Balancing Act

Allow me to describe a regular occurrence at our house. Matt sits in the living room watching TV while I pick up in the kitchen. (I'm not poking at him for not helping. This situation also happens in reverse quite frequently). He hears a loud crash and yells, "You ok?" I yell back, "Yeah, I'm fine." When I finally come back into the living room to join him on the couch, he says out loud what we both know just happened, "you knock over one of your balancing acts?"

Balancing act... a phrase Matt got from his dad who uses the same words to tease Matt's mom about her clutter. It's quite an accurate description of the condition of my house. You would never know it by walking in the front door though. My house (for the most part) appears clean and organized on the surface, but open any cabinet or drawer or dare to venture upstairs and you will find things stacked poorly on top of other things just waiting for the right nudge in the wrong direction. Crash! Although I often blame my tiny house and lack of storage space, I also need to take some credit for my inability - or perhaps unwillingness - to recognize when a tower has taken on all that it can handle.

After Reese's first birthday, we retired a bunch of clothes and toys and other baby items to our upstairs storage room. As I looked for an open spot, my eyes scanned over all of the "stuff" in that room - kitchen appliances, my yoga mat, cookbooks, baby toys, the vacuum, lawn chairs, wrapping paper... you name it, it's up there. I couldn't help but notice that the storage room looks a lot like my life. Every item represents something that I'm constantly trying to fit into the days and weeks that seem to grow shorter with each passing year. Every crash of a balancing act represents the days when emotions get the best of me as I realize that something's gotta give. And the fact that my clutter is stuffed in cabinets and stacked in closets represents my ability to look calm and organized on the surface even when I feel like I'm scrambling on the inside.

One of my biggest struggles as a mom is finding the right balance of everything. I feel like I'm always lacking in some area, and every time I try to fix it, something else gets demoted to the back burner and another thing falls off my radar completely. The weeks that I try to be better about meal planning are the weeks that I don't exercise. So I try to exercise more, but then I neglect my housework. So I try to clean more, but then I don't play with Reese enough. So I try to play with Reese more, but then I don't cook as much. So I try to cook more, but I don't have any meals planned... and the cycle continues.


Unfortunately, I have yet to find a solution to this problem. Even more unfortunately, I think that might be because there isn't one. At the very least, I take comfort in knowing that everyone seems to have the same problem. The best we can do is recognize the limits of our balancing acts, avoid stacking too much in once place, and give ourselves the leeway to knock one over once in a while. Just know that while you're doing this, every other mom you see is doing the same thing. We all look calm and collected on the surface, but underneath it all is one giant balancing act.

This Too Shall Pass

It's time for the Third Thursday Blog Hop! For those who missed last month's edition (May 19), the blog hop is a monthly opportunity for all of the Hearts at Home bloggers to write about the same topic. Although we all share different perspectives, we're all Christian moms hoping to support, encourage, and inspire other moms through every stage of motherhood. At the bottom of this post, you will find links to the pages of all the other bloggers.  The topic for June is "if you could go back in time and tell your teenage self one thing, what would you say?"

 When I first started thinking about what to write for this post, I made a mental  list of things I would warn myself about, things I would tell myself to do differently, and things I would tell myself not to do at all. The longer I thought about it, the longer the list grew. By the time I navigated my way from ages 13 to 19, I left quite a wake of mistakes - including some people I shouldn’t have dated, some drinks I shouldn’t have taken, and some choices I shouldn’t have made. I wish I had a little more respect for my body and a lot more respect for my parents. I wish I had spent more energy enjoying good times than dwelling on bad times, and I wish I believed in the saying, “this too shall pass.” I wish I knew that when I looked back, I would barely remember any of the incidents that seemed like the end of the world and that I would forget a lot of the memories I promised myself I would cherish forever. The bottom line for me (and probably lots of other people) is: if I knew then what I know now, my teen years would look very different.

However, I don’t want my teenage self to know any of that stuff. I am who I am because of my past, and I know now what I know now because of what I didn’t know then. All of the elements of my present life are directly linked to events, choices, and people in my past; and to change any of those things would mean changing some aspect of the life I have today. I believe that God gave me certain challenges for a reason beyond what my teenage mind could comprehend. I believe that through those challenges, He led me to the right major, the right career, the right husband, and the right future. And I believe that alone justifies my refusal to live with regrets.  

But if I truly could go back, there is something I might say. For me, the toughest part of my adolescence was the early years, from ages 10-14, when I endured daily relentless teasing about my teeth. (Click the picture for a larger image as the small one gives no justice to the reason). Although the problem was only temporary, the damage done in those 4 years had a devastating effect on my self-image. I would be well into my twenties before I finally made my peace with the chain of events that unfolded over the rest of my adolescent years as a result of my desperate need to feel accepted by others and my inability to fully accept myself. Although I don't want to issue any warnings or make any changes, I do want to offer my 13-year-old self some comfort in the present and some hope for a better future. As I write this, I am creating a mental image of what such a revelation might look like...

I look inside myself and see the 13-year-old version of me crying on the school bus after yet another long day of taunting, the words "snaggle-tooth" and "can opener" still ringing in my ears. I stare out the window and wonder if I will ever believe that I am beautiful. As I pretend to dig to the bottom of my backpack to hide my tear-stained face, I find a mysterious note under my books. Confused, I pull it out and open it up. The handwriting looks oddly like a more developed version of my own cursive scribble… 

If I told you where this came from, you would never believe me, but I need you to know that I understand what you’re going through.  I'm not going to lie, this will be a tough year for you, but it won’t always be this bad. It may be hard to see it now, but you will come out on the other side. “This too shall pass.” You don’t believe it, but it is true. And even though you'll be ok, you’ll also have a lot of ups and downs over the next few years. You’ll face some challenging decisions, and you'll learn a lot of things the hard way. You will need to brace yourself for some loss and some pain and some really tough times. But you’ll also laugh a lot, and love a lot, and learn a lot. And someday when someone will ask you if you would want to go back and change anything. You will think about it for only a moment and then you’ll say no because your husband is wonderful, your family is wonderful, your life is wonderful, and yes, you do believe that you are beautiful.

I read it once and then I read it again. Then I fold it up and put it back in my bag but when I look for it later, it's already gone. For the rest of the day, I mentally repeat the parts I can remember, and even though I don't feel any better right now, I take comfort because I believe that someday I will. 

That's it. That's all I would want myself to know - that every mistake is worth the lesson learned and every challenge is worth the character it builds. When I face difficult times as an adult, I still look back on those years to remind myself that no matter how tough a struggle seems to be, I can overcome it, I will be better for having faced it, and "this too shall pass."

Happy Father's Day

Matt will openly admit that he would be completely lost without me. Although there's a what-would-I-do-without-the-love-of-my-life element to that statement, there's also a much simpler piece. When it comes to running our house, I pretty much do it all. I do the cooking, cleaning, and shopping. I take care of Reese's diapers, baths, and meals. I am the social coordinator, schedule keeper, and budget manager. I also take care of all the fine details. I know that the light blue ring goes on the Gerber bottle and the dark blue ring goes on the Nuk bottle (that's why it's leaking, honey). And I know that the orange sponge is for cleaning the bathroom (so don't use it on the coffee maker, sweetheart). So of course he would be lost without me. And since I seem to be able to do it all so easily, would I say the same of my life without him?

I sometimes wonder if Matt knows how much I do need him and how much he does for our family. He takes his role as our provider very seriously, and he really struggled when I quit my job and money was tight. Like most men, he saw our lifestyle as a direct reflection of his ability to provide for his family. What he didn't understand was that he had developed a very narrow view of the provider role to include only what he could provide financially. Yes, a big part of his role in our family is financial and I'm thankful for the money he brings home. But his contributions go far beyond the money that appears in our checking account twice a month. Here are just a few ways that Matt's actions remind me that the provider role is so much deeper than a paycheck:

He provides protection. On rare occasions when I spend the night alone, I am always reminded of how much safer I feel when Matt's home. Just like he never has to worry about having clean underwear because he knows I'll take care of it, I never have to worry about who's at the door because I know he'll take care of it (and all dirty underwear jokes aside, his responsibility is a lot scarier). I feel an incredible sense of security when he's around, and I never worry for my safety or the safety of our children as long as he is there.

He provides support. Matt might be the most supportive person I know. He supports absolutely everything I do. He supported me for wanting to stay home, and he would have supported me if I wanted to work. He will do anything to help me around the house, and he never makes me feel like his work is more important than my work. Whenever I ask for his opinion on something I want to do, like when I wanted to fly to Georgia or when I was considering teaching CCD, he always says, "if it's important to you, then you should do it, and we'll just figure it out." That's a supportive husband.

He provides love. One of my father-in-law's favorite sayings is, "the best gift you can give your children is to love their mother." If there's any truth to that statement, then our children will be blessed beyond measure. Every day I wake up feeling loved and because I feel loved, I am a happier person and a better mother. Knowing how much he loves me makes it so much easier to forgive his mistakes and to make more of an effort to show him that I love him just as much.


The intangible things Matt provides for our family far outweigh the provisions of even the highest income. Because of the love, support, and protection I get from him as my husband, I have always known that he would also be a wonderful father. And all of those things have proven true in the past 13 months. All that he provides for me as a husband, he now provides for Reese as a father. He loves us both tremendously. He supports everything we do. He is our biggest fan. He is our protector, leader, and provider. He makes us laugh; he leads us in prayer; and he grills a mean steak.

Father's Day is a great reminder for us to thank the providers in our lives. Unfortunately, I don't thank Matt enough for what he does and going forward, I hope I remember to thank him more often than once a year. I hope I'm always able to see how blessed I am to have such a wonderful husband. And I hope he always knows how much I appreciate him, how much I love him, and how lost I would be without him.

Thank you, Dads, for all that you provide for your families. Happy Father's Day!

Financial Freedom

Most people might be surprised to hear that Matt and I believe that we have financial freedom. A year ago, I left a job that provided half of our annual income, and even though we've spent the last 12 months on a take-home salary that barely breaks $30,000, I do not feel bound by our income in any way.  We thought it would be a struggle, but we are so happy with our life and we live in complete abundance. People keep asking me how we're doing it. Well, I'll tell you....

Livin' it up in 800 square feet.

In May 2009, we saw a house for sale in our town. It was beautiful and very tempting. We took a flier, decided we could easily afford it, and called the realtor. But then we talked about how buying this house might fulfill our dream of owning a beautiful home but it would destroy our dream of the lifestyle we wanted to have inside it. So we canceled our appointment, tore up the flier, and decided that we would pass on one dream to fulfill another. So we stayed in our little farmhouse, and when we had a baby a year later, I was able to stay home like I always wanted. And that was the beginning of our realization that we actually have a lot more financial freedom than we think.

If you start asking people what it means to have financial freedom, you will probably hear a lot of responses about being able to do and buy whatever you want. Therefore, if you aren't in a position to do and buy whatever you want, then you must not be financially free. I disagree. Very few people in this world have the financial freedom to do whatever they want. But we all have the freedom to choose not to do things that don't realistically fit into our budgets. For us, financial freedom is just as much about choosing not to buy something as it is about choosing to buy everything. Every time we are faced with the opportunity (or temptation) to purchase something, we exercise our financial freedom as we decide whether or not to buy it.

I've been waiting to use this picture!

Sometimes we look at a potential purchase and think, "we can't afford that." But that's not true at all. We have credit cards. We have a savings account. We technically do have the ability to buy whatever we want, we just choose not to do that because being debt-free is more important to us. When we make our financial choices from that perspective, we feel empowered by the money we have rather than hindered by the money we don't have. Instead of constantly trying to get more, we've decided to focus on being happy with less. And because we are happy with less, anything extra - like an occasional dinner date or a new outfit - seems like an exciting treat instead of something we do all the time. Since we are motivated by saving instead of spending, we actually want to make less expensive choices.

So that's it. That's the secret. It's all about attitude. It's our attitude - not our income - that allows me to stay home. It's our attitude - not our income - that allows us to live without debt. And it's our attitude - not our income - that gives us our financial freedom.

A Journey Back

I apologize for my brief absence. I spent the past week in Georgia visiting old friends and I planned to blog while I was there. (I even pre-wrote a few posts for easy maintenance). Little did I know, the three of us would accomplish nothing outside of reliving memories and catching up on the seven years that separate then and now. At first, I was afraid that the experiences filling the seven-year gap might have created an emotional distance equal to that of the physical one. But it took only a brief embrace in front of the baggage claim carousel to close the gap, melt the fear, and re-open my life to two of the most important people to ever touch my heart.

Allow me to rewind and tell the very short version of a very long story. Katie and Kellie are identical twins, and I met them in seventh grade. For the next 6 years, we would share everything - from secrets and habits to classes and jobs to beds and toothbrushes (gross, but true). We worked together. We studied together. We cheered together. We took each other on family vacations. We shared a lot of firsts and a lot of lasts and a whole bunch of "never agains." We laughed about things no one else could understand and we cried about things we could only tell each other. From 7th through 12th grade, we were completely inseparable.  

Something happened after high school that caused us to go our separate ways. And by separate, I mean that I was at Illinois State and they were just up the street at Illinois Wesleyan. We got together a few times in college, but the visits got shorter and the time between them got longer. We still can't figure out exactly how or why we drifted. All I know is that for the first time in our lives, we actually had to exert effort to see each other. We weren't walking the same halls, taking the same classes, and participating in the same activities anymore. All of our common day-to-day experiences were stripped away, and our relationship was no longer effortless. We thought the need for effort meant that we were drifting apart, and we mistook a bend in the road for the end of the road.

After college, they both moved to Atlanta. In the years that followed, we all got married and each had a daughter. Our friendship was slowly reduced to sporadic comments on facebook photos and random we-should-get-together messages that never became anything (this was before we learned about effort). I decided to come to Georgia on a whim, and I attribute our reunion entirely to the work of God who put the thought in my mind and the urge in my heart. I went there in hopes of rekindling a friendship. I didn't realize that the rekindling would not be necessary. Every laugh, every memory, every part of us that exists inside each other was kept perfectly in tact. I believe that as we navigated through the twists and turns of our teen years, the essences of our identities imprinted themselves on each others' hearts. Last Saturday we learned that, because of those imprints, any distance and any length of time can be erased with a single hug.

We spent the week being just as inseparable as we always had been - we even piled all of the girls in the car so we could all go to Kroger together. I looked in the backseat where three car seats occupied the spaces that once held three cheerleading duffel bags. As we drove, we sang along with the radio and laughed about things only the three of us would find funny. I took comfort in the thought that everything may be different, but nothing has changed. We still strategically planned meals and showers to maximize our time together. We stayed up talking over glasses of wine until all hours of the night, even though we knew the days of sleeping in were over (ok, one thing definitely did change). We talked about the people and events of our past, filled each other in on the gaps, talked about the dreams that came true and those that had changed, and wondered what the next 10 years might bring.

I do believe that if you look back on a friendship that drifted apart and no one can identify a reason, then there probably isn't a good one. It still makes me sad that we let so many years come between us, but I'm thrilled that I finally rediscovered my best friends and a long lost piece of myself. The part of my heart that belongs to them has been missing for seven years, and I didn't even realize it until I spent a week getting back in touch with it. If you have a friend like this in your life, I encourage you to put in the effort to maintain that relationship. If you feel like a part of you is missing without her, then there is probably a part of her that is missing without you. If you lost her, find her. If you miss her, tell her. And if your friendship hits an obstacle, remember that "a bend in the road isn't the end of the road, unless you fail to make the turn" (anonymous).

Thank you, Katie and Kellie, for all that you are to me - then, now, and always.

A Farewell to Oprah

Right now I am at a place in my life where I feel truly, authentically, and completely happy. I have said that at other times in my life, but I don't know if I really believed it before. Overall, I've had a pretty great life, so it's not that I was unhappy, just that I didn't feel completely fulfilled until recently. I didn't know what changed until Wednesday when I sat down to watch the final episode of the Oprah Winfrey Show. When she said, "...that's what a calling is. It lights you up and it lets you know that you are exactly where you are supposed to be and doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing." As she spoke that sentence, Reese climbed across my legs and sat in my lap. I had a brief flashback of all the time I've shared with my daughter this year; all the things I taught her; all the things she taught me; how much I've enjoyed my job as a full-time wife and mother; and how much I've grown as a woman. With teary eyes, I scooped her up and kissed her. That was it. That was the change. I had answered a calling. I listened to "the voice bigger than myself" that led me to leave my career and serve my family. At that moment, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be and doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. And then I realized that I just received my last "aha moment" from The Oprah Winfrey Show.

Over the past 30 days, I have been religiously watching the final episodes. Each day, I cling to a box of Kleenex and experience wave after wave of mixed emotions... I can't believe it's over. However, until the last 30 days, I wasn't a regular viewer. I always knew Oprah was a special person and that she was doing special things, but there were plenty of times when years would go by and I would catch only a handful of episodes. Needless to say, I never expected to spend this entire 30 day countdown glued to the TV, tears coming and going, feeling more and more disbelief as the number of remaining episodes got smaller and smaller. As 30 became 20, and 20 became 10, and 10 became 1, I have been growing more sad and trying to figure out why I'm so upset about a show I hardly watched.

Although I was never a regular viewer, I was still among millions of kids who knew Oprah Winfrey as a household name. I remember seeing her on TV when I was in grade school, high school, college, and now as a wife and mother. Through every season of my life, there have been few things as constant as The Oprah Winfrey Show. She was as ever-present as the tree in the backyard of my childhood home. Its roots keep it firmly planted on the ground while its branches reach for the limitless sky. With modesty, humility, and grace as her roots; and hope, freedom, and inspiration as her branches, Oprah is the metaphorical tree in the backyard of so many childhood homes. I may not have looked at my tree every day, and I may not have always appreciated it, but I took comfort in its unchanging presence and it's constant reminder that the sky is the limit.

The 30 day countdown felt like the destruction of that tree; each passing day was an axe swinging against its base. Only it's not just any tree. It's a tree whose roots run so deep that they connect people on every corner of the planet. It's a tree whose branches reach so high that everyone can experience the safety and comfort of its shade. Everyone who is striving to be a better person; everyone who is recovering from abuse or addition; everyone who has been plagued by depression; everyone who has suffered a loss; and everyone who is desperate for hope can gather underneath it for an hour a day and be reminded that "What I say matters" and  "I am not alone."

If Oprah's goal today was to tie a beautiful bow around 25 years of inspiration and encouragement, she succeeded beyond measure. Even as only a sporadic viewer, I have shed countless happy and sad tears. I have been encouraged to live a better, fuller life. I have been inspired to make a difference. I have been amazed by the resiliency of the human spirit. And I have been reminded to completely disregard all that we are taught to see as impossible. 

Most endings come with another beginning - the next big thing, the next Oprah Winfrey. But the reason we are all so sad is because there will not be a next Oprah. A person with the combined spirits of Mother Teresa and Santa Claus comes only once in a lifetime. I believe that the 25 years of the Oprah Show were a phenomenon that will only be experienced by the generations fortunate enough to have been touched by it. And as sad as it is, I know that Oprah doesn't want us to be sad. She wants us to go out and continue her legacy of hope and inspiration by encouraging each other to keep rising from the ashes, lifting veils of shame, making big differences, and "using our [callings] to serve the world."

Thank you, Oprah, for 25 years of serving your calling and for validating my pursuit of mine.

The Woman Behind the Camera

Over the last month or so, I have been working very diligently on the scrapbook of Reese's first year. I'm hoping to avoid a repeat of our wedding and honeymoon scrapbook, which took 2 years of procrastination and a large pregnant belly before I actually got my act together and finished it. I started my most recent scrapbooking marathon by going through the pictures I have for each month to decide which ones would make the cut (no pun intended). As I was sorting through them, I was disappointed by the lack of pictures of Reese and I together. In fact, there are a couple of months where I don't appear in any pictures at all!

But then something occurred to me. Even though my face appears in only 5 percent of the pictures, I was holding the camera 95 percent of the time. Most of those smiles are directed at me. I created most of those moments. And I captured most of those memories. My face may not be in every picture, but my heart and soul definitely are.

As I think about it on an even deeper level, it's such a beautiful analogy for my role as a mother. We see a beautiful picture and we usually focus on the subject of that picture. Few people think about the person behind the lens and all the work that goes into getting that perfect shot. But without a photographer, there would be no picture. If the picture represents our life, then I am the photographer who shapes it. I work behind the scenes so my family can shine in the spotlight. I slave in the kitchen to give my family delicious meals. I clean the house to give my family a relaxing environment. I do all the dirty work to give my family more quality time together. And although my work sometimes feels invisible, its effects are very real.

So when you see a picture-perfect image of a newborn sleeping peacefully in a crib....

 

or a laughing toddler throwing spaghetti...

or a special father-daughter moment...

 

Remember that somewhere there is a mom creating those smiles, capturing those moments, and working hard to be the woman behind the camera.

Kitchen Magician

I recently became a blogger for Hearts at Home, an organization that supports moms through every stage of motherhood. (It is through this organization that I got inspired to stay home despite my financial fears and rediscovered my passion for writing). So here's how this works: on the third Thursday of each month, all of the Hearts at Home bloggers will blog about the same topic. Each of our blogs are linked to each other so every month you can read a number of different perspectives on the issue. The topic for May is "share a favorite homemade dish recipe." And here goes...

I always thought of my  mom as a magician - whether she was making a meal, healing a wound, even knowing when I was lying, everything seemed like magic. I was especially impressed when she cooked. It didn't matter if it was a Thanksgiving turkey or a pot of Spanish rice, I always wondered how she knew what to put in it or how she could tell it was done. I rarely saw my mom use recipes and she made everything from scratch. I was always in awe of her ability to make something delicious from a pile of ingredients. To me, cooking was a mystical process that required great talent, like painting or playing an instrument. So when Matt and I decided that I would stay home, I became the official family head chef and I wondered how I would manage without knowing all the tricks of the trade.


As a gift, my mom gave me a cookbook she filled with recipes I enjoyed as a kid. (Ya know how once you learn all the ins and outs of something, it becomes completely de-mystified - like when you learn the truth about Santa Claus or see how a magic trick is done? If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch an episode of "How It's Made" on The Science Channel. Those people de-mystify everything from toothbrushes to calculators). Well, that's what happened to me when I learned to cook. As I flipped through my new book, I couldn't believe how easy it was to make some of my favorite meals. Some things required just a handful of ingredients! I looked at some of my favorites: chicken soup, stuffed peppers, spaghetti sauce (the best spaghetti sauce ever, might I add), and I thought, "That's it? That's all there is to it?" And just like that, the magic was gone.

Only it wasn't really gone. I just don't see it anymore because I'm in on all the secrets. And I learned that good food doesn't always have be complicated. Now my family can be just as mystified with my food as I always was with my mom's. Next week marks one year in my new position as a stay-at-home-mom and official magician of my kitchen. So in honor of my anniversary, I would like to de-mystify one of my childhood favorites: stuffed green peppers. Enjoy!

1. Start with 4-8 green peppers (it depends a lot on the size). Cut the tops off and clean out the insides.

2. Take 2 pounds of ground beef (raw) and mix in 3/4 cup ketchup, 3/4 cup grape jelly, 2 eggs, and 1 cup of instant rice (uncooked). You pretty much have to mix it with your hands, so if this is a problem for you, I suggest you stick with Hamburger Helper meals.

3. Fill each pepper with the meat mixture (really cram it in there).

4. Put the peppers in a pot/pan and pour in enough tomato juice to cover them at least most of the way (some people find tomato juice to be too thin. You can mix it with canned tomato sauce to thicken it up). There are several ways to cook them: (1) In a large pot, cover and simmer 45 min to 1 hour. (2) In a roasting pan, cover and bake at 350 for 45 min to 1 hour. (3) I've never used a slow cooker to make this recipe but I know you can. Just guess on the time. It's hard to mess stuff up in a crock pot.

5. Serve and enjoy!

Just Slow Down

This probably won't come as a huge shock to most people, but I am always on the go. I'm not necessarily "on the go" physically at all times, but I am constantly "on the go" mentally; always planning for the next hour, the next minute. I'm an extreme list-maker, multi-tasker, and schedule-keeper. It's a struggle for me to relax because of the constant nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I should be doing something productive. Even if I don't have anything to do, I will invent a reason to feel busy. I begin every day on a mission to do as much as possible. I measure the success of my day against how much I accomplish.

Because of this, one of the things I was most excited about when I decided to stay home was finally being able to relax. I wanted freedom from my old schedule, freedom from always feeling like I needed to be going somewhere or working on something. But I quickly learned that changing your lifestyle doesn't automatically change your personality. I still always feel like I have to be on the go. I still struggle to relax. I still try to accomplish as much as possible every day. At times, it has caused me to be less attentive to Reese (like when she almost swallowed one of my rings while I was sending an email), or to Matt (like when I agree to watch a movie with him but then clip and organize coupons the whole time), or to my own needs (like when I skip lunch to get more cleaning done). Finally, God sent me the reality check I definitely needed.

Last Friday, the guests on Oprah were people who learned important lessons from other past guests. One was a woman who left her two-year-old daughter in her car on a hot summer day. She had planned to come right back out and get her, but she got distracted and too much time went by, and the little girl actually died. Matt overheard the story and said to me, "how does that even happen?" I'm sure he expected my answer to be equally full of shock and confusion. After all, how does that even happen? But I wasn't confused or shocked. I was horrified and upset. Then I started to cry. Although a part of me was crying simply because I can't imagine losing a child, let alone feeling responsible for that loss; another part of me was crying for a much more serious reason.

As I was listening to her story, I had a horrifying mental image of myself in her place. My house. My car. My baby. It obviously wasn't totally unimaginable to me because there I was, imaging it. Never in a million years would I think that something like that could happen to me. But the picture in my mind came way too easily. The story upset me way too much. The possibility seemed all too real. And that tells me only one thing: I absolutely have to slow down. So as a result of my reality check, here are a few of the things I know I need to change:

#1. I move entirely too fast. My driving habits are a great indication of that. I drive too fast. I follow too close. I pass people for no reason. And why? I don't know. I'm a stay-at-home-mom. I don't have anywhere to be. And even if I did... it certainly isn't worth the risks I take to get there a few minutes (or sometimes even a few seconds) sooner. I can't imagine the guilt I would feel for the rest of my life knowing something that happened might not have happened if I had just slowed down.

#2. I do too many things at once.There's nothing wrong with multi-tasking... as long as you know your limits. I forget my multi-tasking limits all the time. The more things I'm doing at once, the more likely it is that at least one will be forgotten mid-way through the process. I'm constantly doing things with half of my brain because the other half is either still working on the last thing or trying to plan the next thing. Last week, that resulted in burnt garlic bread, but next week it could be something that actually matters.
   
#3. My to-do list is always unrealistic. I make long lists because I'm always afraid I'll forget about something important (note the irony in that situation). I put things on my list that don't need to be there and then I get all worried because I'm "so busy." Busy with what? I don't know. I truly think the problem is not that I'm actually busy. It's that I have such a need to be busy that I create busyness.

I'm amazed that I have so willingly given up so much for Reese (my body, my money, my sleep, my freedom, my career), but I haven't been able to entirely let go of my time. Looking back, I'm so incredibly thankful that God delivered the message in this way and spared me a very painful lesson. Maybe now I can finally start choosing the quality of my time over the quantity of what I get done. Maybe now I can remember that I am human and I am not invincible, no matter how hard I try to be "Super Mom." Up until Friday, I started every day with a list. And I know it's not realistic to say that I'm just going to stop making lists. It's a part of my personality that keeps me very well-organized and is one of my greatest time-management assets. However, I am definitely going to work on making realistic lists and not attaching a time limit to their accomplishment. And I am also definitely going to make sure that the first item on every list I make from now on will be "just slow down."

Giving Up Control

Matt piles stuff on top of his side of our dresser. It has always bothered me. Right now, there is a pair of shorts, a polo shirt from work, a package of new underwear, and a large envelope containing some old farming magazines. (Yes, I inventoried the "pile" for purposes of this post). I've tried everything to get him to move the pile but most of the time I would just try to ignore it because I've pretty much learned that no matter what I do, stuff still seems to find its way back up there. Allow me to present a visual (and I should add that when I put the flower pots up there, I secretly thought they might serve as a deterrent to the pile. They did not).

Well, not long ago I was moving stuff up off the floor to vacuum. As I moved around the room, I came to my side of the dresser where I scooped up a pile of "stuff" and set it on the bed. And now that I think about it, there are always at least a couple of things in that spot. How interesting that Matt's pile bothers me but I never even noticed my own. I started asking myself why that is - because to an outsider (or an angry husband) it looks like I think I'm the only one allowed to make a mess. As I thought about it, I found the real reason. My pile doesn't bother me because I have control over what I put there, when I put it there, and how I long I wait before I clean it up. His pile bothers me because I don't have control over it. Suddenly I realize that this isn't really about him and his mess problem. This is about me and my control problem.

Ok, I admit it - I tend to want to be in control of things. I like to hold the instruction manual, the map, and the remote. I'm a here-just-let-me-do-it kind of person and I have a very hard time with we'll-just-figure-it-out-later people. I do my best to keep it within the confines of my own life, which is great for other people but not always so great for the person who has to live with me. Although Matt finds my need for control to be bothersome at times, we almost never argue about it. I attribute that to two things. One, Matt is incredibly accepting of it. Two, I am incredibly aware of it. And because of those two things we are able to compromise our way through it and get a lot of laughs in the process.

Matt has always been so great about allowing me to be myself and in return, I owe it to him to allow him to be himself. He lets me make schedules and lists and yes, he even lets me hold the remote most of the time. (I know, what a saint). So I do my best not to take control of his life the way I take control of my own. Unfortunately for me, that also means leaving his pile of stuff alone. As long as he doesn't make a mess with the expectation that I clean it up, then it's his house too and he should be able to put things where he wants them (which is a lot easier for me to type than to believe. But at least I'm working on it).

One of the biggest lessons I've learned as a person who likes to be in control is that I only have the right to control myself. Each time I discover that something is part of my control problem, I have to redefine it in a way that puts the control back on me. It's not my job to control his mess. It is my job control how I react to his mess. So the reaction I chose was to just let it go (which is very different from trying to ignore it. When I ignored it, I just didn't say anything about it but it still bothered me to look at it. I had to let it go, which meant that I would free myself from being bothered by it). Once I did that, it bothered me less every day and now I really don't even notice it anymore. And now, before we go to bed Matt will throw his shirt up on top of the dresser, and then look at me and say, "so what's the schedule for tomorrow?" And we're both happy.

Bittersweet Milestones

On Sunday Reese took her first steps. (Yes, on Mother's Day. What a great gift!) We were picnicking at the park when she stood up and took about 5 steps toward Matt. I yelled, "Oh my gosh! She's walking!" and everyone in earshot turned to watch. A few people started clapping. Then she clapped for herself. What a happy moment, right? Well, yes and no. The past year has been filled with one exciting first after another, and while I feel so much joy and pride as I watch her grow and gain independence, I can't ignore the sting in my heart that comes from knowing that she is also growing up and gaining independence from me.

It all started the day she was born. I was so excited to go in for our induction but there was a tiny part of me that was sad for the end of pregnancy, sad for the end of this phase of her life. From that day on, it was one bittersweet milestone after another. There have been happy firsts like sitting and crawling and first words. There have been sad firsts like the first time she tried to squirm out of my arms to go play or the first time I had to say "no no." And there have been a lot of happy beginnings accompanied by sad ends. I was happy when she slept in her crib, but I was sad that she didn't need to be close to me at night anymore. I was happy when she ate solid food, but I was sad that I was no longer the only one providing her nutrition. I was happy when she started using a sippy cup, but I was sad when she nursed for the last time. And now, I am happy that she is walking, but I am sad that soon she won't want to be carried anymore. Most of all, I'm sad that somehow my newborn baby became an infant and that infant became a toddler, and I hardly blinked in between!

Sometimes I wonder if it's normal to feel sadness at such happy events in my child's life. I should be thankful that she is happy and healthy and doing the right things at the right times in her development. But just because I'm sad, doesn't mean I'm not also happy and excited and thankful. That's why I can't describe these moments as anything but "bittersweet." I'm excited for the start of the next phase but I'm sad for the end of this one. I'm happy to be celebrating these moments but I'm sad that they are coming and going so quickly. And even though I'm sad when they're over, I'm thankful for the memories we're making along the way. With Reese's first birthday just around the corner (less than 3 weeks away), I am preparing my heart for another collision of conflicting emotions as my baby approaches the next of many bittersweet milestones.


(On a quick side note: If you would like to receive updates on new posts through email, simply enter your email address in the bar at the top right hand side of this page (where it says, "Follow by Email"). I also want to extend a huge thank you to those who are reading and/or following. I have been excited and honored by the incredible support from my family and friends. Thank you for your encouragement and inspiration).

Happy Mother's Day

Yesterday I was standing in the greeting card section at Meijer picking out a Mother's Day card for my mom. I always struggle to find a card that sums up what I want to say to her on this special day - and don't even get me started on finding the right gift. It's just not possible to represent that much gratitude in such a simple gesture. Although I've always had a hard time finding the right way to thank my mom on Mother's Day, this year it is especially difficult.

This year I am a mother too, and I have spent the last 11 months (20 if you count pregnancy, which we all should) making the sacrifices for Reese that my mom made for me. Pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood have had many side effects on me, one of which was a new appreciation for my own mother. That appreciation grows with each passing day as I travel the same road my mom traveled with me some 28 years ago. Even only 11 months into the journey, I'm so much more appreciative of the physical, mental, emotional, social, and financial sacrifices my mom made for me. I can only imagine how my gratitude will grow in the years to come, and how much harder it will get for me to fully express it.

I'm not sure I can ever fully thank her for enduring morning sickness, labor pains, and stitches (oh, the stitches!) to bring me into the world. And I'm not sure I can ever fully thank her for all the years of sleeping in my room when I was scared, comforting me when I was sad, and nurturing me when I was sick. As I tried to come up with a new way to share my feelings, I did the only thing I know how to do - I sat down and started writing. It began as a list but evolved into a poem...


A Thank You Note to My Mom:
There's nothing I can do for you and nothing I can say
To express how much I thank you that I turned out this way.
You've taught me so much through the course of my life,
How to make choices, what's wrong, and what's right.
Through bruises and scrapes and occasional bumps,
You were the one who bandaged me up.
Through boyfriends and dates and broken hearts,
You talked me through it when things fell apart.
You comforted me and you wiped off the tears.
You helped me through struggles and calmed all my fears.
And when I felt lost, you helped me stay strong.
You gave me the courage to keep going on.
Through achievements and illness and times good and bad,
You gave me the best of all that you had.
And nothing I do could ever repay
The debt that I owe you still to this day.
I just hope that you always know
When I say "thank you," how deep those words go.
Because there will never be any other
Quite like the hero I see in my mother.

Wishing every mom a very happy Mother's Day!

A Lesson in Patience

I have always struggled with my patience. I used to hate waiting at red lights, grocery stores, and anywhere else that didn't instantly get me on my way. I also had a system for everything which meant that I hated interruptions as much as I hated waiting. I would often stop and think, "I am in so much trouble when I have children." Needless to say, when we decided to have children, I prayed for patience almost as often as I prayed for a healthy baby and a smooth delivery. If I can't wait at a red light without tapping my toe and muttering "any day now," then how can I possibly handle midnight crying, diaper blowouts, and temper tantrums? I prayed in the hopes that God would give me a lesson in patience to prepare me for parenthood. As it turns out, parenthood was the lesson.

I used to say that I didn't know if I could handle certain aspects of parenting. People would say to me what every parent says to every non-parent, "it's different when it's your own kid." For as cliche of a statement as that is, wow, is it ever true! I never thought I would sing my way through poopy diaper changes, or laugh as an entire bowl of applesauce hits the floor. I never thought I would excitedly grab the camera when I discovered that she had unfolded all of  my clean laundry, or sing about all of Old McDonald's animals multiple times a day. And I really never thought I would find just as much joy in the difficult times as I do in the easy ones. It really is different because it's my own kid. And as I get more and more patient with Reese, I get less and less impatient with everything else. After all, by the time I change her diaper, rinse the poop off her old clothes, wrestle her into new clothes, clean the applesauce off the floor, stop her from unfolding the laundry, and sing "Old McDonald's had a farm..." all the way to the store, who cares about a couple of red lights or a long checkout line?

It's funny how I thought motherhood would totally zap any patience I had left, but it has restored my patience in a way I never thought possible. As I prepare to enter the toddler years with Reese and someday bring more children into our family, I hope I don't forget how much happier I am when I go with the flow and see the humor in my challenges. And I hope I remember that all of my future struggles with potty training, picky eating, discipline, sibling rivalry, and teenagers are all just another opportunity to learn a lesson in patience.

I'm A Mess! Or Am I?

My friend, Kristin, has it all together. She's a great mom and her daughter is very developmentally advanced. She's incredibly dedicated to a healthy lifestyle, works out several times a week, and eats a very healthy diet. She always looks awesome and her home is clean and organized. She recylces, takes piano lessons, teaches fitness classes, and is a personal trainer. (Yeah, I know. I want to kick her too sometimes). I am constantly comparing myself to her and my kid to her kid, especially on particularly frazzled days when I feel like my hair and my house and my life are a mess. Sometimes I just look around and wonder how moms like Kristin are doing it all!

Then one day, Reese and I went over to Kristin's house to play, and I wish I could remember exactly what prompted the following comment, but she either forgot about something or misplaced something or needed to borrow something. And would you believe that she said, "ugh! You always have it all together. You must think I'm such a mess." Well, imagine my surprise! Here I was thinking she has it all together, and then she says the very same thing about me! I thought about that for a long time wondering how it was even possible for me to give anyone the impression that I have anything figured out.

Well, here's what I learned from that conversation. I didn't learn that I really do have it all together or that maybe she should be the one comparing herself to me. What I did learn is that you can't compare the entire iceberg of your life to the tip of someone else's. When Kristin and I first became friends, I only saw her in the moments when she seemed to have it all together, so I assumed that's how she always is. And it was the same when she would see me. We all tend to put our best (or at least our better) foot forward when we're around other people. I've only known Kristin for 2 years and the more I get to know her, the more I learn that we're not really that different. We both struggle to get it all done. We both have unproductive days. We both drop the ball once in a while (probably more often than either of us would admit). We both think everyone else has a better handle on life than we do. And we both look much more "together" on the outside than we feel on the inside.

So if you think someone else has it all figured out, trust me, she doesn't. If you think she is getting everything done, trust me, she isn't. If you think she couldn't possibly compare herself to you, trust me, she does. And if you think she has it all together... well, I bet she thinks you do too.   

Frazzled Mom Syndrome

Recently I was talking to a friend who told me a story about how she went to the store and parked her car next to a minivan. When she got out she noticed the sliding door of the minivan was open but there was no one around it. She peeked inside and she saw three car seats buckled side by side. Then she said, "Once I saw the car seats I knew it was just some frazzled mom who forgot to shut the door." Now, when she told me this I was laughing, but in my head I was thinking, "Oh good. I'm not the only one with a serious case of Frazzled Mom Syndrome."  

My problem started one day during my pregnancy when I came out of the shower and Matt was standing there looking very confused. "Did you just take a shower?" He asked me. "Uh, yeah," I said, now looking equally confused. He said, "Are you aware that the kitchen sink is running?" Apparently, he heard the water running for over 10 minutes and came into the kitchen to see what I was doing. Right at that moment I was coming out of the bathroom in my robe. Hence, the confusion. At the time, I couldn't figure out why I would just leave the sink running and get in the shower. I didn't know then, but I do know now. I did it because Frazzled Mom Syndrome sets in even before the first kid is born.


If you have children, you also have Frazzled Mom Syndrome. Don't even try to hide it. It begins with the first pregnancy and gets exponentially worse with each kid (or so I hear). Sometimes it causes us to laugh at ourselves like the time when I set Reese down in the Pack N Play and went upstairs to look for the Pack N Play. I couldn't find it anywhere. I won't tell you how long it took me to realize that Reese was sitting in it at the bottom of the steps! Sometimes it makes us feel like bad moms like the time I set her in the car seat and put the groceries in the car and then drove about 2 miles before I remembered that I never buckled her in! Sometimes it's even a little embarrassing like the time I took her to see all of my old co-workers and lost my car keys. I had to go back to every person's office to look for them. I finally went to the front desk and the attendant handed them to me saying, "Grey Honda? Yeah, you left them sticking out of the lock on your trunk." Frazzled. Mom. Syndrome. 

On this day, Reese was crying in the car. It was a really short drive and I was in a hurry so I didn't stop. Then she fell asleep and when we got out of the car I realized that her hat was covering her eyes. I felt pretty terrible.

I'm talking about it today because there have been too many times when I felt bad about myself or my organizational skills or my parenting in my frazzled moments. As moms, we put a lot of pressure on ourselves to be perfect because we have such a huge responsibility to take good care of our children. But we shouldn't feel bad. We should embrace our frazzled days. Let the funny incidents make you smile and lighten your mood. Let the serious incidents remind you to slow down and remember that things just won't go as quickly or as smoothly as they did when you were only responsible for yourself. Most of all, remember to give yourself a break and know that you're not the only one out there leaving car doors open and faucets running. We're all making mistakes, but we're all doing our best. And we're all still great moms, even despite the occasional flare up of Frazzled Mom Syndrome.

Unconditional Love

This Sunday we will take Reese to church for her first Easter. She will sit in the pew and play with her toys and make faces at the people around us, growing more and more restless as the minutes pass. She won't comprehend the readings or the message. She won't understand why this is such an important day, and she won't understand the reason for such a celebration. Actually, she reminds me of how I have approached all of my past Easters. Maybe I don't make faces at people or wave a stuffed animal in the air, but I know I haven't always understood Easter the way I do now. In a way, it feels like a first Easter for me too, because this is the first year that I am approaching the Easter weekend with a greater understanding of God's love for me.

I always thought I understood unconditional love, but now that I have a child I realize that my view of it was incredibly superficial. Here's an example: Matt and I are Catholic so before our wedding we had to participate in a marriage preparation program. For one of the requirements we completed a survey and went over the answers with our priest. One of the questions said something like, "if my spouse was unfaithful, I would stay married." We both marked "no," making it clear to each other that infidelity is a deal breaker for both of us. However, even knowing that, we have said on multiple occasions that our love for each other is unconditional. We clearly didn't fully understand what it means to give someone unconditional love. But once Reese was born, we both felt a love for her that we had never experienced before, even with each other. There are no deal breakers for Reese. No matter what she does, no matter how she strays, we will welcome her home with open arms. We want her to live her life knowing that she will not be loved more or less as a result of how she behaves, what career she chooses, or who she marries. I finally started to understand what people mean when they say that God's love for us is completely unconditional.


Matt and I recently had a conversation about the conditions of our love and we both retracted the limits we once set on each other. After that talk, I felt refreshed and at peace knowing that his love for me is not dependent upon my actions. It makes me want to be a better spouse in every way because I am so thankful for such a special love. That's how I feel now when I think about God's love - that He loved me enough to send His son to die for my sins, and that no matter what I do, no matter how I stray, my return to Him will always be met with open arms. It's hard to imagine that my love for Matt and his love for me and our love for Reese represent only a tiny fraction of God's love for us. Now that I understand that more fully, I will sit in church on Sunday and feel more thankful for Jesus' sacrifice and more joyful for His resurrection than ever before. Even though I will be celebrating Easter for the 29th time, it is the first time that I am truly celebrating with a deeper appreciation for God's gift of unconditional love.

Happy Easter!

Therapy for the Heart

Once in a while I'll hear someone describe an activity like exercising or cooking or even cleaning as "therapeutic," but I rarely stop to think about what that actually means. Most of the dictionary definitions of "therapeutic" pertain to medical or physical health, but I did come across one that said, "having healing powers." If you think about it, that's all therapy really is. Physical therapy heals your body. Mental health therapy heals your mind. Many people need one or the other (or both) at some point in their lives to heal an injury or treat a disease or overcome a loss. But the kind of healing that easily gets overlooked is that which heals our hearts and strengthens our souls. That's what people are talking about when they describe something as therapeutic. I didn't fully understand that - until I found mine.

I have never found anything quite as therapeutic as writing. I started this blog because I wanted to have a part of myself that existed outside the walls of my home. Originally, I thought I would be writing about changing diapers and clipping coupons and paying bills. But it has become more about getting back to being the person I forget about when my life gets taken over by diapers and coupons and bills (oh my)! I finally found something that is helping me get back to the heart and soul of who I am; helping me strengthen my faith; helping me preserve my individuality; helping me to remember that I can be a good wife and a good mom without forgetting to also be good at just being me.

There are lots of things I like to do - like cooking, scrapbooking, exercising, taking walks, watching movies, being with family and friends... the list goes on and on. But I've found that not everything I like to do provides the same kind of healing for me that writing does. A truly therapeutic activity recharges your internal battery. It takes away all of your frustration, impatience, and worry - even if only for the moment. It takes your mind and heart to a place where you feel truly happy, truly peaceful, truly you. Everyone's therapy is different. For some people, it changes with their mood. For others, it's always the same thing. If you know what yours is, I would challenge you to try to work it into your schedule at least once or twice each week. Take some time for yourself, recharge your battery, and experience the healing powers of therapy for the heart.

Redefining Beauty

A couple weeks ago I went shopping with my mom and made the mistake of trying on swimsuits for the first time in 2 years. (Reese was born last year at the very beginning of summer, so I was still hiding under t-shirts and basketball shorts for the entire swimsuit season). "Disappointed" is a huge understatement in describing how I felt in that dressing room mirror. There were things sagging and bulging in places that never sagged or bulged before. I tried on one suit after another, each one covering more skin than the one before it. I left the store empty handed and sad. Later that day, I made the 90 mile drive home and spent most of the way thinking about my self-image.

It would be impossible for me to fully express my feelings without admitting that I struggle with vanity. Before I got pregnant with Reese, I thought I was hot stuff. (This is a picture of me 3 summers ago on our honeymoon). At the time, being pretty was the most important thing to me. I'm ashamed to say that at one time I truly believed that I would rather be pretty than smart; that I would give up my degrees before I would give up my looks. Now that I'm on this soul-searching journey, it pains me to think about how much of a struggle this has been for me. How is it possible that I can value my shell so much more than my core?

I think pregnancy was the humbling experience I desperately needed. It has forced me to redefine what it means to be beautiful; to look at beauty in a deeper, more mature way. It has forced me to be proud of my body for different reasons. I grew a human being inside me, gave birth to her, and nursed her for nine months. I am proud of that and I am proud of myself as a mother, a wife, a friend, and a person. Motherhood hasn't made me less beautiful. It has made me more beautiful. (This is me last summer in Missouri, sporting my maternity pants and holding the little person who made every wardrobe adjustment well worth the change).

That day at Kohl's I wasn't looking for the right kind of beauty. I was looking for shallow-hearted, narrow-minded, society-driven beauty. And in doing that, I forgot about all of the other things that make me a beautiful person - all of the beautiful things about my core that I would never trade for a perfect shell. I needed to stop trying to look beautiful and start trying to be beautiful. And I'm slowly learning that changing that one tiny word is what redefining beauty is all about.

Wear It Proudly

A couple weeks ago, I was playing on the floor with Reese when she started poking her finger into my back. At first, I couldn't figure out what she was doing, and then I suddenly realized exactly what she was doing. She had noticed my tattoo.

Yes, I have a tattoo. It's a little purple flower on the right side of my lower back. I got it in college with my best friend who has a similar one. (You know how it is, a good friend goes with you to get a tattoo, but a great friend gets into the chair next to you. Well, that was me. I went there planning to be a good friend and came out as a permanent great friend). Lots of people - mostly older people - told me I would regret it someday, but I never thought I would. Then something changed in the last few years. I started feeling self-conscious if I thought it was showing. I had a different reaction when people asked about it. And then I had a daughter, and I kept thinking about how I would have to explain it to her someday. (And by someday, I meant years from now. Little did I know she would already be poking it at ten months old). The more I thought about it, the more I got down on myself for not respecting the body God gave me and for not thinking about the long-term consequences of my decisions.

Well, I recently had a miniature epiphany, and my whole attitude changed. I don't really know what brought it on. I've been doing a lot of religious reading and self-reflecting lately (hence the blog) and it's helped me begin to understand a lot of personal issues - even little things like how I feel about having a tattoo. Anyway, I started thinking about why I made this into such a big deal in my head. I think it's partly because I sometimes feel judged for it. Well, shame on anyone who judges someone for such a dumb reason, and shame on me for letting other people make me feel bad about my body or my past. Every mark I have (visible and not visible) represents a part of my life that makes me who I am today, and I like that person. My tattoo represents a carefree time in my life. It represents the close relationship I have with my friend (who was my maid of honor and is now the Godmother of my baby girl). Every time I see it I think of her and the fun we had in college and the road that led me to Matt and back to God. So I'm done feeling bad about it. I'm done thinking about removing it. I'm done feeling judged over it. I have a tattoo and I like my tattoo. And from now on, I'm wearing it proudly.

The Best Memories

Not long ago, I was cleaning upstairs and I came across a storage box of all my old pictures. There were pictures from high school cheerleading, college parties, spring break trips (like this one of my and 3 friends on spring break in the Bahamas), family photos, and pictures of Matt and me. As I dug through them I noticed that some memories came back to me more vividly than others.

In some of the pictures, I remembered details that pictures can't capture; what the weather was like, how I felt in that moment, or how uncomfortable those shoes were. In other pictures, I couldn't even remember where we were or when we went there. I couldn't help but wonder why I remember certain moments better than others. Some people might say that we remember the things that are most important or the moments that have the biggest impact. I think it's deeper than that.

The difference for me is that I most remember the moments in which I was truly present. The reason we think we remember big events better than little details, is because we're more likely to be fully present for the big things in our lives. Once I realized that the moments I remember the best are the moments (big and small) in which my heart connected with my mind and said, "don't ever forget this," I started trying to be more present in everyday things. When I play with Reese I turn off the TV and the computer, silence my phone and just focus on her - how she laughs, how she smiles, how excited I am to see her learning the moves to "itsy-bitsy spider." And when I decide to grab the camera to capture this moment, I'm that much more likely to remember how much fun we had that day or the exact game we were playing when she made this face:


We live in a world where everyone is constantly somewhere else. Phones in hand, laptops open, we're afraid to disconnect because of what we might miss. How ironic is it that we don't seem to fear missing what's right in front of us? It's hard for our hearts to connect with our minds when our minds are connected elsewhere. Pictures are a great thing to have, but if we're not fully present in the moment those shots are taken, the memories won't mean as much. Try it today. Get rid of all of your distractions and clear your mind. Then pick up your child, smell her hair, feel her little arms around your neck, and tell your heart and your mind, "don't ever forget this." I'll bet that moment gives you a sweeter memory than any picture ever could.

Love Notes

I am married to the greatest man alive and let me tell you why. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel safe. He respects me. He works hard. He forgives me when I make mistakes. He holds me when I'm sad. He makes me happy. He makes me a better person. He loves his family. He tells me I'm beautiful. I can talk to him about anything. He cares about my opinion. He's a great dad. He's honest with me. He's faithful to me. He would do anything for me. He stands up for me. He prays with me. He's my best friend. And he's everything I've ever wanted in a man.

That was 20 of the 101 reasons I love my husband. I made a list of 101 things I love about Matt not only to prove that I really do think I'm married to the greatest man alive, but also as a reminder to myself on days when I forget. After we got married I couldn't believe how quickly our relationship hit a level of comfort that easily gets taken for granted. I am shocked at how often I have forgotten how lucky I am and how often I have chosen words fueled by anger over words fueled by love and respect. I understand now why so many new marriages fail. When you're young and in love you think your relationship is immune to fights and disrespecful words and thoughts of divorce. Every couple needs to take the time and effort to safeguard their relationships against these things because if it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. I have found that my approach to our relationship is much different on the days when I take a moment to think back to when we first met; back to the reasons I first fell in love with him; back to the day I stood in front of God and promised to love, honor, and cherish him for better or worse for the rest of my life.

I encourage every woman to do this. Seriously, I want you to take some time to write something nice about your husband (and your husband should do it for you too). Write about what attracted you to him, why you fell in love, what you felt on your wedding day, or why you miss him when you're apart. Make a list, write a poem, draw a diagram. It doesn't matter. Just put something on paper. Then take your little love note and tuck it in a safe place. Read it to yourself when you are mad at him or when he makes a mistake. Before you get upset about one thing he did wrong, think first about the many things he does right. Before you react to how he made you mad today, think first about how he makes you happy every other day. Before you get carried away in a moment of anger, first get carried away in a moment of love. Instead of thinking, "He's so aggravating. He does X, Y, and Z, and he never does this and he always does that," just get out your love note and start with, "I am married to the greatest man alive..." and then see if anything else matters.