A Cooking Lesson from a Child

There once was a mommy

Who loved to cook alone.

Without the clumsy hands of children

Making messes on her throne.

For years she shooed them out, 

Justifying it with ease.

For when she cooked it brought her peace,

And to more of that she cried, "Yes, please!"

But her impatience caused her shame,

Her selfishness made her sad

For when upon her counters they sat

Her babies' hearts were glad.

And while she flinched as they spilled,

And grimaced as they stirred,

With a bright smile and velvety voice

She encouraged with her words.

Astonished, she watched her oldest boy

Get a sparkle in his eye.

For her very tiny sacrifice

Thrilled his heart, made it fly.

His feet quickly pattered down the hall,

Pen and paper in hand.

And he emerged with a token of gratitude:

Unsolicited, unplanned.

A child's love freely given

Is a priceless treasure.

And as she scrubs the floors and counters

Her mommy-heart brims with pleasure.

Here, Tired Mama...Have a Drink

The sink is bulging with stinky dishes.  The bananas have become a mating ground for fruit flies.  The dryer is full of wrinkled clothes and the washer is full of mildewed ones.  Legos, Matchbox cars, superhero capes, and StarWars underwear are everywhere.  And all four food groups can be found on the floor under the kitchen table.

With this amount of this chaos, one would think the lady of the house been relaxing on the couch for days with a good book.  But no.  This lady hasn't sat down for 7 hours.  What has she been doing all dang day?

 

cartoon source: here

Chasing children. Entertaining children.  Preparing food for children.  Loving children.  Teaching children.  Nurturing, raising, and pouring herself into children.

Her clothes are smeared with snot, spit-up, and poop--the trifecta of mothering substances.

And by 4:45 PM, her nerves feel like they've been scraped across a cheese grater.

I love my boys and would lay down my life for them, but you know what?  I get really tired and cranky sometimes.  

For years, 6 to be exact, this mama has often fallen into bed with a heavy block of guilt on my chest. I replay the day in my mind.  I didn't encourage enough.  And I said too much of the wrong thing.  I didn't play with them enough.  I was too impatient.  I prodded too much, I shouted too much. 

Too much.

Not enough.

Too much.

Not enough.

Arrows of my failures and shortcomings pierce my guts.

Within moments, the muscles in my neck and back burn with tension and anxiety and my stomach churns. Ahhhh, the physical manifestations of guilt and failure.  I pray for God's mercies to be new in the morning; new for me, new for the boys.  That I can forgive myself and try to be less of a witch tomorrow.

There's a tried-and-true remedy for this sad cycle...I like to call it Holy Mommy CPR.  Letting God revive my "mommy heart" toward my kids.  But I don't spend enough (or often any) time with Him during the day.  I don't crawl up into the shelter He provides, the Hiding Place He so faithfully and graciously offers me.  I know peace and joy and patience flow from sitting still and letting His truth wash over my wrinkled, feverish heart.  And yet it requires time alone with Him.  Which is a beautiful thing.  And yet...

I know I need to make it a higher--much higher--priority.

I know I need to...

I know I need to...

Here, mother of small children:  have an extra scoop of guilt.  A second helping of regret.  Can I get you a refill on that self-condemnation? 

"Time alone with God?", my mind reels.

When?  I can't even go to the bathroom without the children searching passionately for me. They beat on the door, clamor for my attention, shout of injustices experienced by one at the hand of the other, and finally burst in.  My reaction is...

That I've had enough.

I'm thirsty for a change.

"If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink.  Whoever believes in me...streams of Living Water will flow from within him." (John 7:37-38)  

Hold up a minute, here.  

Jesus, you're telling me that if I believe in You, which I absolutely do--You're my Savior and Redeemer--, I'll have this living water flowing from within me?  You mean, like, it's been there this whole time?  I just have to sit still and quiet enough for a few minutes, until I can hear the quiet trickle of Your peace tumbling over the smooth stones of the brook in my soul? 

"Yes," Jesus says.  "That's exactly what I'm saying.  It's here.  You just have to lay down next to it, reach in, fill your cup to the brim, and then tilt back your head and take a long, breathless drink."  

Jesus offers his pool of Living Water for you and for me.  We just have to dip our cups in it and drink.  What can possibly be so hard about that?  And why is it that we drag our bullet-ridden souls to all the other pools and try them first:  the pool of over-eating, the pool of drinking too much, the pool of obsessively checking Facebook and People.com, the pool of credit card "retail therapy", the pool of too much TV, the pool of ignoring our kids while we text, the pool of anger and frustration.

We are not alone, friend.

I believe we are facing an epidemic in motherhood.  So many young moms are just...done.  At the end of their ropes. Checking out.  And single moms?  Moms of kiddos with special needs or terminal illnesses?  Only God knows how you do it.  [You have my utmost respect.]

Look at these two fantastic, energetic, happy children.  

I am incredibly blessed.  I get to stay at home with them!  My life is ridiculously easy and wonderful.  These facts do not escape me.  How many working moms out there would give their two front teeth to have what I have?  And yet, I am so often on "empty" with my boys, frustrated because they need, need, need (as all children do and should), and I get a little resentful of constantly giving.  

But things are looking up....literally.

Lately, and I mean it's a very recent "lately",  I've been laying down and drinking a lot of the Living Water Jesus has to offer.  My house is a little messier than normal, but I've got...and you'll have to excuse the analogy but it's the best one I can think of...a peace "buzz".

And with all this "drinking", I've stumbled upon a realization:  most moms struggle because they are in constant search of PEACE. 

Are you?  Do you seek peace between your kids as they play, eat, and lay down for bedtime?  Do you think you'd be a little less frazzled at the end of the day (or at the beginning of one) if there were less screaming (from them and you)?  Do you desire a thick peace to flow over your heart, filling in all the knotty holes of deep hurts, disappointments, and depression?  How about a fountain of peace bubbling up in your living room, flowing through the halls of your home, swirling in gentle patterns as it touches each bed, each table leg?

To drink from His pool, Jesus doesn't require that we first put on our church clothes, sing half the hymnbook, and drag out 47 biblical reference books.  Were that the case, only empty-nesters and mothers who had wrapped their children in Duct tape and suspended them from the ceiling would be able to have a drink.  All Jesus asks is that we come.  That we just show up.  With our greasy ponytails and coffee breath.

Just reading this and thinking about it right now, you may feel like that would require giving even more of yourself away and frankly, you're bankrupt.  You've got nothing left to give.  I felt that way, too.  But Jesus is the one who is giving here.  Not you, not me.  I encourage you to just dip your toe into His Living Water one morning; I pray you'll be as shocked as I was to discover the depth of peace and patience that will well up out of you during the day. Before long you'll be perched on the edge of the pool, ready to do a double-backflip-triple-gainer into it.  It's that wonderful.

"Taste and see that the Lord is good."  (Psalm 34:8)

If you are a tired, stretched-thin mama, will you join me at the Water's edge?  He'll fill our cups with His beautiful hands.  He'll return them to us overflowing.  And we will drink deeply.

(If you don't know Jesus will you please read this?)

Happy Mother's Day from Mrs. Groundhog

A family of groundhogs has taken up residence in our backyard.

And Mrs. Groundhog recently gave birth to five darling little furballs.

(Yet I wonder how darling she feels they are when they try to nurse simultaneously?!)

  "Childreeennnnnnnn!  Come on in the den now." 

 Bless her heart.  I wonder if Playtex makes an 18 hour bra for groundhogs?

Just precious.

Happy Mother's Day, all.

(And let's just lift of a word of thanks that our nursing babies don't come equipped with rodent incisors.)

A New Saying

I'm from Texas, the part with a lot of cowboys.  (Oh wait, that describes the whole state.)

When I was in high school, I became aware of the following phrase: "Cowboy Up."  Also available in the gender-equal "Cowgirl Up", this saying gently reminds its reader to do things like "Get Tough", "Deal With It", "Put on Your Big Girl Panties", and so forth.  

I've decided to coin a new phrase to be used when mothers of boys need to psyche themselves up to thread a worm on a fishing hook, remove the squished caterpillars or frogs from his jean pocket before you wash them, or involve her fatigued self in a never-ending light saber battle. 

The phrase is...Boy Mom Up.

As mothers of boys, we sometimes have to do things that make us want to gag (see: threading a worm on a fishing hook) or fall over in a wearied puddle of exhaustion. 

Yeah, we're moms.  We're female.  That means many of us enjoy movies like "Anne of Green Gables", "Out of Africa", and "French Kiss."  We like rainbows and ponies, French braids and Nutella.  This new world of war jargon, sword battles, and mock brutality is somewhat jarring to us.  Hearing my baby boy say to his brother, "I'm dunna tiwl you, bubby!" does strange things to my guts.

Like many of you, I have to do a lot of things I don't WANT to do. 

I don't necessarily WANT to ride a bike over the ramps and jumps we have on the park across the street and do "tricks" and "stunts", but when I do, the boys go wild.

"Whoa, MOMMY!  I didn't know you could do that!!"

Some days, I would rather sit and read a book, but how can I resist when the two fruits of my womb beg me to be Captain Hook while they are (both) Peter Pan?

"Boy-Momming-Up" is wearing hiking boots or tennis shoes when you would rather wear high heels or ballet flats.

It's playing out in the hot, sticky, mosquito-filled yard when you'd rather be in the air-conditioning checking Facebook.

In order to get the boys to eat beans, I've had to crudely rename the legumes "toot bombs".  But it works because they eat every single one of them and then proudly announce when the beans have reached their intestinal tract.    

I didn't really WANT the boys to get covered in mud the other day while I was working on the window, but partially out of desperation and partially out of knowledge that their little souls have a deep need to mix water and dirt and then roll around in it, I allowed them to.  

And yesterday, I was really quite tired.  I was ready to "clock out" for a while.  But Chris set up an awesome Nerf gun "course" on the park across the street from our house.  Our boys and the neighbor kids were excited to have a "war".  My husband said he needed me to be on his team.  At first I stared off into space, considering how my legs were feeling like cinder blocks.  But then I "boy-mommed-up" and agreed.  I might not have been the most active player.  Or the most valuable player.  But I was out there, and that counts.  Never mind that I screamed and winced when someone within 7 feet shot at me.  I hope that my boys will remember my presence on the battleground one day, even though I'm not in any of the pictures.  

I can hardly stand the cuteness.  Look at those socks! 

My fierce Nerf warriors.

We burn a lot of calories around this place.

This is our neighbor, Tanner.  He's the resident expert on all things Nerf and war related.  He had just done the "paintball slide" and said he had a huge grass stain.  I told him his mother would be grateful he was wearing camo.

  Do you like our pool noodle "light saber"?  (Thanks, Mariah.)

Matthew ensuring Tanner he is really "dead" by viciously beating him about the head and shoulders with the pool noodle. 

Here's Tanner's sister, Abby.  Matthew was taking no prisoners.  Abby didn't even get a chance to load her rifle, poor girl.  She's my only female comrade in this rowdy bunch of boys (but she can outrun, out-throw, and out-shoot me any day.)

Chris has absolutely no fun out whatsoever.  (Just kidding!  He's living the dream!)

I am so happy to be a boy mom!

 

I just need to be sure I can always keep up with them.

Thankfully, playing hard eventually gives way to napping hard (or vice-versa).

Do you have any stories to share of your proudest "boy mom" moment?  Please share...we all need inspiration.

I'm thinking of designing a bumper sticker.  Who wants one?

Be sure to "boy mom up" today if you can!  Your kids will never forget it. 

Snippets of Stuff

Caulk and Mud
Last week, I had the pleasure of scraping off the remnants of a bad caulking job with a razor blade.  

Took me about 2 hours of pure, unadulterated fun. 

 

 
Since I was working on the kitchen window which overlooks the front yard, I was able to boot the boys outside to play.

Sure enough, they made a mud hole.

And proceeded to paint their bodies.

You might be thinking, "Oh, wow.  She's such a chilled mom to let her kids get so dirty."  Not so.  I am trying to be more of a chilled, spontaneous, "let's-go-out-and-get-MUDDY" type of mom.

But this was an act of occupation desperation.  I needed their hands and hearts to be doing something (anything!) while I scraped the caulk.

And as long as their chosen activity didn't involve guns, knives, illegal drugs, or motor vehicles, I was good with it.

Guilt

I am often racked with guilt that our pet rabbit, Mr. Sniffer, has to live his life in a (luxury) hutch on our back porch. 

So (every now and then) I let him inside.  He stays in the kitchen and rips up the newspaper.  The kids feed him expensive organic produce and I feel better about the state of our animal affairs.

Love
The day that my children stop putting on their shirts, shorts, and underwear backwards will be a sad one for me.

And Finally...My Pantry
Surely you remember the "before" shot:

Ahhhhh.   Now it's white and there's SPACE between the items.  Magazine beautiful?  No.   But very practical and ultra user-friendly. 

I'm going back in there to stare at it now.

A Birthday Boy (And A Colicky Story)

 It's 4:26 AM.

Most of the night I've been awake.  Uncomfortable.  Bad pillow arrangement.  Twisted pajama pants.

But finally, I drift off to sleep.

And then I'm suddenly startled with the sense that someone is silently standing beside my bed. 

"Hi, Mommy," he whispers.  "I'm firrrrrrrsty."

It's my Matthew.  My baby.

Like most mamas, I can be in that most delicious stage of sleep--where arms and legs are numb and heavy, and minds are blissfully turned off--but when I hear the doorknob turn on my kids' room, I am instantly and fully awake.  I am a machine, ready to change pee-pee sheets, soothe the aftermath of a frightening dream, administer Motrin for painful "Charlie Horses", or let a confused child know that, no, darling...it's still nighttime, not quite time to play with Legos yet.

As I scoop Matthew up and walk toward the kitchen, I whisper in his ear, "Happy Birthday, little man."  

He's 3 today.

Three years ago.  Today.  I released an 8-pound, 6-ounce child into the world. ("Released".  That's funny.  Kind of like "releasing" an analog computer monitor from one's nostril.)

1,096 days ago.  1,095 nights ago. 

Oh, the nights.  

While we were still in the hospital after his birth, I knew something wasn't quite right with Matthew's stomach.  He would cry when he was hungry, of course, but he would also cry while he was nursing and for a long time afterwards.  At his one-week check-up, I told the pediatrician I knew something was wrong.  She (who had never had her own babies, I might add), with her barely-concealed eye-rolling at my novice concern that my otherwise healthy newborn was constantly "fussy", replied:  "most babies are."   I almost punched her in the face.  

Taking matters into my own hands, I figured something I was eating was upsetting Matthew's tummy.  So, I eliminated nuts, dairy, flour, sugar, and eggs from my diet.  

Nothing changed. 

I knew it.  He had colic.

And guess what the treatment is for colic?  

Nothing*.  

For twelve L-O-N-G weeks, my sweet baby cried through much of the day and most of the night.  I was quickly losing my mind, my patience, and my desire to be a mother.  I was a wreck.  A hormonal, exhausted, weepy, angry, desperate wreck.  Not sleeping was my personal version of hell:  as soon as Matthew would fall asleep (usually at 6 AM), Timothy, then 3, would wake up cheery and ready to play. 

Sleep deprivation made me a lunatic.  Every evening as the sun began to go down, dread would cloak me like a smothering black blanket.  I couldn't silence the crazy thoughts in my head: in the span of three seconds, I could go from wanting to kill my entire family to plotting suicide.   The cumulative effect of virtually no REM sleep combined with a sturdy case of post-partum depression converted me into a monster.

One night as Matthew was red-faced with his little back arched in pain, I realized how easy it would be for me to abuse this defenseless colicky baby.  While in the midst of roughly changing his diaper as he screamed endlessly, I had to stop and walk outside (at 2 AM).  I sat on the hood of my car and looked at the stars and cried out to God for some mercy.  In an instant answer to my prayer, Matthew got quiet.  (To demonstrate how low I was, I figured I didn't deserve to have a baby in my care and decided that Matthew had died; I steeled myself to find him lifeless in the bassinet.)   I gathered my courage and went back inside.  As I neared him, I saw that his face was wet: the child had peed on himself, and the dampness had shocked and distracted him from the pain!  While I was so far from being able to smile,  I did have to shake my head and offer my thanks to God for a few moments of quiet.

Memories of that night and dozens more like it make me wince in pain at the realization of how close I came to shaking Matthew. I still struggle with guilt and regret at the feelings I had toward this precious angel when he was so blameless and tiny.  I mourn the lost moments of the joys of a newborn, and the anger and frustration I had toward Timothy and Chris during those months. 

At 12 weeks, Matthew made a dramatic improvement.  Seemingly overnight, his colic resolved and he morphed into a smiley, happy baby.   While he wouldn't sleep through the night for a very long time, he did begin to sleep in longer stretches.  I felt instantly better.  Three hours of solid sleep is a miracle-worker. 

As I poured Matthew a sippy cup of milk this morning, these memories washed over my heart. 

And I had to wonder, is anyone "out there" struggling with this right now?  

I'll say it again:  colic = hell.  

I want to offer encouragement to any parents who are wading in the trenches of endless screaming.  It will not last forever.  You will survive.  Take a break, if possible, even just for a few minutes at a time.  Once, the mom of one of my friends stopped by to bring a baby gift.  Matthew was crying, I was crying, Timothy was crying.  The nice lady stepped into my house and I promptly handed her Matthew and then ran to my car and drove around for about 10 minutes.  Many nights when Chris came home from work, I was waiting with my car keys in hand.  In retrospect, I should have reached out for help from my local friends.  I was afraid to tell anyone my true feelings because I felt so inept to be experiencing these emotions and yet still call myself a mother.

Is this your life right now?  If so, get help if you can.  Give yourself grace.  You are a good mom.  You are not a failure.  And this season will end; your baby will not walk across his college graduation stage screaming.  I promise.  

And to my sweet birthday boy:  if this little blog is still in existence one day when you're old enough to read and grasp the meanings of these words, I love you.  I am so proud to be your mommy, you happy, cherubic child with a French accent.  You bring my heart joy and gladness.   I'd take 12 weeks of hard for a lifetime of having you in my arms and in my heart.

 

 The night before he was born.  

(Me + 8 lb 6 oz baby = a lot.)

I love epidurals.

Hello, little love.

 

 My boys.

Aunt Mags and her boys.

 Arriving home:  let the crying begin.

 I haven't slept or washed my hair in 4 days.

Matthew, puzzled, wondering if his mommy knows what she is doing. 

I love you, baby.

Happy Birthday, angel.

*We tried Nutramagen formula.  It did nothing for the colic.  Colic Calm was the most helpful thing we tried.

It's Official.

I've entered the realm of Soccer Mom-dom.

Chris is the coach.

 

The "Panthers" are a fierce bunch, I tell you.

A force to be reckoned with on the field.  

A swarm of cuteness surrounding the ball.

And yet, while everyone else sees this,

 I'm still seeing this

and this

and this.

And though I shake my head in utter disbelief at the swift passage of time, it insensitively marches right on by, unconcerned that in a mere matter of years there will be cars.  And college.  And girls.

Matthew doesn't understand why he can't play "soccer ball" with his brother. 

Timothy has a blast on the field.  Look at that smile!

He gets a little distracted.  By everything.  At one point we found him on the sideline of the adjacent field, cheering on another team. 

But at this point, it's 100% fun. 

 And I will give a giant noogie to the first person who tries to make it 

anything else for these sweet babies.

Look at these cute little guys!  Their enthusiasm 

(for sports, for each other, for snacks) is contagious.

Life is sweet, y'all.  Life is sweet.