While the Kids are Away, Mama will...

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I have reached a point in my motherhood journey in which I have 2 free mornings a week while my 3 children are attending their respective schools. As I typed that line I swear I just heard a choir of angels harmonizing on a high note together.

TWO FREE MORNINGS. Oh, I had big plans for those two free mornings when I sent all my little ones off in August. I can brunch with friends! I can run errands in peace! The house will be spotless! I can download all 2,604 pics off my phone and print them out in nice little coffee table books! AND THAT WILL JUST BE THE FIRST DAY!!!

It is now November. I did go to brunch one time and I organized a closet, so there's that. I think my sweet husband also had similar expectations of a tidy house and a showered wife on my free mornings. Sometimes he will helpfully suggest tasks I can accomplish on those days. "Um, Honey, Sweetheart? You know that giant pile of stuff on our dining room table you said you were going to take to Goodwill? Well, it's been there for about 3 weeks and I was just thinking that you could maybe, possibly take it while the kids are at school?"

"OH MY GOSH IT'S ON MY LIST YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I DO ON MY FREE MORNINGS I DON'T KNOW WHERE ALL THE TIME GOES."

But seriously. Factoring drop off and pick up times, I have about 3 child-free hours on preschool days and they are the fastest hours of my life. Kids-in-preschool-minutes are as fast as getting-a-massage minutes. They are even faster than kids-are-finally-asleep-let's-break-out-the-chips-and-watch-netflix minutes. It's amazing how I get anything done with those minutes whipping past faster than I can fill up my cart at Target.

Still, just to prove to my husband and anyone else who dares question my time management skills, I have carefully documented everything I accomplished this morning while the kids were at school.

STUFF MAMA GOT DONE

9:20 Pull in the driveway after dropping kids off. Alanis Morrissette is on the 90's station; sit in the car until "You Oughta Know" is over, obviously. Sing loudly. Sit in the car through 2 more songs because the 90's was such an awesome decade.

9:30 Go inside and sit on the couch. Stare out the window and think about all the stuff I'm going to get done today. I have 3 whole hours ahead of me. I probably even have time to repaint the guest room.

Get out my phone to check email. Check Instagram instead. Oooh, someone has reposted a throw pillow giveaway! You can never have enough throw pillows. Click on over to the throw pillow account where I discover this sweet woman is actually selling the darling throw pillows to fund the adoption of her Ugandan daughter. Stalk her blog and read her entire lifestory. I now feel we are BFFs.

10:15 WHAT? It's 10:15? Guess I should unload the dishwasher and clean up the kids' breakfast dishes. As I unload the forks I notice the silverware drawer is a complete disaster. I cannot stand to live with a crumby, disorganized silverware drawer for one minute longer. I feel so accomplished as I am cleaning the silverware drawer!

10:50 Realize I still haven't checked my email. Go to check my email and notice a Facebook notification. It is a notification for an event that I did not sign up for. A friend I haven't spoken to in 15 years is hosting an online party for products I do not wish to buy. That notification felt like a mean trick.

But look! Someone has shared an article, "12 Things Successful People Do Before Breakfast." I definitely want to be successful before breakfast. I begin to read.

1. WAKE UP EARLY. Does it count if my kid woke me up at 5:45am but I gave her the iPad and stayed in bed til the last possible second?

2. EXERCISE Well, I haven't technically eaten breakfast yet, so I could still get that in!

3. SPEND QUALITY TIME WITH FAMILY  Yes! I definitely snuggled with my daughter at 5:45 while she watched the iPad.

4. MEDITATE Stared out the window thinking about all the stuff I was going to do today, CHECK!

5. CHECK EMAIL Oh shoot.

11:05 In a fervent effort to be successful before breakfast I change into yoga pants and a tank top. I am definitely going to exercise this morning! I am feeling a little hungry, so I think it would be okay to eat breakfast before exercising just this once. I go to the kitchen to make a protein shake, but somehow eat half a brownie and a slice of cheese instead.

11:25 CHECK EMAIL! I AM SO SUCCESSFUL! I DELETE THE JUNK MAIL! I SIGN UP TO BRING NUT-FREE, EGG-FREE, GLUTEN-FREE COOKIES TO THE CLASS PARTY! I'm sure there's a recipe on Pinterest for nut-free, gluten-free, egg-free cookies shaped like Santa hats or something. Oh hey, look! There's a clearance sale at Anthropologie!

11:45 Write a blog post about how much I get done on my free mornings.

12:20 Freak out because I have to go pick up kids in 15 minutes and I have not yet painted the guest room or even showered.

12:36 Relocate Goodwill donations from dining room table to trunk of car where they will sit for 3 more weeks.

12:45 Arrive at preschool with no make-up and wet hair. I'm annoyed that those tricky minutes have all escaped me yet again, but I'm also feeling strangely relaxed. It was probably all that meditating I did.

When Motherhood Changes and You Do Too

Three years ago I was lying in bed at 5:45am staring at the ceiling and wondering how long I could let the baby cry and still be considered a good mother. I already knew what the day held and I didn't want to do it. It was the same routine on repeat, like the movie Groundhog Day but way less funny with way more bodily fluids.

The baby lived on my chest, wrapped tightly against my body, over and over, in a cloth that stretched approximately 75 feet. I loved the way her tiny form nestled into mine. I would lean my head to inhale her sweet baby scent and use every last bit of restraint to keep myself from stuffing her into my mouth where I would keep her for eternity, which is something that makes perfect sense when you're running on post-partum hormones and 2 hours of sleep.

I loved babywearing. For the first 30 minutes. At minute 31 my cozy wrap began to feel more like a straight jacket. I could feel beads of sweat forming in places I couldn't itch and my vertebrae began violent protests and threatened to leave my spine to join another part of the skeletal system because they certainly did not sign up for this nonsense. I couldn't agree more and if I could have used them to form a third arm I would have, because I clearly did not have enough as it were. I couldn't hold a newborn and chase after a toddler and help a preschooler draw a lion, except not that kind of lion.

So the baby slept in the wrap on my chest and nursed in the wrap and I probably would have driven around with her in the wrap except it was too hard to maneuver my arms around her body while steering. I would like to suggest post-partum women be sent home from the hospital with some kind of supervisor.

Having a baby was the hardest thing I've ever done. Having a bunch of babies in a row made me fantasize about going to jail so I could be left alone in a small room with nothing but a bed and a Bible. 

Lock me away, Your Honor! I'm guilty! Guilty of not enjoying every minute of having babies. I probably enjoyed 30% of the minutes. The other 70% was just hard work. Long, hard, exhausting, cry-your-eyes-out, pray-for-strength-to-get-through-the-day work. Was it worth it? Unequivocally, absolutely, YES.

Do runners enjoy every minute of a marathon? Do medical students enjoy every minute of residency? Admittedly, I have done neither, but I imagine people take on hard things not because they are fun or easy, but because somewhere deep down they know that the hard things are really the only things worth doing. It's the hard things that show you who you really are, what you are capable of and where you draw the strength to keep going. There is often unspeakable joy hidden in the midst of hard places and the only way to find that joy is to do the work it takes to get there.

Sometimes we take on hard things not by choice, but by circumstance. Either way, the result is the same. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, as they say. Of course, that still doesn't mean we should enjoy every second of our near death experience.

The quickest way to make a new mom feel like a failure is to tell her "enjoy every minute! It goes so fast!"

Really? I wanted to say to that older woman with fresh makeup, leisurely making her way down the produce aisle. May I smear some yellow poop in your hair? How much would you enjoy that? You know how long I've been awake? Twenty hours. That's 1,200 minutes. Every night I pray for time to speed the frig up.

It's been seven years since I had my first baby and three since I had my last. I feel like I've crossed over this bridge of diapers and sippy cups and naptimes and I can't believe I'm already on the other side.

Although, when it comes to photos, some things never change.

2 out of 3. I'll take it.

I see a young mom with a new baby and I'm nostalgic, longing to hold my tiny babes one more time. I still want to put her baby in my mouth, but I also feel a sense of relief, maybe even a feeling of accomplishment that I have pushed through all those endless hours. I have this urge to lean over and whisper "enjoy every minute! It goes so fast!" I've almost forgotten all the hard work and tears and one million ounces of breastmilk that it took to get me to this place. Instead I tell her "you're doing a great job! Your kids are amazing! Yes, I would love to hold your baby while you rescue your toddler from the third story of the playplace."

I may have crossed the first bridge, but there are still many miles to go. And this place I'm in right now? I think I'm going to like it here. Here are some things I've done today that at one point I was convinced I would never do again:
1. Took a shower. Alone. Without someone crying. Including myself.
2. Rode in the car with 3 other people and only buckled my own seatbelt.
3. Walked around for several consecutive hours without a human person attached to me.
4. Enjoyed an actual conversation with my kids because they are clever and funny and amazing.

There are still hard days and there are good days, but most often the days are some of both. The hard work to enjoyment ratio seems to be balancing out a bit though. This motherhood gig doesn't always get easier, but it changes and becomes different, and that's usually what you really need anyway.

As for me, I'd like to think I'm older and wiser, but probably I'm just older and less anxious. I know some things now. I know that whether you choose to sleep train or not, your child will sleep eventually. I know that despite your effort to raise your baby solely on breastmilk and organic broccoli, one day you will walk in the kitchen and find her dipping cheetos in maple syrup. I now know that my opposition to my 3-year-old wearing his Batman underwear over his clothes was not worth the fight.

When I look over my shoulder I see the days that seemed to last an eternity evaporate in an instant. I know it goes so fast, but I also know it's impossible to enjoy every minute.

I won't give you unsolicited advice on potty training or discipline practises, but if you ask I will tell you to just lean into it, all of it: the joy, the pain and everything in between. It's all part of the maternal package. Just embrace the chaos, the mess, the snuggles, the belly laughs, and if you can't because you need to go cry in a closet for a little while that's ok too.

Now I am (mostly...sometimes) the one who gets up first. I now wake them up to start the day. I miss my babies, but I am loving these kids.

I don't know what tomorrow may bring, but if I've learned anything from motherhood it's this: these days with these little people are more than I could have hoped for and nothing like I expected.

I have less control than I think and more grace than I deserve.

I don't have a plan and I don't have answers, but we have each other and all I know to do is lean in and count it all joy.

To the Teacher Who's Wondering if You're Making a Difference

I recently came across this letter I wrote last year for my first grade teacher's retirement celebration. I decided to post it for two reasons.

1) If you are a worn-out, stretched-too-thin teacher wondering if you are making a difference in this overwhelming, underpaid profession you have chosen, the answer is YES. You may not hear about it for nearly 30 years, if at all, but you never know the life-changing impact you might have on someone just by doing your job.
2) Think about someone who has made a difference in your life - a teacher, a mentor, a friend. Have you ever taken the time to tell them the difference they have made? You don't have to write a novel. Look them up, write an email, send a Facebook message. Take the time you normally spend on Zulilly and let them know. It will mean the world to them, I guarantee. 

I'm in the second row with the pigtails. Not sure what I'm doing with my face, but I suspect I'm feeling quite smug about having the ruffliest collar in the class. 

Occasionally throughout life, the question comes up: who was your favorite teacher?

Hands-down, without hesitation, since I was 6 years old, my answer has always been Mrs. Gordey.

I was in Mrs. Gordey’s first grade class in 1990. Funnily enough, I don’t remember the particulars of learning math or science that year. I barely remember reading groups or spelling tests, but what I do remember has stayed with me for over 20 years.

I remember her laugh. I remember the way she would throw back her head with laughter when one of her students innocently and unwittingly said something funny. We must have all been hysterical too, because her classroom was always filled with joy. Or maybe that was just her way of showing how she took delight in each and every student.

I remember the fun. When I was in first grade, I couldn’t wait to go to school each day. I was so excited to see who might get “cornfused” about something and be allowed to sit with the coveted box of Cornflakes on their desk for the morning. I remember “Crazy Hat Day.” I remember accidentally/on purpose saying the banned word “ain’t”, the punishment for which was to pet a stuffed yellow lion on the teacher's desk. I remember all the stories about Mr.Gordey; apparently, he was so skinny that he had to wear skis in the shower so he wouldn’t wash down the drain. (I thought she was kidding, but I was never quite sure.) I can still sing all the words to the silly songs she taught us. I remember earning stickers, wearing buttons and especially, I remember the day that Mrs. Gordey slid down the slide.

I remember the life lessons. She showed us through words and actions that each student was special and important in their own unique way. She told us to “Do right, even if the stars fall.” She demonstrated the unconditional love of Christ every day.

When I was in first grade, Ms. Gordey asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her that I wanted to be a writer, a “poetess” to be exact. She encouraged my pursuit. When the assignment was to write a story, she let me write a poem instead. She even allowed me to sign my name “Poetess Anna” on several occasions. The goal of my 6-year-old life was to write poems that made her giggle.

But I did not become a poetess. I became a teacher.

When I was in college I chose elementary education as my major because 1) I was not sure I could make a living as a poetess and 2) when thinking about the people who had most influenced my life up to that point, I could not deny the impact of Mrs.Gordey.

Mrs. Gordey ignited the spark that lit my lifelong passion for learning. She saw my potential and I strove to make her proud. A laugh and a hug from Mrs. Gordey was better than any gold star. The confidence that was instilled in me in the first grade has lasted my whole life.

I can only hope to have the honor to take what Mrs. Gordey gave me and pass it on to another. I became a teacher because of Mrs. Gordey.

I am currently on a break from my teaching position as a stay-at-home mom while I raise my three children, but even as a mother I endeavor to impart the lessons I learned in my first grade classroom 25 years ago. I try to laugh with them, to have fun with them and most importantly, to show them how to love God and love others.

As a teacher I learned something that Mrs. Gordey has known for decades. I learned that you cannot teach a child anything until that child knows you truly care. You cannot instruct a child’s head until you capture his heart.

Mrs. Gordey has captured the hearts of hundreds of children. Those children are forever inspired and impacted just by knowing her. Mrs. Gordey has made the world a better place, one tiny heart at a time.

Finding Love by Letting it Die

In Charleston they eat pimento cheese at breakfast, lunch and dinner and the women wear sundresses in November.
I think I've found my people, y'all.

John and I recently celebrated our 10-year anniversary with a quick trip to Charleston, South Carolina. Neither of us had ever been and we spent the better part of a long weekend savoring low-cuisine, enjoying historical tours, sampling multiple varieties of pimento cheese, wandering the old city and sneaking several plates of our hotel's complimentary dessert buffet back to our room. Do you notice a theme here?

One of the most magical things about our relationship is that neither of us believe in the concept of spoiling one's appetite, especially on vacation. And when you are in a city known for it's culinary flair, it would be a sin to miss even one meal. Or tea time. Or cocktails and hors-d'oeuvres. Or midnight snacks from the mini-bar. We are faux foodies, after all.

I was definitely looking forward to the slow pace, the quality time, and of course, the good eats. I did have one troublesome thought nagging at the back of my mind though. We have been together for so long and we know each other so well, I was a little worried that we might run out of things to say by noon on day one. I've learned how not to hate him, but had I forgotten how to date him? When you know every single detail of someone's life, what else is there to talk about?

I planned activities during the day to keep us busy - a horse-drawn carriage tour through the city, a ferry out to historical Fort Sumter - but it was actually the mealtimes that had me most concerned. There are only so many comments one can make about the bread and butter while waiting for the food to arrive.

Ever the planner, I decided the best course of action would be to Google "questions to ask your date" because the internet has the answer to all of life's problems. Sure enough, several options popped right up and one night at dinner, when the inevitable conversational lull reared it's ugly head, I decided to use one.

I pulled out my phone. John inquired as to what I was doing.

"It's a list of date night questions," I answered and he looked at me quizzically with raised eyebrows. "What? I'm just trying to keep the spark alive! Now tell me, what movie reminds you of us?"

He laughed. "Let me see that." And we both scrolled through together. We asked the questions, some silly, some serious, some slightly inappropriate (those answers whispered in hushed tones). We giggled and we laughed so hard we risked choking on our crab cakes. We reminisced and we waxed nostalgic about years already spent.

And you want to know something funny? We did not learn one new thing about each other that evening. He knew my answers before he asked the questions, and I asked him questions just because I like to hear him tell the story - "when did you know you loved me?" "what is your favorite memory of us?" "tell me how you think I'm more beautiful than Scarlet Johanssen" (I may have ad libbed a few).

C.S. Lewis once eloquently wrote that "People get from books the idea that if you have married the right person you may expect to go on ‘being in love’ forever. As a result, when they find they are not, they think this proves they have made a mistake and are entitled to a change — not realizing that, when they have changed, the glamour will presently go out of the new love just as it went out of the old one...This is, I think, one little part of what Christ meant by saying that a thing will not really live unless it first dies. It is simply no good trying to keep any thrill: that is the very worst thing you can do. Let the thrill go — let it die away — go on through that period of death into the quieter interest and happiness that follow — and you will find you are living in a world of new thrills all the time."

I was worried that the thrills were gone, and it's true that the butterflies have long since died, but they have been replaced by a quiet familiarity, a warm fullness that comes with having a partner who knows you to your core. I had forgotten that there is actually a deep comfort in the ability to sit in easy silence with another person. Words are not always necessary. 

Our relationship has matured to the extent that all it takes is one look to know what the other is thinking. One glance may say "get this child out of my face before I go all Joan Crawford-wire-hanger crazy." Another gaze might communicate the overwhelming gratitude and love felt for this life we've created together.

That night it happened to be one calculating glance as we sauntered past the hotel dessert buffet. One look which said "obviously we need to try everything...in the comfort of our own room of course, not as the gluttonous couple who just sat down with eight plates of dessert" and just like that we were piling up plates of cheesecake, chocolate pie and cookies, and making a mad dash to the elevator for our getaway. 

Food, it seems, is our love language. And we speak it so well.

I love our quiet, mature love.

It's a world of new thrills all the time.

Love Your Neighbor as Yourself...Unless it's Kinda Hard

I want to turn off the news. I want to snuggle my kids in their beds and read stories and forget about all the hurt that exists outside our very door. I want to avoid debates and uncomfortable conversations and just stick with sharing silly stories of motherhood and awkward pick-up lines. But there’s one story I can’t stop thinking about, a story that is nagging my mind and haunting my thoughts every time I try to get on with my comfy life.

This story is about a man who was beaten, robbed and left for dead on the side of the road. As he is lying helpless, 2 men walk by. They are respected figures in their community; they are religious leaders, but they walk on past. Perhaps they do not have the time to help or do not feel the obligation to this stranger who is so far removed from their busy, privileged lives.

A third man walks down the road. The thing about this third man is that he is of a completely different nationality and culture than the stranger. In fact, their cultures despise each other. Even still, the third man helps this stranger. He puts all of his own plans on hold and spends the day tending to the stranger’s wounds, giving him a ride back to his town, finding a place for him to recover and footing the bill for the entire ordeal. Even more remarkable is that just by entering the stranger’s land, the third man could have been killed, his people were that hated. He risked it all to help a stranger.

I probably don’t have to tell you that this story is the parable of the Good Samaritan that Jesus told in the Gospel of Luke when asked “who is my neighbor?”

The Samaritan gave his time, his money and risked his very life to help a man he had been taught to fear and hate.

And Jesus says “Go and do the same.”

I fail every day at finding Jesus in the needy, the neglected and the marginalized. How easy it is to see a homeless person and think “addict.” A welfare recipient becomes a “freeloader.” A refugee becomes a “terrorist.”

I don’t want to spend my life espousing Christian platitudes that fall apart when I’m forced outside my comfort zone. My greatest hope as a parent is to teach my children to love God and love others. Not “love others who look like you.” Not “be kind and have courage…unless you’re scared of the unknown.” Not “do unto others…unless it gets in the way of your own self-preservation.”

It’s hard. There are so many questions unanswered, so much pain, so many reasons to shut our doors to refugees in need.

But I can’t ignore the one truth that I know for sure:

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

A Syrian refugee family living in my city. Click here to read their story.

Finding Goodness in the Cracks

*Originally published on Hello, Dearest for MOPS International

When it comes to a Thanksgiving feast, there is only one thing more important than preparing the traditional eats: making sure everything looks perfect enough for a magazine photo shoot. Because if you can’t impress your friends and family with your impeccable food presentation and themed tablescapes, then what is the point of the holidays anyway?

At least, those were the thoughts that lurked in the back of my head a few years ago as I prepared to host a dozen or so relatives for Thanksgiving dinner. The menu was planned, extra linens were purchased and approximately 72 trips to the grocery store had been made. Only one thing could stand in the way of my perfect Thanksgiving celebration: pumpkin cheesecake. You see, there was one flaw in my cheesecake that bugged me to no end each year. Every year I baked it; and every year it cracked.

I usually disguised the crack with artistic swirls of whipped cream, but that year I was determined to make a picture-perfect pumpkin cheesecake.

I stayed up late one night researching no-fail, no-crack cheesecake baking methods. Some recipes swore by the water bath technique. Others suggested adding a little cornstarch to the batter. Whatever tricks and tips the recipes recommended, they all preached the importance of cooling the cheesecake very slowly. Whatever you do, DO NOT open the oven door while the cheesecake is baking.

So that year, with the help of my eager 3-year-old son, we put all of the advice to work. We added cornstarch to the batter as we discussed his favorite part of preschool (lunchtime). While preparing the water bath, we debated the very best superhero (verdict: Superman) and as we added the finishing touches he confided in me his future ambition (to be a toy salesman). Finally, we popped the cheesecake in the oven and shut the door with our fingers crossed.

Periodically, I peeked through the oven window. My cheesecake was progressing beautifully! I turned away to continue other preparations only to hear a little voice behind me, “Look, Mommy! Our cake is going to be so yummy!” I turned and to my horror, saw my son peering in at the cheesecake, with the oven door wide open.

I screamed. I stomped. I threw a dish towel on the floor. I may have banged my head against the refrigerator. It was not pretty. And then I saw little tears beginning to well up in my son’s eyes, “I’m sorry, Mommy, I just wanted to peek at our yummy cake.”

Needless to say, our cheesecake came out of the oven with a crack that year. Actually, it was more like a giant crater. And somehow, despite the crack, it was still delicious. In my quest for perfection I had missed the goodness in the cracks.

A perfect cheesecake is not nearly as important as the act of baking with someone you love. What is on the table is not nearly as important as who is around it.

I apologized to my son for my dramatic outburst and promised myself to never again get so carried away by cheesecake, which is no small undertaking considering the power that cheese and cake possess when they join forces. Funnily enough, the crack in our pumpkin cheesecake has become a Thanksgiving tradition just as much as the dessert itself. I no longer try to hide the crack, instead it reminds me not to focus on the imperfections, but on the beauty in the flaws.

This year, let us be thankful to gather hand-in-hand with the people we love. Let us celebrate the goodness that comes from acknowledging our shortcomings. Let us be thankful for those who love us, cracks and all.

How to Not Hate Your Spouse

There are few certainties in this world. However, in my experience, one of those certainties is whenever you start to become overconfident in an area of your life, that is generally the time the universe decides to give you a swift kick in the pants.

For example, one time a friend of mine asked for advice on dealing with her misbehaving 3-year-old. My own 3-year-old happened to have a good Wednesday that week so I was feeling particularly confident in my parenting skills. I don't remember what words of wisdom I bestowed upon her that evening, but I will never forget my son's preschool teacher pulling me aside the next day to tell me that my 3-year-old had spent the morning acting like a rabid dog and had clawed another child's face so bad he drew blood.

I immediately texted my friend and told her to please ignore all of my previous advice. "Instead, just throw out all the granola bars and maybe get a tattoo that says 'this too shall pass' on the inside of your hand so you will see it whenever you get the urge to face-palm."

So you see, I'm a little hesitant to share advice. Especially marriage advice. Because it may cause my husband to claw at my face like a rabid dog.

I kid! I kid!

Actually, John and I recently celebrated our 10-year anniversary. I have been married 10 years to the funniest, smartest, most loving guy a girl could ask for. But sometimes I forget. Sometimes I forget all those things under the stress and strain of everyday life.

All of his stellar qualities I fell in love with become commonplace as the days pile on and the weeks become months of needy babies and dirty laundry and home maintenance projects.

And when life takes dips into drudgery, as it often tends to do, resentment rears its ugly head. And who gets the brunt of this anger and frustration? None other than the partner I pledged to walk through life with.

What can be done to uproot these seeds of bitterness before they grow into full-fledged hate for your spouse?

This is where the advice part comes in, but even with 10 years under my belt I can't help but feel unqualified to offer martial wisdom. Luckily, this is not my advice. This advice was given to me by a speaker I heard several years back. I honestly don't even remember who she was, but I've never forgotten what she said.

Her advice for a happy marriage was simple: index cards.

Yes, index cards.


It works like this. Let's say you've asked your spouse to take some chicken out of the freezer so it can thaw for dinner. He forgets. As the five o'clock hour (or the dark time where dreams go to die, as we call it in my house) approaches you discover his oversight and you are gripped with the horrible realization that there is no dinner and delivery pizza will take at least 45 minutes, so you might as well throw some cereal boxes on the table and let the children duke it out over who gets the last of the Lucky Charms.

Did I mention this scenario was hypothetical? Anywho, in such desperate moments, we inevitably look for someone to blame and our spouse is the obvious scapegoat. Rather than giving the benefit of the doubt, our thoughts immediately turn sour. I can't believe he forgot such a simple request. If he wasn't so preoccupied with work, he would have remembered. If he was thinking about my needs, he would have remembered. He's so selfish. He doesn't care about me. He doesn't care about us.

It sounds silly, but admit it, we've all fell victim to letting those little lies invade our head. Sometimes, when I'm trapped inside my head, I convince myself that the lies are truths.

This is where the index cards come in. That speaker, all those years ago, shared that she had written down truths about her husband on a set of index cards so that when she felt the lies in her head, she had some solid truth to use against them. She would read through her cards until she was no longer mad, and the bitterness never had a chance to take root.

If I'm being perfectly honest, I have never written down the truths on index cards, but it's been on my to-do list for about 5 years now, so I'm sure that counts for something. In the meantime, I do have a mental list of truths about my husband always at the ready in my brain. If they do ever make it to index card form, they may look something like this:

He always opens the door for me. Even after 10 years.

He works long hours to provide for our family.

The children adore him.

He has immediately forgiven me every time I have hit the house with our car.

He does ALL THE LAUNDRY. 

He stands firm in his convictions and beliefs.

He does a hysterical impression of Dr. Phil.

He does a hysterical impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

He does a hysterical impression of the Crocodile Hunter (admittedly, that one was funnier before he died. But seriously, John should probably just do impressions whenever I'm mad at him because who can stay mad at the Crocodile Hunter?)


And just like that, with a bit of review and repetition, these truths begin to soften the shell of bitterness covering my heart, and I am reminded of why I love him so fiercely.

It's a simple little exercise, but I swear it works every time. Maybe because it's the often-quoted Corinthians passage in action: Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.

Perhaps I should have more wisdom to bestow after 3,650 days of life with the same man. On the other hand, I believe I've worn the same pair of sweatpants-as-pajamas for 3,645 of those days, so maybe you're better off just sticking with the index cards.

Nothing to see here, Universe, go find some other (sweat)pants to kick.

The Summer of One Million Couch Forts

It's almost funny to me. One day I will laugh about it, but right now I'm just shaking my head at the irony.

You see, last summer my nearly-18-month-old refused to take a step, so I have been telling everyone for months that I was SO EXCITED for this summer because ALL MY CHILDREN ARE FINALLY WALKING.

I spoke too soon.

We had one glorious week of exploring parks, catching fireflies and walks at dusk when it all came to a screeching halt - a screeching halt while we were out of town visiting grandparents for that matter.

It was day 2 of our visit and my mom and I packed up the kids and headed to a super hip downtown trampoline park first thing in the morning for "preschool bounce." Preschool Bounce is a euphemism for letting small children, who have minimal control over their bodies as it is, run wild in a giant room made of trampolines, which is only slightly safer than turning them loose in a knife factory. 

I remember one time in elementary school the teacher gave us a writing prompt that asked us to design our dream house. Pretty much every kid in the class came up with a version of a home with trampoline floors, slides instead of stairs and ways of trapezing yourself from one room to the next. Oh my, what imaginations! I'm sure our teacher thought, Like anyone in their right mind would design and build a giant death trap like this!

Apparently, as long as you slap a waiver of liability on any who dare to enter, you can build whatever sort of death trap your heart so desires.

Basically, I'm pretty sure that trampoline parks were invented in the mind of a 5th grader in the early nineties. In fact, as I glanced over the wide expanse of springy floors, rope swings and foam pits, I couldn't help but feel like an 11-year-old again, giddy with excitement. However, I was very quickly reminded that I am actually a 33-year-old woman who has birthed 3 children because even after completely emptying my bladder, it became clear that I will never again be able to bounce with the free abandon I possessed in my youth. Sad face.

The kids, on the other hand, were in absolute heaven. I wish I had taken some pictures, but my phone memory was completely full (Just give me the cheapest phone! I said. What do I need extra memory for? I said). I was especially kicking myself for not having video capabilities when Jack discovered the slide. This particular slide was actually a giant corrugated black tube that jutted out over a tall platform. The kids slide down the tube and drop about 10 feet into a pit of foam cubes. Totally safe, right? Anyway, Jack was having the time of his life doing belly flops and cannonballs and flips out of the tube. And it would be a really cool story to say that he broke his leg doing a double backflip out of a colossal drainage pipe, but that's not how it happened at all.

The story of how he broke his leg, how all our summer plans got flipped around, is the most unexciting, regular story there is to tell.

He was just jumping, just bouncing in a square when another girl decided to bounce in his square. She must have messed up the rhythm of his bounce and when he came down, his leg buckled just so, and his screams immediately reverberated through the room.

Jack is my oldest and my child that is the most dramatic about his injuries, whether that is because he was more coddled as a toddler when he got a boo boo (since there were no other little ones around demanding attention) or because he is a carbon copy of my husband who is also fairly dramatic when he is not feeling his best (he once told me "I know I caught this cold from you, but it must have mutated because my cold is MUCH WORSE.") we may never know, but there was something much more panicked about his screams that day.

I was across the park when it happened, so I bounced over to him as quickly as bouncing allows, much like that dream where you try to run away from your ex-boss the restaurant manager who, unsurprisingly, also happens to be a psychotic serial killer, as fast as you can, but you can only move in slow motion.

When I finally reached him, the first words out of his mouth were, "I BROKE MY LEG! I BROKE MY LEG! PRAY TO GOD, MOMMY, I BROKE MY LEG!!"

Being the compassionate mother that I am, my first words were, "No, no, Sweetie, you're fine!!! You're ok! Come on, let's get a Slushie!!"

In my defense though, there were no protruding bones, no blood and not even any swelling at first. However, after 3 hours of hysterical screaming I decided that perhaps I should take him to the ER to get things checked out. Sure enough, the diagnosis was a fractured tibia.

Glassy-eyed and no longer screaming after the nurses gave him some "special medicine."
If you look very closely you will see that his left knee area is slightly swollen.

We had big plans for this summer. The kids and I even made a summer bucket list that included everything from blueberry picking (Jack's suggestion) to a day at the zoo (Henry's request) and swimming lessons (they'll be SO much fun! I insisted a little too enthusiastically). Mostly, I just wanted to spend long, lazy days enjoying my kids, who are all finally old enough to go down the slide without my help, before the craziness of school starts in the fall. 

Instead, Jack was in a temporary (soft) cast for nearly 2 weeks, so he had to be carried everywhere and was completely dependent on his parents, much like an infant - a 4 foot, 50 pound infant who constantly demands popsicles and ice cream "to make his leg feel better."

We were stuck inside most of the time which meant the kids played every board game in our collection, watched every super hero show available on Netflix, built an obscene number of couch forts and constantly FOUGHT AT EAR-PIERCING DECIBELS. One day I had a mini-breakdown after rebuilding couch fort #87 for the sixth time. They paused their bickering to ask "What's wrong, Mommy?"

"It's like February all over again!!" I howled.

"But Mooooommeeeee, there are not supposed to be any holes in the roof!"
"IT'S CALLED A SKYLIGHT!"

I was feeling very sorry for Jack, but mostly very sorry for myself that my summer of poolside relaxation had turned into the summer of one million couch forts. But it turns out that pity parties are only helpful if wine is involved and since that could only happen after the kids went to bed, something had to change.

This past year the women's ministry at our church has made a theme out of the verse in Thessalonians that says "rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances." I declared it to be my own personal mantra this year as well, which has turned out to be quite encouraging and helpful when I actually stop whining about stuff and remember that I have a mantra.

One day they made a fort for me. It was...cozy.

One day, with my mantra in mind, I made a big show of ripping our neglected bucket list off the fridge and throwing it the trash, which was really not as dramatic as it sounds since it was just written on a post-it note that Elise scribbled over about 5 times.

"Jack, we are making a new list!" I declared. "Because even when a bad thing happens, God can use it for good! Let's make a list of all the good things that have happened because you broke your leg."

He blinked at me. "Mommy, this is the WORST thing that has ever happened in my LIFE."

"Well, that's probably true, but what about all the good things that have happened? The kind things that people have done to show they care about you? Your friends have come over to bring you goodies and play with you. People have called and sent cards and text messages and even packages! How does that make you feel?"

He smiled. "Really good."

"Yeah, it made me feel really good too. Sometimes when we're sad and hurting, God shows his love for us through other people. We just have to look for the good things and have a thankful heart."

His eyes lit up, "Hey, I know something good that happened!"

"What?"

"I didn't have to take swimming lessons!"

His friend Katherine came over and coaxed him outside for the first time after his injury.
She also taught him how to make an "art show." He had so much fun he almost forgot his leg was broken

Making superhero chalk people with Jackson.

To make an even longer story as short as possible, we finally got in to see a specialist who put Jack in a hard cast that he was able to walk in a little, which made life exponentially easier for all of us. And we kept looking for good things to rejoice in and be thankful for while he was in his cast.

It turns out the very best thing about having a cast is that people can sign it, and Jack got some pretty amazing signatures which he showed to everyone all month long.

Spiderman signed his cast during Superhero Day at the library.

Darth Vader and a stormtrooper signed his cast at Star Wars Day at the library.
Yes, we have an amazing library.

Even the Chick-fil-a Cow made his mark.

After a month of couch forts, I mean recovery, Jack got his cast off this week. I was kind of expecting him to come skipping out of the hospital, but that was not the case. The doctor told him his leg might be a little stiff and sore for a while, which I think Jack heard as "if you walk on it, your leg will fall off."

Three days after the cast came off he finally built up the courage to take a step. He has not yet bent his knee and is currently hobbling around very slowly, kind of like a peg-legged pirate.

It may be a while longer before he is running around like normal, but we have a lot to rejoice about in the meantime. He is healthy and his break healed quickly. We are surrounded by friends and family who love us and reach out to help in situations big and small. Also, how lucky are we that the doctor let Jack take home his cast to keep as a souvenir of his injury forever and ever??

"It smells in here."

The cast has become the most coveted prop when playing "Hospital"

And, until he can run free, there are always COUCH FORTS.

How to Make Brownies in 100 Easy Steps

On the morning of my birthday I was awoken by 3 little bright-eyed, sandy-haired sweeties climbing excitedly into my bed chanting, "Happy birthday, Mommy! Happy birthday!" We gave hugs and kisses and I honestly could not think of a way I'd rather wake up on my birthday.

Unfortunately, I was only able to bask in the birthday adoration for a minute or so because their well-wishes quickly turned to shouts of "Where's the cake?! When are we having cake?!? We want cake!!" as if cake somehow magically appears just because it's your birthday, which I suppose, if you're a kid, does seem to happen.

But when you are thirty-something, any and all cake responsibilities generally fall to you, birthday or not, which is how I found myself digging through the pantry that afternoon and, thankfully, pulling out a forgotten box of triple-chocolate brownie mix. It wasn't cake, but it would do in a pinch.

"Just 3 easy steps!" the box cheerfully claimed. According to the box, we could throw this mix together in 10 minutes and spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing while the oven did the rest.

The box lied.

I mean, I probably could have added water, eggs, and oil in 10 minutes, but when you have a couple of tiny sous chefs assisting the baking process, you just need a whole new set of directions.


So I wrote some. You're welcome, boxed brownie mix people.

And if you weren't craving brownies before, you definitely are now, amirite?

Jack and I belly laughed for 2 solid minutes over this photo.

How to Make Brownies in 100 Easy Steps

1. Put 2-year-old down for a nap. This is the most crucial step in the brownie making process.

2. Take boxed brownie mix out of the pantry.

3. Announce to children that it is time to make brownies.

4. Children pull a chair up to the counter.

5. Children fight for room on chair.

6. Explain to children that there are 5 more identical chairs around the kitchen table.

7. Three-year-old drags another chair to kitchen counter.

8. 3yo stubs his toe in the process of dragging chair.

9. Calmly put icepack on 3yo's barely visible booboo.

What? You don't dress like this when you bake?

10. Now it is time to begin. Take out a 13 x 9 pan.

11. 5-year-old sneezes directly into pan.

12. Wipe boogies out of pan. Try not to curse.

13. Spray Pam into pan, because the thought of ingesting mystery can chemicals is less troubling than the reality of spending 20 minutes scraping stuck brownie off the bottom of the pan. Ain't nobody got time for that.

14. 5-year-old wants a turn to spray.

15. 5yo accidentally sprays himself in eye.

16. 5yo screams as if his eyeball has popped out of his head and is rolling across the floor.

17. Place warm wash cloth over 5yo's eye. Practice those breathing exercises that you forgot to use during childbirth, but seem to come in handy while baking with children.

18. Assure 5yo that he will not go blind.

19. Approximately 30 minutes has now passed and it is FINALLY time to begin. Pour powdered brownie mix into a bowl.

20. Remind children not to touch brownie mix with their bare hands.

21. Again, remind children MORE LOUDLY that this is brownie mix in a bowl and NOT sand at the beach to bury their hands and squish between their fingers.

22. Yell "WHAT DID MOMMY SAY?!? NO, NO, NO, DO NOT SHAKE YOUR DIRTY HANDS OFF IN THE AIR!!"

23. Smile through clenched teeth as you wipe up brownie powder that has been spread all over the countertop and on the floor.

24. Continue to reassure 5yo (who has a slight obsession with going blind) that he will not go blind.

25. Allow 5yo to pour 1/3 cup of water into brownie mix.

26. 5yo spills half the water in the process.

27. Estimate how much water is still needed in the bowl and dump it in.

28. One child declares that he needs to use the restroom.

29. Do nothing. Wait for child to finish in the bathroom because if you so much as stir the batter while he is gone THE WORLD MIGHT END.

30. Help child wipe. Try not to be reminded of said batter.

31. Wash all the hands.

32. Reluctantly allow 3yo to add egg to mix even though you know it will end badly.

33. 3yo drops egg on floor.

34. Pretend you are the cheerful Bounty commercial mom who laughs off spills and cleans them up with ease in order to distract yourself from crying.

35. Second egg makes it into the bowl.

Holy egg yolk, Batman!

36. Fish out eggshells.

37. Proclaim that IT IS MOMMY'S TURN. MOMMY IS GOING TO ADD THE OIL.

38. Add 1/3 cup oil.

39. Children take turns stirring/slinging batter across the kitchen.

40. Children start to fight because 5yo is taking too long of a turn.

41. 3yo smacks 5yo in the eye.

42. Remove 3yo from the chair until he calms down.

43. 3yo does not calm down.

44. 3yo makes face at Mommy.

45. Send 3yo to time out.

46. Again, assure 5yo that he will not go blind.

47. 3yo screams bloody murder from time out.

48. 2yo is awoken by murderous screams.

49. Now 2yo also screams.

50. Sit down. Rest head between legs and take deep breaths so that there will be at least one person in the house not crying. Alternately, assume fetal position and hide in closet.

51. Announce "WHO WANTS TO WATCH A SHOW??"

52. Get 2yo out of crib.

53. 2yo does not want to watch show.

54. Pour brownie batter into pan with one hand.

55. Put brownies in 325 degree oven with one hand.

56. Clean up with one hand.

57. Dig box out of the trash to see how long to bake brownies. Also use one hand.

58-98.Tell children that no, the brownies are not ready yet. Repeat 40 times.

99. GIVE HUSBAND GIANT KISS WHEN HE WALKS IN THE DOOR WITH TAKEOUT FROM YOUR FAVORITE RESTAURANT.

100. Smile as if your heart will explode when children bring you a misshapen brownie with lit candle after dinner and loudly sing "HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR MOMMEEEEEEE!" in their sweet, squeaky little voices.

ENJOY.

"I know it's her birthday and all, but we gotta make sure there's enough brownies for us kids. There. Just barely big enough to hold a candle."  

There were even enough brownies to eat the next day.
(I'm almost positive this will be our Christmas card photo.)