Love is...

Love looks like the perfect pair of shoes that ties the whole outfit together.

Love sounds like Brynna’s giggle. 

Love tastes like my mom’s cooking.

Love is that one pair of jeans that make you feel pretty no matter what you weigh, what time of the month it is or what else is going on in life.

Love feels like that spot on David’s chest where I lay my head and it’s like it was created to fit me alone.

Love sounds like “I’m sorry.”

Love feels like the presence of a friend who knows you better than you know yourself.

Love is that moment after Brynna’s thrown a fit and she finally relaxes and lets me hold her.

Love is when I’m tired, overwhelmed, exhausted and upset and Miles lays his head on my lap, looks up at me with big, brown eyes and sighs…because he doesn’t care about that other stuff.

Love feels like a lump in my throat when I can't quite find the words to tell Taylor how proud I am of who she is.

Love is when you smile and wave goodbye with a tear on your cheek.

Love feels like the sting of spanking someone you love so much you refuse to let her be anything but her best.

Love is the moment when you admit you aren’t perfect, you can’t do it on your own and you let Jesus fill in all your empty places.

Love is 40 hours in planes and airports to hug the neck of the person who loves even the ugly parts of you.

Love sounds like “I do.  Forever.  No matter how hard.”

Airport Observations

As most moms, I am rarely without at least one member of my family. A few months ago, I was blessed to take a girls trip to Dallas all by my lonesome. And in the rare moment of bliss, I started a list. It's not deep. It's not politically correct. But as I watched people in the airport, these were my observations of the world passing by...

• Grown men should never wear a backpack with dress clothes
• Children shouldn't pull backpacks with wheels
• Women shouldn't wear (or really own) anything with the word "pack" involved
• Baby talk is synonymous with Chinese water torture
• You only need two pair of white underwear - for necessary purposes. No one's skin is white. You wear white thinking it's nude, but it's not. You need nude or black. We can see your underwear.
• The same goes for all neon, bright-colored, patterned underwear. We can see that. And we don't want or need to.
• Say what you will about Fergie and Jessica Simpson (and I say plenty) but they (or the people they hired in a random stroke of genius) make a dang cute pair of platform pumps
• Levi's, Wrangler, Lee Jeans and every other denim manufacturer responsible for "mom jeans" should be held liable for punitive damages. Women are walking around feeling bad about themselves unnecessarily. If you stop sewing them, people will stop buying them. Granted, we will have to wait 27 years for the ones already in circulation to die a painful death, but it's a step in the right direction.
• For your health and mine: I should never be able to hear the words of your music while you are wearing headphones.
• Sighing and rolling your eyes at the mother trying to quiet her crying baby on the plane is not actually helpful. I guarantee she wants him to stop crying more than you. And furthermore, she can't hear you. Someone is screaming in her face. Do you want her to apologize to you or exert that effort in calming her child? Your choice.

A Day In The Life of a Toddler

7:56am
David and I both woke up at the same time (kind of odd) and felt like someone was staring at us. We were right.  Brynna was peeking through a crack in the door. (Creeeepy!)

8:03am
David and BG went to have breakfast. I took everything I could find in the medicine cabinet since my head still feels like a balloon filled with snot. (Too much?  Sorry.)

8:37am
Brynna "helped" David prepare the steaks and food we are cooking for friends coming over tonight. "Helping"included pulling the outer layer off of one ear of corn, deciding that was gross and working a puzzle in the middle of the kitchen floor.

9:11am
Brynna "helped" me change the sheets on all the beds. In this instance "helping" meant jumping on the bed in between each stage of the process because she needed to "fluff the bed and make sure it worked." (I don't want to venture even a guess as to what work a bed is going to do where jumping on it is the test phase.)

10:02am
Brynna "helped" do the laundry. She pushed the buttons as I pointed, poured in the detergent (her all-time favorite task) and added the clothes. Halfway through, in an attempt to ask if that sock was supposed to go in, water somehow was flung 3 feet in every direction.

10:07am
I finish cleaning up the water from the basement.

10:11am
Brynna donned the first princess outfit of the day and chased Miles through the house with her "magic spell." (The magic spell is a princess wand that at any time of day can go from magic stick to sword to pointer. Just steer clear of it. That's my philosophy.)

10:23am
Art project

10:44am
Dollhouse

11:16am
Brynna donned the second princess dress of the day and after playing in the basement with Daddy, got sent upstairs for fighting with bad guys and almost breaking something (I didn't ask) with her magic spell. (Told you. Steer clear.)

12:05pm
Lunch

12:17pm
After I edited the video from her ballet performance yesterday, Brynna sat on the sofa and watched herself on repeat. (The longest single stretch of inactivity since opening her eyes.)

12:58pm
Brynna and I snuggled on my bed to watch Tangled (before you judge me for sitting my child in from the of the television, please re-read the past 5 hours of my life.)

During the movie, which was paused at least 17 times, Brynna donned the third princess dress of the day and started the hunt for Eric. Eric is Ariel's prince in The Little Mermaid, and he is somehow lost in our house. She has searched the linen closet, my closet, under my bed, behind her chair and in my shower. In addition to that thorough search, she's stopped at least 7 times to say, "Oh, Eric, where are you? I'm so so sad to find you." (I can't make this stuff up.)

3:22pm
I'm sitting on my bed, still in my pajamas listening to Brynna in the kitchen begging her daddy to dance. I'm going to find more in the medicine cabinet...

REALLY?! Really? really.

Disclaimers:

1. I am not a dietician.

2. I am not the best source of advice on what to eat. Period. I've tried to make our house more healthy, and we eat mostly natural, unprocessed foods. But there are cheetos, kool-aid and oreos in my kitchen as we speak.

3. I am not judging.

4. I am not hating.

5. I am not making fun. 

6. I'm just saying...

I spent the entirety of yesterday sick in bed. My dear, sweet husband took the day off to run the marathon that is Brynna Grace so I could rest. At various moments of wakefulness, I managed to play on my phone and look at Facebook. (I know how ridiculous that is. Too exhausted to get up but checked Facebook. I heard it. Makes no sense. But I did it. Let's move on.) I scrolled past a friend’s post and was about to move on when I noticed there were several comments attached. Intrigued, I looked further. Mistake #1. The post from my friend, Kelly* was (and I quote) – “In rare form today. I will try not to comment on post.” Kelly is one of the funniest chicks you’ll meet, and lovably cynical and snarky at the same time. She’s one of those people who you kind of hope will make fun of you because it will be so funny you won’t even care that it was at your expense. She once told me to shut up and go eat a donut. Was I offended? No. Did I laugh until I almost peed my pants? Yes. (Maybe you had to be there. Whatever. Back to the point.)

The post was short and obviously Kelly being her quirky-self making a somewhat inside joke. The problem came when I got to comment #4. Comment: “Having a bad day as a Mom? Push protien! Meat, Cheese, Eggs- it works. Keep away from pasta, bread, starches of all types until behavior is better.”

REALLY?! Really? really.

Protein? Now I don’t know what Kelly’s day was like. From her short comment, I dare say no one can say definitively what she was referring to. As, and I’m just spit-balling here, WAS HER POINT. But what about her short two sentences suggested protein is the answer? Where’s the logic in that? (Mistake #2 – assuming logic was involved.)

Let’s break it down:

Having a bad day as a Mom? – I’m afraid I’m going to have stop you right there. First of all, Mom is not capitalized because it’s not a proper noun in that context. But that’s not the point. Second, how did you get having a bad day from “in rare form?” That’s Neutral at this house. “In rare form” loses its rarity when a toddler lives at your house. They are rare. Period.

Push protein!  - Why the exclamation point? Is protein reason to cheer? Has the cavalry arrived? Is it that easy? A bad day can be alleviated by “pushing protein?” And why are we pushing? Is it crack? Are there protein peddlers on the corner outside Gymboree waiting to give you a fix? (I’m asking…I don’t go near Gymboree.  Gives me hives.)

Meat, Cheese, Eggs- it works – Thank you for the science lesson. I wasn’t perplexed about what constitutes a protein-rich food. Don’t mistake my confusion for ignorance.

Keep away from pasta, bread, starches of all types until behavior is better. – Waiting. Still waiting. Oh, I’m sorry. Am I doing it wrong? Why do I not see angel wings sprouting from my child’s back after my sudden removal of carbohydrates (see how I knew what food type we were discussing?)?

I say again… REALLY?! Really? really.

Motherhood is a rollercoaster. It’s a terrifying ride that goes up and down from day to day, makes you want to vomit, laugh and cry all at once. There are bad days and good days. It comes with the job description. It’s part of it. And some days are worse than others. Some days your baby has cancer. Some days you find out your baby may not get to see the light of day. Some days your kid runs screaming through the house naked and you find yourself thankful that at least this time she doesn’t have scissors. And some days are great. Some days she looks over and says, “Mommy, I love you,” and for a minute second you forget all the nonsense. Some days they are happy, healthy and whole.

It’s not simple. There is no quick fix or easy answer. The next time someone offers her unsolicited, overly-simplified advice, just say (in your head unless you want a long conversation)…Really? And go about your business. She doesn’t know anymore than you do. She’s just hungry. She needs some bread, pasta, starches. And maybe a margarita.

*name changed to protect the innocent

Treat Them Like Babies

I watched the movie The Decedents last night. There are several themes in the movie, but the thing that kept pulling on my heart was the relationship between the dad (George Clooney) and his daughters. Their relationship is so deteriorated that at one point he asks his 17-year old daughter’s young friend what he’d do to reach the girls. It’s not even the crux of the movie, but I found myself yelling at the screen, “Let them be babies!” (Watching a movie with me is never a dull experience.)

Few things make me passionate like the treatment of children, so for one moment, allow me to step up on my soap box…

They are babies.

I don’t care how old they are, they need you to hold them and hug them and tell them they are safe. They want you to protect them so they don’t feel alone. Children are a gift. They are entrusted to your care for a brief moment. They do not exist to comfort you, provide you friendship or partner with you. Even as they mature. Even when they rebel. Even when they make seemingly adult decisions. They are babies. They need you to care for them not the other way around. They need you to teach them and give them boundaries.

When you come to a place of doubt in this messed up, crazy hard thing called parenting, remember one thing: they are babies.

That doesn’t mean “baby” them. They don’t need your condescending demands. But treat them with care. Set boundaries and kept them. Make rules and enforce them. When they don't know, teach them!
The same care you gave them at 2 months is the same care they need at 2, 12 and 22. They are babies.

I headed for bed after the movie ended with these thoughts in mind. As I plugged my phone in, I saw a tweet with this photo. Taylor had run across a picture from her graduation and shared it. I call Taylor my daughter-in-love. I did not birth her, but she grows under my heart just as Brynna did. She’s a college graduate and proud new homeowner. She’s getting a master’s degree and has a job. But when she’s lonely or nervous, those things don’t matter. From her “mom,” she just wants to be a kid. She wants someone to tell her she’s safe and loved.

no matter the age...they are my babies

Regardless of how old he is, what she’s done or said. Hug her. Hold him. Pray for her like you did when she was a baby. Because from her mom, she’ll always need to be.

Silhouettes

When I was in Kindergarten, our class made silhouettes as part of the end-of-year program. It's crazy, but I can remember standing against the wall next to the bathrooms with the overhead projector glaring at me. I remember thinking the pencil tickled as it traced the shadow around my head, over my nose and down my chin. My mom still has the silhouette, and it's shocking how much you can tell about me from a black cut-out glued onto a while sheet of construction paper.  That's still my nose. I still jut my chin out like that when I'm proud.

I'll be the first to admit that some ultrasound photos resemble a child about as much as Brynna's latest art project resembles a lion. (Lots of squiggles, a passionate artist, but not many discernible features for the average observer.) But in a rare moment of stillness in the womb, for the last sonogram we have before she was born, Brynna gave us her perfect silhouette. Every now and then, another rare moment of stillness will occur and I'll catch a glimpse of BG's profile. And I'm amazed. That's still her nose. She still holds her lips that way.

Stuff I Don't Understand: Part 1

Games on Facebook

Stopping the flow of traffic. I get that everyone is not Type-A. I get that we don't all follow all the rules. I even get that you don't KNOW the rules.  But don't stop. Why would you stop? Did it never cross your mind that when you stop EVERYONE behind you stops?

Brynna's logic

Competing "for fun"

Tennis shoes with nice clothes. Really. I'm not being funny. If she took the time to put on the clothes, why did she stop? I'm not getting anywhere near heels. I know how hard it is to chase a short person in pumps. I'm just saying...a nice ballet flat.

Baby talk. Infants can't speak. They aren't choosing to sound that way. As soon as they are able, they use ALL the words. Believe me. I know of what I speak. There's a person right now in my house who hasn't stop talking since 2009. (Yes, you calculated correctly. She was born in 2009.)

American Girl

The crash that just came from the other room. What on earth is she doing in there?!

The truth - The WHOLE Truth

I think it's a toddler thing. I think it's something all kids go through. It's a life lesson. (One some adults still haven't learned.) But as with most things, we Johnston girls like to be dramatic. We like to put our own spin on things - and that spin usually leaves one (or both) of us flat on our backs.

Tell the truth.

It seems simple. It sounds easy. Mom makes candy. Mom lays candy out and goes to clean the kitchen. Mom returns to find one piece of candy with a bite taken out of it. Mom asks who ate the candy. Everyone denies emphatically. Mom points out that only one person could have eaten the candy - only one person is missing two front teeth. More emphatic denial. Mom explains that no one will be punished; she only wants the truth. Denial. Mom threatens punishment because now it's getting ridiculous. Denial. Mom walks away. After a moment, child enters the kitchen to say "Mom, I'm sorry I took a bite of candy and ate two other pieces." Truth. The WHOLE truth.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You wonder how it is that BG has lost her two front teeth already. Well, sports fans. She hasn't. But when her mom was without front chompers, she ate some candy and lied about it. Unlike some people, I can't ask "where does she get that from?" There isn't a doubt in anyone's mind.  She's her mother's daughter.

One morning during our recent trip to my parents' house, BG was awake before everyone else (shocker!) so she and Papa went to feed the horses. As they returned, BG hit the window button in the truck. When Papa jokingly asked how that happened...you guessed it. Emphatic denial. Papa pointed out only one person was close enough to hit the button. Denial. Papa explained no one would be punished; he only wanted the truth. Denial. (It's amazing my parents survived me. Poor people probably feel like someone hit "repeat!") After a long 10 minutes of silence in the truck, there was finally a mumble that sounded something like "Papa, I hit the button."

The best part of BG, though, is that the truth is in her. You just have to know how to get it out of her. One thing she's learned better than most people is that an apology includes facts.  "I'm sorry you got hurt" is not accepting responsibility. "I'm sorry that I ____________"is an apology, and that's something Brynna does well. She may drive you to drink, but she'll own up to every action when she gets around to apologizing.

Not long after the window button incident, Brynna had a couple of "run-ins" with her cousins. Literally. While they don't see each other as often as we'd like, when BG is with Zoe and AJ, they speak their own language to the point that people think they are siblings. And like siblings, arguments are a part of daily life. During one argument, AJ ran in crying. (Oh, who am I kidding? The girls sent him running for cover all day, every day!) This time, though, he was holding his face. And not far behind was BG looking a little too curious about what he'd say. We asked what happened, and she pled the Fifth. Had no idea and she did "nuffing." But when we told her to apologize, this is what we heard: "I'm sorry, AJ. I'm sorry I poked you in the eye." Well no wonder the kid was crying! About an hour later during a similar scene, BG was told again to apologize (this time to Zoe). Her apology: "I'm sorry I threw you down."

So next time you need to apologize, think of BG. Even if it hurts (and I pray you didn't poke out eyes or throw anyone down), tell the whole truth.

It's not just a toddler thing. All of us have to learn why it's important to tell the truth. We have to learn that although our initial thoughts are for self-preservation, not telling the truth will eat at you from the inside. The Truth - the WHOLE Truth - will set you free. Maybe you aren't a toddler but you have something that's eating at you from the inside. Find a safe place and tell the truth.
(If you need one, message me and we'll find someone where you live to hold your hand.)

Who I'm Not

I'm not a graphic designer (as is CLEARLY evidenced by the mess I've made of my blog).
I'm not a "mommy."  I don't enjoy play dates, finger painting or spending hours on end at the park.
I'm not early.  I've made great efforts to change and am now not (usually) late, but don't push your luck.
I'm not comfortable underdressed.  No, they aren't always "comfortable."  Yes, I'd rather wear heels.
I'm not good at halfway.  Loving, sharing, giving, writing...I go all in or I don't go.
I'm not perfect.  At all.

And that brings me to who I am.

I am a perfectionist.  I want it to be "just right," but let's face it.  Life is never "just right." If it were, my sofa wouldn't have mini M&M stains from yesterday's snack gone awry.
I am an all-or-nothing girl and unfortunately, this coupled with my perfectionist streak sometimes means I'm a big-plans-but-didn't-get-it-done girl.
I'm a writer.  I love it.  It's what God called me to do.  But I love it so much that I want it to be perfect (are you seeing a trend here?), and when it's not or I don't have time to really focus, I go into writing hibernation.  That's where I've been for...well, let's not get side-tracked with dates.
I'm an open book.  I have always shared my whole heart - the pain, the hurt, the joy and the triumph - in hopes that you would read my story and skip some painful parts yourself by learning from my mistakes.
I am the daughter of a perfect God.  I promised Him I'd share my stories and He promised they don't have to be perfect.  He'll fill in the gaps if you give Him something to work with.  By not writing for so long, I have withheld what He gifted me to do.  I haven't given Him my words to perfect.  Are you holding something back because it isn't "just right."  Let it go, sister.  It's not going to be perfect until it's out of your hands.  
I'm a mom.  No, I don't like play dates (Seriously, just the term.  It creeps me out.), but that doesn't mean I don't love Brynna's face when we play dollhouse. I don't have as much time as I want (Do you?  If you've discovered a secret and you are holding out, that's not cool. Not cool.).  But I have the time I have.  God said it's enough, so it must be exactly the amount I need.  The question now is what I'll do with it.

It won't be perfect, but I will write.
...more tomorrow or I'll be late for gymnastics pick up.  (See, I said I was working on the late thing...)