When God is Still Good

Luke woke up a full 90 minutes early this morning. After throwing off my initial frustration at having my quiet time interrupted early, I soaked in the unexpected 1:1 time it allowed me to have with him. We got out a snack and some snuggles and were able to work through nearly our entire day's worth of school work in record time while Jo and Nathan slept. 

Josie eventually woke up and we were able to all three have our morning devotions in a still somewhat quiet house while Nathan continued to sleep on. I fixed our oatmeal, unloaded the dishwasher (a chore that usually takes me no less than 90 minutes when all three kids are awake) and got to sit down to breakfast with my two bigs without the interruptions that having Nathan at the table usually brings like spilled drinks and frequent (read: NEVER-ENDING) bathroom breaks. 

After breakfast, I was able to give them an extra special treat since the largest part of our school day was already completed: Watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. 

It was while I was cueing up the show that I first heard Nathan stirring in his room. I got the big kids settled with their show before I went to the end of the hall to get him up for the day. It was when I opened his door, before I even turned on his light, that I knew something was wrong: the air smelled like the Brown Death. As soon as I hit the lights switch I knew my worst fears were confirmed: Nathan and his bed and his sheets and his blankets and all his stuffed animals were covered in biological waste from every available orifice of his body. 

As bad as things were- I can't help but see the blessings God had seen fit to provide me with, even when I couldn't see them for myself. Sure, Nathan was covered in all manners of stink and vomit, and cleaning it all up was going to be a daunting task, but school was finished, breakfast was over, my kitchen was clean and my two bigs were happily occupied with a special movie treat that I knew would allow me to have the 27 minutes I'd need to get all the bedding and babies and bottoms cleaned up and washed down. 

Even now, I'm sitting here in my recliner, typing on my phone with a sick boy blissfully snuggling in my lap. His older siblings are playing and there is literally NOTHING ELSE that absolutely has to be done until nap time today. I have the next two hours free to sit here and snuggle and swaddle and rock my sick baby. On any other typical Monday, I'd be running around nonstop until about 2pm cleaning and 

clearing and schooling and scrubbing. BUT NOT TODAY. My obligations are obsolete because God saw that I was going to have a need today blessed me accordingly. 

Because God's plans are higher than mine, my prayer is that I can continue to allow my desires to decrease so that He will increase. {John 3:30}

Because even while pillows are coated in a Brown Death/vomit combo, God is still good. 

A Halloween Call To Arms

Moms: WE MUST PREPARE OURSELVES.

Nearly everyone out there is preparing for an extra hour of sleep tonight, but we know that all "Falling Back" means is that starting tomorrow morning, our kids will wake up (at least) an hour early for the next twelve days. IN A ROW. 

We must fortify ourselves, ladies. 

Stockpile coffee. Set your pot to automatically brew 45 minutes early tomorrow. 

After bedtime tonight, stash yourself a secret cash of Halloween candy in the back of your pantry. (Call it Mom Tax to absolve any guilt over pilfering your kid's candy buckets.) 

Lastly, pray that The Lord is with us as we bring our Post-Halloween-Candy-Binge-And-Then-Up-With-The-Sun kids to church with us in the morning. Pray for loads of patience and a short sermon. Pray for peace. Pray for naps. 

We will survive this. We are Moms. 

We will fight valiantly and defeat this sugar crashing and sleep depriving foe. 

Happy Halloween! 

Unpacking: an All-or-Nothing Story

We got home last night from another whirlwind weekend trip. After two fun filled, nonstop days visiting family, we drove back through four states and survived twenty seven back seat squabbles before our tires hit our blessed and beautiful driveway late yesterday afternoon. 

As we pulled the car into our garage, I could already feel the forces starting to move within me. It was the feeling that strikes about the same time at the conclusion of every family road trip we make. It has only one resounding call: UNPAAAAACK. 

Y'all, there are only two ways that I can unpack after a long and tiresome trip. I either unload every single bag, empty coffee cup, DVD case and stuffed animal from the car, methodically and fluidly unload every said item, quickly stowing dirty clothes in the laundry room, dropping off shoes in their bucket by the back door, and rinsing the kid's drink cups from the car before loading them into and starting the dishwasher, leaving nothing but empty suitcases and bathroom bags in my wake.

OR I DON'T. 

The bathroom bag gets hung over my closet door and emptied over the course of the next three days as I require each item that's stashed within it. The suitcases gets pushed into a corner of my bedroom floor, and then propped up open on my bed the next day when it will take me 7.5 hours to get the spare socks and undershirts and extra pajamas brought back to the dresser drawers where they belong. 

There is no middle of the road for me- I either unpack everything and all the things in 3 minutes or 3 days. 

We got in last night, fed the kids PB&Js and tucked them into bed at 6:00pm. It's now 8:30am and THEY ARE STILL SLEEPING. I had nothing in the icebox for breakfast but an expired 1/4 gallon of milk and some applesauce, so I went out to the grocery store to buy essentials. My husband, Matt, began unpacking for me (BEST HUSBAND EVER) and when I got home, nearly everything had been emptied out of it's bag and had mostly been put away. 

I stashed the rest of our bathroom stuff earlier this morning and threw the kids' shoes into the back door bucket. All that's left is this one bag of clothes to hang up/put away in the kid's rooms once they wake up. I have it waiting for me in a conspicuous location in my living room to hopefully motivate me to get it put away before 7:00pm today, but- let's be honest, there is a good chance it will still be there tomorrow.

(above: a really poor quality iPhone picture. Sorry 'bout that. I'm not a photographer. But you get the idea, right??)

Happy Monday, y'all! 

Busy Boys Are The Best Boys.

I've heard it said that Mothers of boys work from "son" up to "son" down. 

Y'all, I'm here to tell y'all- THAT IS THE ABSOLUTE TRUTH. 

I love this boy. This moving, shaking, wiggling-from-the-moment-his-eyes-open kid. Giving him an outlet for his energy hasn't always been easy, but I think ::crosses fingers:: I'm beginning to get the hang of it. 

His endless energy doesn't bother me like it used to. I've had to learn to remind myself that, at the end of the day- HE IS A BOY. HE IS FIVE YEARS OLD. He's not made to always be still. So, if standing up helps him get through the last page of our math lesson then by all means, let's stand up while we work through some problems together. 

Things have quieted down around these parts lately. I would say I'm sorry about it, but- as y'all can see- my hands have been full with more important work. Teaching and mothering my three kiddos has become way, way, WAY more than a full time job. 

Things like haircuts and dental appointments have been pushed to the back burner, and my writing/blogging hobby has been shuffled even farther down the list than that. (I'm pretty sure it's been sandwiched somewhere between luxuries like manicures and wearing  unstained pants with zippers and showering without an audience.) 

But don't despair! 

I've got some flash posts in the works so it's not going to be this quiet for long. 

Thanks for sticking with me, friends! 

We Love Mean Girls.

As a parent, there are times, and there are moments, and there are days that will stand out to you. 

Today was one of those days for me.

Given the 71º cool snap that we are currently experiencing down here (C'mon Fall, amIright?!), we split our school work down the middle and drove across the highway to our neighborhood park to play for Physical Education for about an hour or so after we finished our morning work this morning. 

On the whole, my three kids had an awesome time. The sun was shining, and there was a breeze that brought the seagulls in overhead from the beach, and there were loads of kids to play with. We met up with some of the other park regulars (One of my Luke's very favorite is another boy named Luke. "MOMMA! The other Luke is here today! We can both play together. AGAIN!") as well as some new faces that we were excited to get to know. 

Two of these new faces belonged to two little girls who appeared to be a bit older than my daughter, Josie. They were obviously BFFs and were not at all interested in expanding their current circle of friendship. I watched from the side lines as several of the other kids, all three of mine included, attempted to draw them out into games of freeze tag and backwards slides and handstands on the astroturf. They weren't concerned and made no attempts to sugar coat their distain at these unsolicited invitations. 

It hurt to watch. 
A hot lump began to form in my throat that no amount of water could dissolve.

As several failed invitations fell flat, most of the kids realized there was more fun to be had with their other friends who were more like minded, and the two other girls were left to play by themselves away from the rest of the group. Except my Josie. 

She's at the age where anyone older than her is the absolute bees knees. Anything they say or do is immediately awe worthy, and these girls were no exception. They had manicured faux fingernails, sequined sandals and matching designer play purses filled with tiny notebooks and pens that lit up when you pressed on them. Jo was enamored with these glamorous girls and continued to press them to "Please play wif me, too". The girls responded with a second, duplicated icy round of "WHY?? We don't even KNOW YOU." 

And that's when I stepped in. 
(And started praying like a madwoman for strength and self control.)

I encouraged her to go find someone else that would like to play with her. I reminded her that not everyone wants to be together all the time and that sometimes, there were going to be people that wouldn't want to play with her, and that that was OK. She shrugged it off and happily went to go find her little brother and drag him around take him by the hand to all the slides and stairs. 

We played for a while longer before it was time to go. The kids still had a great time, as was evidenced by the wet, sweaty dog smell that permeated the car on the drive home. I suspected that the incident with the cliquey girls would come up again and, as we arrived home, it did. I killed the car and swivled in my seat to face the kids as they relayed to me how the girl's actions had hurt their feelings. 

Parenting is hard, y'all. 

I don't want to raise my kids to be doormats or bullies. I want to help them find a balance between turning the other cheek and standing your ground. AND THAT IS TOUGH.

I reminded them of what the Bible teaches us about loving others. How we are taught to love our neighbors. And our enemies. And each other. And, how sometimes, people can fit into any and all of those categories. 

We may not like how someone acts sometimes, and it's OK to tell a friend that your feelings are hurt, but that doesn't mean that we retaliate when we are hurt. We just keep on loving them like Jesus. We forgive others, and love them when they're not lovable because our Jesus loves us when we aren't lovable, too. People will still hurt us sometimes, but we can use that to understand how to better love others. By remembering how we feel when people on playgrounds don't want to play, we can recognize how to better treat our other friends and others, too. 

Whew.

I swallowed the lump that was still in my throat as I got the kids unloaded. We washed up and grabbed as snack I gathered up my oldest Luke's table work to complete before lunchtime while Josie and Nathan settled into the living room with their toys and coloring books. 

There were a few minutes of peace and quiet until I heard Josie pipe up from her spot on the couch with her colors and paper. "Momma! I just made-ah letter foh doze girls at da pahhk. Can you'sah mail it to dem?" I asked her to bring her letter to me: a scribbled sheet full of pink and red circles. I told her it was a wonderful letter and I asked her what it said. Her response broke the dam of emotions that had been simmering below the surface since the first time I watched her timidly approach the glamorous girls to play earlier that morning.

 She told me it said "I forgive you." 

I lost it, right there at my table, y'all. I could live a thousand years and still never work hard enough to deserve a daughter with a heart like hers. She's teaching me more about encouragement and patience and unconditional love than I've ever known was humanly possible. 

My prayer is that my heart will continually change to reflect the purity I can see in hers. That my faith and endurance and love will be refined to shine with the kind that she emanates. 

Like I said, today was a stand out day, y'all. 

A three year old girl just gave me one of the best lessons I've ever learned on forgiveness. I wanted to write it all down now so that I'll be sure to never forget it. But, if I'm being honest, I probably never will. 

Slow Down. Get Grace.

"When a child gives you a gift, even if it is a rock they just picked up, exude gratitude. It might be the only thing they have to give, and they have chosen to give it to you." -Dean Jackson

I caught my oldest son, Luke sneaking out our back door earlier this week with a pair of scissors in his hand. He had the hunched back crouch of a jungle cat stalking it's prey and I knew right then that there was trouble afoot.

"Luke Andrew! WHERE ARE YOU GOING??! You know you can't go in the backyard without permission; and why do you have A PAIR OF MY SCISSORS in your hand??!!! Come back here and explain yourself, Son!" 

With his bottom lip trembling, he started to protest, and I quickly jumped onto him with some no-nonsense, authoritative-Mom action: "Luke, when I tell you to do something, I expect you to listen and obey IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT respond with excuses, Son. You have to come to me when I call you. PERIOD. Now.Come.Here."

At this point, his bottom lip had gone from trembling to quivering and huge puddles had formed in his eyes. He took a shaky breath, put on a brave face and replied as tears rolled down his face: "But, Momma. But, Momma- I was just trying to sneak outside and cut you some flowers. You always like when you have your pretty flowers out, and I just wanted to surprise you."

At that moment, my anger evaporated and my heart shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

My face hot, I dropped to the ground and wrapped him up in a hug. My throat was tight and my voice was pinched as I apologized for snapping at him. I reminded him that there are reasons why he can't go outside without permission, but I also told him that I should have asked patiently first without immediately fussing at him. 

I needed grace. I got it.

Still intent on his big surprise, I covered my eyes while he slipped away on his covert mission. He returned a few minutes later with a huge handful of the Black Eyed Susans that were blooming in our yard. 

I got them into some water and asked him to pick the perfect spot for them: in our living room on a bookshelf my Dad made for me. I've passed them dozens of times this week, and every time I've looked at them, I've remembered that bittersweet morning. 

It made me realize I need to slow down more when I parent. I've got to give out more leeway and fewer orders. I should dole out heaping helpings of grace- for my kids, for my husband, and for myself. I don't want to become a harsh foreman and forget to be a loving Mother. These childhood days pass so quickly, I don't want to be distracted by enforcing 100%-perfectly-perfect-behavior-protocol that I miss them completely. 

Things get so busy and crazy and chaotic and LOUD here that I sometimes snap. I get overwhelmed and overloaded and overstimulated and in those weak moments, I can crumble. And I remembered that Paul did, too. 

"And Jesus has said to me, "MY grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness." Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ's sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong." -Paul, 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

My flowers will stay fresh for a few days longer, but my prayer is that their lesson to slow down and get grace will abide in my house for much, much longer than that. Hallelujah.

The Time I Fell Off My High Horse At Big Kahuna's

One day, when I die, I'm donating my body to science. 

A medical study has to be done because I'm convinced that the amount of fluid my body is able to retain should qualify me as some sort of medical marvel. Y'all, I can just look at a bag of salt and vinegar chips and swell up like a diaper in a kiddie pool. A piece of Popeye's fried chicken will make my hands look like Vienna sausages. Please don't ask me what happens after I inhale eat crawfish: let's just say that it isn't pretty. 

Trust me when I say that body can hold onto some serious fluid. 
It's borderline miraculous, really, when I think about it. 

Last week, the bloated planets that circulate within my life aligned when my in laws visited and arranged to take us all to a water park. (Cue ominous music playing in your head.) 

I was rapidly approaching the horrific 28th day in the fierce and ferocious merry-go-round that is a ladies' favorite monthly countdown. I'd noticed that the numbers on my bathroom scale had been not so subtly creeping and creeping and creeping up in anticipation of this month's jubilant celebration of my empty womb about three days before my in-laws came to visit. THEN, I spent four.consecutive.meals dining at varied and various restaurant establishments consuming things like French fries and pizza slices and a stack (or two) of blueberry pancakes as tall as my toddler. 

Suffice to say that the morning of our slated water park trip dawned and I wasn't feeling like my best self. I wasn't even feeling like my worst self. 
I was feeling fat. And huge. And puffy. And swollen. 
Rooow-tund. 

It was as if, over the course of the previous week, my body decided to back log a dump truck full of fluid around my midsection and my cheekbones and neck and hands and feet. My rings didn't fit, my jeans mocked me from their hangers in my closet and the elastic in my socks had slowly begun to squeeze my ankles like some sort of medieval torture device. 

Hoooray for me! Because in approximately 18 hours we were going to get to go to a waterpark and spend the entire day dressed in swimsuits surrounded by friends and family and strangers alike. Funnesses of funness, amIright??! (Not.)

I was dreading it. Not the fun-family-togetherness-bonding part of the things. We had an awesome time with my in-laws during our staycation week together. It was the required attire that made me want to cringe and cry and crawl in a corner and call in sick. 

Y'all, the idea of squeezing my squishy, bloated abdomen into a spandex rashguard and board shorts while splashing around a humongous water park full of hundreds pairs of staring eyes made me want to throw up in my mouth a little. (Or a lot, if I'm being honest.) I didn't relish the idea of scarring innocent tourist's retinas with my pale, pasty, puffy persona, but my kids were so, so, SO EXCITED to go I knew there would be no getting out of it. So, I went. I was feeling self conscious and unattractive, but I went anyway. 

We arrived at the park and I begrudgingly shuttled myself and the kids into the dressing rooms to change into our gear. I got the kids squared away and finally squished my way into my SPF 50 ensemble. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaay. I took a deep breath, swallowed my pride, and left the dressing room ready to face whatever jeers and public humiliation I knew awaited me on the other side of that swinging door. 

I stepped into the bright sunlight, and as if on cue, a young boy next to me let out a blood curdling scream. Knowing that his poor innocence had just been violated by my enormous muffin top/Lycra combo, I hesitantly glanced in his direction. Much to my surprise, he wasn't even looking at me. He was flailing his arms like a chicken and hopping around like the cement was lava. 

He was crying because his mom had accidentally sprayed sunscreen in his eyes. 

Bullet: DODGED. 
Whew.

Much to my surprise, we made our way through the snack bar area and down into the wade pool without any further incident. We put our towels down and entered the lazy river without my making any small children cry out in fear or disgust. I'd barely noticed anybody glancing our way to jeer at my midsection's cushy circumference I couldn't believe it. 

It was like nobody had even noticed or even cared how unrighteously bloated I was. Could it be that I was not, in fact, the Quasimodo of the water park that I thought I was?? It was as if, within a crowd of dozens of people meandering down a fake lazy river that I wasn't a social pariah at all. I wasn't hideous. I was completely ordinary. 

Settling into the wave pool with the kids, I had a mind blowing realization about it all: NOBODY CARED ABOUT MY MUFFIN TOP. 

Out of the hundreds of people attending that glorious water wonderland with us that day, exactly zero of them cared to waste even a single second of their time judging me. The only person that was hesitantly having a good time because of my muffin top/PMS bloat combo situation was: me. 

As self important as I'd tried be and as paramount as I though my precious feelings and my tender, fragile self esteem were- nobody gave two hoots about me. They were there to have a great time with their families. They'd paid to spend the day making memories with their kids and wives and husbands, not to sit around nitpicking other people's giggly places. I got so worried about how I was feeling about myself that I totally forgot about having fun with my kids! I was missing out on my family's memory making day by focusing too much on myself. 

Ooooooowch. 

Y'all, I felt about the size of an English pea. 

That water park had not only doused me in a torrential downfall of over-chlorinated water, but also in a hearty stream of healthy self-realization. 

Before that day, I never thought I had a problem with an overinflated view of myself. If you would've asked me, I would have said that I considered myself a pretty humble person. I thought that humility and low self image went hand in hand. But it doesn't. My self image was ROCK BOTTOM that day, but I was walking around like my issues were the biggest and the baddest and the darkest of anybody's out there. I was as self important and self righteous as any OT Pharisee out there ever was. Because even though I was feeling reserved and self conscious and hesitant, I was still far from being humble. 

Nobody cares about my muffin top, and, y'all, nobody cares about yours, either. Do yourself a favor and learn from my character flaws. Stop wasting time obsessing about yourself like I did. It's not worth it. Focus that energy somewhere else. ANYWHERE else. It'll be better spent there, I promise. Our appearances just aren't that important.

It's pretty pathetic, when I really stop to think about it. How much time have I spent unnecessarily focusing on myself when I could've been thinking about more important things- like dried in grease stain removal or balancing my checkbook or the perfect foam-to-coffee ratio??

As I sat in a wave pool full of swim diaper runoff and sunscreen overspray I realized that underneath my swollen ankles and puffy eyelids- my ego was just.as.large.  I left that water park with renewed resolve to reroute my own self-obsessed thoughts into more positive directions. 

And get this: I'm actually doing it. I'm intentionally hydrating to try and give my poor overworked kidneys a break. I'm exercising self restraint when my jeans fit a little more snugly than I'd prefer. When I've tried on the 17th outfit before we need to leave the house and I can't find anything I like about any of them- I let.it.go. and walk out the door anyway. (Thanks, Elsa.) 

And, when the goin' gets tough, and I start to feel pathetic and puffy and want to crawl back in bed and hide in my covers instead of leaving the house- I stop and focus on what Peter said when he wrote the verses I read in 1 Peter 3:3- 

"And don't let your adornment be merely external- braiding your hair, and wearing gold jewelry, or putting on dresses; but let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God." 

These verses remind me that an obsessive focus on myself isn't Godly. It isn't holy. It's not what I'm called to be. My body won't matter when I get to heaven, but focusing on it to the extent that I neglect my family and husband and the entirety that is the rest of my life will. I want to strive to possess that gentle and quiet spirit that is precious to God. 

I'm a work in progress.I learned an important lesson about myself that day. 
It was a gritty, humbling and unflattering lesson, FO' SHO. 

But I'm so glad I did.