Lessons from a Pool Toy

I sat on the edge of the zero-depth kiddie pool and watched my girls splash near my feet. Reese filled a miniature watering can and poured it into Allie's open palm. Ah, those precious giggles. Matt sat nearby on the floor of the pool fiddling with a rubber squirt toy. Last fall we talked about spending his spring break in Mexico sans children, but instead opted for the far cheaper - and much less relaxing - family fun day in Peoria, Illinois (just 30 minutes from home). Toddler Splash at the Riverplex and Burger Barge 2 for lunch. Upper class all the way.

We really did have a great time at the pool. Reese finally overcame her fear of getting her face and head wet, and she had a blast going down the miniature water slide and perfecting her crab walk. Allie had not been in a pool since last summer, and her elated expression was well worth missing out on the palm trees and Margaritas. 

Sometimes when I see my kids having so much fun in such a simple moment I wonder where I derailed. I can (reluctantly) admit that I am a bit of a no-nonsense person, and the days of carefree child-like fun seem so far lost. My desire to prevent messes and injuries often overrides my ability to let loose and have fun. Routine. Order. Control. Boring. That's me. And if it doesn't seem that way to others (thank God), that's often how I feel. 

Watching the girls continue to play, I caught a glimpse of Matt raising a now full squirt toy out of the water. Before I could react, he sprayed a line of water down my abdomen. I shot him a "don't you dare" look as he submerged the toy again. This time he shot me in the face. In the face! He roared with laughter as I stared back at him. "Hun, c'mon," I always say in that long, drawn out way that shows my level of irritation with just two words.

Only I didn't say that. I didn't say anything. Instead, Reese jumped up and said, "Daddy, Mommy doesn't want you to do that!" This wasn't the first wake-up call to the reality that I am creating a miniature no-nonsense version of myself. Her personality is mine in every way. She is bossy and controlling. She prefers order to chaos. And she is often intolerant of even the most innocent teasing. 

And, boy, did I marry a teaser. He's the type who likes to give me jumper cables while I'm cracking eggs. (That's when you take your index fingers and poke them into both sides of another person's waist). One year when Reese had the flu on New Year's Eve, Matt wanted to bet on which one of us would come down with it first. I was not amused. That night, I got up from the couch and went to the bathroom. As I hung my head over the toilet, he peeked around the corner and said, "You win." And suddenly there I was throwing up and laughing at the same time. He's witty and sarcastic and his humor has thwarted way more arguments than it's caused. In fact, it tops the list of things I love about him. He's hilarious.

Yet here I am today giving him dirty looks because I don't want to go to a dumpy burger joint with frizzy hair. Really?? 

I realized then that I never derailed. I just don't choose to laugh as often anymore, and for some reason it seems that the older I get, the less laughter wins. I blame stress – and not the I-can’t-pay-my-bills stress or someone-I-love-is-dying stress, but the kind of senseless self-induced, anxiety-driven stress that I can’t seem to pin on any single life event (or even series of events). And isn’t life just too damn short for imaginary stress to override moments of laughter, joy, and soaking-wet fun? 

I think so.

As suddenly as it appeared, my angry expression transformed into a sly smile as I reached for a squirt toy of my own. I pointed it at Matt and squeezed the head of a rubber tiger. A pitiful arc of water dribbled from its mouth. Matt laughed even harder and sprayed my face again. I tried to reload, but I couldn't squeeze the tiger hard enough to reach him. After a few more tries, I dropped my weapon in surrender. Water dripped from my face and hair and our laughter echoed off the walls. 

Reese ran over and sat on the edge of the pool next to me. "Spray me, Daddy! Spray me!" 

Matt squirted her belly. She squealed. "Do it again!"

Then Allie walked over to him and doused him with the watering can, getting revenge for Reese and me. Someday in the future, when I hear a song that prompts a spontaneous mental montage of special moments, this scene at the pool will surely make the cut.

Laughter doesn't always come up against another choice; it just flows naturally from a good happy mood. Other times, it fights tooth and nail just to get you to crack a smile. It’s like the way your response to a messy spill can land anywhere between indifferent shrug and total meltdown depending on anything from hormones to stress levels (real or imagined) to where this spill falls in today’s lineup of mishaps. If I’m in a good mood and Matt gives me jumper cables while I’m cracking eggs, I laugh and turn my head to kiss his cheek. If I’m in a bad mood, or (more often) in a self-induced stress frenzy, I resort to an irritated “grow up” comment and matching eye roll.

What I’ve learned, though, is that – in more circumstances than we may know (or care to admit) – our response is a matter of choice. In the split second that I felt the water from Matt’s squirt toy begin to pelt my face, something inside me wanted to react with anger or annoyance or – at the very least – a pleading, “Hun, please don’t” with forced politeness. At the same time, another part of me urged a different response…

“Laugh. Really, it’s ok. So what if your makeup runs and your hair gets frizzy? So what if you didn’t pack a brush or a hair tie? The annoyance you feel isn’t about Matt or the squirt toy. It’s about other (totally unfounded) fears and worries that have nothing to do with family fun day. What a great chance to let all that go for a while. Now grab that tiger and squirt him back!” 

An hour later, I sat at the Burger Barge 2 with my Moo-Shroom (aka Swiss and mushroom) burger and fries and, seriously, the frizziest hair ever. I took Allie to the bathroom for a diaper change and glanced in the mirror. Cringing at the sight of my, I turned on the sink hoping some moisture would temporarily tame my frizz. From her position on my hip, Allie reached forward and splashed in the water. I gave her a moment of fun (ah, those precious giggles) and then turned the faucet off without touching my hair. I dried my hands and looked in the mirror again, smiling at my wild hairdo and the memory of the moment that created it.

Lessons from a Past Regret

Two months ago I stood in my kitchen holding an invitation to my best friend’s wedding. I read the print as if I didn’t already know the details. Sunday, June 16, 2013. San Diego, California. Why does it have to be in San Diego? I clipped the invitation to the refrigerator wondering how long I would wait to tell her that I had decided not to go.

Feeling guilty for my decision, I silently listed my reasons. It made me feel better. It’s not really a choice. I just can’t go.

For starters, I’ve never been a great flyer and ever since my semi-emergency landing situation in 2008, I’ve become an awful flyer. (Actually, I’ve only flown once since then but it was enough for me to know that my level of fear has skyrocketed past uneasiness and is now orbiting straight-up panic attack).

I can’t go.

And now we’ve got this house and these two kids and I don’t work and money doesn’t grow on trees and ticket prices are high – not to mention hotel rooms, meals, and the high cost of everything in California (or so I’ve heard).

I can’t go.

PLUS, I’ve never left my kids. Ever. I’ve left town without my children one time since Reese was born. One time! Matt and I went to Chicago for a weekend getaway - we didn’t even leave the state. How can I go across the country without them? What if they get sick or hurt or they just need mommy?

See?

I can’t go.

After convincing myself that this was not a choice made by me but by factors outside of my control, I made my peace with it. Her parents are having a reception here in July. I’ll go to that. There. Now I really felt better. Well, that’s the end of that.

A few weeks later, I was clearing out my office/guest room/catch-all-disaster (because I'm finally giving in to my desire for an official play room). I filled a small box with my framed diplomas, pictures, and other decorations. I paused as I grabbed the picture of my brother in his Marine uniform. That picture is all I have of the experience of his graduation. I don’t remember the ceremony. Because I wasn’t there.

I chose not to go for a lot of the same reasons. Mike had advised me against bringing Reese because of the lack of accommodations for a baby. He warned me that we would be outside all day in the heat with few (if any) convenient places to change or nurse her. As a new mom (and a generally high-strung person), I didn’t think I could handle that. But I also couldn’t handle the thought of leaving her…. AND I probably would’ve had a panic attack on the plane and I had just quit my job and money doesn’t grow on trees and...

I should’ve gone.

Until then I didn’t realize that I had never really made peace with my decision. Even though I did what I thought was best at the time, I wish I hadn’t let fear, discomfort, and uncertainty cause me to miss such an important milestone in my brother’s life.

If I could do it over again, I wouldn’t miss it.

I didn’t add his picture to the box. Instead I took it out of the frame and walked it to the kitchen. As I clipped it to the refrigerator next to Katie's wedding invitation, I saw my handwriting on the back.



People talk about living without regrets and I don't know if such a person exists, but I feel sorry for anyone who truly has none. Some of my deepest regrets and biggest mistakes have taught me the most valuable lessons of my life. Often the choices I would change if I could go back and do it over are the ones that shine a light on an opportunity to go forward and do it better.  

My flight leaves Saturday morning.

Lessons from a Crying Baby

I told Matt what Allie’s doctor said. Sounds to me like colic. Hang in there. That’s it. That was the extent of his advice. Hang in there. Well, I could have told myself that. That’s what we’ve been doing for the past month.

Allie cries through the evening almost every day. Every time there is a lull in the pattern, I get my hopes up that things are getting better, but it never lasts. We’re getting in a routine where Matt and I take turns walking laps with her around the fireplace. He tries a pacifier. I try to nurse her. We walk and sing and swaddle and bounce and do our best to eat our dinner and talk over the wailing. We switch back and forth between walking with Allie and playing with Reese and our alone time is rare. This is our life.

She’s only been doing this for about four weeks, but to us it feels like forever. It’s affecting my ability to enjoy the newborn stage, and lowering my patience for Reese and Matt and myself. One night after Reese was in bed, I handed Allie off to Matt and buried my face in my hands.

He put a hand on my shoulder, “Are you ok?”

“I just don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“Are you saying we should put her on Ebay?”

I laughed through the tears, and asked if he would mind if I took a shower before my next turn.

For the past month, I have been asking God to make this go away. I begged him to calm her, heal her, and bring her peace so I in turn could have my peace. I want to remember this stage of her life as a happy time. I don’t want to look back and think, “Gee, that was awful. I'm glad that’s over.” I have said over and over to God what I had just said to Matt, I don’t know how much longer I can do this, and I've been angry that God doesn't seem to be listening.

Alone in the bathroom, I prayed as I often do in the shower. This time, however, I put my agenda aside and I asked Him only for acceptance:

Dear Lord, please help me accept my circumstances. Help me to be calm in this storm and grant me the peace of knowing that this will pass in your time. Let me be thankful for the things that are going well, and help me find greater joy in smaller moments. Please give me the strength and patience to be the mother you created me to be.

Then I returned to the living room to take my turn with Allie. Matt went to bed and I continued walking laps around the fireplace. Remembering my prayer, I started thinking about all that I've been thankful for in the past month - moments that made me smile and all the wonderful parts about having a newborn. I recalled the moment of her birth, her first bath, her first smile, the way Reese kisses her forehead, and the feeling of her tiny head resting in the palm of my hand.

Before I knew it, I was crying again, but instead of the tears of frustration, anger, and exhaustion to which I had grown so accustomed, they were tears of gratitude and joy. At some point, Allie had stopped crying, and her little head rested peacefully on my shoulder. As I continued walking, I sang three verses of Amazing Grace and thanked God for answering my prayer. Then I set Allie in her bed where she slept for six hours, her longest stretch to date.

When I first told Matt, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” I wasn’t even entirely sure what I meant. That statement doesn’t even make sense in a situation where there is no way out. Yet, I tend to say that during times when I’m faced with circumstances I’m not willing to accept.

I realize now what my heart was feeling when my mouth made that statement. I meant that I can’t continue through this challenge while focusing on the negative. I can’t face it without God’s grace. And I can’t continue holding onto the image of the circumstances I want rather than accepting the circumstances I have.

I don’t know how much longer this will continue, but I do know that if I continue drawing strength from God, keep picking myself up when I fall, and focus on being thankful for all that is well, I can do it. For as long as it takes.

Because although there may not be peace and quiet in my home, I can choose to walk through it with peace and quiet in my heart.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.
Join us today at Melissa's place!

Lessons from a Random Stranger

Sitting alone in a booth intended for four, I drizzled heavy white cream over my coffee. The spine of my new book creaked slightly as I opened its cover for the first time. I had one hour until I had to pick Reese up. One hour of total peace and quiet. One hour with the pastime I enjoy far too infrequently these days.

An old man shuffled past my table, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. A regular customer, I assumed from the waitress’ greeting. He settled into the corner booth and ordered a hamburger. I wondered how that would pan out since his tight sunken lips suggested the absence of even a single tooth.

I quickly returned my attention to my book. Old people make me uncomfortable.

Minutes later, I looked up just as the old man was lowering himself onto the padded seat across from me. My eyes searched the room, confused.

Is he lost? Does he think I’m someone else?

The uncomfortable-around-old-people part of my brain encouraged me to bolt. Quick! Excuse yourself and leave. Or at least tell him to leave. Or at the very least pretend you don’t see him.

He either failed to notice my discomfort or completely ignored it. After a long awkward silence he finally spoke, “My name is Bob Smith. Would it be alright if I joined you?”

I felt my face flush red. People at other tables were staring, expecting a scene. Suddenly the manager peeked around the corner, “Bob, are you bothering this lady?” Then, turning to me, “Everything alright, ma’am?”

Here’s your chance. No I’m not alright. Check, please!

The thoughts fizzled before reaching my lips. I could tell from the manager’s tone that this was a common routine, an unwelcomed addition to his job description – steering Bob away from annoyed customers. Customers like me who want to read their books and drink their coffee and not be bothered by lonely old men.

“We’re fine, thank you,” I surprised myself with my own response. The manager turned toward the kitchen with a shrug. Bob continued talking as if there had been no interruption. He said he was a hundred years old. His sunken cheeks and toothless grin gave me no reason to doubt it. He said he had been living alone for the past 15 years, walking here several times a week. I wondered how long it took him to shuffle himself over from his apartment. Even if it were next door, the trip would likely take most of his day. He had the slouched posture of a weary traveler. The heaviness in his eyes hinted at the depths of his loneliness.

Pretend you don’t see him. The guilt threatened to swallow me whole as I wondered how often he gets that reaction, how often people brush him off as if he has aged out of the rights to dignity and respect. What makes my agenda so important that I can’t take an hour to validate the existence of another human being?

Closing my book, I cradled my coffee mug with both hands and forced myself to make eye contact with the stranger at my table. Bob continued to talk. I started to listen - not the way I often “listen” when Reese shows me the same toy for the tenth time, or the way I “listen” when Matt interrupts a writing session to get my opinion on a landscaping idea – but really listen with the kind of intent that whispers its message through the silence, “your story matters.”

He talked about the many decades of changes to the local landscape and how “none of this was here 50 years ago.” He bragged about his swing dancing skills and offered to take me for a spin around the diner. I said I wasn’t sure I’d be a very good partner, standing to reveal my baby bump. We shared a laugh as he asked what my husband would think about his pregnant wife’s impromptu date with this strange old man. I promised to keep it between us. We laughed again.

Suddenly I realized I was no longer nervous; no longer annoyed; no longer counting down the minutes. Eventually, I did have to excuse myself. I told Bob it was nice talking to him, and I meant it.

Twenty minutes later, with Reese now buckled in behind me, I listened to her talk about everything she did at Nana’s house. My fascination was genuine, my responses were more enthusiastic. Your story matters.

At home, I greeted Matt. He immediately started telling me about his crazy afternoon with an out-of-control student. My interest was sincere, my reaction was more concerned. Your story matters.

The significance of my random encounter suddenly started to make more sense. I hadn’t simply done a favor for a stranger. We were two souls brought together in a perfectly orchestrated universe, each possessing exactly what the other needed for the moment. I had been searching for peace and quiet with a closed mind and an open book. Instead, I found it through a closed mouth and opened ears. For one hour, my thoughts were quiet, my soul was at peace, and I remembered what it’s like to truly listen and let people know that their stories matter.

Thanks, Bob, for letting me listen.

This is a Bigger Picture moment. 

Join us today at Alita's place.

Lessons from a Rotten Apple

It was supposed to be a fun evening.

Matt put Reese to bed while I turned our kitchen into a makeshift applesauce factory complete with peeling, cooking, cooling, and bagging stations. Rinsing the first batch, I imagined how we would turn up the music and sing and dance while we peeled and chopped. We would make “someday” plans for our unfinished basement, retirement vacations, and imaginary lottery winnings. We’d throw skins at each other and make a sticky mess and when the last bag was in the freezer, he would chase me back to the bedroom and we’d deal with the pots and pans and floors tomorrow...

His voice brought me back from my fantasy life-before-children evening.

“Do you toss the bad ones?” He asked as he took up his post at the peeling station. He held up an apple that had definitely seen better days.

“Just take out the bad parts. The rest is still good."

Just two batches in, our fun was interrupted by a faint cry down the hall. The hoarseness in Reese’s voice told me to brace myself for a long night as I washed my hands and headed for her room.

Making my way through the dark, I clipped my toe on her miniature rocking chair. I crumpled into a ball at the foot of her bed and tried to take deep breaths between stabs of pain. I forced myself to turn my attention back to my child. Snot ran down her face; her skin was warm to the touch. I scooped her up and carried her out to the living room.

“She’s sick,” I said. Matt stopped the peeler mid-apple.

“You’re bleeding,” he answered, looking at my foot.

I plopped down on the couch, unsure of which problem to solve first. Sick toddler. Bloody foot. Sticky kitchen. This was so far from the kind of evening I had anticipated.

Well, this night is ruined, I thought as the joy of the last hour began to give way to disappointment. But the thought died before it reached my lips and I resisted the urge to grumble about all that had suddenly gone wrong. Those things determined the course of my evening, not the quality.

Just take out the bad parts.

I turned my focus toward making things as right as possible. I wrapped Reese in a blanket, gave her some Tylenol, and handed her over to Matt. Then I hobbled to the bathroom to find a bandaid.

Limping back to the kitchen, I started peeling again where he left off. On the other side of the counter, he rocked in the recliner and she drifted off to sleep against his chest. I peeled. He rocked. She slept. Our eyes locked and we smiled at each other, our hearts speaking through the silence. 

The rest is still good.

Suddenly, the joy returned to the moment. Not the fun, giggly, lighthearted kind of joy I had anticipated, but joy just the same - a quiet, content, peaceful kind of joy.

Just take out the bad parts. The rest is still good.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.
Join us today at Sarah's place.

A Lesson in Giving

I approached the doors of Walmart, trying to look invisible as I passed the table outside. A woman’s voice said, “We’re collecting school supplies today.” I assumed she was talking to me, but I avoided eye contact. I muttered a noncommittal response and continued inside, trying to ignore the guilt mounting inside me. I tried to consoled myself, leaning on the excuse that as a one-income family, we are limited in the amount we can give.

Moments later, I stood in the bedding aisle holding a bed skirt - a completely nonfunctional item serving only to add to the aesthetics of my daughter’s bedroom. I pulled my shopping list from my purse. Few things were actual necessities. Instantly, my mind suddenly left the store, floating away and resting on a memory I had long since forgotten…

I was in my college dorm room, flipping through the TV channels when I came to an episode of MTV Cribs. The celebrity, whose name isn’t important (and I don’t remember anyway), paraded the cameras through his custom-built garage. At the end of a long line of motorcycles of varying models and colors sat a motorcycle molded out of solid gold. I thought of all the people who could be helped with the money that was now sitting idly in the form of a solid gold motorcycle. How sad that people are so greedy, I thought as I changed the channel.

The memory evaporated as quickly it came, leaving behind the sticky residue of the bubble of denial that had burst in my face. I was suddenly aware of my own abundance: the 55 inch TV mounted to my living room wall, the Android in my pocket, the appliances, decorations, clothes – everything in my life that is so far beyond the realm of true necessity – my own golden motorcycle.

I started to wonder what might happen if I stopped placing the responsibility on those with obvious, excessive wealth and started focusing on sharing my own abundance as much as possible.

I reached up and put the bed skirt back on the shelf and headed for the school supplies.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. Share with us at Alita's Place today.

Lessons from a Summer Drought

The air was dry and humid, almost too thick to breathe. Reese and I were less than halfway through our morning walk around the lake. As I panted along, I felt as tired as the withered vegetation surrounding me. I am twenty-five weeks pregnant and although we were armed with ice cold water and sunscreen, my better judgments warned me to turn back. The lush green grass of early spring looked more like desert sand. A steady stream of crisp brown leaves trickled down from the trees above as they began to prepare for an early death. The plants drooped in despair, giving up hope for the much-needed moisture that still hasn’t come. Sweat rolled down my back - another warning sign. Go home. Reluctantly, I headed for the shortcut that leads to our backyard.

As I trudged back, my feet crunched through dead leaves and grass and I started to think about the many times I cursed the rain – when outdoor events were marred by its presence; when family outings had to be rescheduled; when simple trips to the grocery store became a major inconvenience. Even on days when I didn’t curse it, I certainly didn’t welcome it. Sunny days induce happiness. The gray skies of an impending storm have the opposite effect. Rain is sad, depressing, negative. “Rain, rain, go away…”

And “go away” it did. Only recently have I begun to check each week’s forecast eagerly hoping for a wet, muddy day. A thunder roll in the distance now produces excitement rather than dread as I think of the many life forms that would benefit from a good hard rain. In the midst of a sudden downpour, I would gladly stand with outstretched arms and embrace its life-giving power rather than cover my head and run toward the nearest shelter. Until the rain stopped and the world around me began to wither and die, I had never thought beyond the inconvenience of a wet shopping cart or the disappointment of a cancelled picnic. Now, as I walk through the dying landscape, I absorb a new appreciation for the rain and the lessons I’ve learned in its absence… 

1. Look beyond yourself. I am often guilty of living in my own little world. How will this event affect my day, my space, my life? On a rainy Sunday morning, I don’t stop to thank God for the life-saving water that nourishes our crops and restores our trees because I’m focused on the inconvenience of hauling a wet umbrella into church. When I widen my focus to the bigger picture, I see the true insignificance of my little complaints. Sometimes life seems to rain on my parade, but maybe that rain has a much higher purpose.

2. It's easier to see the good in something once it's taken away. I overhear people everywhere saying, “maybe it will rain today,” with an oddly upbeat, excited tone. These are probably the same people who, like me, have cursed rainy days in the past. I suppose it’s true that we don’t know what we have until it is lost. When I think about how I miss the rain, I am reminded of so many other events in my life that I didn’t cherish until it was too late. I remained focused on the negative, never thinking that I would someday wish for another day in those circumstances just so I could fully appreciate the positives to which I had somehow been oblivious before.

3. Sometimes positive events wear a negative disguise. When I look out at the rain, I tend to focus on the depressing gray clouds looming overhead, murky mud puddles pooling in the driveway, water droplets falling like tears. I forget that under the earth, the roots of our plants dance with glee as they absorb the moisture and that all around me a happier, greener world will ultimately result from this seemingly “depressing” day. How often do people emerge from a rainy season of life only to discover a rainbow that wouldn’t otherwise exist? Dark days often seem to have no purpose, but when rain falls on the branches of our hearts, courage grows in the roots of our souls.

Someday the rain will return, the drought will clear, and the many facebook statuses that begged for rain last week will no doubt complain about it next week. I hope I always remember this dry season when I inevitably begin to curse the rain again. I hope that as the thunder rolls in and the first drops begin to fall, I will look out the window and smile because the rain brings so much of the world to life and so many reasons to be thankful.

My Tiny Teacher

Reese turns two this weekend, and it's amazing to think about all the changes her life has been through since last year. Last May she took her first steps and her vocabulary was limited to just three words. Now she is running, climbing, and talking in full sentences. It has been quite a journey watching her explore the ever-changing world around her as she learns more and more each day. But what's even more incredible is everything she has taught me this year. I never expected to learn so much from such a tiny teacher who is completely unaware of the many life lessons she teaches her mom every day. In honor of Reese’s second birthday, here are some of my favorite life lessons through a toddler’s eyes: 

1. Control your energy. I'm talking about the invisible, emotional energy that surrounds the space around us. If I am aggravated or over-scheduled, it changes the air in my home. I have noticed that Reese is crabby when I'm crabby, tense when I'm tense, and relaxed when I'm relaxed. She has shown me how much my attitude affects the space and the people around me. Being more conscious of my energy helps me stay focused on the positive and makes for a happier mom and a happier home.

2. Be who you are. I love how toddlers are so incredibly carefree. Reese doesn’t care about being judged by others, nor does she have the ability to judge. In Reese’s world, everyone is completely free to be themselves. Her carefree nature reminds me to be less concerned about society’s standards and expectations, especially because I want to keep that ability alive in her for as long as possible.

3. Resilience is key. I’m amazed at how easily Reese can bounce back from negative emotions and physical pain. Whether she’s upset over a bump on the head or mad at me for derailing her plans to color on the wall, the devastation always ends as quickly as it begins. She gets some comfort from mommy and moves on to a new task. Suddenly the original problem is completely forgotten, and she leaves me with yet another example of what it means to “just get over it.”  

4. Sometimes you just need to have a tantrum. Adults have tantrums too. We just have a different way of channeling them. I’ve learned that as long as we develop appropriate ways to handle an occasional flood of emotion, there’s no reason to feel guilty about our tantrums. If Reese needs to flail on the floor for a minute after being told that we’re not watching another episode of Mickey Mouse, I can’t exactly say I don’t understand. I often have that same urge when I get off the phone with Verizon’s customer service line.  

5. Life is fascinating. Sometimes I wonder how long it has been since I sat in complete awe of nature’s beauty. Somewhere along the way I became desensitized to my surroundings and consumed by my routine and I forgot how marvelous the world really is. Reese’s excitement over simple things in nature – a squirrel in the yard, a purple flower, a really tall tree – reminds me there are so many reasons to look at the world and say, “Wow!” 

Lessons from a Personal Legacy

Last week my dad’s cousin, Paul, passed away suddenly at the age of fifty-nine. On March 15, he collapsed in his home and spent a week in the hospital. He remained in a coma and never regained consciousness.  During that time, his kids posted regular updates in a blog where they kept family and friends informed about his condition and expressed their gratitude for the outpouring of love and prayers.

Although I never actually met Paul (or if I did I was young enough that I don’t remember), I was saddened to hear his story. I started following the blog the day after he entered the hospital and the words of his family moved and inspired me as they expressed their unwavering faith in God’s plan and celebrated their father’s entrance into the Lord’s kingdom. One recent blog entry includes a series of audio clips from a 2009 estate planning meeting in which Paul completed a personal legacy interview. Knowing that he was a faith-driven man, I was curious to hear his perspective on his greatest challenges, personal fulfillment, and life lessons. Not only was I inspired and encouraged to make greater strides in my own faith journey, but in just 25 short minutes I received a full snapshot of who this man was, what he valued, and what he wanted people to know about him as a person and as a follower of Jesus. Even after his death, his hopes, dreams, and legacy can live on because he took the time to ponder these questions and record his answers.

As I listened, I kept thinking about the beautiful gift this short interview now presents to Paul's children. I am fortunate enough to have my parents alive today, but when I inevitably find myself in the world without them, there is nothing I wouldn’t give to have access to such a recording. I sometimes find myself confronted with the realization that Reese will never remember me if I am torn from her life even in the next few years. Although I don’t like to think about it, the knowledge of that possibility gives me the encouragement to capture as many memories as possible and makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be sitting down across from a recording device every few years to answer questions that she might someday want to hear from my own mouth and my own heart.

In the last question of the interview Paul was asked, “If you knew you had only 30 days to live and health and money weren’t an obstacle, what would you do?” His answer included sharing his testimony of faith with as many people as possible. I’d like to help him do that, so the link to Paul’s interview is below.

I would also like to encourage everyone to ponder that question every day. Don’t think of it as a hypothetical because for some us, it may not be and for all of us, it won’t always be. If you find something in your heart’s desires that you’re not doing today, start doing it. If you’ve been putting off a dream, start chasing it. And if you’ve never made a recording of your personal legacy to leave behind for your children, start thinking about how they will remember you when you’re gone. Never forget that we are all here on borrowed time and tomorrow is not a guarantee. If today is your last day, how will you be remembered? Who will share your legacy? What do you want your kids to know? Write it. Record it. Videotape it. It will be the greatest gift you could give them.

http://paulsweas.wordpress.com/

Lessons from a Tiny Farmhouse

I just wrote the date at the top of a check and I realized it has been over a month since our move. I paused to think about all the luxuries I’ve been enjoying for the past few weeks – things like my basement, garage, dishwasher, linen closet, and pantry. I thought about how great it’s been to have plenty of storage space, room to exercise, and a guest bedroom for friends and family to visit. Then I thought about all the time I spent in our old house wondering if I would ever have those things and complaining about all the little inconveniences. Now, as I sit here in our new house, I look back and wonder how many moments were wasted on worry and how many memories didn’t get cherished because I was too busy longing for something better.

I recently returned to our old house to clean for the new renters to move in. Although our possessions are gone, each room still holds signs of our presence. There are marks on the bathroom wall from Matt knocking down the towel bar after almost every shower. There’s a faded silhouette from the wall art that hung above Reese’s crib: “Angels danced the day you were born.” And on the closet door in our old bedroom is one tiny handprint that I never could bring myself to wipe away.

As I cleaned each room, I thought about all the things we will never do in that house again. Some of the memories are ones I always knew I would cherish, like the nights we fell asleep together on the couch, the mornings when Matt’s parents came over for coffee, and the day we brought our new baby home from the hospital. Then there are the memories that seemed like such an inconvenience at the time; memories I never stopped to cherish but now wish I had. Like the times we raced down to Matt’s parents’ house in the pouring rain to wait out a tornado warning; or the times when we would both get up in the middle of the night to search the kitchen for a noisy cricket; or all the times we played “Scissors, Paper, Rock” to see who would be hand-washing the dishes that day. At the time, I never thought I would someday stand in that kitchen and cry because there were no more dishes to wash or crickets to smash.

It’s so easy to assume that we won’t miss something until the moment we realize that it’s in the past forever. Now I miss fogging crickets and scrubbing pots just as much as I miss rocking Reese in middle of the night, or her tiny fetal limbs jabbing my ribs. I miss those things as much as I might someday miss the long drive to town or the wood floors that seem to need sweeping every five minutes; or the way I’ll miss Reese’s constant dependency the day she no longer needs me to dress her, feed her, and change her.

As I get settled in this next phase of my life, I hope I always remember to hold the aggravating moments just as dear as the joyous moments. I hope for a renewed ability to find humor in the wake of frustration. I hope to spend less time worrying about my new inconveniences like the half-hour drive to town and my sudden inability to keep my home spotless, and I hope to spend more time enjoying the many blessings our new house provides. And most of all, I hope I stop in the midst of those aggravated sighs, frustrated eye rolls, and irritated scowls, and listen to the voice in my head that says, “Someday you will miss this.” That way, when someday comes, I won't stand in my empty kitchen and cry because I missed out on some of it. Instead I'll stand there and smile knowing that I fully lived all off it.

Here's to new beginnings. Happy 2012!

Lessons from a Haircut

For the past few months, Reese’s hair has been hanging in her face. She has a cowlick at the back of her head that causes all of her hair to come forward instead of falling to the side. I can’t keep it to the side without a clip, but that’s a major problem for Reese. Every time I put a bow or clip in her hair, she pulls it off. If I stop her from grabbing it, she starts to cry and says, “off, off, off…” until I give in and take it out (which usually takes all of about 10 seconds). Over the past 6 months, I’ve made fewer and fewer attempts to do anything more than brush her hair once or twice a day. 

Once her hair grew long enough to hang in her eyes, I started trying to clip it back again. She wasn’t having any of it and usually just ran around all day with the ends of her bangs blocking part of her vision. She makes rare exceptions for headbands and a ponytail is always preceded by a wrestling match, which I refuse to subject her to every day. I didn’t want to cut her hair because I wanted it to grow long and I didn’t want her bangs to start all the way at the back of her head. But my kid couldn’t see and she hates having stuff clipped in her hair and maybe, just maybe, this isn't about what I want.

In fact, I’m not even sure why I wanted this in the first place. Anyone who knows me would probably agree that I'm not girly at all. I don't own a lot of pink stuff; I don't wear a lot of jewelry; and I'd probably cry and say "off, off, off" if someone put a big sunflower clip in my hair. So why am I always pushing it on Reese? Well, probably because I got caught up in that invisible societal pressure that pushes femininity on our daughters and masculinity on our sons. 

The scary thing is that I’ve always said I would encourage her independence and not force her into anything. Yet, there I was going against my belief because I wanted her to wear ribbons and bows in her long hair like all the other little girls. I guess it’s easy to say that you’ll do something until you’re actually challenged to do it. And if I can’t do it with her haircut, how will I do it when it’s something that really matters to me? 

Over the next 17 years, there will be lots of times where my interests clash with Reese’s interests, needs, or desires. As a parent, I owe it to her to put my agenda aside and to refrain from pushing anything on her just because I think she should look a certain way or have certain interests. So I decided to give Reese the hairstyle she needed instead of the one I wanted her to have. It bothers me that it took me so long to give up on the clips, and that I almost put my interest above hers, even if it was about something as silly as a haircut. I finally ended up putting her in the chair and saying, “just make it so she can see without needing a clip in it.” And, ya know what? She still just as cute.  

Lessons from a Dead Beetle

There is a dead beetle outside our front door. This is not something I would normally be aware of or pay any attention to if it weren't for Reese running to the door multiple times a day saying, "bug! bug!" She actually wants to go out and see this dead bug. She crouches down next to it and points and says "shhh" and I let her believe that it's just sleeping. This has been a part of our routine for almost a week now and you would think I would just get rid of the bug, but I can't because it seems like such a highlight in her day.

Discovering grass

Well, this afternoon we were out on the patio looking at the bug (again), and I started to think about how incredibly fascinating life must be for Reese. I look at the bug and think, "Seriously? It's a dead bug. It's gross." But to a toddler who's never seen a beetle? What an important discovery! Whenever she's fascinated by something new, she always looks up at me and says a few words in her baby jibberish, which I interpret as, "Mommy, don't you see this wonderful thing I found? Come look at it!" So I come and look at it, and we both see something equally amazing. She's amazed by the bug. I'm amazed by her amazement. And then suddenly I start to remember what it means to be fascinated with simple things in life. 

Investigating my cell phone

Sometimes I wonder why I stopped finding life so fascinating. As I sit here now and ponder the reasons, neither one is really surprising. One, I'm busy. I'm too busy for this, too busy for that. And certainly too busy to marvel at a sunset (and even if I do, it's a fleeting second of, "oh, that's pretty" and then I continue on to the next task). Two, it's part of my routine. There is so much beauty around me every day like the view from our patio or the clear night sky, but I never notice them anymore because I take for granted that they will always be there.

Examining Flowers

It's hard to believe that there was a point in time when I was a toddler and I was amazed by dead bugs. Somewhere along the way I forgot how wonderful it is to be in awe of the world. Having a child has re-opened that fascination in my life. I am in complete awe of everything Reese does from brushing her hair to saying a new word. From the first moment I held her all the way to watching a dead bug be dead, I've never stopped being amazed by her existence. I could stare at her toes, the curls in her hair, or the dimple in her cheek for hours without ever getting bored. I could spend all day marveling at God's ability to so perfectly mesh two sets of DNA into the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, or how His guidance brought me through so many choices, changes, and obstacles to land me in the middle of this wonderful life with this wonderful family. 

Despite her limited vocabulary and lack of any significant life experience, I can't believe how much I learn about life, love, and myself from my kid. Reese's fascination with life reminds me to never just walk by something fantastically beautiful without taking a minute to stop and get lost in a moment of total amazement; to never take simple things in life for granted; and to cherish every moment I get to spend in complete awe of her every move... even if all we're doing is watching a dead bug sleep.

Five Things Every New Mom Should Know

I am at an age where all  of my friends are becoming moms. If they don't have kids already, then they're pregnant or trying to get pregnant. With my friends who do have children, we talk a lot about all the things no one tells you before you have a baby (like how awful the recovery process can be, how much it hurts to start nursing, or how guilty you feel for enjoying your alone time). Everyone talks about the love and the joys and the fun, and of course those things are amazing, but there are a lot of struggles and challenges and tears, and those things are normal too. Of course, there are a lot of things you can only appreciate by experiencing them, so it won't help anyone to hear about how painful contractions are or what sleep deprivation feels like. So when I say, "There's so much no one tells you," I'm mostly referring to the things that would have actually made a difference in the way I started this journey. My actual list is quite extensive, but here are the top five:  

5. Maternal instinct is real. I was so nervous about knowing what to do when Reese was born. I had never breastfed, bathed, or changed a newborn baby. Will I even know what to do?  How will I know if something’s wrong with her? How will I handle extended bought of unexplained screaming? Looking back, I wish I would have spent a little more time enjoying the anticipation of becoming a mom and a little less time worrying about it and preparing myself for every aspect of it. So much of motherhood really is instinctual, and I am still amazed by how much I “just know” about Reese. So go ahead – put the books down. You already have all the skills you need to be a great mom.   

4. Don’t drive yourself crazy trying to do everything right. When I first had Reese, there were so many things I tried to research – like the best toys, when to start solid food, how to discipline, and the list goes on. But the more research I did, the more confused I was. Every book, website, doctor, and parent will tell you something completely different. Not that you should disregard every piece of advice, but just listen to it knowing that nobody knows your baby and your family better than you. So try not to worry about giving your kid attachment, digestive, or social issues because you let her sleep in your bed or started solid food too late or waited too long to start preschool. There’s conflicting evidence about everything. Just do your best to do what you know is right for your unique baby, and don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. Listen to those maternal instincts and, again, put down the books.
 

3. It’s okay to have moments of misery. After Reese was born, there were days (lots of days) where I was absolutely miserable. The aftermath of childbirth, the first few weeks of breastfeeding, and the sleepless nights were some of greatest physical challenges I’ve ever experienced. I remember standing in the kitchen with my head on the counter promising myself that I will never do this again. There were days in the early stages of breastfeeding where I would cry just thinking about her next feeding. In those challenging moments, I remember wondering if there was something wrong with me. I thought I was supposed to be overcome with unwavering happiness, which only added emotional guilt to the physical misery. I never understood why we’re not supposed to talk about this part of motherhood. I don’t say it to be negative or to scare unsuspecting moms-to-be. I say it so you know that you’re not alone in those dark moments.

2. Life doesn't go "back to normal." When Reese was about 6 months old, I went through a small period of minor depression. I thought, “It’s been 6 months. Why don’t I feel back to normal? Shouldn’t I be adjusted to this role by now?” I waited for my body and my marriage and my daily routine to get back to what I had always defined as my “normal” life. When they didn’t, I thought something was wrong with my ability to cope with motherhood. I knew that babies turned your world upside down, but I always thought that eventually the dust settles, your body heals, you make the necessary adjustments and then everything feels normal again. Clearly, I was wrong. It’s not about waiting for the dust to settle. It’s about learning to stand on your head and accept your upside down world as your new “normal life.” 

1. The greatest self-improvement tool in the world is growing inside you. After I had Reese, I realized that I have both an amazing opportunity and challenging mission ahead of me. There are so many values I want to instill in her so she can become the best possible version of herself, but I can’t give her what I don’t have, which means that I owe it to her to become the best possible version of myself first. I decided to work on really get in touch with who I am and address the parts of my life and my personality that need improvement. I’ve learned more about myself and my purpose in the past 15 months than I did in every other stage of my life combined. One of the many things I’ve learned is that personal growth doesn’t happen automatically. Self-improvement is a choice. We all have room for it and we owe it to our children to capitalize on the opportunity to seek it.

That’s it. Those are the 5 things I wish I knew before I became a mom. I hope all of you who are expecting moms, new moms, and future moms are reminded that everything you feel is normal; that you’re never alone in your struggles; that no one has all the right answers but we’re all doing our best; and that every day is an opportunity to celebrate the good times, learn from the bad times, and grow into our best selves so we can provide our children with the skills, support, and encouragement to do the same.  

Lessons from a Lazy River

Last week Reese and I went to a water park with my friend and her little girl. We spent the morning watching the girls splash in the kiddie pool while we chatted about nothing in particular. Later we floated around on the lazy river where one sentence ran through my mind on a loop: "My life is awesome." Then I thought about Matt sitting in his office on the first full day of school in his new role as the dean of students. I thought about how busy he must have been preparing for all the issues and challenges of the year to come. And here I was participating in an activity that has "lazy" in its title. Gratitude doesn't even begin to describe what I felt in that moment.

I actually experience this feeling quite often - every time Reese and I sit out in the grass and throw potato peels to the chickens, every time we snuggle on the couch to read before nap time, and every time we play at the park in the middle of the day. I think about how lucky I am to have this lifestyle, and I always hope Matt knows how incredibly grateful I am for all that does to provide for us. I try to thank him regularly for his willingness to take on the responsibility that comes with being the sole provider of our income and for all the financial perks he has given up to have a wife at home.

Now, I'm definitely not saying that being an at-home-parent is a cake walk (and if you've been following along, you know I don't think that at all). I work really hard to clean my house and cook good meals and stimulate my child's mind even when I'm bored out of my own. I know Matt feels thankful for all I have sacrificed to support our family in so many other ways, but in the moments when I'm floating down a lazy river in the middle of the afternoon, sometimes I can't help but feel like I got the longer stick.
 
Every time Matt gets up and puts on a tie and and heads to work while Reese and I hang out in our pajamas, I remember that I have the greatest job in the world. I also remember that I only have this job because I have a wonderful spouse who completely supported my desire to pursue it. At night he comes home and tells me about emails, phone calls, meetings, and mishaps and then I tell him about how we played at the park, swam in the pool, shopped with Grandma, or had play dates with friends. He never acts envious or makes me feel guilty for not making any money. Instead, he sees a clean house, a delicious dinner, and a happy family. He knows that he can sit down and not have to do any laundry or vacuum any carpets, and in those moments he feels just as thankful for me as I feel for him when I'm floating on a lazy river.