measure up. It's ok not to be ok.

Dates of Desperation

We celebrate a lot of things. Birthdays, anniversaries, first dates, first steps... We commemorate the times in life when we are happiest. On these occasions I am usually the first to order the cake. I sometimes even celebrate a good Tuesday with a cake. (What? Sometimes you just can't wait until the next big event. You just need cake.)

But what about the days that aren't so happy? What about the moment she was diagnosed with cancer? What about the day he left? We don't circle those dates on the calendar and plan to honor them. Most times we try to forget those days even when they sneak up on us.

I heard someone speak recently about the Jewish faith. Like no other group, Jews know the benefit of remembering. They celebrate not just the times when God delivered them, but also the times when they were most in need of His care. It got me to thinking. What if we recognized not just the days that make us smile but the ones that bring us to our knees?

Dates of Desperation are the times you needed God the most. And regardless of the outcome - whether he answered as you hoped or His plan looked different than you wanted - He was there. We miss so much if we only recognize the times we stood up straight. Dates of Desperation are the day you were flat on your face. And by remembering them, it reminds us how to depend on God. It teaches us not to take for granted the happy times or the ones in between. It gives us perspective.

So what are your Dates of Desperation? Whether it's a graveside tribute, a day of fasting or cake...honor those days. Because they remind you that you can't do it on your own.

When I Find My Mind...

I'm going to finish that conversation I started with my husband
I'm going to write a book
I'm going to send people birthday cards again (I used to be so good at that!)
I'm going to take a nap (to preserve the mind I found)
I'm going to sit and read a book - for as long as I like. I may even finish it.
I'm going to have all those people over for dinner that I keep meaning to invite
I'm going to make a menu and actually stick to it instead of scrapping the whole thing in exhaustion and making grilled cheese sandwiches by Tuesday night
I'm going to remember what I was going to say

...just as soon as I find my mind. I know I had a fully working brain. I remember it. Vaguely, but I do remember.

Mom vs. Dad vs. Child

Brody is Brynna's best buddy. He doesn't care if she makes him call her princess. He runs the same speed she does - fast. everywhere. always. He is perfectly content to play Spiderman Bad Guys right next to her dancing like a fairy. He lets her be her and she does the same. And somehow even though they don't love the same things, they love to do them side-by-side. So when it was time to find activities for the fall, it made sense that they'd do some of them together. Brody wasn't so interested in joining BG for ballet, but tennis and gymnastics were right up his alley. So on Wednesdays and Fridays (and usually other days as well), we hang out with Brody, his dad Jason and his little sister McKenna.

As much as I love to watch people, this new addition to our schedule has been fascinating. I get to watch up-close how little boys and girls are so very different (you know...without having to clean pee off my bathroom floor every other day). I also get to remember how cute baby girls can be (you know...without having to change diapers). And McKenna even lets me snuggle her sometimes - something BG was NEVER interested in doing. She had too much else on her plate. Most fun, though, is that I get to see how moms, dads and kids see the same object through totally different eyes.

For instance:
A plastic bag - Mom sees this as a choking hazard and removes at all costs. Child sees this as a fun toy to put on one's head. Dad, while acknowledging that it's not the most safe thing to play with, lets child play with it for a few minutes before jokingly removing it.

A straw wrapper - Mom sees this as trash to be disposed of. Child sees this as another fun toy and one to be tasted until pieces are stuck to her face like spit wads in 3rd grade. Dad thinks the spit wads are funny and laughs with child while cleaning her face.

Ottoman - Mom sees this as an expensive piece of furniture she painstakingly chose and purchased to complete the decor of the room she designed. Child sees this as a trampoline springboard. Dad sees potential in the child's ability so encourages her to jump only one more time to try and perfect the spin move before he enforces the No Jumping on the Furniture rule.

Wet wood chips - Mom sees this as a dirty floor at the playground to be avoided if possible. Child sees this as a plethora of fun toys to be tasted, crawled on, rolled in, stacked like a castle and sat on during hide-and-seek. Dad sees this as a chance to experience a new thing and acknowledges as he sets the child down that "we'll just give you a bath when we get home."

Maybe all moms, dads and kids don't fall into these strict categories. But generally speaking, this is how we see the world. I saw the moms at gymnastics the day Jason let McKenna play with the plastic bag after she finished her Cheerios. I know what was going through their minds. "That's dangerous. He shouldn't let her play with that." There was nothing dangerous about him playing WITH her, though. There was nothing that would harm her about a little paper straw wrapper or some dirty clothes after crawling through the wet wood chips at the park. She experienced her world and she did so all the while knowing her daddy was there to make sure no harm came to her. That's a far better lesson to learn than staying clean.

Maybe we could all use a lesson from Brody and Jason. Maybe we don't have to love what they do but teach them to love doing it side-by-side. Maybe Dad doesn't need so many lessons from Mom. Maybe Mom needs to sit back and learn...


And a sidenote: the ottoman happens at our house, not Brody's. (Well, maybe Brody's too...that wouldn't surprise me.) And while I still contend that we don't jump on furniture, there's something special about when Brynna fearlessly faces a new challenge and when it doesn't work out perfect the first time, I hear her say, "It's ok. Daddy will help me." How different would your life be if that was your response to each day? If it didn't matter how dirty or proper you were as long as you knew your Daddy was there to make sure you were ok? Brynna and McKenna will be strong, confident young women because of what their mommies lovingly teach them. But they will be independent, courageous young women because their daddies have given them a safe space to be free.

Confessions

1. This is one of my favorite things to watch. (And apparently photograph.)

                           

 Yeah, she's trying to get her pajamas off...

                                                                 and she turned it into a straight jacket...and she can't get out.

2. When they start talking about tests and what weeks what happens and baby registries...I feel like the woman in the group who hasn't had a kid. I know I was pregnant. I have the marks on my a** to prove it. I think I mind-blocked at least 10 months of my life.

3. That doesn't make me sad. (That I don't remember at which week they learned which thing after making me pee in a cup for the 73rd time...that day.)

4. Sometimes if the plastic container is too dirty or if I don't remember what year I put it in the fridge or if I'm afraid the smell of opening it might send the dog into shock, I don't clean it. I just throw it away.

5. I let her do this for hours even though I knew it wasn't going to end well. (And it didn't...end well.)

ps...of all the things I just mentioned, I'm most afraid of the follow up call from my mom about the Tupperware. She's cringing right now thinking "I know I raised her better than that!"

Home Project: Wall of Art

I've had this idea for awhile, and this weekend my sweet husband helped make it a reality. (He's required both for heavy lifting and precise measurements. I get distracted, start "eyeballing"...it spirals out of control. But I digress.) I wanted to frame some of Brynna's artwork in our entry hall. I thought it'd be a cute idea. It turned out to be way more than that.

I bought frames especially designed for kids' artwork so you can easily add more, replace, etc. They are advertised as being a way to keep their masterpieces over time and "build self esteem." I thought that an interesting marketing technique, and as the day has gone on, I couldn't agree more. I love the way it looks. I love that we will be able to see and enjoy Brynna's art as she grows and develops. Most importantly, though, I love the way her face lit up when she walked downstairs and it was completed. I love that she will never doubt how much we believe in her. When I say she is capable and creative she'll need only look as far as that wall for reassurance. She will have a tangible reminder that I love what she does and who she is enough to display it for all to see.

I caught myself staring into the hall all day today. How often do we do that? How often do they bring something home that - let's be honest - we have no idea what it's supposed to be? We look at it, praise them and then as soon as they are distracted, we shove it in a drawer (or worse. Don't feel bad. More than one of BG's masterpieces has met File 13.). But how often do we sit and stare at what they've done? How often do we take a moment of quiet and contemplate that the tiny little being that couldn't hold her head up, can write letters and paint with a paintbrush?

This began as a cute project idea but has become so much more. It is my silent nod of encouragement when Brynna wonders if what she does is good enough. It is my place to watch my baby grow into a big girl. It is more than a wall of art. It is a wall where I can remember and be grateful.

What Depression Taught Me I'm NOT: Part 3

Every time I talk about this, I inevitably get an email, comment or facebook message. Someone, somewhere is struggling with the same thing and my talking about it lets her know she's not alone. I'm so glad. It would suck if all this wasn't used to bless someone.

So I had to go to the doctor yesterday. No biggie, just the dermatologist. But it was a new doctor, so I had to fill out the customary paperwork. I love filling those things out. It agrees with my sense of order that each blank has an answer. It's not ambiguous - either my name is Regina or it's not. At the bottom of the page, there is a sense of completion. 

This time it wasn't so fun, though. I got to page 2 and it asked what medications you are currently taking. Not an uncommon requirement, but the way this form was designed, you had to write the medication, the dosage and the "reason for taking the medication." I happily filled in line 1 - Orthocyclen, 28 day pack, SO I DON'T GET PREGNANT. (And I said a little prayer, just in case the capital letters didn't prove my point.) Line 2 was harder. I take Wellbutrin, 300 mg, for.......well.....ugh, fine....for depression. Maybe I should have written "because sometimes I don't want to get out of bed." Or maybe "so I don't throw things at the people I love." Either way, I hated it.

That’s how depression works. Somedays you’re up and somedays you’re down. Somedays you get to carry on as normal and other days, due to a minor breakdown or a medical form (or a breakdown caused by a medical form), you have to face reality. You have to be honest about how you feel so you can decide how to keep going.

So today, I hate it. There. I said it.
I hate having to take the medicine.
I hate having to tell people I take the medicine.
I hate that the medicine keeps me from becoming a permanent resident of Crazyville so I have to continue taking the medicine.
I hate that somedays I have to tell Brynna I don't feel good sometimes because it's taking all my fortitude to work a puzzle, so riding bikes is out of the question.
I hate that there's no food in the house because I can't muster the strength to go grocery shopping.
I hate that this isn't something I can fight my way through. ('Cause I'm tough. And I can fight. Just ask me.)
I hate that I can no longer call it Postpartum Depression. (Or can I? She isn't into her teens yet. And even if I could..why is that somehow better? A duck is a duck is a duck. Depression is depression no matter what you call it.)
And no matter what you call it, I hate it.

But if I hate it and I still get up, I won that day.
If I hate it and I keep going, I’m doing better than I once was.
If I hate it and believe one day I won't have to, then I'm one step closer to that day.

Depression taught me that I’m not broken. Being hurt doesn’t mean you’ll never be well again. It means that for this moment, you’re a little bruised and battered.

If you’re bruised with me, know that you aren’t broken. It's ok if you hate it, too. We can hate it together. Just don't stop taking the medicine. I don't want you throwing a toaster at me.

Because I Said So

You know that moment. The one where you hear yourself say something and instead of your voice it's your mom's. Unlike most people, I never said I wouldn't use the phrase "because I said so." And it's a good thing. Because the older Brynna gets, the more I use it. And I use it. A lot.

Sometimes it's because I can't bear to go down the "Why?" rabbit trail.
Me: Brynna, don't belly flop off the sofa.
BG: Why?
Me: Because it's dangerous.
BG: Why?
Me: Because you could bust your head open.
BG: Why?
Me: Because you are landing 2 centimeters from a brick fireplace. Don't jump.
BG: Why?
Me: Because I said so.

Sometimes it's because I don't have another answer.
Me: Brynna, don't sing the high-pitched song with no words for the 17th time today.
BG: Why?
Me: Because I said so.

Sometimes it's because she can't yet grasp the bigger concept.
Me: Brynna, always stay where I can see you in the mall.
BG: Why?
Me: Because I said so.

Sometimes it's because IT IS the bigger concept.
BG: How do I know I'm safe when it's dark?
Me: Because I said so.

We all come to places in life where there isn't an answer we can fully comprehend. And in those moments, we have to have Someone we've learned to trust. We have to know Someone loves us and has proven over time that even if we don't understand, we can do what He said just because He said so. When Brynna gets to the hard(er) stuff, she won't have to wonder when I steer her safely away from certain pitfalls. She will have learned that there are times you get to ask all your questions and fully understand the answer and there are times when you obey not because you understand but because you trust the one who gave the directive. If she can learn to obey simply because I said so, then she can trust God enough to obey simply because He said so.

And maybe along the way, we can all learn with her...

Punishing the Punisher

BG slammed a door.
I told her we don't slam doors.

She said ok and as she walked away, she slammed the door.
She went to Time Out and then we discussed why we don't slam doors. I explained that if it happened again, she would not get to go to ballet.

As I walked away, BG went into her bedroom and slammed a door. It wasn't one of those blatant slams but the testing kind - the kind that's just hard enough to see how serious you are about the threat of punishment.

Unfortunately for her (and me), I'm serious.

We are now at home instead of at ballet. There has been crying, flailing, wailing and maybe even the gnashing of teeth. (I'm not 100% sure; I walked away.) She's asked 12 times what her class will do without her and what she will do if she misses a class. She has run through the house naked (not kidding) and spent a good 10 minutes curled up in a ball under a blanket.

Who exactly is being punished here?

Then What?

Please note: These are factual events. Events are portrayed by real people. No actors were used.

BG: Ok, Mommy, tell me about your day.

Me: Well, it started 37 seconds after I opened my eyes and a small thing dressed in zebra footie pajamas came and laid on me.

BG: Ok, and then what?

Me: And then the zebra pajama thing wanted to watch cartoons so I turned those on, made the crazy zebra chocolate milk and read my Bible while she watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

BG: Right. And then what?

Me: Then the crazy zebra decided she was hot and stripped off the pajamas and laid on the couch naked.

BG: And then what?

Me: And then the naked person ran to the front door and opened and closed it several times yelling at the imaginary FedEx man that she was mad he didn't bring her a package.

BG: Haha. Yeah. And then...?

Me: Then she got in trouble.

BG: Oh. Then what?

Me: I suggested we go on a bike ride and the crazy naked person started running through the house yelling "Oh yeah! Oh yeah!"

BG: And then...?

Me: The crazy girl finally got dressed, and we went on a bike ride. We rode to the library and returned books, we rode to a place and had lunch, and then we rode to the park where the crazy girl played for a long time. Then, on the way home she yelled at everyone we passed on the bike trail that they were different colored fairies.

BG: Then what?

Me: Now I'm tired.

BG: Why?

What Do You Remember?

Do you remember that he broke your heart or that God healed it?
Do you remember that she was sick or that she's well?
Do you remember that you went without or that now you have plenty?
Do you remember being tired or when you finally rested?
Do you remember that you were bound or that you were freed?
Do you remember that you messed up or that you're forgiven?
Do you remember being hungry or getting fed?
Do you remember how hard you worked or where you eventually got?
Do you remember being broken or that the pieces were put back together?
Do you remember all the times you failed or the one you succeeded?
Do you remember what it cost or just that you now smile?
Do you remember how you got there or where you are?

There are people who will tell you that the key to peace and joy are to "remember the good times." No offense to those people, but they are liars. Remembering only the good makes you forget what it cost to get there. And as soon as you forget, you start to expect things to be easy. You expect not to hurt, not to need, not to cry.

Peace and joy are found in what you remember. Don't fall into the trap of only remembering the good times. Remember what made you strong. Remember what taught you to stand a little taller. Remember what gave you courage and shaped your spirit. Remember what raised you up. Remember what gave you rest. Remember Who healed and forgave.

Go back to those things. Remember. And smile because if you did it then, you can do it again.

How to Clean Your House

It has come to my attention that some of you don't know how to thoroughly clean your house. It's ok. I'm sure you try, but clearly no one has taught you proper protocol. Good thing for you, I'm here to teach you. No need to thank me. I'm just that kind.

Housecleaning 101

1. Use an assistant. This is paramount. If you get nothing else, get this. It's a must. You are incapable of cleaning a toilet yourself. Just accept it. I don't even know how you got to this stage of life solo.

2. Have lots of Windex. Windex cleans everything. If you don't believe me, just ask your assistant. Most importantly, though, Windex comes in a squirt bottle. This is very important, as assistants live for spraying. Spraying something blue only makes it better.

3. Have backup Windex. When I say assistants love to spray, I mean they LOVE. TO. SPRAY. You're going to need more. Even if the bottle was full when you started. Trust me. Buy 2. (Also...I assume it goes without saying, but for clarification, when I say "Windex," I mean the Target brand.)

4. Vacuum. Even if you have tile, wood or cement floors. You must vacuum. It's less for the gathering of material on the ground and more for the enjoyment of your assistant who will immediately stop what she's doing and scream as loud as she can "because you can't hear it." (Note: You can hear it.)

5. Don't even attempt to clean the toilet bowl. You can handle the exterior. You can even manage to pour in the PineSol. You are not qualified to use the scrubber that goes in the toilet. You might be tempted to work quickly, and as your assistant will demonstrate, it takes at least 15 minutes of watching the water go in circles to ensure cleaning is complete.

6. Know that magic happens. It does. You can't control it. You can't explain it. (Duh, it's magic.) You will put away the princess wand only to find it in the middle of the room again 3 minutes later. You will foolishly put the princess wand away again only to narrowly rescue it from being used to help with toilet bowl cleaning. You will then, for a third (fourth, fifth...) time, put the princess wand away. And find it out again. At some point, you'll acknowledge that it must be magic.

7. Take breaks. Intermittent periods of recess are essential. In addition, certain circumstances necessitate that your assistant take a break. For example, there is the "Tinkerbell" Break where your assistant walks past the television and sees Tinkerbell on, therefore needing to break to watch. There is the "Rediscovered Juice Cup" Break requiring that your assistant take a break to drink from, fill up or play with said cup each time she comes across it. There is also, of course, the infamous "Make a Fort Out of Sheets While Changing the Bed" Break.

8. Re-clean. It only shows your naiveté that you think you are only supposed to clean once. How short-sighted of you. Clearly, you didn't spend all that time to just do it once! Before the supplies are back in the cabinet, you'll have tiny assistant-sized handprints to remove from the sliding glass door. I say again...duh!

Dance Break

Last year I attended a Bible study on Wednesdays. When I felt led to stay home again with BG, the first thing I did was put her on the list to go with me to the Bible study come fall. Knowing how great the kids' program is, I was so excited about the opportunity for her to learn how much God loves her, learn how to sit quietly and talk with Him, learn to love the Bible as much as I do and so much more.

I should have known that she'd be the one teaching us.

I dropped Brynna off at her class this morning and overheard the teacher say, "Maybe we can see some more of your dance moves today." As I walked away, I thought the comment was kind of misplaced. How would they have seen BG's dance moves in a Bible study class? I hurried to my own session and all but forgot about it until we dismissed for small groups. A woman came from across the room, touched my arm and said, "I have to tell you that your little girl melts my heart." She went on to explain that she had volunteered in the toddler class two weeks prior. When the children sat down to sing songs, BG stood up and asked the teacher if she could dance. While they sang "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands," Brynna danced. And they all - kids and adults alike - watched. She said it was the cutest display of freedom she'd ever seen. Brynna was expressing her own joy and it spilled over to everyone else.

Her words have rung in mind all day. How often do you let God's peace flow through you? How often do you feel like dancing (or crying, singing, etc) but suppress the desire? When was the last time you let yourself have a dance break? What stress, worry or strife might it help relieve? How much would it bless someone else if you did?

Go ahead. You don't even have to ask the teacher. Just stand up. And dance...

I Wonder...

I wonder what she'll be like as she grows and if she will still like girly stuff as much as she does now. I wonder if she will retain her flair for the dramatic. I wonder if she'll be as good at gymnastics as it appears she will be. I wonder if she will have lots of buddies or a few lifelong sister-friends. I wonder if she'll ever like more than three foods and what her favorite color will be. I wonder what career she'll choose. I wonder what of our life today will be her childhood memories.

first day of preK 2012 - "I wonder what my friends will think when they know I'm a princess?!"

I wonder if she will be upset or embarrassed that I share stories about her with the world. I wonder if she'll ever understand how much joy and peace her stories bring to people. I wonder if she will comprehend how many times I've heard that those stories changed, uplifted, saved someone.

mini-me

I wonder if she will know how much I love her. I wonder if she will ever grasp the depth of my care for her. I wonder if she will understand that even before she was born, I put her needs above my own. I wonder if she will know that the therapy, the discipline, the battles and the scars were, are and will always be to make her better.

Drama. Over mac & cheese.

I wonder if she knows that no matter what the answer to any of these questions, I'm so proud of who she is, who she will be and that she's mine.

Art project gone terribly wrong!

happy girl

Confessions

Being a mom is harder than anything I've ever done.

I get excited every time the UPS man pulls onto our street. Even if I didn't order anything. You never know. Someone somewhere could love me enough to send me something out of the blue. How exciting would that be?! And when/if that happened, I'd be so glad I stalked the UPS man from my upstairs window and knew it was my door he was coming to even before he rang the bell!

I potty-trained BG at 18 months just so I could stop changing diapers.

You know the "it's-too-quiet" sound that likely means something is wrong? Sometimes I don't go check just because although destruction could be occurring, at least it's quiet.

Sometimes I curse our friend across the street because just as I get excited that the above-mentioned UPS man stopped at our house and maybe this was the day that package showed up out of the blue, it's to deliver his latest Amazon purchase. Ugh. Dream crasher!

Girls night reservation - 6:30.
Time I left to get to a restaurant 10 minutes away - 5:30.

The other moms at ballet class think I'm very busy but I'm just playing Bejeweled on my phone.

No More Weekend

Oh, the weekend. How it used to be such a glorious time. I remember the feeling of anticipation that came at the end of the week. The work week had to pause come Friday afternoon. There was a two-day hiatus on waking up early, getting dressed before noon and eating appropriately sized meals. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter Saturday morning than it did the day before (probably because I was seeing the sun 3 hours later in the day...).

And then...a child.

No longer is the weekend a special time reserved for rest and recuperation. No longer do I get to snack all day or eat breakfast at 2pm. No longer does the sun shine any brighter. Once a short person takes up residence in your house Saturday is the same as Sunday is the same as Monday... They literally define the phrase "no rest for the weary." Because that's what parents are - weary. And all we want is 2 more minutes of sleep. But no. All we need is to open our eyes before someone starts screaming our names. But no. All we wanted was to write a bit about how exhausting it is to chase a toddler but instead said toddler jumped on the bed until she fell off laughing in hysterics and then wanted to go to the park because Heaven-forbid we sit still for even 10 seconds! (That last one may not be everyone. Maybe that was just me.)

It's OK Not To Be OK

I recently learned of a church near Vegas who is known for a slogan. They have it painted on walls, signs and shirts. Not far from the strip, it's become their symbol of the open door the church should always have - no matter what you look like, feel, think or do.

It's ok not to be ok.

How different would each of us be if we really, truly believed that? How would your day look? How would your voice and the words you use sound? What else would you do with all the time in your day usually reserved for just trying to be (or at least look) ok? What would your kids learn about you and themselves? How would your marriage change? How would it affect your view of the world around you?

It's ok not to be ok.

You are a new mom. Your body is only vaguely recognizable as the one you've known for 20+ years and you are awoken every few hours by the most awful sounding siren. Not only does the sound wake you, but it then expects you to feed it, change it, hold it, sing, walk, rock or stand on one foot until it can sleep again - at which point now you're hungry and can't sleep because you need a snack. It's ok not to be ok.

Being a wife is hard. Period. You have to share both your bathroom and your feelings with another being who apparently prior to knowing you did not respect either. You have to love him with he's unlovable and care for him when you need care yourself. It's ok not to be ok.

You are pregnant. Enough said. It's ok not to be ok.

You want to be pregnant but you're not. It's ok not to be ok.

Toddlers are exhausting. Utterly, completely and totally exhausting. No, you don't want to go outside again. No, you would rather not push the swing for the trillionth time. No, you don't want to get out the paint supplies because you just cleaned the kitchen AGAIN. It's ok not to be ok.

You are grieving the loss or pain of a loved one. It hurts. Your world looks different today than it did yesterday. You don't have to go on like it's business as usual because it's not. It's ok not to be ok.

You now have two kids (or three or more...). Two is different than one. You have to learn to change diapers with a toddler hanging from your back. You have to discipline one person while comforting another. Schedule is now a curse word because everyone is on a different one. It's ok not to be ok.

You are depressed. I know, I know, you don't want to call it that. (I didn't either.) You don't want to take the medicine. (I didn't either.) You don't want to admit the "failure." (Which isn't true at all, but we'll wait 'til you get past the medicine part and then we can address all the wrong stuff your head has tried to convince you.) You don't want anyone to know that you don't want to get out of bed. But you don't. And it's ok not to be ok.

You are in over your head. You feel like you might be close to drowning. You are overwhelmed. It's ok not to be ok.

Do you hear me? It's ok. You are ok.

Will you make me a promise and make this your mantra for the next few days? Will you write it on your mirror, put it in your car and hang it on the fridge? It's ok not to be ok. That does't mean it's ok to stay in the place you're in. If you need someone to help, it means it's ok to ask. If you are tired, it means it's ok to let the laundry pile up and eat take-out food while you take a nap. If you are hurting, it means it's not going to hurt forever. It's ok not to be ok.

And it's ok if people know you're not ok. It would make them a little more ok to help you. That's how God designed us - to need each other and to fill needs in each other. It's ok not to be ok. It doesn't mean you failed. It doesn't mean you are a burden. It doesn't mean you don't measure up. It's ok not to be ok.

What America Thinks We Do While Kids Are At School

What I planned to do while Brynna is at school:
1. Make beds and pick up house
2. Complete my lesson for Bible study tomorrow
3. Respond to emails and Facebook messages
4. Do writing research
5. Eat a quiet lunch while maybe even watching something on television that isn't animated
6. Write a blog that would inspire millions and make them laugh
7. Plan date night for Friday with David
8. Finalize plans/make reservations for happy hour with friends on Saturday
9. Put away laundry that's folded but sitting in the hall outside BG's room
10. Walk Miles
11. Pay bills
12. Clean up my office so I can find my desk

What my dad (and most of America) thinks I do while Brynna is at school:
1. Eat bon-bons
2. Watch reality television
3. Get my nails done
4. Go to lunch with friends
5. Eat more bon-bons

What I've actually accomplished while Brynna is at school:
1. Sat silently in a trance petting Miles and enjoying that the house was quiet
2. Cleaned up toys from the backyard that were getting rained on
3. Responded to two messages
4. Completed half of my Bible study
5. Ate lunch that David brought home (yay for uninterrupted adult conversation!)
6. Scrubbed paint off the table where BG did an art project yesterday
7. Wrote this blog (inspiring? maybe not. funny? maybe. honest? completely.)

Maybe Thursday will be more productive. Or maybe not...

Confessions

There's an open container of Rainbow Chip icing in my refrigerator for emergencies (or Tuesdays).

Sometimes I let Brynna play "Mommy" just because I know she'll put me to bed and I'll get to lay down for a moment.

I'd rather cut off my arm (that's me - cutting off my own arm) than sit through story time.

I'm not actually all-knowing, I just make up the answers.

I can think of at least 17 things I'd rather do than play Candy Land for the 477th time.

More than once I've reprimanded BG for saying something she heard me say. (hypocritical much?)

There's a spa attached, so I drop BG at the gym's childcare and get my nails done. I don't even pretend by wearing workout gear anymore.



Confessions, anyone? Sometimes it does the spirit good to get it out in the open. Leave a comment. You can make it anonymous if you have more self-preservation instincts than I. But tell the truth. It's ok; you're not alone. Say what's on your mind. I promise you'll feel better.