Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

If Men Only Knew

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“If men only knew.”

That’s what she had said, my patient in the hospital, and I could personally attest to how correct she was. As a daughter whose father had left (the first time) when I was just four years old, I was astutely aware of the empty pit left in a young woman’s life when the first man of her dreams left her lacking. And by “man of her dreams” I didn’t mean future husband, though it certainly affected those choices as well. No, I meant her daddy. After all, a girl’s first and true Prince Charming was always the man who raised her.

“I considered myself lucky to have experienced a father’s love,” she said.

Oh, how true that was. Although my biological father had left when I was a small girl, I too had been blessed with a strong, male role model in my life. To this day I believe God gave me the gift of my adoptive father so I could truly understand the Father Heart of God. You see, that’s what men didn’t always understand. They knew what it took to make a baby, but they didn’t always grasp the follow through. They knew what it took to help create a life, but not how important it was to also contribute to the shaping of that life.

How many woman have a hole in their heart where the love of a father was meant to go? Sadly, a lot. They attempt to fill that place inside them with the love of a man. Any man. Tragically, often times the wrong man. But what will also be missing is the example of how a female should be treated. Tenderly, compassionately, with love. A girl’s first example of true love by a male figure comes from her daddy.

Fathers have a way of conveying love through strict protection and a fierce defense that would lay down life without a forethought. Yes, Momma Bears are a force not to be reckoned, but there’s something unparalleled to the safety of dad’s big hands and the strength he provides. Perhaps it’s that spirit built within us that craves ABBA, but regardless, nothing makes you feel as secure as a father’s mantle of protection. At least until your strong spouse can take that role.

A father’s love is like a shield, and they offer this umbrella over their children to keep out unwanted influence. A daughter will feel safe and secure under his guidance, cherished and of high value when held to the guidelines of his discipline and rule. Personally, my dad was super strict, but I never minded. I knew what it was like to have a father who didn’t care about me. So, to have one who cared enough to set boundaries, rules, and curfews made me feel extremely loved.

If only men knew.

I decided after listening to my patient talk so passionately about her father who had passed away and the positive impact he had on her life that I would be sure to relay the conversation to my husband. I knew as well as anyone that parenting was challenging, especially with multiple, young children. Some days you said things you didn’t mean or wished you could take back, and other days you wondered if you were even doing anything worthwhile for them at all. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to know the huge impact his consistent presence, love, and guidance would have on our girls.

I knew our girls would grow up not lacking the love only a father can give. I knew they would feel special, precious, and valuable thanks to his affection and attention. I knew they would have the confidence they required in life and relationships, but also the Godly and wonderful example of what a father and husband should look like. I knew they didn’t lack discipline for future success, and I knew they would never experience the same feelings of poor self-esteem I had dealt with as an aftereffect of my biological father giving me up so easily. I knew, but I wanted to make sure he knew.

Men need to know more about children then just how to bring them into this world. They need to know how to ensure those same children navigate the world successfully. And they need to know what a huge impact their actions will have on future generations.

Is Satan Stealing Our Marriages?

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This morning I sat outside sipping hot coffee while a cool (but not too cold breeze) stirred the air. My husband and children still slept, and per usual I had awoken a bit before them so I might enjoy some quiet time before our day began. We had made plans to go swimming at a natural spring, and I knew the task of packing up for a day away awaited me. There would be suits to track down, dry clothes to pack, and of course, food for the day. Feeding a family of five at a snack bar got pricey, so bringing our own grub was a must. I’d need cold drinks to keep everyone hydrated, and I wondered if we should blow up and haul our own innertube?

Another breeze blew over me, refreshing, nice, and the Hebrew word ruach entered my mind. Wind, breath, the very spirit of God, it blew on me and I felt peace, contentment, satisfaction. “I could sit here all day,” I whispered, and by the time my husband woke up I had decided to do just that. He was quick to agree, and just like that we dropped the well-intentioned plans we had made for the day.

Have you ever noticed how plans play out? Especially with small children? You spend a large amount of time creating fun ideas, creating the best environment for those ideas, and struggling to have them play out just as you envisioned. Which never happens. We’ve forgotten how to be still, and we’ve forgotten how to enjoy simple. And it’s just one more thing that the enemy is using to drive a wedge between a husband and wife.

How many expensive vacations end in exhaustion? An empty savings account, a stressed out mind, and the silent treatment. We’re a very mobile generation, always on the move, and we expect as much from our family as we do our internet provider.

Hurry up! Come on! Let’s go. We’re running out of time!

Wives are on edge, and husbands are at the end of their rope. You see, both are working very hard to create a picture perfect life, one that Instagram would be proud of.

“I’m making memories,” we proclaim.

But at what cost, I wonder?

Overtime. Husbands and wives both working full-time to support a family is commonplace, and while I’ll be the first to admit that this world today is crazy expensive, I’ll also be the first to confess that it isn’t as pricey as we create it. We are the ones who decide our homes must be a certain size. We need the fourth bedroom and downstairs half-bath. We gotta have more than one vehicle, and it needs to be something reliable. Minivan? Yuck. No thanks. A Suburban, please. We work to buy the stuff we don’t need, and as our square footage grows, so does our work week. Cha-Ching.

But one thing is for sure. We do it for our children. They need the absolute best. They need the dance class, drama camp, and tumbling too. All of the above, please. Sign us up!

I’ll volunteer to chaperone the field trip. Hubby can coach little league on the weekends. Games on Sunday? No problem.

We pull an extra shift at work to purchase new uniforms, use that credit card for the nicer pair of cleats. Johnny says all the other kids are wearing the name-brand ones, and you don’t want him to feel left out or get bullied.

Homework. Oh my goodness, the homework those kids bring in the door. You yell too much, and then you feel guilty. You know your son is just tired from staying up late due to that extended basketball practice, and waking up early to drive across town to his exclusive private school.

Somewhere in between the late nights, running errands after practice, overtime at the office for next year’s Disney trip, and squeezing in a quick WalMart trip for another Reading Fair project, you manage to squeeze in a date night. You sit at a dark booth, both of you with your heads in your phone, and you wonder when life will slow down.

Was it always this hard?! They say it’s easier after the kids leave home, but then you think of all your parent’s friends who got divorced once empty nesters. Did they run out of stuff to talk about? You can certainly relate. I mean, what’s there to discuss once the conversation doesn’t center around the children, where they’re going and what achievement they just won? What happened to people staying in love forever? Maybe true love doesn’t exist anymore.

Or perhaps we’ve just changed our investment strategies. Maybe our focus isn’t on our marriages. I think we’re too overwhelmed to feed into that relationship. We’ve become complacent in our comfortable life as roommates, partners in parenting, and financial assistant roles. We assume our marriage will thrive without watering, with plans to feed into it later. There’s just no time!

I wonder if we create our overloaded schedules? Is it our boss insisting we work late, or are we the cause? We can’t face our spouse that we forgot how to talk to. We can’t face another conversation about the kids’ future. The stress and worry is too much, and overtime seems like a pleasant option.

I wonder if we create our debt? We need 3000 square feet! We need a trip to the coast! We need a closet so packed the doors won’t close, and a cupboard so full of processed food we can make on the fly! We need Maui, a newer cell phone, and of course, more toys. Toys to keep the children entertained, but also toys to keep each other happy. It fills the silence, you know.

We are so focused on raising the best children on the block. We are so focused on appearances. We are so focused on bigger, better, and more. We’ve gotten so good at being busy; we consider it a badge of honor. We’ve gotten so concerned with keeping up with what everyone else is doing. We’ve gotten so used to being stressed out that we think it’s normal. We medicate with wine, and we overindulge in our favorite vices. We’re too tired for sex, too exhausted to just sit and talk. We keep waiting for life to slow down, never understanding that we set the pace.

Husbands and wives become opponents instead of teammates. Marriage becomes a contest to see who contributes the most to the family unit. We become bitter, expecting our spouse to give us a reprieve, even though we ourselves have created our own chaos.

Parents forget that children don’t come first! Kids plot parents against one another, having learned early on that we allow it. We spend thousands of dollars a year on things our children don’t need, and we invest even more in a college fund to the most prestigious university. Never once do we invest in our relationship with our spouse.

But date night, you say. We have that!

Ahh, yes, the two hours alone, where you’re both too exhausted from work to do much more than lift a heavy fork to your silent mouth. That sounds lovely.

We have removed fathers from the head of the family, and we’ve replaced them with our darling child. They rule the roost. We even joke about it on Facebook. Isn’t it so cute how sassy my little diva is?!

We’ve placed our work above our families. We’ve given it to coaches and teachers to handle. Yet when something falls apart, our spouse will be the one we attack.

We’ve dropped going to church together on Sunday. It’s seriously the only day we can sleep in. Saturday is packed with extracurriculars. We’re too tired to pray together before bed, and we can’t seem to find the time to instruct our children with the Bible. They already have so much homework as it is!

But then we wonder why our children don’t respect us? We wonder why our spouse is so short-tempered.

What about our quiet time with God? Well, it’s been a while. We planned to do that today, but there was too much to do before we left the house. The house with the crazy, high mortgage, that we spend very little time in other than to sleep five hours a night.

We make excuses.

If only my husband would help out more around the house.

If only my wife would try to understand I have needs.

We’ll work this out tomorrow. I’m exhausted tonight.

One silent day leads to another, and leads to another. We find ourselves living together but feeling alone. We raise children together but exist in silence, an invisible space separating us. We make it so easy for Satan to destroy the foundation of marriage. He uses our busyness to keep us from communicating. He uses our selfishness to increase our anger. He uses our coveting and comparison to keep us working harder for more of what we don’t need. He uses our obsession with the educational excellence of our children to keep us away from time with one another. He uses our preoccupation with our cell phones, tablets, and social media accounts to keep us from making God’s Word a part of our everyday lives. He brings sin into our homes slowly, so slowly that we barely recognize it. We’re sure the movies we watch, books we read, or websites we visit in secret aren’t harming our relationships.

But I’m of the belief that we must take back our families from the enemy. We must claim our right to a happy, healthy relationship like God intended. We have to take back our time. We can’t become confused by what the world says is important. We can’t believe the lies the enemy tells us to focus on. We have to stop investing into the world and get back to investing in love. We can’t spend the majority of our life away from our families, but then wonder why they’re falling apart. We have to stop investing so much in the materialistic aspects of our home, yet neglecting the lasting flesh and blood that resides therein. We gotta stop keeping up with the Joneses and start keeping up with God’s will for our families.

God created marriage, and He didn’t just make it so we’d have someone to help us with the dishes. He didn’t create this covenant with arguments over who forgot to buy toilet paper in mind. He didn’t place us together to run ourselves ragged with busy schedules and overwhelming responsibilities. He created marriage to mirror His covenant with us, and on the day we finally become His bride, do you think He’ll be too busy running the angels to soccer practice to sit down at the banquet table with us? Do you think He’ll be too tired to talk or too overwhelmed by His day of miracles to hold us?

And here’s a thought. Our children are watching us. They are creating their idea of marriage based on our example. What type of husband are you modeling for your daughter’s future expectations? What kind of wife are you showing your son to build a life with? Do you know how Satan is stealing our marriages? Through us! We are eagerly breaking down the future foundation of marriage by our poor example, and our complacence and neglect is pushing our own spouse further and further away. It shouldn’t be so.

We have to take back our marriages before it’s too late. We have to reclaim our time so we can invest it where it is needed most. We have to take our eyes off other relationships and focus them in our own backyard. We have to let Dad lead the family. We have to stop competing. We have got to quit going and going! We have to be still! We have to sit quiet and let the ruach blow over our marriages. We’ll never feel it if we’re too busy striving for more. You have to be still to truly feel the wind blow. We have to stop handing the enemy our family on a golden platter. We have to take back what God has given us. We have to open our eyes to the gift of our spouse, just as God made them, and stop trying to make them into someone else. We have to take time to appreciate our partner. We have to trade in our badge of busy for the soothing silk of stillness. Only in simplicity can we truly see how blessed we are.

So I suppose the question is this. God has given us marriage. Will you make the pledge to take it back from the enemy today?

A Middle Aged Mom’s Review Of KareKare Curl (Aquatica Orlando’s Newest Waterslide)

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PSA:

I almost died today.

So, in my efforts to be the fun, cool mom (while my husband gruffly mumbled “I’m not getting wet), I quickly agreed to go ride a big water slide with my nine year old. Surely it couldn’t be that bad if she was tall enough to get on.

Famous last words.

It wasn’t the actually ride that was that terrible. What I remember of it (through my delirium) was enjoyable. But that could be the carbon dioxide poisoning status post hyperventilation.

So, I read the rules for the ride before boarding. Yes, I’m that person. It said a lot of stuff about weight requirements and how many per tube, but no where did I see the requirements stated to have completed an Iron Man competition. In reality, they should have posted one of those warnings like you see on roller coasters, something warning pregnant women, individuals with heart conditions, or middle aged women who haven’t exercised since Bush was in office (which one? Your choice).

I do know what the 9 feet tall sign of rules/warnings did not state. No where did it inform you that if you’ve had multiple children birthed vaginally that your uterus may pop out halfway to the top. It forgot to mention that you’d be lugging a 62 pound float up sixteen flights of stairs, and that the higher you went the more the air resembled that at the peak of Everest, or that a strange gravitational pull drew our planet closer to the sun as you ascended.

Before we got on they were kind enough to weigh you individually in front of the waiting crowd. The purpose I guess was to ensure you weren’t so light that you sailed off the top of the ride when it was tilted at a ninety degree angle, or so heavy that you dropped like a dead weight at the peak height of that same vertical, slippery thrill. In retrospect, I think it would have been more appropriate to have you bench press no less than 1 small smart car prior to ascension to prove your worthiness. But instead they approved my 5’ 4” 115 pound self to partner with my beanpole child who falls faint at the weight of her dirty clothes from the floor to the waiting laundry basket.

I’m thinking you shouldn’t have to spend money to ride this one, because your true payment is in blood, sweat, and tears as you tote an elephant sized float, weighted down with a lifetime supply of sand (or perhaps steel), again, I’m assuming to keep you from shooting off the top after reaching Mach 5 speed, up the stairway to Heaven.

It helps to have a small child on the back end “helping” by pulling down on her end while gasping, “I can’t Mom. It’s too heavy.”

It also helps to have young, vibrant teenagers coming up quickly on your six in a cloud of eye-rolls and poorly veiled sighs.

Y’all, when I finally reached the light at the end of the tunnel (cause that’s all I was seeing, lights and stars), I was greeted by a fourteen year old in a Baywatch swimsuit smirking at me.

“You alright,” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” I whistle/exhaled like a fifty year smoker after running a triathlon.

I walked cautiously to my awaiting, steel trap of death that I had carried to my own watery grave, trying not to stagger like Cooter Brown, though my poison wasn’t moonshine, but rather hypoxia. As I straddled the swaying, yellow coffin I was hit with a wave of nausea like that of a thousand morning sicknesses, though no first trimester queasiness could match the feeling that overcame me. If nausea was a dude, I imagined he’d be wearing a studded jacket and leather gloves as he punched one fist into his awaiting palm in warning of the beating that awaited me.

I kinda remember the five seconds of waterslide fun that followed my personal episode of American Ninja Warrior. For one brief second, in between the reels of my life flashing before my eyes, I thought, “this isn’t that bad.”

I was going to think, “this is kinda fun,” but that was about the time we dropped straight down from the striped funnel of folly, and my already bulging gorge threatened to expel the minuscule contents of my spasming stomach.

After it was over I rolled out of the two-ton raft like a hungover sailor just hitting dry land after a week at sea. I alternated between still trying to slow my labored breathing and gulping down the wave of acid that threatened to leave my body through my pursed, purple lips. I side-stepped (or rather struggled/stumbled) to the nearest vacant beach chair, plopping down violently, the blackness closing in. I tried to look normal, gain my composure, for fear another cast of Thirteen Reasons Why in lifeguard garb would come and ask the elderly woman if she needed them to call 9-1-1.

What you should not do at this point, if you ever find yourself in the same predicament, is to shamble in a trance over to the wave pool with your un-phased child. It’s just not a good idea to put battery acid in a washing machine, but that’s a post for another day. Just take my word for it and bring along pallbearers to carry your tube if you plan on riding KareKare Curl at Aquatica Orlando. #datfloattooheavy #forrealtho

Signed,

A Concerned, Middle Age Mom (Who may or may not have lost her cookies in the bathroom when no one was looking)

Raising Flat-Chested Daughters Who Eat Cake

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I saw a magazine laying on the table of a hospital waiting room as I walked by, and I recognized it pretty quickly as one I used to read some thirty years ago. Before I knew it my own daughters would be old enough to pour through the pages of fashion magazines, and as I thought back to my own interactions with the likes of YM, Vogue, and Seventeen I hoped my daughters would have a stronger self-worth than I did back then.

I remember staring at the glossy pages of my favorite read and eyeing the glistening cleavage on the young model on the page, envying the slope of her breasts as they played peekaboo with the unbuttoned oxford tied lazily over cutoff denim shorts. I would look back at the mirror where my reflection held copycat attire, except for the perky bosom. My flat chest would stare back at me, and I would feel as deflated as it looked.

My mom bought me my first Miracle Bra. Remember those? Automatic boobies! I can also remember running around frantically in seventh grade, searching for my one, cherished, padded brassiere before my boyfriend came over and discovered I wasn’t the budding B cup my padded bra conveyed.

“Where did I take that thing off at?!!”

I can remember my mother taping my chest and drawing me a cleavage to match the padding in my formal dresses during pageant time. I can remember us girls in school comparing our weight at cheerleading practice. I was next to the skinniest one, and it felt good. I finally felt like maybe I measured up. By measuring down. Which is kinda weird, I know. I remember when I got chubby my mom let me know, and when I lost weight she was quick to compliment me. She was always so proud of my tiny figure, and she loved showing me off to her friends at work, which made me smile. It still does. She wasn’t trying to instill any negative thoughts in me, this I know, but that’s what happened. It just kinda worked right along with what the magazines said was pretty.

I drink Diet Coke nowadays, and I’ve always drank Diet Coke. It’s the only soda that existed in my home growing up. I can remember seeing a jar of Dexatrim on top of the refrigerator, and a cartoon drawing of a large woman in a bikini on a scale on the fridge door reminding anyone who opened it to watch what they ate. My mom was on a diet for as long as I can remember. Again, I don’t think she was trying to instill a negative mindset in me. It just happens to be a consequence of watching the person you love more than anything in the world be on a perpetual diet.

Yesterday was my eldest daughter’s ninth birthday party. I had already decided I would not be having cake. I’ve always been able to stay small, but a simple weight gain of seven pounds and I start to feel miserable about it. I can’t help it, and even as much as I’ve grown spiritually or matured with age, if I’m not in my comfort zone of weight, I feel horrible.

For the past 3-4 months I had been telling myself it was the birth control pills I started taking at the beginning of the year, or that it was the new normal, being in my forties and all. I told myself I was happy with who I was. And I was! I’ve never felt more self-confident and content in my life. But still, when you’ve lived forty-two years with the weight that makes you feel the best, nothing less more will do. So, after pushing it off since the holidays ended, I was finally on a diet. Sigh.

One thing I didn’t do, though. I didn’t talk about it around my daughters. If we were throwing out the processed food and going organic for the good of the family, then yes, we all had the conversation. But if Momma was counting carbs to fit better in her favorite denim capris, I kept that close to the cuff, or rather the waistband, I guess you could say. I didn’t want them even knowing what a diet was!

So back to cake. I had decided no cake! I was 8 days into Ketosis, and after my bread withdrawals I didn’t want to wreck my progress. I was an all or nothing kinda gal, and I was all in on shedding this middle age muffin on my midsection. No cake!

The party couldn’t have been more perfect. I mean, it wasn’t perfect. It was a Dollar Tree decorated jumble of pink and flowers, but the point was, she loved it. She freaking loved it! Her eyes wide, her smile even wider. She blushed with excitement and couldn’t stop saying, “this is awesome! It’s even better than I imagined it would be!”

She had beamed at the Baskin Robbins cake, the smallest they made, and certainly not the stuff Instagram promotes or Pinterest is made of. It was just a plain ole cake, but she couldn’t stop smiling. It had cost about twenty bucks, but she couldn’t stop smiling. She giggled with glee as her dad prepared to make the first cut, and she smiled even wider as he divvied out slices around the table. I knew it then. I knew I’d eat cake. I had to.

I didn’t want the carbohydrates, but even more I didn’t want the conversation. I didn’t want her asking why I wasn’t having cake. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but I guess it’s harder too. I didn’t want to tell my innocent, precious girl, “your mom doesn’t always like herself. So that’s why I’m not eating your birthday cake.”

The best days I have, the ones where I love myself, the ones where I feel beautiful and amazing, that’s what I want for my daughters. I want them to be healthy, sure, but I don’t want them judging themselves by society’s standards. I don’t want them to value their worth by their waist size. I don’t want them comparing themselves to anyone else. I don’t want them wishing they could be more. So many days I wish I could turn back time and erase the breast implants I got in my twenties, so I never have to tell them how bad I felt I needed a big bust to be beautiful.

I want my daughters to realize beauty is more than skin deep, that the skin doesn’t even matter. I want them to age gracefully, live life fully, and take the best parts of me into their future. I don’t want to raise them on scales or hearing me berate myself.

I want my daughters to focus on the things that really matter. I want to cultivate kindness, not self-absorption. More importantly, I want them to view others through the right lenses, not judging people by what they wear, how they appear. I want them to know they can’t judge a book by its cover, and they can only judge themselves by the standard set by their Heavenly Father.

My daughters need to understand they’re precious, set apart, made unique, and I sure don’t want them thinking they need to change for anybody. I don’t always get it right for myself, but I want better for my girls. I want them to experience a healthier view than the one I’ve always had, or even the one that tries to assault me now. I want them to see themselves like Jesus sees them, and to see others the same.

I want to raise daughters who can be proud of their flat chest, cause let’s face it, genetics ain’t in their favor for anything else. I want to raise daughters who are healthy, but can enjoy some cake and ice cream without counting the calories or beating themselves up. I want to raise daughters who know they’re worth more than what Hollywood tries to sell them or what a magazine may try to tell them. I want to raise daughters who know their worth.

When they’re older perhaps I can share my struggles with them, but while they are young and impressionable I will speak life. I’ll speak confidence, and I’ll model self-love for them to see. I won’t call myself fat or use words like diet. I won’t frown at the mirror or refuse to take a picture with them in my bathing suit. They can’t see me being unhappy with me because right now I’m the woman they look up to as how they want to be. And me… I want them to be happy with who God made them to be.

So, I’ll eat the cake, and I’ll play in the dirt. I’ll let them dress themselves in clothes that don’t match if it makes them feel pretty. We’ll laugh, play, act silly, dress comfy, and love life, ourselves, and others because when it comes right down to it, isn’t that what it’s all about?

What Christian Parents Need to Know

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“Have you ever had a car wreck?” she asked.

Boy, had he ever, I thought. Our six year old daughter had directed the question at her father, and I listened with raised eyebrow for his response. Wow. He didn’t disappoint.

“I sure did,” he answered. “A really bad one!”

And yes, it had been a really bad one. One of those accidents that obliterate the vehicle beyond recognition, the ones where EMS arrives and know they’ll find someone dead.

Except he hadn’t died.

It was quite miraculous, actually. My husband (before he was my husband) had been unrestrained, and his vehicle had flown fifty feet or so into the air. Heck, I’m the worst at calculating distance, but I do know they found where his vehicle dinged over halfway up a power pole before it descended back down to the ground. I do know they found his body sitting in the passenger side, despite the fact that he had been driving. And I do know he should not have survived that accident. They found his front teeth sitting on his chest and a gash about a centimeter from his carotid. God spared his life, and I had always joked with him that it was so he could marry me.

He continued, “it was so bad that I should have died, but God needed me to meet your mom so I could have you.”

And there it was. The one thing every Christian parent needed to know, and more importantly, needed to impart.

“God has a plan for your life,” he finished with a smile.

He spoke to our middle child, our most unique daughter. She was overly sensitive, and when she bawled about basically anything, this one part of me wanted to scream, “quit your crying!!”

Long ago I realized she would make my job a challenge. I think maybe God gives you a pass with that first one.

He’s like, “she’s a new mom. Let’s take it easy. Gabriel, go catch that kid before it rolls off the changing table!”

When my second daughter arrived I realized she wasn’t as easy to figure out, and since they didn’t come with instructions taped on the back, I did a lot of praying. In all that praying (you know, the kind you do in tears after all the yelling), I felt like the Lord told me something really important.

“I made her that way.”

That’s what He impressed on my heart one particularly tough day, and I’ve tried to remember the same for the humdinger of a third child I had a year later. That one! Lord, help me. But that’s a blog for another day.

Anyway, I realized that one day, hiding in my closet of shame (but literally my closet), that my middle child was sensitive for a reason. She held in her tiny frame the capacity to love the whole wide world if she needed to, and her specific characteristics were for a reason. God had big plans for that little lady, and I made sure from that day forward to keep that in mind.

When I wanted to get frustrated, I remembered, when I didn’t understand, I remembered, and when the world made me want to change her, I remembered. He knew her even before He formed her in my womb, and He had plans for His creation. My job was to work with His model, my job was to cultivate that, and most importantly, my job was to point her towards Him always.

We let our children know that their life has purpose. As parents, we remind ourselves that we’re raising little humans who have a purpose for God’s kingdom. That’s a lofty job, so we take it quite seriously, making sure we read the only thing close to an instruction manual for parenting, His Word.

My eldest knows that her life is already spectacular, that she changed my future with her arrival, but that God has even greater things in store for her. We don’t hold back the compliments, the love, the discipline, or the instruction that is required. We pray for guidance continually as we raise these little girls to accomplish whatever the Lord has in mind.

We don’t bend to the status quo. We don’t follow the crowd, hang in there with the herd, desiring an easy life so that our children will “fit in.” They know they’re set apart by God, but I don’t mean that in some prideful way. They know that each human ever born has a plan that God ordains, that their plan is no better than someone else’s, but that their life will succeed when they follow His face. Not everyone follows God’s plan for their life. Most get lost in the world’s plan along the way. They get caught up in trends, what’s popular, or what society may say is valuable. Our goal is to raise our girls to realize that couldn’t be farther from the truth. They know that the things the world values are fading, but what holds true worth is eternal.

Gosh, they’re so young. How can they fathom eternity at such an age? Well, I guess we model it each day by being an example of His love.

When I pray with my daughters at night I make sure and include two things.

  1. I pray that they know how much they are loved by God.

  2. That they will, in turn, pour out that same love to everyone they meet.

As Christians, we are called to love, and as a parent we are called to love our children. Seems simple, right? Of course parents love their children! But do they show that love in the best way possible? Do they show that love by ensuring their children know from where that love derives?! It is of God. And that same love has been built into their DNA. That love will guide them, but His love in us as parents will help lead them. A parent’s greatest role is to lead their children to the Lord, and if that one thing is the biggest thing I’ll ever do in this life, then I am abundantly blessed.

Jesus left the 99 to find the 1, and know it’s my turn to shepherd the lambs He has given to me. Each child will know that they are the 1. They are that special 1 that He would leave the whole flock to find. He has a purpose for their lives. They need to know it, and I need to remember it. I just happen to have a role in getting them there.

My husband has said before that if God only has for him to raise babies to love Jesus, then that is enough for him. Listening to the car wreck conversation I know he believes it is true. I think God has much planned for my spouse, but fathering our children was certainly one. He takes that purpose quite seriously. And now our middle child is reminded of the purpose her life holds, that God would miraculously intervene to ensure she was born. Each child, in my opinion, should feel the same about their life, albeit different circumstances. They all should know that their life has great purpose, and we as parents should know it too.

Where Did Discipline Go?

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I watched as my husband walked down the aisle of fresh fruit to retrieve a bag for the ripe nectarines our daughters had picked out, and as he did a voice behind me spoke up.

“Your children are very well behaved,” the voice said.

An employee unboxing fruit stood behind me, and I smiled, nodding and answering him with a sincere thank you.

I found it ironic that the comment came on the tail end of an epic meltdown I had witnessed outside the store.

“Noooooo,” the young boy had shrilled! Like the voice of a wild animal caught in a trap he had cried out in bloody murder, “I don’t want tooooooooo!!”

His father trailed behind mom pushing the shopping cart of screaming little boy. The dad held a young girl on his shoulders and seemed to ignore the screeching yelps of his son ahead of him.

Been there, dude. I thought. I mean, all kids have epic meltdowns in Walmart. That’s kind of what shopping with children is all about, right?! I wasn’t going to be one of those judgy Judy’s acting like I had it all together. I have had my fair share of cold stares and unwelcome comments in line at the grocery store. So, no sir, would I assume these folks didn’t have a handle on the situation. I walked on, with my own brood of three, all under eight years, into the store.

In the background the mother of the bohemian rhapsody singer hissed, “what is your problem?!”

Been there too, sister, I thought.

The dad kept walking. Oblivious? Maybe. Uninvolved? Perhaps. But I couldn’t really know.

Back in the fruits and veggies I gathered my chicks, and I pondered the stock man’s comment. It wasn’t the first time I had heard that comment from a stranger, nor the second. In fact, I had heard it a lot, but each time it startled me. With pride I accepted the kind encouragement, but also wondered if they knew the whole story. Did they realize I sometimes raised my voice when I shouldn’t, or that I wondered if the one daughter even listened to instruction at a regular tone of voice? I mean, I thought my children were heathens most of the time, running around like hopped up addicts on the sugar rush of a lifetime, but then I saw other children running amuck and thought, okay, maybe mine aren’t that bad after all.

They weren’t perfect, that was for sure, and I definitely wasn’t, but we tried. Sometimes I wonder where the trying went.

There’s too many friends out there, and far too few parents. There are way more equals, and not enough authority figures.

I thought back on something I said to my husband the day before.

“The dog doesn’t listen to me like she does you,” I had commented.

“It’s because I put the fear of God in her when she was a puppy,” he chuckled.

Okay, first off, that man is like putty in that dog’s tiny paws. She pees in the floor and he says in his best baby talk, “oh Lizzie, it’s not your fault. You were trying to tell me you had to go outside!”

But if he said, “get in your bed,” well, you better believe she got in her bed.

It’s a balance, you see. I think that’s what we’re missing.

Nowadays you have a lot of parents worried about their children’s feelings. Heck, I worry about my daughters’ feelings. I make sure to direct comments in a certain way to get my point across without wounding their psyche. So, I get it. But I also know, at the end of the day, I’m Mom, and what Mom says goes. When you’re a Mom, you can be in charge.

Today in the store, after the comment on my girls’ behavior, my three year old dropped a box when I suddenly changed direction of the buggy.

“Hey,” she called out in an angry voice. “You made me drop that!”

My first reaction, “and you don’t use that mean tone with me, young lady.”

Before I could say more my husband came alongside me, “she’s your mother and you talk nice to her or you get in trouble.”

She’s three, right? She doesn’t know any better, right? Well, that’s what I’m doing. I’m teaching her respect. That’s what we’re doing as parents.

This morning she cried in her room after I had corrected her for telling a lie.

My husband said, “I don’t even think she understands what a lie is. I’ve been working on this same thing with her!”

I replied, “well, she’ll learn.”

We were teaching her right from wrong, and the consequences of her actions. She may be three, but she was learning more each and every day. In society today I see a lot of people more focused on the stage of development rather than developing their children. Parents tell themselves the child isn’t at an age to grasp the weight of their choices, what is right, or why it’s wrong. Sadly, they are raised on a foundation of slipping sand. They aren’t introduced to cause and effect at an early age. Instead they are handled like a faberge egg. We mustn’t break them, and yes, I wholeheartedly agree! But I also think we are doing more harm to our children by withholding the guidance and discipline they deserve.

I believe children crave our direction! My own mother used to have a little saying for us kids, “beat me, bore me, just don’t ignore me,” and while it’s simple, it’s also so true. Children crave the attention of their parents, but they also crave our help. A child will misbehave simply to gain your attention towards them when it’s directed elsewhere, and in the current, handheld device society, it’s done even more.

My daughters understand that we correct them because we love them. We want them to lead a successful life in the future. They need to understand they can’t always get their way. They need to know that negative actions have negative consequences, but we never forget to also show that positive actions garner positive results.

My daughters realize they’re not the center of the universe. Just yesterday I said to my eldest, “I don’t know why you and your sisters compete to be my favorite. None of y’all are my favorite. Your Dad is my favorite!”

We had a good laugh about that, but it’s true. My husband and I are a team. I don’t go behind his back. If the children ask me something he has said no to, I don’t change the script. If I disagree with him on parenting we address it privately, not in front of them. They understand that their parents are a team, and they can’t play us against one another.

We don’t spare the rod. We discipline in many different ways. Some things only take a conversation, but others require physical correction. We don’t believe a spanking is abuse, and I find it odd that the more that opinion becomes mainstream, the worse children behave in public, and the worse young adults emerge.

But we also don’t spare love. We don’t physically discipline without following it by physical love. We hold our children and we explain why a punishment occurred. We are teaching the next generation. If I mouthed off to my boss, I’d get fired. If my children mouth off to me, I teach them that kind of behavior doesn’t fly. I model respect. I respect their opinions, I respect their feelings, I respect their emotions, and I respect that everyone is human and makes mistakes. They don’t get a lecture when they spill milk; they get me on my knees helping them clean up. But they don’t get a free pass at being hateful, ungrateful, or cruel because they are young. If they hurt someone they are corrected. I’m raising compassionate, kind, respectful young women.

We show our daughters so much affection. They never worry if they are loved. One of the ways we prove we care for them is by providing them an education on human decency. Some people say, “kids are cruel. Kids will be kids!”

But I say, “let’s start now teaching kindness, respect, and love for everyone.”

Let’s not wait until they’re older, or at a more appropriate development stage. Children are smarter than you think. My three year old will fake cry when corrected. She has learned that when she cries she can get her way. I watch her manipulate her older sisters into giving in to her every request. If she’s old enough to learn manipulation, she’s old enough to learn decency, The Golden Rule, that words hurt, that lying is bad, or that cheaters never win.

Sometimes I think discipline has been passed off. Parents are too busy with overtime and social networking. They’re too busy creating a birthday party the whole neighborhood will envy rather than teaching their child how to be grateful when the gifts come. We expect teachers, coaches, and pastors to teach them right from wrong. We’ll foot the bill for the extracurriculars and new kicks. We’ll take them on a vacation they’ll never forget, but not remember to model thankfulness for the things we have. We end up with entitled brats who equate parental love with a price tag rather than an important life lesson delivered in honesty.

Integrity is reserved for the ball field, and we miss teaching it at the dinner table. We require summer sports to learn teamwork and perseverance, instead of picking it up just as easily doing chores as a family unit. Hey, I’m not against sports. Just saying you don’t need a coach to teach your kid not to be a sore loser. You can start teaching that at home. If little Billy thinks he’s a winner every time, life is gonna be quite the wake up call.

My daughters know they can be anything they want to be in life! But they also know that sometimes they can’t be everything they want to be. They know you win some, and you lose some, but you’re grateful that you got to play. My daughters are being taught to treat others the way you want to be treated. My eight year old recently got the brunt end of an angry older sister at the swimming pool. We didn’t intervene. We didn’t say, “hey, don’t yell at my kid! She’s just a kid. She doesn’t know any better!”

My daughter had excluded a girl from a group of playmates, and the girl’s very large sister had come to her defense with thunder. My daughter learned the consequences of her unkind actions. Why is it most of us don’t blink an eye when children learn lessons amongst their peers, yet we have trouble teaching them those lessons at home? How about we start the discipline at home before it becomes a black eye on the playground, or worse yet, a young adult who can’t hold down a job. We are raising the next generation of responsible adults. Of note, we used the pool incident as a lesson, building it upon ones we had already been teaching at home. She knew she was wrong. She owned up to it, and we moved on.

If a stranger corrected my children in public I would say, “thank you. My kid was acting like a little jerk! I appreciate it. Sometimes they don’t listen to me.”

Our dog listens to my husband because he set firm boundaries with love. She respects him, she loves him, and she knows not to act like a crazy mutt!

Have you noticed that we live in a society that takes their dogs to obedience school, but won’t even tell their children the word no?

We don’t use the word no in this house. It’s too negative.

Uh, okay Nancy. We’ll see how well that works out when they’re forty, still in your basement, and asking for another loan.

Children need discipline. I don’t know where it’s gone, but it needs to come back. My kids are wild as bucks! But if I have over half a dozen strangers walking across the room to tell me they’re angels, then the comparisons out there must be pretty paltry. I’m half joking, but seriously, I’ve seen those hooligans at the mall playground. Where are their parents?! I’m afraid my kid is gonna take a dropkick to the face by the next WWF wannabe. Yeah, sometimes it’s easier to ignore bad behavior, but maybe that’s lazy parenting. Just saying.

It’s okay to teach your child voice modulation. It won’t hurt their ability to express their feelings. It’s okay to teach your child manners. They won’t have Mommy issues twenty years down the road. How about this? It’s okay for the man to step up and lead the household, be the Alpha dog, model respect, and correct behavior that needs a revamp. You can tell your child “no” and still respect their autonomy. You can reward good behavior but not bad ones. That’s kinda how the world works. Only God dishes out undeserved favor.

Which leads me to this. In discipline we give love, but we also model grace. Our daughters know that we all mess up. When I do, I apologize, no problem. I model forgiveness and unconditional love. They know that no infraction will ever change my love for them. Basically, my husband and I read the Bible. A lot! We take what we learn there, and we apply it to parenting. We treat our children like Jesus would. Don’t you think God disciplines? Of course! He’s a good Father. He also loves. He forgives. He gives great grace. But He never forgoes correction. A loving parent can deliver all these things. Naturally, not as perfectly as our Heavenly Father, but we’re trying. Maybe that’s what we need more of today… parents trying. Trying to be more like Jesus. Trying to love like He loves, teach like He teaches, prepare for a good and prosperous future like He does, serve like He does.

Where has discipline gone? Maybe it’s still there. Maybe we’ve just forgotten how to apply it. We’ve forgotten how a good Father can discipline in love, that discipline is love, that a good Father never withholds His wisdom, and always teaches us to be the best us we can be. We need to remember this. The future depends on it.

Giving Your Children Grace

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I’m all for discipline. In a world that’s gone soft on some issues (like telling kids “no”), but far too harsh on others (like the lack of patience at a red light), I am completely in favor of making children listen to reason. After all, we are raising the future generation. It’s up to us to instill morals, model compassion, and correct erroneous behavior for a productive future for them. I mean, if kids think they can always win, get their way every time, and throw a fit when they are opposed, then they’re going to be in a world of hurt one day. Yep, you have to create an environment where they understand they’re not number one, yet still let them know they matter. There are so many lessons to be learned, but sadly we often miss the most important one.

As a mother of young children, I think nothing tries your patience like trying to get out of the house on time with your kids in tow. They move like molasses, whine like a broken down washing machine, and couldn’t find their shoes if you were paying them to. Make it a Sunday morning and it’s even worse. Like, can we just make it to church on time once?!

This past Sunday morning I was doing my usual routine. I had gotten up before everyone else. I had picked out each child’s clothing and placed them in neat piles on the couch. All they had to do was comply with simple instruction, basically. As I assisted my youngest two daughters with getting dressed and untangling their long tresses, I noticed my eight year old had fallen back asleep on the couch. I called her name, asking her to get dressed. I even added a please. I deserve some extra credit for that.

Then she pulled out the whine, like nails on a chalkboard. She lamented, “I don’t wanna go to church!”

My first thought was all the mornings I rose before 5am, while my daughter snoozed on. They were homeschooled! It’s not like they had to get up earlier than they wanted every day of the week. It was just one day! Instructing my child of all of this sat on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell her how lucky she was to not have to get up as early as I did. I needed her to understand that one day she wouldn’t be so lucky, that she needed to get used to doing things she didn’t feel like doing! I wanted to tell her that she should have gone to bed earlier, that she was reaping the effects of her own stubborn refusal to go to sleep. This was my job as a parent, right.?! To prepare her for a cruel future!

So, with all this in mind I called her over to me.

“Come over here,” I instructed.

She plodded lazily in my direction, and as she got closer I reached for her lanky arm and pulled her quickly into my lap.

“My sweet baby,” I whispered, as I squeezed her gently, placing loving kisses on her forehead.

I held her for a few moments in silence, rocking back and forth. I could feel the frustration and attitude melt away from her. She eased naturally into my embrace, and the body that had at first felt heavy suddenly became light.

She giggled, “I’m your baby!”

I held her another minute, and then I questioned, “you ready to get dressed for Mom?”

She popped out of my lap with renewed motivation, “I sure am!

We have a huge responsibility as parents. There are so many lessons to be taught, but the one we most easily forget, especially in such a fast-paced world, is the lesson of grace. It’s given when we least deserve it, and it’s given in love. Out of the many life hacks I want to teach my daughters, the most important is how to lead a successful, emotionally and spiritually healthy life. One of my biggest ministry callings in life is the one I live out each day as a parent. So much of what they learn about Christ will be not just from my words, but also modeled in my actions. They see the love of God through me. I am the hands and feet of Jesus to the little ones, and they learn about saving grace when I bestow it.

I think back on all the ridiculous, unsavory choices I have made in life, and through it all, God loved me. Yes, He taught me lessons when I was less than my best, but above all His great grace called me back.

He said, “you are mine. I love you, child.”

I still have a tendency to be a brat. I can sometimes imagine my Father God shaking His head when I fear things like financial loss or hardship. He could rip the rug out from under me and show me that He is my provider, but instead He speaks to my heart with loving patience, He holds me in the comforting arms of His Holy Spirit and reminds me, I’ve got this, daughter. Do not fear, for I am with you.

When I doubt, He loves me still. When I blatantly sinned against Him, He waited for my return with open arms. When I am weary, bone tired, likely due to my own fault, He takes me in His arms. He bestows grace. And if there’s anything He gives me that I in turn can give to my children, it is that great grace, that loving patience, and that tender mercy, even when it’s not deserved.

My Husband is a Stay-at-Home Dad, and I Don’t Care What You Think About It

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I am a part of some different Facebook groups, and last week I got a little ruffled over some comments on a thread I was following. Well, ruffled is probably too strong of a word. I’d say I felt defensive for a moment. Why? Because I took it personally. I took personal offense for the love of my life. Wait, I guess I better explain, put it into context for you.

You see, I’m a travel nurse. And I travel in an RV with my family. So I’m a part of several travel nurse, RV, family RV travel, and RV travel nurse groups. Now, if I’ve learned anything in life it’s that the opinion of others isn’t worth my heartache. In other words, not all people will agree with me, and that’s ok. Their opinion doesn’t make me or break me, but I guess it’s a little different when the jab is towards my best friend.

I was scrolling through my feed when I came across a travel nurse asking if any other nurses traveled with their spouse, and wanted to know how their spouse spent their time. There were a lot of answers like mine. Answers of, “my spouse stays home.” And not just housewives either. There were a lot of househusbands. As you would imagine, it didn’t take long for someone to state their opinion about a man not working, and a woman being the primary breadwinner.

A woman commented, “I can’t get over all these deadbeat dudes, and you ladies supporting them. No way I’d put up with that sh*t.”

My heart rate rose as I read the comment. She didn’t know my spouse! She didn’t know he had run his own business for years, working thirteen hour days, six days a week. She didn’t know the stress of all those years, how hard he had worked to support his growing family. I had to tell her these things. I had to defend his honor!

You know, that’s the thing about people who aren’t you. They don’t know you, and they don’t know the specifics of your situation. They don’t know the roads you have walked, or even how hard it was to get there. That’s why you have to just let it slip right on by you. Because they don’t know and probably never will. Most people are so fixed on their own opinion that even if you set them straight, they wouldn’t hear you. You have to decide that you don’t care what they think. Too often we value the opinion of others, and it’s the same people who wouldn’t give you a glass of water if you were on fire. It’s the people pointing out the sawdust in your eye when they have a plank in their own. It’s the people who have been wounded, and their opinions and beliefs are often convoluted by their own negative, past experiences. Maybe this lady had been married to a deadbeat once upon a time. It didn’t matter, though.

I didn’t need to say a word to defend my man’s honor. After all, I knew he was amazing. I knew his heart. I knew he homeschooled our children while I worked. I knew he did all the housework, cooking, laundry, vehicle/RV maintenance, and outside work. I knew I didn’t lift a finger when I was home because he had done it all already. I knew what he did was hard work. I was a stay-at-home mom for six or seven years, and I knew there wasn’t a fatigue that compared to child-raising. It’s the kind that made you want to run away or hide in a closet and cry.

I knew my stay-at-home husband worked hard. He worked hard at everything he did for us, whether in the home or out of the home. And I guess, at the end of the day, I was the only one who needed to know that. The opinionated commenter on Facebook had her own opinions of men she had never met, and I’m sure a lot of acquaintances (or even family) I know have their own opinions of my life too. But you know what?

I don’t care what you think. I just don’t have time for that. I’m too busy enjoying quality time with my family.

We live in a strange world. On one hand we have women everywhere marching for equal rights, but those same women will shun a man who stays home in what has traditionally been a female role. We have women who want to hold tight to traditional and Biblical roles of the man being the provider, but these same women have no qualms about usurping their husband’s authority, domineering the relationship, or ridiculing his opinions for the family unit. We have men and women who lament about not getting enough time together, but these same couples work overtime. We have men and women who want to homeschool or not put their babies in daycare, but these same people can’t find a way to cut the budget to make a one income family unit a reality. I’ve heard so many people say that nowadays it takes both parents working, and I guess that’s true if we consider a huge home, multiple cars, or namebrand clothing a must. Yes, everyone has to work to take a Disney vacation every year. Am I stepping on your toes?

A lot of people may think a man is lazy who stays at home, but I would say he’s loving. He loves his children, and he loves his wife enough to lay down macho stereotypes, worries about his friends or family’s opinion, and his own ego to be labeled a stay-at-home father. It’s not easy being a stay-at-home dad. You fight stereotypes and stupid comments. It’s not easy being a working mom. You face the same. You have to decide you don’t care what people think.

We made a decision collectively as a couple to do what was best for our family. A couple of years ago we both worked, but we still lived paycheck to paycheck. I rarely had a day off with my spouse, and he missed everything. He missed every softball game our eldest daughter played. He was exhausted most days. He never got to accompany us on fun, summer outings or exciting holiday gatherings. We never saw him. I was almost like a single parent. He came home tired where I unloaded the bad behavior of the children. So he was left to spend his minuscule time home disciplining kids or nodding off on the couch while we tried to spend quality time together.

Now we get at least four full days a week off together. We get two weeks of vacation together a few times a year. We take three-day, mini vacays once a month. We rose above the opinion of the status quo and made our happy happen. Instead of us both working ourselves to death we found a way to divide the workload. They say parenting is hard, and yes, it used to be, but now it’s enjoyable. Work used to be so much harder because I fulltime parented basically alone and worked, but no longer. I have never been more content, rested, or relaxed in my life! And that’s with a “deadbeat dude” with me.

I say, no deadbeat here, but I do have an amazing, supportive partner who has the same dreams in life as me. We dream of a happy, relaxed life where you enjoy your children and life with them. A life where you’re not stressed and exhausted. We are truly living that dream. And you know what? I don’t care what anyone thinks of that.

I Don’t Want to Forget

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They sat side by side along the edge of the pool. My husband patted the leg of our middle child affectionately.

“It’s alright,” he soothed.

His face showed zero frustration and abundant love. I watched the way his head dipped low to meet her eyes, and she stared back in obvious adoration. He had jumped into the water with his clothes on when she cried out in fear. After swimming too far into the deep end and growing fatigued, our young, novice swimmer had called for dad’s help, and he had answered. I watched them together, and I knew I never wanted to forget this.

I never wanted to forget the tender, yet protective way my husband parented. I never wanted to forget the way his face changed when he looked at them, or how his eyes crinkled at the corners in joy when he was especially proud. I never wanted to forget the way his countenance transformed, taking on a look of total peace when he hugged our babies close. I wanted to see that look of contentment, the fierce protector on guard, or his proud grin forever. I never wanted to forget how my husband looked raising our daughters.

This morning I stood in the shower with my little girl, and I washed the thick conditioner from her long, blond locks. The water bubbled up slightly as it cascaded down her thick tresses, and I realized I never wanted to forget the feel of my hands in her hair, or how she giggled when the water first hit her. She wouldn’t always come tapping on the shower door asking to join me. She wouldn’t need my help much longer with the hair rinsing, or beg me to blow it dry. I didn’t want to forget how grateful she was for my help, or how much each child needed me. It was easy to get flustered or aggravated in the midst of the mess of being depended on so much, but I never wanted to forget the feeling of reward.

Yesterday my child had been walking ahead of me in the restaurant. She knew her own way back to the table, and she bounded ahead while still staying close. She skipped as she walked, her feet dancing with glee at every step. She found joy in every moment, she smiled easily. I watched her tiny frame, spindly little legs moving, blond hair bouncing up and down with her footfalls. I felt such happiness watching her in the everyday mundane, and I wanted to store away each bit of bundled joy. I never wanted to forget that moment. I wanted to lock it away in my pocket, press it between the pages of my heart, never let it slip from my memory. So perfect was that moment of pure love; I never wanted to forget.

I never wanted to forget the hugs. You know, the way their little bodies fit inside your arms. Or the way they’d rest their head against your chest in total surrender, complete trust, and unconditional love. A small child can sleep so deeply and peacefully in their parent’s arms, and I never wanted to forget that feeling that you get when you hold a little human being who trusts you totally with their life.

I never wanted to forget the utter joy of nursing an infant, looking down in your arms at the tiny person whose complete sustenance depended on you. I never wanted to forget the way their tongue would curl into a little loop afterwards, like they were still trying to drink milk in their dreams.

I never wanted to forget baby giggles, first steps, or the initial “mama” they spoke. I never wanted to forget how my kisses healed scrapes or how my hands wiped tears away for good. I always wanted to remember the way they greeted me with excitement when I came in the door, or the sweetly whispered prayers before bed.

I want to hold onto the memory of phrases like, “hey, mom, can I talk to you,” or “I’ve got something to tell you.” Those softly spoken words prior to pouring out her heart. The fact that she can’t keep a secret from mom, or that I’m the person she wants to share uncomfortable situations with, the person whose advice she seeks. I pray I’m always that person, but if I’m not, I never want to forget how it feels right now.

I always want to remember how easily amused she can be, getting excited over a sucker or a dollar store toy. I never want to forget the shrieks of excitement over going to a new park or driving for an ice cream cone. I want to always remember the joyful, “this is the best day ever,” proclamations, or how she giggles with glee over taking a bath in the kitchen sink. Please, Lord, don’t let it fade.

Parenting is a struggle. It’s tiring, and some days I don’t want to snuggle. I want my bed back, I want a moment of quiet conversation with my spouse. I want to not have to pick up the same things over and over, clean up spills, or scrub cups of curdled milk. I want a day where my name isn’t repeated 5 bazillion times, or where I never hear, “hey, mom, watch this.” But then I’d miss the look of accomplishment when I do “watch this,” so there’s that. I never want to forget the sweet is stronger than the sour, or that time is cruel in how fast it speeds by.

I never want to forget how to appreciate each moment for what it is, a passing morsel of time that tics away far too quickly, a moment that could fall away and be forgotten if I don’t take the time to look and lock it away. And I never want that. I never want to forget that each childish laugh will fade, each body grow taller, and each toy will be boxed up and given away. When the air is silent, the bed empty, and the cupboard full, I want my memory to be overflowing with each cherished moment I have right now. I don’t want to forget.

Raising Tiny Humans is Hard

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Raising tiny humans is hard!

Yeah, yeah, we know. Sleepless nights, whether they’re two months old or twenty-one, and whatnot. But it’s not just the snotty noses wiped on your shirt or the mounds of laundry that multiply prior to folding. It’s not even worries at every sniffle and fever, or how you never stop putting your hand on their chest at night to make sure they’re still breathing. I kinda wish it was just the sibling bickering, repetitive calling of my name, or how they never hear you when you need them to, but catch every word if you don’t.

No, it’s harder than that. The hardest part is that you’re raising smaller versions of yourself. So you question every step you take, wanting to leave out the parts that scarred you, but add in the things you wished were there. Do you know what I mean?

It’s like you want to not make the mistakes you may have felt were made in your upbringing, make the kinds of memories that you personally still hold dear, yet go above and beyond the best you ever got. We want to be a better version of our parents, even when our folks did an outstanding job. Our dreams for our children are huge, insurmountable even, yet we still work towards making their childhood great. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but can make parenting all the more difficult. We desire to raise better tiny humans, learn from our mistakes, and most importantly, not totally mess it up.

This topic really came to my mind this past week.

My daughter said, “for example, one time at Chick-fil-A you said we could trade in our toy for an ice cream. So I traded in my toy. But Izzy and Bailey didn’t want to trade theirs in. But you got them an ice cream anyway. Cause you knew they’d cry. It’s hard cause of stuff like that.”

I nodded slowly, a truckload of thoughts spinning wheels in my mind. This had been her example of how being the oldest child is hard. It had been her example of how it was often unfair. And while, as an eldest child myself, I totally understood her plight, it didn’t escape me that this example had been over three years ago!

Had it really hurt her so badly that it was etched in her memory?!

Like, how good memories from childhood were the ones that came to mind in middle age, was that how bad memories were too? Did my kid seriously have a cavern full of times I had failed her as a parent?

The conversation had come about after she was punished for hurting the middle daughter. Ahh, the middle child. I remember when she was still a toddler an elderly patient warning a pregnant me to make her feel loved.

“The middle ones. They’re the ones who often feel forgotten. I made that mistake, so don’t you do it too,” he had warned.

She was the one I worried about most. Her heart was so kind, but also it was fragile. You could crush her spirit with a cross look, so I made sure to lift her up frequently, telling her how special she was. And apparently, I realized as I sat on the bed with my eldest, I had more often chose her side in sibling rivalry. Because she was so tiny, she was the one we guarded. Her tender soul needed our gentle touch, but I wondered if in my cultivating I had made my oldest girl feel less. I mean, she certainly wasn’t the baby.

Sigh. The baby. My sweet, precious, adorable youngest daughter who shined brighter than a thousand stars. My baby girl, always getting into mischief, but always winning me over with a mischievous grin and clever quip. She had us all wrapped around her chubby finger, and she knew it. Heck, we all knew it, and not a week went by without me worrying I may be raising a spoiled brat as my last child. Oh, Lord, help me.

Between worrying I was spoiling one, not building the uniqueness and confidence of another, or neglecting the first, I was in for a challenge. I contemplated if I was putting too much responsibility on my eldest, being too coddling with my middle, or lenient with my last. And that’s when I muttered to myself, raising tiny humans is hard.

And that’s when God spoke to my heart, “it leads them to me.”

I nodded in understanding, yeah, God, I get it. Parenting was tough, and yeah, I probably messed it up frequently, but praise the Lord, I didn’t have to get it perfect. Where I fell short, He picked up. I had devoted myself and my family to Him, and He was faithful to take care of us. I could try my best, but with my human hands I might fumble. Thankfully my girls were His girls. I could relax in the fact that I wasn’t raising serial killers with my mistakes, and my God drew my daughters to His heart. Even if I failed, they were His. I was His.

Raising tiny humans was hard, but my God worked all things for our good. He placed them within me, and before they were even a spark He knew I could parent them well. He has given me a task, and He equips me each day to do my best. And when I do less than His best, He is faithful to draw my daughters closer to Him. Maybe it’s hardest when I try to do it too much on my own, but when I can release my worries to Jesus, He can smooth out the rough spots and fix my focus. Instead of seeing it simply as hard, instead I can count it all as joy.