Privileged

It has been happening pretty regularly at 3 a.m., this thing I do.  I wake up ticking off a list of all that I have to do the next day. In my head, I try to get everything in order, but rather than relaxing me it makes me feel more tense and panicked. While I am mentally organizing my day, I am also reminding myself of all of the things that I did not get done the day before, week before, month before, or year before.

I have no more than two  pictures of my youngest children actually developed.  

I have not reviewed prepositional phrases with my children this year.

I have not started a formal bible study with the children.

I have not lost all that weight I had planned on losing.

I don't know if the kids know the 3 food groups OR the new pyramid. 

We haven't been following our budget.

At this point, I just get out of bed because there is no sleeping when I am in this state. Plus, if I get up at 4:30 a.m. that gives me that much more time to get a start on everything.  Except I don't get a start on anything. I stall, because that's what happens when anxiety is running your life.

On one of these mornings my toddler joined me at 5:45.  I was only two cups of coffee in, and I am sure I did not look happy to see little Liam. He came over to my perch on the couch and put a hand on my cheek, "Awww. You sad, Mama?"  I thawed a little at that but still just looked at him.

I did not want to do anything that I had to do - make breakfast, clear the table, fold the laundry, get school going, make sure chores were done, figure out lunch and dinner, and then start the whole thing all over again the next day.  There just don't seem to be enough hours for my have-to's.

My brown-eyed boy looked into my eyes, stating seriously, "Mom. You mad?  You mad at me?"

Now I fully melted. This would not do. My little man could not believe that he was the fault for my mood. I wrapped my arms around him and showered in kisses and tickled his tummy.  The sound of his sweet laughter reminded me of the privilege of parenthood.

This thing I do, this life,  is a gift.

Caring for my children is not something that I have to do.  Rather, this mess called mothering is something that I get to do.  I am privileged to give baths, prepare meals, wash clothes, fix broken things, enjoy impromptu art sessions, and wrestle in bed sheets. I am blessed to teach our children at home - but I have a choice in it.

There is a always a choice, isn't there?  Nothing is forced on us. We can choose life, or death. We can choose joy or sorrow.

Our glass is either half full or half empty.  We can decide.

Paul knew the secret of contentment in all circumstances, didn't he?  For goodness sake, the man was in prison and beaten and flogged and he writes about sustained joy. I'm just dealing with tiredness, messiness, and busy-ness. Yet, I read the inspirational Ann Voskamp and I am there. I am on board. I am thankful! I just can't seem to live there everyday, I cannot seem to sustain that contentment in the mix of the seemingly mundane.

Sometimes I just need a reminder, and so often my children have it for me.

That morning  my Liam came downstairs he was just like the little boy from John 6 bringing fishes and loaves to the disciples.  My little boy came to me expecting what he knew I could offer - tender loving care in the form of a cuddle on the couch and a bowl of oatmeal.

His sweet words were a gentle reminder that, while I cannot do the miraculous, my Savior certainly can.

I long to be like my children, who every day know that they do not have enough on their own, but believe that with God all things are possible. They are content, when I allow for contentment.

I want to always remember that I am privileged to mother my children.  I want to remember the joy of my salvation, and my first love in Christ even when I'm moody, or frustrated, or tired.

After the tickling session, Liam and I went to the kitchen. He helped me stir the oats into the boiling water. We set the table and made the  hot tea. We lit a candle because Liam thought it would look pretty.  I took his little hand in mine as we walked upstairs to wake his sleeping siblings.

Downstairs at the table we shared sleepy smiles as we passed the brown sugar and fruit around. I could feel the cranky rolling away from me and the warm fuzzies coming back. (Anybody else remember the warm fuzzies we were taught about in elementary school, or is that just me?) We bowed our heads, giving thanks to God for a beautiful breakfast, but I kept my eyes open. I looked around at my children, and was overwhelmed with gratitude.  These kids don't drive me crazy. I drive myself crazy with churning thoughts and constant self-improvement.

I am so grateful that these children choose to love me every day in spite of all of my failings. I am thankful that their love reminds me of who God wants me to be and helps me forget who I think I should be.

I am so grateful that I get to do this crazy mothering thing every day.



Counting to one thousand and beyond:

1. coffee
2. quiet house early in the morning
3. watching neighbors leave for work and school
4. time with Jesus, just me and Him
5. tears of forgiveness from a sweet daughter
6. curious boys
7. all things handmade
8. hot rocks and crayons
9. husbands who get how hard it is sometimes
10. hot tea 

Who did this?!?

Growing up in my house it was not uncommon to encounter unclaimed messes. It was also not uncommon for my father to try to seek out the source. My dad has always been a man of few words and is generally mild mannered; however a bag of chips hidden under the couch in haste would bring out the tyrant in him! I can still remember his booming voice seemingly coming from outer space, "WHO DID THIS??" My mother, upon hearing dad trying to flush out the perpetrator, would roll her eyes. My brothers and I had an unspoken rule - we never sold each other out. We learned to simply look at the floor and wait it out. To my horror I find myself playing the part of Mess Detective. "Who did this? Who would do this?" It dawned on me today while on the phone with Shanna that no one is going to confess under those conditions! Serioulsy, who in their right mind is going to admit that they were responsible for stuffing chewed up sucker sticks in between the cushions of the sofa to a woman whose veins are bulging from her forehead? Do I really want to know why the bathroom counter is blue or there are three towels in a bathtub full of water? I was talking with Dad on the phone last week and I confessed that I used to think he and mom looked downright looney. My mother, on occasion, looked as though one more finger-poke on the shoulder might just send her running from the house. I remember thinking that Dad just needed to loosen up at the dinner table - what was the problem with me and my brother cackling like mad people while our youngest brother sculpted his food?? I went on to offer up to my dad that I got it. I got the haggard expressions and bloodshot eyes. I understand now because I am living it. "I'm sorry we drove you guys so nuts sometimes Dad. You and mom must have wanted to strangle us!" I offered. Dad chuckled. "What? You kids were great - we had a great time with you all!" Yeah, that's the truth of it. The kids are great. Now I'm going to go remind them of that fact.

No Comparison

I am constantly comparing myself to others. I compare myself to pioneer women who worked from pre-dawn to post-dusk and feel inadequate in my daily accomplishments. I compare myself to my friends and feel that I am not keeping up. I compare myself to my husband and feel sorry for myself that I don't have the 'freedom' that he appears to have. I compare myself to public-schooling friends and worry that I'm not pushing our children enough academically. All of these comparisons also have pre-conceived notions attached them. Ultimately I am judging others and myself in ways that I have no business doing.

I remember when Spencer was in pre-school a few years ago. I was struggling deeply with anxiety and depression. I would get my son ready for 'school' and watch all of the other moms pull into the parking lot at our church as they brought their children to the preschool. (Our house is on the church property where the pre-school is also located). I thought all of their cars looked so nice and I imagined that they were immaculate on the inside. As the women stepped out of their cars I felt they were all well-dressed - in mom uniform of yoga pants and cute shirt - I allowed myself to believe the lie that I was less than and they were greater than. I felt shrunk inside myself. As I would walk Spencer over to pre-school every stain on my jeans felt magnified, every extra pound I carried on my body felt tripled, my hair became limp, and I felt older than my years. I would even look at my sweet child and see imperfections - mismatched socks, unkempt hair, a torn book bag. I cannot tell you how painful these days were for me. I wanted to turn around, go back home, and climb into bed.

It seems the other women sensed it - they would not speak to me. I was invisible.
No one seemed to remember me from week to week. All of the mothers would congregate outside the classrooms chatting easily about their lives. Except me. I would stand against the wall trying not to cry.

One morning I was running more behind than usual. I rushed to give Spencer a piece of toast and we headed out the door. It is seriously and 2 minute walk to our church. As we trotted over I felt something moving down my pant leg. I took a couple of steps before I realized it was something loose. I stooped and reached into my pant leg thinking I was going to pull out a sock from the day before. No sock there. I pulled out a pair of underwear. UNDERWEAR FROM THE DAY BEFORE! I had pulled on a pair of jeans that were on the floor of my bedroom and never noticed the discarded undies. I started laughing and couldn't stop. I was mortified that someone would have seen but also spectacularly tickled at my faux pas. Spencer was laughing, too, perhaps just from the joy that I was finally laughing after so many days of frowning.

I jogged my unmentionables back home and retraced our steps back to pre-school. I couldn't wipe the smile off of my face. I can't say why that absurdity brought me out of my melancholy but it did. I realized in that comical moment that I am unique. My problems are unique, but so is my sense of humor, and my approach to life, and my parenting, and everything else in my life. That morning the other moms acknowledged me - or did I acknowledge them? All of my ideas about how perfect their lives were was shattered with the realization that we all have something creeping down the proverbial pants-leg. Something we didn't mean to leave there, something that drags us down and makes us feel ashamed. It's when we try to hide within ourselves that destruction sets in. Acknowledging something that causes us pain brings it into the light.

I still watch the pre-school moms coming and going but I no longer compare myself to them. I still struggle with occasional feelings of inadequacy, but mostly I embrace who God is transforming me to be. Everyday I work on looking at myself realistically (Romans 12:3-5) and remembering that in Christ I am not alone.

And I always give extra attention to any person that seems to be on the outside looking in.


Ephesians 1:18 "I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope he has given to those he called - his holy people who are his rich and glorious inheritance."

The Manager

I used to be a woman who frowned on empty threats. I once heard of a woman who told her children that the oil spots in parking lots were actually the remains of children who didn't hold their parents' hands! I was horrified that anyone would inflict this Grimm-like story on their young children.

Then I had my own children. Two I handled pretty well. When we added our third one, though, my thinking changed one day at the grocery store. My daughters were four and six and their little brother was around six months old. The grocery store in our neighborhood had carts with little plastic cars in the front for children to ride in. Things started out fine, but then we left the produce section. The girls began frantically collecting coupons out of all those goofy machines that spit them out over, and over, and over. I used my best positive parenting techniques to encourage them to stay in the cart. It worked but they saw a loophole in my plan and climbed on top of the cart while grabbing can goods and laughing hysterically. In a moment of panic I sternly said, "The manager is coming. He does not allow for children to get of hand in his store."

Kiley and Laurel began looking around for the manager. Spotting an adult in a business suit they quickly sat down and behaved for the duration of our shopping. This worked for a few years with Spencer, too. Spencer often would ask me where the manager was - a sure clue that he was preparing for some stooge-like antics. Now that they're older they behave well when we're out (for the most part :)) I hope I haven't given my three kiddos an unnatural fear of persons in managerial positions.

So, what are some of the goofy things you tell your kids to encourage them to behave?