Lessons from a Sleepless Night

It’s Blog Hop time! This month’s theme is “Love Your Struggles,” and today the Hearts at Home bloggers are putting some of our own challenges into perspective. I love this topic because in this stage of life I do a lot of struggling. I definitely don’t love the time spent in the midst of it, but it is through my struggles that I learn the most about myself and my faith. Here is the story of one such lesson…

I lie in bed staring at the wall. Seething with anger. Allie’s voice hollers over the monitor. Three short, angry blasts between sobs, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” and then a pause to catch her breath. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” Next to me, Matt snores softly. I resent him for being able to sleep through this.

I look at the clock. 2:15am. It’s been 50 minutes, and I’ve been in there three times to offer her comfort. I’m afraid to go in again because I’ve hit the point of frustration where I understand how babies get shaken. Tears begin to fall on my pillow – a mixture of guilt and exhaustion in liquid form. 

I should go get her. 

No I shouldn’t.

 

Either way, I know I will berate myself for it. 

What kind of mother am I?

 

I take a few deep breaths and pray, reflecting on her cuteness and how much I really do love her. Finally I get up and cross the house to her room. She sees me and reaches out. She lets out one more, “Mommy!” but this time it carries a tone of relief.  

I take her to the living room and rock her. She falls asleep on my chest almost instantly. After a few minutes I carry her to her bed and then trudge back to my own. Within minutes I hear it again, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” I’m too tired to put up a fight. I go get her again and bring her to bed with me, but I can’t sleep because I’m afraid she will fall off the edge or be crushed under Matt’s weight. She rolls around next to me. Her foot kicks my chest. That’s it! I grab her from the bed and walk her back to the crib and leave, closing the door. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

The tears start again as I continue to criticize myself for my confusion and inconsistency. 

What kind of mother am I? 

I never do get back to sleep. The back and forth continues until morning. Eventually we go out to the living room and I collapse in the recliner, unable to imagine how I will get through the day with L’s million questions and Reese’s role play games.

I reach in the cabinet for my coffee and push the decaf aside. I reach all the way to the back. Even half-caf won’t cut it today. 

I pray again, seeking reasons to be grateful and asking for strength and patience. Smiles come easier than I expected but still my outward positivity fits my inner condition about as well as my high school jeans would fit my post-children body. Hope carries me through the day as I count the hours until bedtime.

 

Most nights are not this bad. Tonight she might sleep through.

Sometimes I like to pretend I’m not struggling. Or maybe I actually convince myself that I’m fine because it’s not exactly acceptable to walk around complaining, especially about something that might seem so trivial. But I’m writing this today in the midst of it and today it’s difficult to downplay the challenge. Today it’s hard to pretend. Today I can’t hide it. 

Ladies, I’m exhausted. 

I’ve mentioned in passing that Allie is not a great sleeper. That is an understatement. She is a terrible sleeper. She’s nearly eighteen months old, and I’m STILL waiting for a predictable sleep pattern. I feel guilty and defeated and I’m seriously ashamed of the above account because it makes me look so erratic and inconsistent and I can’t help wondering if it makes people think what I’m already thinking.

What kind of mother am I?

 

There was a time when I was methodical about this whole thing. I tried everything. Absolutely everything. My theories have ranged from over-stimulation to dietary issues to teething (which is an intermittent issue that no remedy has ever helped). There is no evidence that she is in physical pain or has a medical problem, although I have called her doctor in several moments of desperation, which always end with me feeling embarrassed for calling and wondering if the nurse is thinking, what kind of mother are you?

So here I am today – crazy, inconsistent, and tired – and trying to make sense of this struggle that seems so insignificant in the grand scheme of life’s problems. I approach every evening with hope for a good night and dread for a bad one, and I relish the mornings that come with anything less than one or two minor interruptions. Mostly, I just try to take it in stride – one night at a time – without entertaining too many thoughts about when or if she will outgrow this habit.

All I know is that until she outgrows it or I discover a miracle solution, I turn to prayer and gratitude to get me through the worst days. After nearly eighteen months of inadequate sleep (plus the last three months of my pregnancy), I’ve learned a few things that help me remember that no struggle is for naught. 

1. Your thoughts are not always your thoughts. In my darkest moments of guilt-ridden self-criticism, my thoughts often reflect my fears of what the League of Perfect Mothers might think about me and not what I really believe in my heart about the kind of mother I am. The same goes for the other voices that say, “You’re too fat to wear that,” and “You don’t do [fill in the blank] well enough.”

2. There is give and take in everything. Allie is at my very favorite age (sleep habits aside), and the thought that she will not always exist in this precious form makes me want to cry. Maybe when she’s older and I find myself wishing I could return to these days, I will also remember the struggles and take comfort in the reminder that there are beautiful roses and painful thorns in every stage of life.

 

3. Challenges give rise to gratitude. Nothing clears the wreckage of negative emotions faster than a heart seeking thankfulness. On my worst mornings, I sit in the recliner and pray a silent list of thank yous for everything from my coffee pot to a job that allows me to stay in my pajamas on these difficult days. And on the days when Allie goes down easy and sleeps until morning, I experience a level of gratitude that cannot be known when life is too easy.

 

4. You have the right to struggle. Sometimes I berate myself in these moments. A toddler with poor sleep habits is hardly a life-threatening problem. There are people in the world who are dying and starving. What right do you have to complain? Something inside me just loves to kick me when I’m down. Why do we do that to ourselves? We don’t tell ourselves, “I don’t have the right to be happy because some people have it better than I do.” It’s all relative. Just because your struggle isn’t the end of the world, doesn’t make it easy to bear at the time.

5. Vulnerability breeds connection. There’s no greater relief in the midst of a struggle than validation from a friend who’s been there. But it’s hard to make those connections when we walk around pretending that we’ve got it all figured out and don’t need any help. Some of my deepest connections with my closest friends were born out of shared “hot mess” moments and “me too” conversations. 

6. Faith grows in times of need. No experience in my life has been more challenging, humbling, or tiring than motherhood. When I struggled to recover from Reese’s abnormally difficult delivery; when I had to quit nursing Allie at three months; when she cried all night with colic; when I hit a near-suicidal level of post-partum depression; I called on the Lord to walk with me through all of it and each time my relationship with Him deepened and strengthened. The storms passed but the Lord stayed present and now I invite Him to walk with me daily, not just in times of need but also in praise, thanksgiving, and joy so that everything I do may be to the glory of He who saves me in my darkest hours.

What’s your struggle? Maybe you’re physically exhausted from your child’s poor sleep habits. Maybe it’s mental or emotional exhaustion over something else. Battles with picky eating, behavioral issues, medical problems. Maybe it’s something much bigger. The list of things over which moms carry unnecessary guilt is endless. In the toughest moments, it’s easy to lose sight of our perspective, especially when we come up against the League of Perfect Mothers. 

If you have a struggle (or series of struggles as most of us do), love might seem like a bit of a stretch in terms of how you feel about them, especially in the middle of the worst of it. Of course the struggles themselves aren’t quite so lovable, but they do shed light on what’s really important in life. They help us connect with others, urge us to keep our eyes to God, and remind us to give thanks for all that is right in an unpredictable world.   

Allie’s sleep habits are certainly not the end of the world. I know that. I also know that greater struggles surely lie ahead. I can’t predict what those might be or how big of an effect they might have on the life I know today. But I do know that I have a God and a husband and a few special friends who will walk with me to the other side. And I know that I can always rest in them and in Him and in hope for the joy, the peace, and the calm that comes with the passing of the storm and the dawn of each new day.

                     “There may be pain in the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

                     – Newsboys, Your Love Never Fails (adapted from Psalm 30:5) 

If I Didn't Have Children...

If I didn’t have children, my life would be grand.
I’d fly off to Hawaii, dig my toes in the sand.

No more need to take care of everyone else.
No more, “I didn’t touch it. It broke by itself.”

No monsters in closets or “I need a drink.”
No wishing and hoping for one full night’s sleep.

No more silly questions, “Are we almost there yet?
“Where does snow go in summer?"
"Why’s water so wet?”

No sending my skinny clothes off to Good Will.
No, “Mommy, come in here and see what I spilled.”

If I didn’t have children, my life would be swell.
I could travel the world, sleep in five-star hotels.

I could have peace and quiet, spend time all alone.
Without a trail of destruction all over my home.

I could go back to school, get another degree,
Have a life and career that is all about me.

No more tantrums over broken crayons;
Or touching my stuff with chocolaty hands.

No more, “Tell her not to look at me!”
Or, “Mommy, I’m about to pee!”

No more changing poopy pants.
No Mickey’s Clubhouse Hot Dog Dance.



Yes, that is how my life could be                                                
Without these kids all over me.

BUT…

If I didn’t have children, there’s a lot I would miss.
Like the soft little “pip” of a sweet baby kiss.


No more first little smiles or sweet baby giggles.
No, “I love you, Mommy;” no tummies to tickle.

No more, “This Little Piggy” on those teeny toes.
No rocking, no singing,
No “Where’s mommy’s nose?”

No more pictures of all the cute things that they do.
No, “what a cute baby! She looks just like you!”

Not as much to celebrate, no more “firsts” to share.
No more little pigtail sprouts sticking in the air.

No more special bedtime prayers;
No more evening cuddles.
No more, “Good night, Daddy;”
No more morning snuggles.

I wouldn’t know the deepest love anyone can know.
I wouldn't see the miracle of watching as they grow.

I wouldn’t know the joy of holding little hands.
Sacrifice and selflessness - I couldn’t understand.

I wouldn’t be as tired and I wouldn’t be as bored.
But because of all my struggles,
I walk closer with the Lord.

And so as hard as it can be,
I’d rather have them here with me.

Because I have children, my life is complete;
And I am blessed beyond belief.


I’m proud and I’m grateful. I’m faithful and strong.
Because I have children; because I’m a mom.

He is With You

Sometimes I get swallowed up in the busyness of life. From birthdays and family outings to paying bills and calling repair guys, I rarely have time to sit and relax without those nagging "shoulds."

Sometimes I complain about minor inconveniences. I get all the way home from the grocery store and realize I forgot laundry detergent. And we live so far from town and gas is so expensive.

Sometimes nothing makes sense. In a world of so much pain and suffering, so much anger and violence, so much illness and death, it's easy to lose sight of the bigger picture. It's easy to wonder if there even is a bigger picture to see.

Sometimes I forget about God. I don't take enough time to pray and I take my blessings for granted. I'm too busy going here and there and doing this and that. Too busy to feel His presence in the moments when I need Him the most.

But sometimes I wake up to this...

And for one simple moment, I do stop. And I do listen. And I am grateful. Because life is busy and loud and inconvenient, but it's all part of a journey that is cloaked in a deeper meaning, a greater beauty, a higher purpose.

Those are the moments that bring me back to the heart of what really matters. Those are the moments that reset my compass and point me back toward inner peace and toward He who provides it. Those are the moments that drown out the sound of life rushing by, silencing the roar just long enough to hear the Lord's calming whisper, "I am with you."

Stop in those moments. Forget the rush. Forget the roar. Forget the shoulds. Just stop. And breathe. And listen. And remember - you never walk alone. He is with you.

Let Yourself Go

When I chose to be a full-time mom, the last thing I wanted was to lose myself in my kids. I imagine that’s the last thing any mom wants – for the four walls of her home to be the end all, be all of her existence; to become less marketable in the workforce every year; to be known only as “So-And-So’s Mom.” After all, our self-focused society says don’t do that. Be who you are. Put yourself first. Do what makes you happy. And whatever you do, don’t let yourself go – physically, socially, or professionally.

Well, that certainly wasn’t in my plan. I was going to stay involved in my profession, keep myself in shape, and jumpstart my writing career. I held onto my “self” – my wants, my goals, my desires – long after Reese was born, and I felt fortunate to have a baby who made it easy. She slept through the night early on, took long daytime naps, and was always mild-tempered. She was a great sleeper, healthy eater, and required minimal baby-proofing. Finding “me-time” was easy… and daily, and I quickly developed a very unrealistic set of expectations for this stage of my life.

Enter: Allie.

There have been times when I thought she would be the end of me. Shortly after she was born, I realized how spoiled we had been with Reese. Allie and Reese are opposites in every way. Allie takes short, unpredictable naps and still doesn’t sleep through the night. She’s the pickiest and messiest of eaters, and most of her meals require a mop and a bath. I have to wrestle her into and out of every outfit, and sometimes I swear it would be easier to diaper an alligator. She tears through the house like a wrecking ball, and I can’t turn my back for even one second or I find her climbing on the fireplace, pulling sharp objects from the dishwasher, or throwing things in the toilet.

For nearly a year, I fought to maintain my original expectations of life with children. I lived in almost-constant frustration over not being able to get to the things I wanted to do: cooking, cleaning, organizing, scrapbooking, reading, writing – all the things that keep me feeling like I have some semblance of a life outside of my children. My inability to meet my own expectations had me questioning my success and my happiness in this role nearly every day.

Over the past year, the demands of living with two small children have slowly chipped away at my selfish tendencies, and I started to realize that the little girl I once thought might be the end of me would actually help me find a new beginning.

Allie woke me one morning at 5:30 am – her usual. I trudged down the hall to her room and lifted her from her crib. We settled in the rocking chair with her morning bottle, and she stared up at me with her innocent blue eyes as she started to drink. I stroked her little face and ran my fingers through her hair. She dropped her bottle and smiled up at me. I noticed how much more space her body consumed in my lap now that she was nearly a year old. I thought about Reese sleeping across the hall and how much I miss the little babies they both used to be.

In that moment I realized more deeply than ever before how short and precious this stage of life really is, and I started to wonder what it would be like to really let my “self” go for these few years; to fully embrace this phase of my life without any selfish desires; to stop pushing back against the forces of motherhood and fully give my life over to the needs of my family; to abandon my own plans for myself and follow to God’s plan for me.

Just then Allie reached up and tried to poke me in the eye. I deflected her little finger and she squirmed off my lap and toddled away. I followed her into the hallway with more enthusiasm than I usually have before 6:00 am and without any of my own plans for what I would accomplish (or attempt to accomplish) that day.

Since then, I’ve tried to live every day like that – fully surrendered to the needs of my family and the plan of my God. I don’t rush through the bedtime routines or cut bath time short because I want to write a blog post or finish the dishes or catch up on scrapbooking. I do still find time to myself, but it’s no longer on my terms, and I’m thankful for the time I get rather than frustrated over the time I want. I spend less time wondering what will become of my career goals and more time praying for God to lead me down any path that lets me glorify Him while serving my family.

I thought losing myself in my kids would be stifling, especially when our self-focused culture says don’t do that. But it’s not stifling at all. My experience has been the opposite. It has freed me from unnecessary stress, pressure, and expectations. It helps me find greater joy in simpler moments. And day by day, it draws me into a closer walk with the Lord.

God knows that control freaks like me don’t go down without a fight, and every day I thank Him for the little girl who helped me surrender; the little girl whose curiosity and unpredictability keep me living in the moment every day; the little girl whose up-all-night, food-throwing, toilet-splashing antics remind me that there's no room for selfishness in motherhood; the little girl who taught me that sometimes you can’t begin to find yourself without first letting your “self” go.

Happy 1st birthday, Allie! 

How to be a Perfect Friend

It’s time for another Hearts at Home Third Thursday Blog Hop! I’ve missed the past few months – not because I haven’t had any imperfections to share, but because not taking enough time to write (and do other things for myself) is one of them. The No More Perfect Moms theme continues today with No More Perfect Friends. Happy reading!

Allie clung to my leg, crying to be held. In the other room, Reese and L argued over a toy. It wasn’t even 8:00 am and I was already taking deep breaths as I prepared for a long day. Can I just have 5 minutes to scramble an egg?!

Scanning the room, I immediately wished I had taken the time to pick up the night before. Choosing sleep instead, I left the mess for morning. Bad idea. My daily accomplishments are so limited these days. Between my super high maintenance ten-month-old and the stark personality contrast between Reese and L (who I now babysit 30-40 hours a week), I’m struggling to find peace with my hindered ability to feel even the slightest bit productive throughout the day.

My thoughts immediately turned to other women I know. The mom with 8 kids. The mom who’s two kids are just 13 months apart. The mom with twins. The mom who runs marathons. The mom who cooks everything from scratch. The mom who runs a business. The mom who blogs every day. The mom whose house is always clean. How do they do it?!

Later that morning, my phone vibrated across the counter. I could tell by the rhythm it was a text message. I picked it up and swiped the screen. My friend sent me a picture of the main living space in her home. The room was covered with toys and clutter. The message read “I’m finding peace within today.”

I surveyed my own messy living room again, this time with a smile. I love having a friend who isn't afraid to share her own struggles in the name of connection, compassion, and friendship. I love having a friend who lets me in on her tough moments because she knows I'm on the other side of town having my own moments. I love having a friend who gets it, a friend who knows that I get it.

Three years ago, this friend was on my “how does she do it” list. That was before we grew into the kind of friendship that lets us show up for play dates in our pajamas and text each other pictures of our messes. That was before we could laugh about how many days had passed since our last shower or how challenging life with little ones can be. That was before the many “me too!” conversations that squashed any reason to wonder “how does she do it?”

I hope every mom finds a friend like that, a friend who helps you remember that no one has it all together. We all have different strengths, values, motivators, and priorities. We all have different kids with different schedules and temperaments. We all have different husbands and different sources of stress.

Yet, we’re all in the same boat. We all have the same amount of time in a day. We’re all struggling to fit everything in. We’re all trying to balance the needs of our husbands, our homes, our kids, and ourselves. And we’re all looking at each other and wondering, “How do you do it?”

The answer is really pretty simple - we don't have an answer. None of us does. We’re all just doing the best we can with what we have. No one has magical secret powers. There are no Supermoms (despite what those looking in on a snapshot of our lives might think). No one has anything special figured out.

But I do know one thing. You may not be the perfect woman and you may not be the perfect mom, but it's those imperfections that give you the ability to reach out and be the perfect friend.

Are You Smarter Than A Ten-Month-Old?

Allie is ten months old now (yes, I know, time flies) and entering the most fascinating - and aggravating - stage of development. She’s fully mobile (not quite walking on her own, but almost) and getting into everything. Life is one big discovery and common sense is non-existent. It’s cute, funny, annoying, frustrating, and amazing all at the same time.

Yesterday she pulled a spoon out of the dishwasher. She looked it over from every angle and smiled at the shiny metal. She stuck the handle in her mouth, unimpressed by the taste. Then she tapped it on the open door of the dishwasher and looked up at me with wide eyes and a huge smile as she continued banging it on the other items in the rack.

 

I stopped chopping tomatoes and sat down on the floor to watch my little drummer. I love those moments. Actually, I love watching her do anything – pull all the sandwich baggies out of the box, push tiny pieces of banana around her high chair tray, play with her toes. I love it because whatever she does, she’s completely absorbed in the moment. Every smile conveys genuine, unfeathered joy. Her shoulders carry no weight of any burden. Her heart is not heavy with worry or fear. She’s just being her. Just being here. Just being.

We have so much to learn by watching our little ones in action. How wonderful would it be to be able to close our minds to any thoughts that are irrelevant to - or distracting from - the beauty and peace available in any given moment?

When I first started leaning into spiritual growth several years ago, the concept of presence kept coming up. Just be where you are. At first, I didn’t get it. How can you be anywhere else? As it turns out, you can be in many places at once if you give your mind and your thoughts the freedom to wander. Once I really became aware of the constant disconnect between the actions of my body and the thoughts in my head, I discovered that I am really not very present at all. Rather, a large part of me is chronically absent.

Presence is all about being fully engaged in the current moment with no part of your mind dwelling on events of the future or past (or judgmental thoughts about others or personal insecurities or what’s going on with healthcare reform). For most of us, that is not easy to do because we are not even aware that our minds are fragmented. Having irrelevant or counter-productive thoughts when we’re supposed to be enjoying a movie with our spouses or building block towers with our kids or praying in church is so common that we don’t really recognize it as a problem. We entertain our thoughts and worries so automatically that we don’t even know we’re missing out on the full experience of being wherever we are.

The key to breaking these habits is awareness. It’s kind of hard to stop yourself from being distracted if you’re not even aware that you are distracted in the first place. It starts with turning your attention inward and recognizing that being absorbed in irrelevant thought serves no purpose other than pulling you away from feeling pure joy for this moment.

Growing in presence has helped me tremendously with my tendency to feel overwhelmed by the many demands of life and motherhood. Often, when I engage with my kids, a part of me remains focused on what’s not getting done. Then I start getting things done and another part of me feels guilty for not engaging with my kids. That’s so silly, and yet, so common. By focusing on presence, I can find guilt-free joy in playtime and productive time and my days flow with less effort.

Try it today. The next time you’re engaged in an activity (anything from washing dishes to playing with your kids to getting a manicure), notice where your thoughts are wandering and notice how present – or absent – you are in the experience of what you’re doing. Then try doing that activity as if you are a ten-month-old child. No competing emotions. No worries. No outside thoughts. Just being.

Then take in the joy.

Joy? Even for dishes?

Yes, joy for dishes. Sing while you rinse. Dance while you dry. Who knows? You might even start drumming with a spoon.

When Life Goes in Circles...

It was a bit of a roller coaster around here beginning with my first postpartum meltdown last December and ending with the final day of my teaching contract in May. I needed a quiet summer to decompress and catch up on over nine months of inadequate sleep.

Once again, I am in a good place within myself. My occasional backslide (usually through the winter months) is discouraging, and last year was particularly difficult with the added effects of PPD. It often makes me feel as though I’m caught in an endless cycle of ups and downs, triumphs and trials, successes and struggles.

But aren’t we all?

For some, it’s financial or marital turmoil. For others, it’s a personal battle with health, weight, or addiction. For many, it’s a true chemical imbalance, enhanced by situational factors, internal stressors, weather patterns, and seasonal changes.

Two steps forward, one step back… or many steps back, as it sometimes feels.

In my discouraging times, I exacerbate my own issues with self-criticism. I tell myself that I must not be this deeply spiritual person or that my trust in God is clearly fake. I wonder if reading about spiritual growth, listening to motivational speakers, watching TED talks, deep breathing and prayer are all for naught - because peaceful people aren’t supposed to experience these radical shifts, these doubts, these occasional backslides.

Right?

Karen Armstrong - a former Catholic nun turned spiritual teacher and religious tolerance leader - wrote a book called The Spiral Staircase, which is currently sitting on my endless list of someday reads. I added it to the list when I heard an interview where she described the concept of the title, and my shame and discouragement over the darker moments in my life were instantly comforted.

She said: When we’re on a spiral staircase, we may feel like we’re walking in circles, but all the time we’re going up.

I love it.

It’s easy to feel like life takes us in circles. Some days we’ve got it all together, other days we’re falling apart. Some days we are overwhelmed with gratitude and good, other days the good gets lost in the shuffle and we’re just plain overwhelmed. Sometimes we’re head-over-heels in love, other times we raving mad. Then we use those not-so-great moments to question whether we’ve really come very far at all in achieving the goal, kicking the habit, finding peace, forgiving, or letting go.

But what if the circles we experience in life are not simply laps we run on a flat surface, but an upward spiral through which we are constantly ascending toward something greater?

Brookfield Zoo

While my summer wasn't exactly quiet (because nothing is quiet with little kids around), it was full of fun family outings and few serious responsibilities. We took trips to Brookfield Zoo, Wisconsin Dells, and Lake of the Ozarks. We danced at weddings and sipped coffee on our patio. I started a weekly Bible study – just me and one of my closest friends on the tailgate of her car facing the sunrise and talking about life, love, and faith. I read four new books, started running again, took up meditation, and broke my caffeine addiction. 

I am well.

And content.

And growing in ways that would not be possible without the struggles that sometimes make me feel like I'm going in circles... until I look back and see that I've actually been going up all along.

"It's not about how fast I get there. 

It's not about what's waiting on the other side.

It's the climb." 

Hurry, Hurry

Reese set her book down next to me and crawled into my lap. I immediately recognized the cover and title, though I haven't read it in many years. My mom saved my collection of children's books and she gave them to me when Reese was born. Between those and Reese's own growing collection of books, we still haven't read them all. 

I read the title out loud, "Hurry, Hurry." I recalled the words with ease as I read to Reese about "Funny Old Miss Mugs" and her inability to do anything at a relaxed pace. 

"Hurry, Suzie, brush your teeth... Hurry, eat your breakfast.... Hurry, put your shoes on... or you will be late for school." 

As she rushes Suzie along to school, Miss Mugs runs into one problem after another. She runs into the milkman, trips a lady walking her dog, falls through a manhole, and gets scooped up by a bulldozer. She's in such a hurry that she forgets to say "sorry" to those she inconveniences and she forgets to say "thank you" to the people who help her out of her messes. As she rushes off, each person warns her, "Don't be in such a hurry or something worse may happen!"

Finally, Miss Mugs walks into a ladder with a large bucket of glue on top. The glue covers her from head to toe. Suzie helps her get cleaned up, but she is unable to remove the glue from Miss Mugs' shoes. Miss Mugs has no choice but to walk very slowly, and she quickly discovers that it is much more enjoyable (and much less hazardous) to slow down and lighten up. 

Yikes, that sounds a lot like me, I thought. I've always been one of those ninety miles an hour people. Always thinking ahead to the next task. Never getting enough done. Never fully relaxed. Missing out on opportunities to experience the fullness of my life and the depths of my gratitude for it. Too busy to pray. Too busy to breathe. Too busy to notice. It makes a giant glue spill sound rather inviting.

The next morning, I got my kids out of bed and started the breakfast routine. As I lowered Allie onto the living room floor, a sharp pain in my lower back brought me to my knees. I don't know much about back injuries, but I knew I must have pinched, pulled, or strained something important. I made my way over to the couch and got back to my feet, but it was a struggle. I quickly learned that I could still function as long as I avoided sudden or unnecessary movements. 

I stood up slowly. I shuffled to the kitchen slowly. I made breakfast slowly. After breakfast I sat down to play with my girls. My phone range in the living room. I ignored it. The dryer buzzed in the laundry room. I didn't get up. Every few minutes, I felt an urge to go do something... this room needs to be vacuumed... that desk is awfully dusty... did I ever pay the insurance bill?  

Normally, I respond to those urges. Hurry, hurry. Get everything done. 

Only I couldn't hurry. I couldn't do much of anything. For nearly a week, I shuffled around the house. Like the glue on Miss Mugs' shoes, the twinge in my lower back kept me in check. I played with my kids without feeling guilty that messes were piling up. At the end of the day, I listened to my body's need for rest rather than my head's desire to restore order to my living room. I prayed more. I breathed more. I noticed more.  

It's been over a week, and I feel totally normal again. As ability to "hurry, hurry" returns, I am grateful for the quick recovery but I am also thankful for my real life Miss Mugs' reminder that "it is quite a joy to move slowly, and a terrible bother to hurry."

I Got This.

I tucked two Xanax inside a tiny zipper pouch and stuck it in my purse. I couldn't take the whole bottle because, well, they weren't mine. I just happen to know someone who graciously (and illegally) agreed to help me ease my flight anxiety. Just before boarding the plane to San Diego, I ducked inside a bathroom at Midway Airport to stifle the panic. I pulled the coin pouch from my purse but as I dumped the pills into my hand, somehow both of them hit the floor. The wet, dirty, public bathroom floor.

I turned around but the space behind me was empty. I wasn't surprised. I've been known to be rather clumsy and it's quite possible that I'm just that much of a klutz. Even though there was no one around, I wasn't desperate enough to retrieve the pills from the floor. I turned to leave the restroom, but instead of melting down into an all-out panic attack, I laughed a little as I pictured God's message in that moment:

Seriously, Lisa? Just get on the plane. Trust me. I got this.

It really is a silly fear. I felt silly packing Xanax to begin with. I felt silly Googling "the odds of dying in a plane crash" the day before my flight. And I felt silly adding "would have to fly" to my list of reasons not to go to the wedding.

It's ok. He's got this.

I returned to my seat at the gate and offered up my fear. The flight to San Diego was smooth and easy, and I was proud of myself for "letting it go and letting God," as they say. I knew He would come through for me, and He did.

I had a blast at the wedding and enjoyed a much-needed break from the demands of full-time motherhood. The bride has been one of my closest friends since middle school, and I couldn't imagine having been anywhere else on her wedding day. Her husband is from Malaysia, and I found so much beauty in God's ability to unite two people who were born and raised over 14,000 miles apart.

When I witness such amazing examples of His work, I feel silly for not trusting Him with my silly fears. Totally absorbed in the happiness of the day, I looked out at the ocean and breathed in deep gratitude, awe, and joy.

He's got this. He's got all of this.

The following evening, I sat at Gate 1 at the San Diego airport. My thoughts didn't even wander toward the now-empty zipper pouch in my purse. I boarded the plane without any fear.

He's got this.

An hour into the nearly four hour flight, the air got bumpy. In my heightened sensitivity, every little jolt felt like a 10,000 foot dive. I tightened my seat belt and gripped the arm rest. Just minutes after lighting the "fasten seat belt" sign, the crew announced that they would also be taking their seats and that call buttons should only be pressed in the case of a medical emergency.

Almost instantly, my trust and awe dissolved into worry and anger.

Really, God? I thought You had this.

Isn't that the way it works for most of us? It's easy to be thankful for joyful moments. It's easy to have faith when things are smooth. It's easy to feel blessed when life is good. The real tests of faith come in difficult moments, when things are hard, and when life is challenging.

On the flight home, I was acutely aware of the difference in my attitude on a smooth flight compared to a bumpy one. It looked a lot like the difference in my attitude on an easy day compared to a difficult one.

Sometimes I feel guilty in my weak moments because too often I hear that worry and anxiety imply a lack of faith or a lack of trust in God's plan. But I don't think it's the worry and fear themselves that are a cause for guilt. It's our response to that worry. It's whether we choose to wallow in fearful anger or to humbly accept God's curve balls and to find strength in our suffering to turn toward Him rather than away.

Choosing the latter, I clicked the button on my Kindle and selected The Bible from my reading list. Among the first passages I read was:

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." Proverbs 3:5-6 

It's definitely harder to keep our eyes toward God in the midst of life's turbulence. Uncertainty, adversity, worry, and fear give rise to doubts about His plan and the intentions behind it. But if we can find a way to listen, He will find a way to say...

Trust me. I got this.

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.

Coincidence or God Incident?

I sat in the Aldi parking lot drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as the gray cloud overhead spit intermittent raindrops on my windshield. Just two minutes earlier, I reached for the “Aldi quarter” in my cup holder and came up with a gum wrapper. I tossed it into the passenger seat and pulled my wallet from the diaper bag. No cash. None. I checked every crevice of my vehicle. Nothing. So I drummed angrily on the steering wheel as if my frustration had the power to manifest spare change.

I already had one of those mornings. Expired milk, spilled coffee, crabby infant, potential downpour. I knew I should have stayed home. But I went out anyway and now there I was in the Aldi parking lot having a very ridiculous “why me” moment. I eventually gathered my thoughts and surveyed my options. None of them was appealing – probably because I was already aggravated.

Meanwhile, Allie’s fussiness had turned into an all out scream fest. Still undecided about how to solve my original problem, I stepped out of the car and went around to Allie’s side. Her pacifier hit the ground as I opened the door. Really?! I bent down to pick it up and there at my feet was a shiny silver quarter.

My in-laws would call that a “God incident.” When I first met Matt’s family almost eight years ago, I didn’t know what that meant. Before then, I had never thought of God as an active participant in my life. The whole concept seemed really far-fetched. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God. I had always believed in God. I just didn’t think God believed in me.

There are just so many of us in the world. There is so much suffering and so many unanswered prayers. It seemed like God should have bigger things to worry about than arranging convenient coincidences and reminders for kindness in my little insignificant world.

Over the years, I slowly grew into my faith. I started reading the Bible and trying to live its message. I began to see real acts of God in my daily life, and instead of nodding along with ignorance when someone said “now that’s a God incident,” I began to smile with understanding.

See, I had always pictured God incidents as isolated events involving intentional interventions on the part of our Creator; as if a Divine hand reached down and placed a pen in my dryer to teach me about grace or perfectly timed the stop lights to prevent my tardiness for an important appointment. Looking at them from a small-scale perspective, it is easy to dismiss the possibility of God’s involvement.

But I have come to believe this about God: He doesn’t operate on a small scale level, nor is His involvement in our lives limited to certain events on certain days at certain times. He is ever-present at all times and in all things. His carefully crafted and perfectly orchestrated universe lends itself to these “coincidences” simply because everything in it is entangled in a web of simultaneous existence. The complexity of that existence and the depth of our connection to it are revealed to us in the events that those of us who don’t yet know better would call “coincidences.”

Today, I know better. That’s why I sat crouched in the Aldi parking lot whispering a prayer of gratitude to the Great Orchestrator. It’s not that I think God knowingly placed a quarter under my car to offset my crappy morning. It’s that I believe He created a world that allows the lives of the dropper of a quarter and the finder of that quarter to overlap for a single moment in time. And I believe that if you can see God’s presence in the smallest of things, you can begin to find Him anywhere and everywhere.

Now that I know how to spot His work, God shows up in my life every day. Sometimes He leads me to small things like quarters in parking lots. Sometimes He leads me to big things like houses and jobs. Sometimes it’s a surge of grace and compassion, comfort and healing, or courage and strength on the right day at the right time. Sometimes it’s the urge to give, the will to forgive, or the power to carry on amid the struggles He needs me to face. His form often changes but His presence never does. 

Over time, faith and patience have slowly begun to take the place of the worry and urgency in my life. My last paycheck will hit our account this week, which means the small gap in our income will soon return. Last week I opened an email from some friends who are moving to our subdivision this summer. They wanted to know if I would be interested in watching their three-year-old daughter three to four days a week through the school year. I always said I had absolutely no interest in taking on someone else’s kid unless it was part-time excluding summer for someone I knew who was the same age as Reese. Coincidence? Of course not. 

In the moments where you find your life perfectly overlapped with another, whether it affects you for a single moment or the rest of your days, you can assume the events happened at random and walk away feeling puzzled. That's a coincidence. OR you can recognize your significant role in the complicated web of existence, whisper a prayer of gratitude, and walk away feeling blessed. That’s a God incident.

Lessons from a Part-Time Job

I feel like I should back track a bit before I [attempt to] dive back into my regular posting routine. I submitted the final grades for my class last night, which means my spring semester is officially over. It's hard to believe it's already May. I still don’t know what I was thinking by taking on a job and a baby at the same time, especially without hiring part-time childcare. It’s been a long semester, and I’m thankful to be back to the jobs I do for free. 

Allie is 6 months old now, and she's so adorably smiley. She's lucky she’s so cute because she's a total bearcat. She gets up at 5am every day, takes short unpredictable naps, and has a total fit if I take more than two steps away from her. My mom calls her "Velcro Baby" because she clings to me like a spider monkey and still spends a lot of her day strapped to my chest. It's a wonderful feeling, especially since I didn't get much clingy baby behavior out of Reese, but Allie’s grabby hands and steadily climbing weight have made daily baby wearing somewhat of a challenge. 

Reese will be three on May 28th, which means I spend a lot of time generating answers to questions like, “Why is it 3-o’clock?” and explaining social rules – like why we can’t just choose a random car from the mall parking lot and drive it home. She’s learning about the world at an amazing rate, and her observations are both beautifully innocent and downright hilarious. She’s an awesome kid, but she’s still a typically defiant, antagonistic, and conveniently [for her] forgetful little stinker who gives me a run for my patience every single day. 

Between keeping up with these kids and making time for my job, it’s not a big surprise that I haven’t had time for much else. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could plan on a daily afternoon nap, but Reese hardly naps at all anymore, and Allie is a stage five cat napper. I ended up doing most of my work after they went to bed, which meant that I was often staying up way too late. Until this semester, the coffee I so often reference in my blog posts has always been decaf. That is definitely no longer the case, and I now have the withdrawal headaches to prove it.

The sleep deprivation and caffeine addiction haven’t been the only consequences of this schedule. I have skipped more meals and showers over the past few months than I would ever care to admit. It is not at all uncommon for me to make lunch for my kids and then deprive myself of a healthy meal. I’ll eat when they nap, I tell myself as I reach for a string cheese, even though I know that if they do actually sleep, I’ll choose productivity over nourishment hands down.

And forget about relaxation. It just doesn’t happen. For starters, I’m not great about finding much down time to begin with. And even when I do try to make plans to do something for me, it’s always the first thing to go when something more pressing comes up.

I came out of this experience feeling really proud of myself for the work I put into my class – even when it got hard, I never cut corners. And yet, I find it interesting that I never allowed myself to slide on anything except when it came to my own well-being.

That’s how I operate. I imagine that’s how a lot of moms operate. Skipping meals and showers, getting behind on sleep, sacrificing much-needed down time, giving up on hobbies. It seems that when life gets stressful, the first thing we do is stop taking care of ourselves.

How counterintuitive is that?! It’s during stressful times that our commitment to self-care should be at its best. I don’t know about you, but for some reason I feel guilty and selfish when I put my own needs first (or second; or third). It’s easy for me to forget that part of being a good mom means being good to myself.

I admit sometimes it's necessary to put ourselves on hold, but consistent patterns of self-neglect have a definite negative affect on everything from our marriages to our parenting skills. Lately, I've started taking notice of the times when I put my needs aside - physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, or socially. I'm trying to recognize and break some of my bad self-care habits - like not sitting down to a real lunch or failing to take time to catch up with friends. And I'm learning to give myself a little less pressure and a little more grace.   

Each season of my life seems busier than the one before, and I'm only 30! I have a lot of running around ahead of me. Sometimes I trick myself into thinking the next phase of life won't be as crazy, but something always comes up. It's taken many years for me to understand (and admit) that real peace doesn't come from calm on the outside. It comes from calm on the inside - a calm that can only settle in when our needs are fully met. 

A wise person once gave me this analogy: If you're ever in an airplane and the oxygen masks drop, there's a reason you're supposed to put your mask on first. After all, if you can't breathe, it's kind of hard to help anyone around you breathe. 

If you're one of those moms who's always going 100 miles an hour and taking care of everyone but yourself, remember to take an occasional step back and look around. If you happen to see your oxygen mask dangling in front of you, grab it and put it on - and remember that you, too, deserve to be able to breathe.

Be a Champion of Imperfection

I haven't made my bed in weeks.

Sometimes I cringe when Reese says, “Mommy, you wanna go play?”

I have forgotten to strap one of my kids into her car seat before driving across town... three times. 

Did you know that I make myself feel guilty when those things happen? Think about some of your imperfections as a wife or a mother. Do you ever make yourself feel guilty about them? 

Have you ever found yourself judging another mom because of the way she disciplines her children or because she chooses to work (or not to work) or because her marriage fell apart?

Why?

Why are we so hard on ourselves? Why are we so hard on each other? 

Several weeks ago, we had some friends over for dinner. I had gone on a cleaning spree the day before (purely a coincidence), and I could see the looks on their faces when they walked into my immaculate home. I could have let them believe that this is how I really live. I could have let them leave wondering how I’m able to keep such a clean house with two small kids. I could have, but I didn’t. 

“This is the cleanest this place has been in six months,” I said proudly. (It’s fun to see the relief on another mom’s face when you admit that you’re actually quite the hot mess behind closed doors). 

If you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that I don’t hold much back. I don’t do it because I want to air my dirty laundry on the internet or because I necessarily like having an electronic window in my living room. I do it because I believe whole-heartedly in authenticity, and I believe the areas of life where society tells us to be ashamed are the ones in which we should instead be banding together and lifting each other up. The world would be a better place if everyone could be themselves wholly and authentically without fear of judgment. 

This past weekend marked my fourth year in attendance at the Hearts at Home conference. This year's theme was No More Perfect Moms. (This is the reason for the “no more perfect…” posts in the recent Hearts at Home blog hops). Our founder and CEO, Jill Savage, wrote the book No More Perfect Moms in an effort to start a movement toward complete authenticity among the nationwide community of mothers. The  hope is for us moms to stop hiding our own flaws while judging others for theirs, to love our real life rather than longing for an ideal life, and to commit ourselves to living with guilt-free authenticity.

It's about time we make that change. It’s time for the masks of perfection to come off. It’s time we start celebrating our true authentic selves and raise a new generation of fearlessly authentic children.

Let people come over when the beds aren't made and the floors aren't swept. They'll stay anyway. Let them see the vulnerable parts of yourself and your life. They'll love you anyway. Be proud of the imperfections that make you unique. Be accepting of the mistakes that make you human. Give yourself and others the grace that comes from realizing that there are no perfect moms – just imperfect women with imperfect homes, imperfect husbands, and imperfect children.

You are not alone in any of your struggles, and if you believe that you are, it’s only because everyone around you is afraid to give those struggles a voice. Be that voice. Go out and share your story openly. Watch how many people say, “I’ve been there too,” and breathe a much-needed sigh of relief.

Breathe in the encouragement from someone who gets it.

Breathe out feelings of isolation.

Breathe in the realization that they love you anyway.

Breathe out the fear of judgment.

Breathe in acceptance.

Breathe out unnecessary guilt.

Then go forth and continue to be fearlessly, authentically, perfectly you.

** Become a champion of your own imperfections. Set yourself free from the guilt of your mistakes and abandon the urge to judge others for theirs. Share your commitment to authenticity with other moms and let’s build a new commUNITY of authentic moms raising authentic children. Pass this on to the moms in your circle and let them know that they are safe to be their true, beautiful, imperfect selves in your presence. **

Life is What You Make It

"Mommy, can we go play in the snow?"

It's so hard to tell her no. "Well, not right now. It's too cold for Allie and we can't leave her in the house by herself."

"Oh, ok." She disappeared into her room and emerged a few minutes later dressed like this...

She ran up to me, wild with excitement.

"Mommy! Hurry! Come see the snow!"

She dragged me to her room, and I instinctively turned my attention toward the snow covered ground outside her window.

"No, Mommy. Right here," She scooped a pretend snowball from her carpet and held it out for me to see.

"Come on, Mommy. Let's play in the snow! But, it's very cold so you better get your hat and gloves."

How could I argue with that? I went to the laundry room and dug out a hat and my warmest pair of gloves.

When I returned in the proper attire, she launched a pretend snowball in my direction. I staggered backward, "You got me!" Then I bent down and made a "snowball" of my own. She ducked behind the rocking chair, "You missed!" I couldn't help noticing that she giggles the same way whether she's throwing a real snowball or a fake one.

We chased each other around the room, throwing pretend snow and making pretend snow angels. We built an pretend snowman and slid down pretend hills on pretend sleds. When we were done, she poured pretend mugs of hot chocolate in her tea party set and we warmed our hands and feet by a pretend fire.

As the scene unfolded, I thought back to a few specific incidents where unexpected circumstances altered my perfect plans and the resulting disappointment hindered my ability to fully enjoy myself in spite of a few hiccups. When I told Reese that we couldn't play in the snow, she could have had a tantrum. Or she could have given up and found something else to do. Instead, she put her boots on anyway.

Kids have an amazing ability to refresh an adult's perspective on life. That morning, Reese decided that she was going to play in the snow and nothing - not even the complete absence of the one thing she needed in order to fulfill her plan - was going to stop her from doing it. She simply decided what she wanted and then she found a way to create it. Not only did she succeed, but she had just as much fun as she would have if she actually was outside.

It took a two-year-old in a t-shirt and princess snow boots to remind me that life is far too unpredictable (and far too short) for us to allow our circumstances to dictate the manner in which we experience it. In any situation, we see what we choose to see. With a little shift in attitude, our challenges can become our adventures, our struggles can become our gifts, and unexpected circumstances can become windows of opportunity.

Sometimes life does knock us down, rain on our parade, and derail our plans. I think we all know what it's like to be that kid looking out the windows of our lives at something we're told we can't have - the "snow" we can't go play in. Those moments come with choices. You can resist them with a tantrum. You can give up and move on. Or you can get up and put your boots on anyway.  

For the month of March, Bigger Picture Blogs is celebrating the change from winter to spring with the theme "Rejuvenate." Join in here for more rejuvenating winter/spring moments!

Five Minute Friday: Ordinary

Ordinary.

Commonplace.

Unexceptional.

Average.

Yuck.

It’s not something I ever aspired to be and sometimes I hate that it’s a pretty accurate word for my life. Too often I am reminded of my miniscule existence on this enormous planet. In today’s globally connected world, we are more aware of the expansiveness of life beyond the walls of our homes and the streets of our towns than ever before. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel like the littlest of fish in the biggest of oceans.

I wonder if that’s why validation has become so highly valued in our society. People need to be seen and heard and reminded that their existence matters. (Hence, the constant scroll of facebook status updates and the popularity of websites like klout.com). Maybe that’s why I obsessively check my blogger stats. I need to believe that my story matters. I need something to lift me out of the realm of the ordinary… until I remember that I am among a million ordinary moms blogging about their ordinary lives. Ugh!

Rather than making me want to quit, it’s those reminders that urge me to continue. I know that my life is pretty ordinary and that fact can be discouraging. But I also know that I serve an extraordinary God and when I place pieces of my average life against the backdrop of a much bigger picture, I see glimpses of an extraordinary purpose.

So do I matter? I don’t know my worth to the whole world, and I don’t have a klout score to tell me my worth to the cyber-world. But I do know my worth to the people in my world and I know my worth to the God who placed me in it. Yes, my daily life is pretty ordinary, but my purpose and my existence are far from it. That's all that matters. 

It's been a while since I participated in a Five-Minute-Friday. Every week a prompt is released Thursday night at midnight (today's is "Ordinary"), and bloggers are asked to write on the topic for five minutes. No planning. No editing. Just five minutes straight from the heart. (Although I should admit that I couldn't stop with the clock today, so it's really Seven-Minute-Friday for me). Click the link above for more takes on this prompt from other bloggers.

Memories that Matter

Reese at 4 months

Lately I've noticed that it has become harder and harder for me to lift Reese. I usually only carry her long enough to comfort a boo boo or to transport her sleeping body from the car to her room, and the days of loading the dishwasher and making dinner with her on my hip are long gone. I suppose I could take it as a sign of just how out of shape I am now that I haven't set foot on my treadmill in over six months (which could be part of it, but in my defense, people always ask me if she's four because she's so tall). What it really means, though, is that she's becoming more of a kid and less of a baby or even a toddler.

Next fall, she will start preschool two mornings a week. She doesn't want me in the room while she goes potty (which is often because she wants to unravel the entire roll of toilet paper without interruption, but still). She is now fully conversational in her speech, and sometimes she calls me "mom." When she was a baby I remember wondering what she would be like as a kid, and as much as I love getting to know her more and more each day, I really miss that baby.

Compared to her older sister, Allie is a stage five clinger. Reese was always pretty independent, and she never had those typical toddler meltdowns when I left her in the care of anyone else. Allie will likely be the opposite. She wants to be held all the time, and I get very little done while she is awake. I spend most of my day with her strapped to my chest and most of the night with her in bed beside me. I rarely did this with Reese. Sure, I held her a lot, but if I had to do something that would be easier with two free hands, I set her down and she was usually content.

I've spent a lot of time complaining about my inability to set Allie down for more than just a few minutes at a time, and I've spent even more time complaining about her refusal to sleep soundly anywhere except snuggled up beside me in the bed that I always said would be reserved only for Matt and I. Now, as I see the baby inside Reese fading further into my memory, I'm trying to spend more time cherishing these days and less time waiting to have my hands free and my side of the bed back to myself.

When I was pregnant with Reese, the most common piece of advice I got from other moms was "take a lot of pictures and cherish every moment because it goes by fast." Other than the taking pictures part, I don't know that I really took this advice to heart or that I realized just how fast it would go. Sometimes as I carry Reese in from the car or snuggle next to her in bed, I flip through a montage of memories of the baby she used to be, and I find myself wishing for the ability to go back and do it all again.

Last week we notice that Allie has started teething, and now she's clinging to me even more. She fussy and demanding, and sometimes I get tired of it. Then Reese comes up and says, "Hold me, Mommy." I strain ever so slightly as I lift her to my hip, but I never turn down her request because someday I won't be able to lift her at all. Finally I set her down because Allie is crying to be held again. I lift Allie to my hip and notice the difference in ease, and then I look into her four-month-old eyes and I know that my days with this baby are numbered.

Every time I lift Reese, I realize just how fast these years are going by. So instead of searching for the light at the end of the teething tunnel, I'm staying in the moment as much as possible. I'm cherishing the way she chews on my finger and the comfort only my arms can provide.

As with every stage of life, the hard part will come to an end, but it takes the good parts with it too. Someday, all that will be left is an imaginary montage reel of memories and the best way to preserve precious moments with our babies to make sure those reels are loaded with as many good memories as possible.  

Misery Loves Company

By now most of you know that things haven’t exactly been smooth sailing around here over the past two months. On the upside, I have finally recovered from my postpartum depression and Allie’s colic has improved significantly now that she is on medicine for reflux (thanks to some reader emails). Still, despite the recent improvements, I’m still having a lot of moments where my attitude stinks and the bigger picture of life gets lost in the mundane, repetitive days. Between a baby who doesn’t sleep and a toddler who doesn’t listen, I often find that motherhood isn’t exactly the magical, marvelous experience I expected. Sure, I have magical and marvelous moments, which are the ones I usually write about, but I have plenty of “Why did I choose this life, again?” moments that leave me feeling both guilty and inadequate in the role I’m supposed to love with all my heart.

Let’s face it, though. There’s nothing magical about Reese pooping in her underwear every other day and there’s nothing marvelous about discovering crayola art work on the walls and greasy chapstick doodles on the couch. Someone always needs me, someone is always crying, and I’m always trying to figure out the evasive answer to another mysterious problem. Why is Allie crying? Why isn’t Reese listening? Well, I’ve had enough of the guilt, and despite whatever I’m supposed to be feeling, this phase of life often stinks just as much as it shines.

On those not-so-shiny days, I don’t necessarily want to hear about the bright side. Bright side people make me feel guilty. I also don’t want someone to swoop in with the perfect advice or a magical solution. Chronic fixers make me feel inadequate. Instead, what I want on those days is a friend who will drop everything to meet me for coffee because she hears the need in my voice. A friend who isn’t afraid to agree that some parts of motherhood are downright awful and draining. A friend who will sit with me and swap “why me” stories until we’re both waist-deep in each other’s misery.

With that kind of friend, there's no mention of the bright side because we know that some aspects of life only have one side. We don’t need to say “I’ve been there” because it’s apparent in our stories. We don’t need to look for the silver lining because we can hear it in our laughter. And we don’t need to worry that our negativity brings each other down because we know that sometimes misery really does love company - not because we love to be miserable but because misery needs validation and reassurance from people who can use their stories and laughter and “me too’s” to say, “I totally get it.” In those moments where our stories are heard and our emotions are validated, the feelings of guilt are replaced by a realization of normalcy, and the feelings of misery become glimmers of hope.

Thank you, Kristin, for giving my misery so much company.

Surrender to the Mess

I’m double dipping today and linking up with Bigger Picture Blogs and the Hearts at Home Third Thursday Blog Hop. The theme for the upcoming Hearts at Home conference is “No More Perfect Moms,” which means the Hearts Bloggers will be laying out a few of our many imperfections with our next few topics starting with today’s prompt “no more perfect homes.” Enjoy!
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My house is always clean. Everything I own is neat and organized to an embarrassing degree. Let’s put it this way – the items on my spice rack are in alphabetical order. No joke. Everything has a place and rarely is anything out of its place for very long. Clutter and chaos drive me bananas, and I would gladly forfeit my very scarce bubble bath opportunities in the interest of tidiness.

Sometimes people ask me why I care so much about the condition of my house, especially because I’m not one to fret over anyone’s judgment. The reason actually has nothing to do with other people. I could be a hermit living on a mountaintop and my house would still be just as organized. I’m trying to measure up to my own standard, not anyone else’s. I’ve just always been happier in a clean space and I function better in an organized setting.

Friends and family often teased that I would have to give up my compulsive neatness when I had kids. Well, after Reese was born I didn’t change and neither did my house. I’d like to think that I did it without compromising my responsiveness to her needs (or my own), but I’m sure that wasn’t always the case. Many nights I would put her to bed and then spend my me-time picking up toys, washing dishes, and folding laundry. When Allie came along, I was just as determined to keep up my charade because, after all, a clean home is a happy home.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I would have to make my peace with the disaster that has overtaken my living space. I’m not sure what pushed it over the edge – the addition of a second child or the toddler who leaves a trail of toys through every room – but I’m finding myself outnumbered by burp cloths and puzzle pieces. In the weeks after Allie was born my efforts to battle the mess were futile, and I slowly began to lower my standards.

Looking back, I see that all I ever got out of my obsessive need for order was a temporary sigh of relief and a side of unnecessary exhaustion. For a long time I thought of housekeeping as a part of my job description as an at-home mom, and I believed that giving it up would mean I had failed in that aspect of the role in which I have so much pride.

Today, my house is no longer the perfectly organized haven to which I have been accustomed for so many years, and I’ve had to find other ways to achieve the inner peace I had always derived from a tidy home. The more I let it go, the easier it got to leave things undone and I’m even finding that I have more time for other things I enjoy – things that bring me greater peace than a spotless kitchen ever did.

Contrary to my fears of failing at my job, letting go of my house is making me a better wife and mother day by day. I finally see that obsessing over my kids is much more worthwhile than obsessing over my chores because there’s nothing miraculous about housework. I don’t cut snuggling sessions short when the dryer buzzes because wrinkles don’t grow up and move away. I don’t stop the puppet show to sweep the kitchen because my days with crumbs on the floor are not numbered. And in those few precious moments when the girls are asleep and the house is quiet, I can finally walk past the dishes, step over the toys, throw my clothes on the floor, and sink into a tub of bubbles because a relaxed mom is a happy mom, and a happy mom makes a happy home.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. 

Join us today at Hyacynth's place. 

The Time I Almost Ran Away

I wish I could say that my recent absence came about because I’ve been too busy reveling in the joys of my growing family, and if I wasn’t so compelled to tell the truth, that’s probably what I would have said. I might have told you about how much I enjoy watching Reese tell Allie what color everything is and asking her if she’ll be ready to play outside “when the snow goes away.” I might have told you about how busy I’ve been preparing for my new part-time teaching job. I might have even opened up about how difficult the transition to two children has been and how much harder it has become to juggle all of my responsibilities to my home and myself. All of these things are pieces of the truth, but they are only minor contributors compared to the real culprit.

Although it pains me to say it (or write it) out loud, the truth is that I’ve been caught in a dark place since mid-December because of a terrifying episode of postpartum depression that ripped through the center of my being in a matter of days and put my heart in a vice grip of constant panic.

I experienced some postpartum struggles after Reese was born, and I promised myself this time would be different. I spent months building a fortress of positivity around my heart and soul. Armed with self-help books, daily meditation, and relentless prayer, I truly believed I was prepared. Allie’s delivery went so smoothly, my recovery went so quickly, and we settled into our new routine so easily. Everything about our birthing experience with Allie was a stark (and pleasant) contrast to the many struggles we experienced during and after Reese’s arrival. I had every reason to believe that I had beaten it this time. After six weeks of baby bliss, I thought I was out of the woods.

I did not see this coming.

At first, I thought the tears were born out of exhaustion. I thought the frustration was a natural part of life with a toddler. I believed the panic was legitimate and the worries were real. By the time I realized what was really happening to me, I was already deeply buried in the trenches.

This was not a run-of-the-mill postpartum episode – the kind that leaves you crying over your permanent muffin top and mourning the loss of your personal freedom. Oh, no. This was a door-slamming, on-the-floor-crying, sanity-robbing hostile takeover that kept me up at wee hours of the night plotting my escape from this house, this town, this life. I was constantly distracted, always on edge, pacing the floors like a caged animal. Simple tasks overwhelmed me to tears, and I felt like I was drowning in my own life. I fought the constant urge to jump in the car and head out of town with no plans to return.

If the anxiety wasn’t bad enough in its raw form, I made it worse by wallowing in guilt and shame and allowing myself to question my love for my family as if a better wife and mother would never be in the place where I found myself.

Four days before Christmas, I overheard Reese addressing the guests at her stuffed animal tea party, “Mommy’s sad and I don’t know how to fix her.”

I had wanted to work through this on my own, and I believed my faith and my love for my family could carry me to the other side. I got through it before and I would get through it again, but not at Reese’s expense. With my white flag flying high, I made an appointment with my OB and came home with a prescription for the medication I swore I would never need.

Somewhere in the depths of the darkest emotional hole I’ve ever experienced, I found the inner strength for which I had spent so much time praying. It didn’t come in the form of a superhuman ability to defy biology and overcome a long-standing chemical imbalance. It came instead in the form of an emotional white flag and a rock-bottom willingness to accept my circumstances and receive help.

It’s been over three weeks, and I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. I knew the worst was over when we all got the flu on New Year’s Eve and I couldn’t stop laughing at Matt’s “happy new year” jokes in between trips to the bathroom.

Slowly, I’m remembering how to laugh at messes and spills and diaper blowouts. I’m playing with Reese more and fretting over the budget less. I’m learning to ignore the inner voice that makes me feel ashamed of this weakness and to listen instead to the one reassuring me that I’m still every bit as strong as I always believed.

Well, that’s the real reason I’ve been M.I.A. this month, and I chose to share the full extent of the truth because I know I’m not the only mom who has experienced this emotional cage. Even though most of us struggle through postpartum hormonal changes in some way, the voice of this part of motherhood – like many other not-so-pleasant aspects of our roles – often goes unheard. Let’s be that voice. If you’ve been there, let your story plant a seed of hope for someone else. If you’re there right now, reach out for help before your older kids start seeking counsel from their stuffed animals. And if you ever start to believe you are alone in this battle, just give me a call and I’ll tell you about the time I almost ran away from home.