Alone

I don't remember doing anything alone. By the time I was old enough to remember or able to do things, my brother had been born. Summer camp, elementary school...I did it all with a built-in buddy. I met my best friend Hope when I was 11, and I don't have many memories that don't include her. Brandy started completing my sentences when I was 15, and together, we went to college. I honestly think the 3 of us could take over the world if not for our day jobs (and the small mini-me's that follow us around). When I was 18, my family adopted my sister, Vikki. Somehow she was separated from us for the first half of our lives but I still don't understand how because while we couldn't be more different, our hearts share a beat. I was married at 21 - before I even graduated college. (Do I recommend that? Absolutely not. Do I regret it? Absolutely not.) Most people stop adding "best friends" after the teenage years, but I got a bonus. Janay and I became friends and then coworkers and then family. Most days, she knows me better than I know myself.

One of my most fervent prayers for Brynna has been that she find strong, long-terrm girlfriends to love and do life with. I still pray that, but today, I realized that God has been answering another prayer without my even asking. Brynna is an only child. I'm constantly aware that she doesn't have the built-in buddy I had. I'm ever-concerned that she not feel alone. But in the midst of my worry, I didn't realize that she doesn't. She doesn't feel alone because she learned very early to make friends wherever she goes. The pool, the playground or the park...she has learned not to be afraid of being alone and reaching out to the person next to her. Just this weekend, as I laid on the beach thinking about how much more fun it would be if my sister were here and BG had her cousins to play with, Brynna picked up her pail, walked over to a little girl building a sand castle and built something great with a new friend.

All this time I spent worrying about her being alone, she was becoming more rooted in who she is. All the prayers for God to bring people to her were unnecessary because she was doing something way more important - she was learning how to go to people.

We spend our days as moms trying to teach life lessons to our little ones. But when we take a step back, more often than not, they are teaching us...

Confessions

My arm is asleep and I have to pee but I'm going to tough it out because the alternative is that she wakes up...and you can't go back from that.

I'd rather give her back the Barbie than see her sad. I don't teach her because it's easy or it makes her like me. I do it because is't best for her.

I regret the day I showed BG how to do a sidewalk chalk outline of a person. I don't want to trace another person. Ever.

I have been known to bribe.

The older I get (or the longer I'm a mother), the more moody I get around my period. (Sorry if that's TMI. After delivering a child with 27 people in the room, modesty is relative.) I'm sure the moodiness means something about hormones. I'm just trying to give advance notice. Consider yourself warned.

My kid's feet smell. Bad. And I don't know how to help it so she just keeps wearing shoes that smell and making them smell worse.

I seriously considered having another child today just so BG would have someone else to beg to play Chutes and Ladders and leave me be for 37 seconds. But then I snapped out of it and we went to the park.

I think she's gorgeous and a genius. I know...I'm "that" mom. But I do.

Ok to Cry

I remember being in my pajamas. I remember laying on the floor next to my brother watching the Sunday night movie. (Remember those?) I remember not really understanding why I was crying even as I did so. As Pollyana fell from the tree and her spirit was broken, the movie paused for commercial. (Kids, that's a thing that used to happen throughout a program and you had to...brace yourselves...WAIT for the show to resume.) I remember my brother asking what was wrong, trying to figure out what alien life force had overtaken me. I remember sitting on my mom's lap - not something I did often. We talked about what happened in the movie and that it's ok to cry.

Fast forward 25 years...
I can't take much more animated television and it's hard to find a show these days that doesn't have inappropriate content. That's why Brynna and I have been watching Full House recently. Tonight after dinner, she went up and got ready for bed. She brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas, then she snuggled in next to me and we watched as Uncle Jesse prepared to leave the "full house" to live with his new wife. He sat 4 year old Michelle down and explained that he would still be near, and as the show went to commercial, Michelle and Uncle Jesse each had a tear in their eyes. I looked down to realize that my 4 year old had a tear, too. She sat on my lap and told me that when I went away this weekend, it made her sad like the little girl on television.

I'm sure she won't remember all the details. I'm sure she won't really understand or realize why she was crying. But as I held my little girl tonight and remembered being a little girl myself, I said a prayer for her. I prayed that God would protect her innocence, and I hoped that 25 years from now what she does remember is that her mama held her and assured her that its ok to cry.

To Write or Not to Write

It's never really been a question for me. Writing isn't something I do; it's just part of who I am. You ask a question, and I answer. You need encouragement, so I give it. But I learned a long time ago that my mouth tends to get me in trouble; I speak better with my fingers. (You can backspace, delete, edit and no one ever has to know.)

This blog started something new, though. I wanted a place to write and thought the accountability of "people" reading it would keep me more consistent. So I told funny stories, taught a few lessons along the way and more than once vented my motherhood frustrations. The more consistent I was to write, the more people read and gave me feedback. Suddenly it wasn't just my mom telling me the card she received for Mother's Day was well written. It was more than my mentor telling me that I can say things in a way that makes sense to people. It was actual people. (Not that my mom and Cheri aren't real, but they have to love me. It's in the mom contract.) Real people with real problems said they could relate. Real moms with real pain said it helped to hear me talk about my post-partum depression. Real people laughed, real people cried and real people prayed with me.

Then it happened.

Someone suggested I should write professionally. I was asked to write devotions for church groups. I was asked to write a book to new moms. I was asked on multiple occasions to write children's books. (Not sure what that says about me...?) I was slow to warm up to the idea but once I did, I loved it. I could write in the afternoons by the pool while Brynna swam. I could write during "off times" and never have to miss a gymnastics class or dance recital. I had it all planned out - complete with visions of Jodi Picoult and I hanging out before book signings. (What? I'm just being real. I can admit when I go a little crazy.)

The problem with my overzealous plan is that I never bothered to stop and ask God what (and when) He wants me to write. It feels narcissistic but I can acknowledge that God gave me a gift to write. It would make sense that He had a purpose for it. So once I came to the realization, I promptly stopped and demanded He give me an answer. I do, after all, have a book tour to plan. I'm sort of in a time crunch here. So I asked and waited. And waited. I surmised that I was just so busy with our recent move, stuff with Brynna and life in general that I just needed time to draw away.

This weekend was to be my writing debut. I have the outline of what I think would be a great book (in my humble opinion, of course), and I planned to work on at least the first half (because that's realistic). I stopped to eat lunch, grabbed the essentials - Sour Patch kids, kettlecorn and Dr. Pepper and checked myself into a hotel. I prayed, laid out all my supplies and cracked my knuckles... Then I adjusted my chair and arranged the desk... Then I unpacked my bag...

Nothing.

No words. No inspired creativity. Nada. I stared at a blank computer screen and a notebook full of ideas. Around 11pm, I called David to say I might as well scrap the whole thing and go see a movie. And do you know what he had the nerve to say to me? "That's a great idea!" He said the goal was not to write a novel in a day, but to have a clearer understanding of how God wants me to use my gift. Just before he said goodnight, he said "Your timing may not be God's. His is always better." Huh. Shows what he knows. Clearly my time is the same as God's. Maybe I didn't outline the book tour well enough for David. I made a note to do that when I returned home.

As I sat in this quiet room for the rest of the night and this morning with nothing to distract me, God revealed something to me: writing, for me, is an overflow. It's not something I can manufacture. It's a response. When a friend asks a question about baptism, I write so it's said in a way she can understand. When a mom feels overwhelmed, I write because I want her to know she's not alone. When Brynna yells "Lookin' Good!" at strangers in Target, I write to laugh and so you can laugh, too.

I did write part of that book last night but I'm guessing when I go back and read, it won't be half as good as my sharing this part of my heart. So, I made a very difficult decision. I cancelled the book tour. I'm not scrapping the whole thing because I know God has a plan, and as He wants it out of me, I will write because that's how I respond. For now, I'm going to take advantage of a weekend to myself and take a nap then go see that movie. Heck, maybe I'll get crazy and see TWO!