- They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. So, here goes. I am a closet clean freak trapped in a frumpy woman’s body. When people see me they would never suspect. Fresh face, with barely a stitch of make-up except for the massive amount of concealer under my eyes to attempt to cover-up the rut of dark circles permanently residing there after becoming a mother. It can be a little misleading. As you see me sitting there in my yoga pants and tie-dyed pull over, you think I’m “earthy,” like one of those laid back hippie moms, sitting in the candle light, tandem nursing my kids while listening to an old record of whale sounds I recorded on a seaside expedition to combat the mass murder of dolphins by tuna fisherman. You watch as I sit calmly, maintaining a conversation with you while my child turns a back hand spring off the top of the bookcase into a pile of sofa cushions. “Great form” I call out, then ask if you’d like some coffee, never missing a beat. I seem relaxed, confident, calm, cool, collected, as if an unseen commentator will suddenly start describing the qualities of the deodorant I’m wearing in an attempt to mass market my ability to not perspire under pressure. I am relaxed and easy going, most of the time…
- The rest of the time I’m fighting my alter-ego of cleanliness and perfection. Before I had children I kept a meticulous house. I would spend an entire day doing nothing but dusting, sweeping, mopping, etc. I had a glass table for goodness sake, and I would weekly remove each pane, cleaning both sides with windex, and there wasn’t even anyone present to leave fingerprints. I scrubbed baseboards. I washed out the shelves in my refrigerator. I would honestly be the person that came to your house, you people with children, and left saying just shoot me if I ever let my house go like that! I would go into your bathroom and raise an eyebrow at the ring stain in your toilet or the piles of hair in the corners behind the door. I didn’t judge you because of it, I just thought Eww, then I would scrub my hands before I exited, twice, and not use your hand towel. I didn’t like mine getting all wrinkly and wet, so I just assumed you didn’t either. I would go home and scrub my shower lest soap scum had taken over in my absence.
- Bad news friends. That crazy woman is still in here somewhere. I’ve been going to rehab. It’s a nice enough place, run by people under three feet tall who expect me to feed them and get up with them at the most ridiculous hours at night. It’s a crash course kind of thing. You are expected to quit caring about appearances cold turkey, and the only thing they can give you to prevent DT’s are frequent doses of love. Somehow, miraculously, it seems to be enough. After a holiday week of rushing about, I am confronted with a home in disarray, dirty dishes everyone, piles of laundry falling off the couch, and little people jumping into the pile with glee. There’s toys positioned haphazardly throughout the rooms, blocks and tiny dolls with cruelly outstretched arms waiting to trip and pierce an unguarded footfall. I have a moment where the anarchy of crusted pots and pans, the disorder of wet towels on the floor, the chaos of couch pillows thrown about threaten to overwhelm me. I catch myself as I almost loose it on my step-daughter for not pushing in her chair, but I shove the clean-freak back down. I go into my room and make my bed to help myself feel better. No matter that it’s eight o’clock at night, the sheets pulled tautly help soothe my tremors, give me some feeling of control over the disastrous war-zone before me. I move some toys into a basket in the living room, fold throw blankets and put them up and off the floor. I push the mound of laundry to only one corner of the couch, and I feel like I can breathe again. Never has there been such a trial of patience and self-control for a compulsive cleaner than living with children. You love them so much that you can’t kill them for disrupting your perfect, clean world. You can’t beat them, so you usually join them, most of the time. But when the trash is overflowing, and you realize one day that your toilet has a ring (Gasp!), it takes an extra 1,2,3, deep breathe. You pick up the Clorox and toilet brush, and give it a little swish, before your fine composure cracks like the dried spaghetti sauce on the third shelf in the refrigerator. It’s an ongoing thing here. My little counselors work with me daily, testing my limits, building my tolerance of mess. They’ve almost cured me. When I try to relapse they’re good to step in with a spilled glass of chocolate milk or doodoo on the beige rug. I’m truly learning not to cry over spilled milk, or poop for that matter.
That is all π
3 Facts for the Day (Holding Your Tongue Doesn’t Have to be Hard)
- It’s quite easy to fall into the trap of anger and negative reciprocal treatment where one unkind or not well thought through action leads to another and so forth until you reach a volatile place in an argument or realize you’re the recipient of the silent treatment, and you wonder, how did we get here? Here’s an example:
Susie Homemaker has her husband home for the day, and is excited to use the time to take a shower while he is present to watch the children and insure they don’t kill one another. She makes it easier for him by rocking the baby to sleep. She places the sleeping infant in the crib and goes to a blessed and eagerly awaited shower alone. While enjoying herself in the bathroom her husband and preschooler are playing together in the living room. When she steps out of the shower, and prepares to leisurely perform much needed beauty rituals, she notices the escalating volume of living room play. Within minutes she hears the baby cry. She states rather loudly, “She’ll be in a bad mood if she doesn’t nap longer than that!” Then she retrieves the crying infant and takes her back to the rocker. She closes the bedroom door with her foot and winces immediately, realizing the door closed much more forcefully than she intended. I wasn’t trying to slam the door she thinks to herself, and almost opens it back up to announce that thought to her spouse. But the baby must go back to sleep, so she doesn’t. As she easily rocks her infant back to dreamland, she hears something unexpected. Directly across the room from her, the bathroom door slams! She realizes immediately that the slamming door is a reaction to her own unintended action. But I didn’t mean to do it! she thinks to herself in frustration. - The above woman may not realize it, but she is at a crossroads of her relationship. No, it’s not a major crossroads decision, one that will make or break a marriage, but it’s a moment of decision none the less. And the smallest moments, the decisions that seem so insignificant, these decisions will add together over the course of years with the same person. They will stack upon one another and assist a relationship in its stability. Will it lean under the pressure of another argument, unreleased angst piling upon itself, or will it water the maturing garden of understanding and patience that has been planted? Every relationship is a mirror image of what you put into it. If you put time, selfless love, and infinite understanding, then that is what you’ll yield. Actions are reciprocated. You can see this is true in any relationship. I see it in working relationships. You can watch someone have a bad attitude with their superiors and it usually doesn’t get them where they want to be. Everyone has heard the phrase you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. While this is true, it’s so much more than that. It comes down to respect, and behavior that builds up rather than tears down, displaying words and actions that you would want in return. That’s usually why arguments escalate before they are resolved, if they’re resolved period. Anger, distrust, a condescending or hateful word of blame, these only inspire that same behavior in the other person. This happens automatically because it’s a protective impulse. Those words hurt me, so I’m going to say something that hurts even worse! Sadly, once words are spoken, they cannot be taken back. You can apologize, but usually only the good Lord above is capable of completing forgetting the worst in us. You can even see this play out with children. When they have negative behavior and you respond with another negative, such as out of control screaming, it doesn’t bode well for either of you. Screaming at a child for crying only makes them cry harder. This is something I’m still learning. Using a calm, caring approach diffuses a toddler tantrum quicker than any head-spinning, come-apart from Mom could ever do. Now I’m not implying you should talk to your spouse like they’re a tantrum-throwing toddler (even though that makes me smirk a bit), and definitely not your boss (even if I’ve had a few I thought were pretty childish), but every relationship deserves our best. It deserves an approach that we would wish for ourselves. Or think of it this way: treat a relationship like you would want your child’s future spouse to treat them. Treat it with care. Relationships are so fragile, and such a priceless treasure. Do they deserve any less?
- Back to our wet-haired, but not hot-headed momma, she made a decision. Initially, yes, she was a little, maybe a lot, angered by her spouse’s reaction. She had not wanted to start a fight, and was hurt that he seemed like he did. She wanted to lash out, question his motives, or worse, make him feel guilty. In the end she did none of those things. She put herself in his shoes, realizing his action was a impulse reaction, and knew further reciprocated anger would solve nothing. Did she ask him why he slammed the door? No. It wasn’t important. She didn’t even mention it at all. Sometimes, when a lifetime is on the line, you just let some things go. It’s that old saying, pick your battles. It’s like that. After she put the baby back down, she walked into the room and said, “I wanted you to know I’m sorry if it sounded like I slammed the door earlier. I didn’t. I closed it with my foot, and it shut louder than I intended. I just wanted you to know.”
And that was that. There was no argument, and a wonderful day was had. It could have been an argument. It could have caused a landslide of ill feelings that poisoned the whole day. It could have occurred in front of the children, causing them to wonder about Mommy and Daddy’s feelings for each other, and even possibly formed future opinions for them on how relationships should be between spouses. Think of an argument, a silly one, you had with your spouse. Would you want anyone, especially your children, to think that’s the way things should be? Relationships are what you make them. They’re what you put into them, not just sometimes, but all the time, every day. Let it always be what you would wish in return. Enjoy the fruit of your labor.
Psalm 128:2
You will eat the fruit of your labor;
blessings and prosperity will be yours.
That is all π
3 Facts for the Day (Unspoken Advice for the Father-to-be)
- I recently was a guest at someone’s home. I had brought my two children along, (the eldest three years and the baby drawing far too quickly to one), as I often do. I don’t really go anywhere without them unless it’s work, and that just seems to be another thing I’ve become accustomed to in motherhood. Being a perfect host, my brother asked me if I would like something to drink, and nothing sounded more perfect to my parched throat than a cold glass of water, to which he obliged. As he brought the clear glass to me, straight from the refrigerator, I could see the condensation forming on the outside, and I knew it would be a rewarding thirst quencher for sure. I always remember to pack sippy cups and bottles, but I often forget myself, as I had done this trip. As he handed me the enticing cup of aqua a horde descended upon me. Despite drinking an entire cup of water on the 10 minute drive there, my three year old honed in on my beverage and required a sip immediately. Not wishing to be outdone, and despite her own full sippy in hand, the baby proceeded to dive into my glass. She covered the rim with her slobbery smile as she attempted to turn the glass up to her open mouth. This was difficult for her because her big sister was doing the same thing on the other side. I watched in amusement and waited patiently for my own turn.
- The scene, two girls in my lap fighting over something that didn’t even belong to them, but in fact belonged to me, this scene was a perfect example of my life. I spoke with a young man recently who is a father-to-be as they call it. His child was being formed in the mother’s womb as we spoke, and so also being formed were his pre-conceived notions. I enjoy hearing the wishes and dreams of a budding parent, awaiting their child to make an entrance into this world. Some are full of trepidation, perhaps some mild concern, while others exhibit mostly jubilant expectation. But most have a beautiful hope in their eyes for their future baby. Most expectant parents are eager to hear your stories, and I guess even if they aren’t, I’m still pretty eager to impart it anyway. I always have a few things I like to share, some nuggets I’ve gleamed over the last few years. I think despite the most profound word I could muster, it would mean little until they are in the thick of it.
- I think back and can recall little stories here and there. I heard some, but mostly, to be honest, I think my attention would dwindle as I began to daydream of my perfect child that would in no way exhibit any of the horrible tendencies people were spinning me. When people spoke of time speeding up I would smile politely and nod my head. No problem there, I thought, I’ll simply keep that from happening. I almost feel like I owe each and every one of those well-wishing, advice-giving people an apology, but then I realize there’s no way I could have known. You can go swimming in early spring and see someone leave the water shivering, stating the whole time, “That water is freezing!” You will not however realize how frigid it is until you go for your own dip. And usually we just jump right in head first, don’t we? I could tell that young man things like:
“You’re life will never be the same.”
He knows that already. He’s not a moron. Everyone knows a baby changes everything. He knows there will be late nights. He knows it will be difficult. He may even remember my words of, “It’s ok if you don’t like your baby very much those first few weeks.” But he will not understand the helpless feeling of frustration when a baby is crying at 3am, and has been for four straight hours, and how he will feel like he can’t stand it another minute! But one day he will know, and he will be able to stand it. I wish I could tell him, but he’ll have to find this himself. One day he will hold his little girl or boy to his chest and feel like his heart is going to explode with the love he holds for that tiny, squirming being that kept him up all night, and still makes him question his abilities. He will wonder where this adoration came from, and stop in his task of bottle washing or diaper changing, and he will be momentarily stunned and unable to move with the realization of how much he is capable of loving another human.
He will then know what I meant by “your life will never be the same.”
I could tell him:
“It’s all worth it.”
This is a common, flippant phrase we all say. It means, dirty diapers, colic, continuous colds/ear infections, teething, spit-up, and so many other little things, they suck! When someone else’s gas pains and troubling pooping cause so much strife in your life, and you question every thing you thought you knew, it sucks rotten eggs! When you realize the books are full of crap and the question you have isn’t even in the index, it really sucks big time! When you google it, call your mom, phone a friend, throw out a lifeline of “what do I do?!” and still don’t have the answer of what in the world that rash is, why he won’t stop crying, or how to get her to sleep more than an hour at a time… it will really, really be hard.
But then it won’t be.
He won’t see the prize until he runs his own race. He’ll have to see for himself that his glass of ice water will no longer be his own. He’ll have to see for himself that he doesn’t mind that so much anyway. He’ll have to see for himself that his shared cup will never go empty anyway. He’ll realize it’s actually overflowing. If I told him that now I don’t think he’d get it. He’ll have to see for himself.
That is all π
3 Facts for the Day (It’s Okay to Tell Your Kid to be Weak)
- I held her close, stroking her little head, and she leaned closer into my chest as her tears tapered off. It was all she needed, to be held for a moment, and she was ready to get back down and play some more. Minutes earlier she had taken a small tumble trying to play as if she wasn’t a baby, but a big girl like her sister. As the weather gets colder it signifies more indoor activities, imaginative play to attempt and keep a case of cabin fever at bay. My three year old loves to build forts out of the sofa cushions. She always has. She also loves to jump around like she just funneled a pack of pixie sticks. Today she chose to throw all the couch and love seat cushions and pillows on the floor, then climb and jump on them. I then chose to allow it. I figured better that than finger painting the walls. (We had already used our paints that morning and I had seen her evil wheels turning). At one point, even as I sat watching them play, the 11 month old toppled over and bumped her head on the carpet. I think it scared her more than anything, but it also hurt I’m sure. As she started to cry her big sister said, “Shhh. Don’t cry. You’re okay.” My husband and I often try not to react to falls to prevent making it worse, but if it hurts, then it hurts. I explained this to my daughter, “Baby, if she hurt herself then it’s okay to cry.”
- We live in a tough world, a hard world, and we’ve all learned from a young age that we must be strong to keep standing in this cruel place. Little boys are taught:
“Don’t cry son!”
“Rub a little dirt on it!”
“You’ll be okay!”
“Don’t be a sissy!”
It’s always been that way I suppose. I’ve only see my own father cry twice, when his mother died, and when my own mother, his wife died. Little girls don’t get a reprieve either simply because they’re female. They too are taught to be strong. They are taught femininity, but with a dose of steel added to it, especially here in the South. They’re taught to hunt, to shoot a gun, to fight, and to stand up for themselves. They’re taught as they get older that no boy is worth crying over either! Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying this is all bad. I’m just saying maybe we are going a little far sometimes, not even meaning to do it. We grow up and it continues.
We females tell our co-workers, “Put on your big girl panties and get over it!
The internet is loaded with tons of positive quotes, quotes that tote the positive attributes of being strong, and not letting anything get to you. You’ll see this:
Cause I mean, come on, the best thing to do is hold your true emotions inside and fake it, right? My daughter saw a stuffed animal on TV she wanted. It showed a kid putting all her toys inside the animal’s mouth. She stated, “I can clean my room with that Mom!” I explained to her, “That’s not cleaning your room. That’s stuffing things out of sight.” Is that what we do sometimes when we’re trying to be strong? We just stuff our problem out of sight?
What about this one:
Do I even need to reply? We’ve all been guilty of trying to be strong the wrong way.
This one really got me:
Flying solo huh?
3. You see it a lot. Media, society, a trusted friend even, telling you to be strong, to draw from your inner strength.
“You got this girl!”
“The strength is inside you to get past this!”
“Just do it.”
I don’t think we do. Not really. Any strength we have, real strength anyway, is derived from our Creator. I think the problem occurs when we forget that and we think WE have to be strong, that it’s up to us to get through something, forgetting where our strength is derived. Too often we spend so much time pressing on, staying strong, moving forward, that eventually the weight of whatever it is becomes too much. It becomes so heavy that we can’t keep going with a fake smile on our face and tears in our eyes. We break. It’s inevitable. And that’s okay. That’s what we must remember to teach our kids and repeat to ourselves, that it’s okay to be weak. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay if you can’t do it on your own, if you reach inside yourself and discover the magic answer isn’t really there. It’s okay because in our weakness, that’s where he finds us. In our brokenness, that’s where we ask for His help finally, and acknowledge that we can’t do it without Him, that we can’t do it on our own. It’s where we cry, real tears, because it hurts. It hurts, and He can help. He can hold us and be strong when we cannot.
2 Corinthians 12:9-10
But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
When we fly solo, our wings don’t get stronger, they just get weary. We have to remember it’s okay to be strong if you know where the strength is coming from. It’s also okay to be weak, to admit your weakness, so He may give you the strength you need. No one is strong all the time. So I made one for you too:
3 Facts for the Day (The Abandoned Call of Fatherhood Edition)
- Not to long ago I cared for a man just a couple of years younger than myself. His reason for hospitalization was based on poor decisions he made for his life which is often the main reason of injury or illness in thirty-somethings. I don’t say that with any hint of judgement. It’s merely a statistical fact. Anyway, we spoke at length as I’m prone to do with my patients. Upon conversation, he shared with me that he had two daughters. The firstborn he stated was nine years old. He then shared that he had not seen her since birth. Naturally curious, I pursued further on the specifics of such a tragic situation in my eyes. I can never be certain of the full capacity for truth in these matters, especially when the person in question is coming off of mind-altering substances. He gave many reasons why he couldn’t see his daughter, and I’d honestly be lying if I said I felt any of these excuses were valid. A reason like geography or the mother’s dislike of you is not a good reason to never see your child in my personal opinion. I wasn’t angry at this young man. I was simply sad. I was upset for him, and the lost relationship with all the beautiful things that entails that he was missing, and I was also upset for the poor young woman who did not know her father.
- When I become aware of a situation like this, I take it personally. I can’t help it. I think of my own biological father. He was a man who sadly cared only for himself, and any other human being always ran a distant second place. My childhood memories with him are of broken promises, his constant, repeated absences, and unfortunate situations like stealing my birthday money to buy cigarettes. I don’t think men are aware of the lofty position they are ordained by God when they father a child. God places men in a position over their children where they are expected to exemplify to the best of their ability the characteristics of our Father God in Heaven. They are to be a protector, a provider, a fortress of strength, a place of unconditional love where their children may find comfort and rest. When this role is not fulfilled, it sets the child up for future failure, being uncertain of themselves, and lacking in an example to serve them throughout their adult life. Young girls, I believe, are especially affected by this lack of earthly father love. They feel rejected, unworthy of love, and will have a poor example of a man’s character with which to base on future relationships. I was gifted by God with a second chance to learn these precious examples. He placed another man in my life to step into a father’s role. Many women never have that opportunity, and in my opinion are left lacking an example of strong character for future choices in a mate. I also believe there is an empty place in their life that they may try to fill in unhealthy ways. I think they will always feel a sense of rejection and unworthiness due to their father’s absence. My own biological father was eager to relinquish parental rights for me in the face of impending medical bills. Although it was for the best, as I was adopted by my loving dad, I honestly still have issue with his quickness to abandon a relationship with me. It’s something God has worked with over time, and continues to do in my life.
- As I spoke with my patient, I explained to him my own feelings of rejection from my biological father. I urged him to work on himself, change his life for the better, if not for himself, then for his little girls. I warned him that she would be forever affected if he continued to accept a nonexistent relationship with his daughter, that one day she would wonder why he didn’t try harder. Men have a weighty responsibility placed upon them when rearing a child. It is not for the faint of heart, or for the non-committed. It is the highest position, the most important job you will ever be given. The outcome of your efforts will influence a generation, and make or break the future for them. It is not a task to be taken lightly, but a calling of utmost importance to mold young minds, protect hearts, and build-up spirits. I only pray that more young men will see the gravity of their actions, the responsibility that has been placed upon them, and the ramifications if unwillingly to take their role seriously. God gave fatherhood as a reflection of His love. It can’t be taken lightly. The children will suffer.
That is all
I would like to add that I am aware that men are not the only parent who can shirk their responsibility. Though I can’t imagine such a thing, and cringe at the thought, I am sadly aware that some women are capable of neglecting the responsibilities of being a mother, the best gift God ever gave to me. I chose to write this blog mainly on the absence of a father because that is what impacts me personally. It is not meant to imply that only men leave. That being said…
That is all, again.
3 Facts for the Day (Sick Day Edition)
- As I looked down at the collection of discarded suckers, not a single lollipop touched from the handful she had been given as peace offerings, I knew she must really feel bad. It was as if I could still feel the heat of her forehead on my lips, lingering there from the kiss that had graced her feverish skin as I left. I was leaving for work, unable to put off any longer the training that I knew was required. A much trusted sitter had been obtained, but it still hurt my mommy heart to leave her. Medicine given, a cup of water beside her, and a light blanket laid across her, I knew she would be okay, but still. Still it made my heart ache to see her falling asleep, almost drug into slumber by fatigue from fighting illness. My logical nurse mind told me she was fine. It reminded me of all the chronically ill children out there, and encouraged me to count my blessings. And I did, but still. Still it hurt my heart to see her hurting. I saw her pale face, her red-rimmed eyes, and how they seemed so heavy as I had pulled her from her car seat. “I’m sleepy Momma” she had said, an uncommon phrase for a young lady who fights naps like a true princess warrior.
- In the doctor’s office she had cried. Rarely sick, she was frightened of what might happen. We had talked it over at home, and practiced with my stethoscope, taking turns listening to each other breathe. We had discussed what to expect, and her dad had assured her she wouldn’t get a shot. She had seen her baby sister cry at multiple immunization appointments, and he promised her the shots were for babies only. I carried her on my hip as we entered the clinic. She clung to me desperately, and kept repeating, “I love you Momma.” I knew she wanted my protection from fear, pain, and the unknown. I was transported back in time to my eight year old self, sitting in the doctor’s office once again, having my blood drawn again in a vain attempt to stabilize the dosage of medicine to keep the seizures away. I asked my mommy to draw my blood instead of the lab tech I didn’t know. I was sure my mommy could do it magically without inflicting pain. I remember my surprise when it hurt just as bad, or maybe even worse. Back in the clinic today, holding my three year old, my little sunshine, singing to her, and rocking her back and forth as we waited, I just wished I could make it not hurt, somehow take it away, and put it on myself. When she ended up needing a shot, and I had to hold her as she cried in fear, I felt my heart tearing. To love someone so much, to wish only good for them, is a gift, but it is hard as well, so hard when they fall, or when they hurt, or especially when they’re scared. To allow the pain because it is for a greater good, this is especially difficult.
- I had a close friend tell me recently, “I’m hurting.” Upon further conversation, I realized it wasn’t physical pain of which he spoke. He was experiencing difficulty, uncertainty in life, emptiness, the bottom of the barrel, a place of desolate futility. I didn’t have the words to say, the magical advice to make it all better. I could attempt to offer pieces of knowledge I’ve gained in my own journey through the desert, but in the end my words were just that. Words. When encountering a person who is experiencing fear, pain, loss, and especially emptiness, I am reminded of parenting. I’m reminded of how much I love my little girls, the extent to which I would give of myself for their benefit. Then I’m reminded of the Father Heart of God. This is the belief and acceptance that God is our Heavenly Father, from whom we were created, and for whom we live. I am reminded of His perfect love for us, His children. I am reminded of how much He has done for us, giving His own Son’s life for our benefit, so we might have freedom from sin and death. In this way He did something I couldn’t do today. He took the pain away. He put it on Himself, and the sting of death was removed from His children. Today I allowed the pain of the blood work and the shot for my daughter because I knew it was temporary, and in the end would benefit her. She did not understand that at all, but I did what was best for her. Our own Abba Father works all things together for our good, even the bad, painful things. We can’t always see that.
1 John 3:1
See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!
Romans 8:15
The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship.[a] And by him we cry, βAbba,[b] Father.β
Love brings healing. It brings wholeness. His perfect love brings peace. One day we will get better, we will be without pain or fear. We will be healed. He has promised it. Cry out Abba Father.
That is all π
My sweet, sick daughter, sitting by my side, made the decision for the text on today’s photo. It works.
3 Facts for the Day (The Kingdom Rule Edition)
- The majority of my time in life right now is spent in an alternate universe where times speeds by with lightening quickness, sleep is hard to come by, and someone always needs to be held or fed. It’s a place without reason, where come-a-parts or hissy fits are the norm. In this land lost in time, where adult conversation is a rarity, obtained only briefly by phone, but usually halted by tiny people vying for your attention, and risking life and limb to attain it, tears can fall quickly and easily, but conversely they can also be replaced in a mere moment by lunatic laughter over a well-placed, comedic, yet absurdly embarrassing antic. The queen of this planet of impressionable minds is none other than myself, but my monarchy is often challenged by a rioting three year old who desires to overthrow the crown. She has a mindset of how the kingdom should be run, and not surprisingly, her system would serve to benefit herself above all others. This is the mindset of a three year old. Me, me, me.
- Chloe, the three year old in question, begins her struggle for power the moment her eyes open. As she pads into the living room, not being the first to wake, she is confronted with her baby sister taking up residence in her favored spot, my lap. She will come quickly to my side, and then the epic battle for my affections will commence. The tiny one (little sister), will hold her own as best as she is able, and I passively endure a horde of small people crawling all over my person, shoving each other from the warmest section of my lap. Eventually the craving of coffee will lure me to the kitchen, kicking off packs of snipping children as I attempt to leave the couch and the den of cartoon lunacy in search of caffeine. The mighty three year old sees this as her chance to place requests for gifts of milk and breakfast cereals, a difficult ordeal before coffee goodness is consumed and effectively lubricates the joints and mind of mommy. Not wishing to be outdone, a petite crawler will escape the toy jungle in search of her mommy’s milk. She is like a tiny lion on the hunt, with her only thought being food, and obtaining it at any cost.
- Even after coffee, the remainder of the day in this strange world of tiny vampires is simply a repeat of itself, like a twisted version of the movie Groundhog Day. The baby needs rocking, and as she drains all fluid, energy, and negative calories from the queen, the door keeps opening, and a little, blond head appears. She’s naked, bringing to mind the natural question, where did her clothes go?! She smiles sweetly, but the ulterior motives of waking the sleeping babe practically drip from her asinine requests for snacks and channel changing on the television. She is probably smiling so big with the sweet memories of well placed kicks to the baby hours earlier, spurred forth by jealous spats over previously discarded toys given importance once coveted by another. Naps, lunch, play, laundry, snacks, play, nap, dishes (simply so there can be something to place the next meal upon), play, hugs, “I love you’s” (which somehow she magically places to make it all okay), snacks, milk, milk, milk. As she tugs at my garment, I look down, and she claims, “You’re my best friend Mommy!” I fight the urge to cry (hormones are never the same, are they?!), and feel happiness over this revelation, especially after the sulking trip to her chambers, shambling there to recluse in dramatic sadness after correction was given for pushing her sister in the face, a punishment she doled out for touching the precious iPad. We dance in the kitchen, all three ladies of the castle, balancing on our toes, and spinning to the music, soaking in smiles and tinkling, baby laughter. Punishments are quick and often, correction to offset the actions of a jealous child, but the celebration and giggles always return. The clock will soon chime, signaling baths and bedtime approaching, an end to another day swooping in before it’s expected. The quickness of the hours baffles me, reminding me that hours add together into days. Watching as clothes and shoes are outgrown, as crawling becomes walking, words become sentences, and milestones flash by in a blur, I’m confronted with the passing years in this strange, but beautiful land, this place where little people indeed rule in the courts of my heart.
That is all π
3 Facts for the Day (The Intricate Design Edition)
- The tide was really high today. A storm was in the forecast, and the dangerously powerful waves proceeded its arrival in a magnificent foreshadowing of force. I had the opportunity to take a walk by myself this morning, along the shore, allowing the high tide to wash upon my feet as I strolled across the wet sand. I absently scanned for seashells, but mostly was just enjoying the quiet, silent other than the sound of the crashing waves and occasional gull’s cry. I enjoyed this rare quiet time. It’s far and few in between with little ones afoot. As I walked I listened, not only to the surf, but to God’s voice around me, within me. I didn’t do much in way of prayerful petition, but rather I simply listened to what He might want to impress in this moment of absolute, glorious silence. I was frankly surprised when I felt like my Lord said to me, “I’m proud of you.” I wasn’t sure what special thing I had done of recent, and quickly pushed away the comment, but again I felt the Holy Spirit impress those words to me, “I’m proud of you.” I was not aware at the time how I might need those words throughout my day.
- Later, after returning from my seaside stroll, I kissed my husband goodbye as he left the condo with the other men for a guy’s day out (we ladies had already had our day). The women set about stuffing goody bags with candy, baking, and other tasks to fulfill plans for seasonal fun, simply because that’s what we women do. After some time of playing inside the children became restless. It was apparent that some time outside might do them well. My three year old had stopped running fever, and although she definitely wasn’t back up to par, I made the decision that some fresh air might do her good. As I was feeling able, I encouraged all the children (nine in all) to accompany me to the beach. In retrospect… I was a little too confident in my abilities, and less cognizant of my limitations. After arriving on the very windy beach, where children would be unable to swim, my baby let me know in her trademark style that she required a nap. She began to fuss, root around, and attempt to jump into the sand. My children feed off each other, so when my three year old saw her sister’s distress, she realized she too required my full attention. She requested water to drink which I had forgotten to bring. This revelation caused a complete meltdown of her already fragile state. Many tears and snot poured into the sand below, while the baby began to scream in earnest. I looked around at the other children, and noticed one was not present. Had she come down with us?! No one seemed to know, or seemed half as concerned as myself. I felt myself teetering on the edge of insanity as my children cried and my hair whipped into my mouth, while I bent to retrieve my cell phone from the sand below. An angry baby foot had kicked it there when I attempted to text the other moms for a head count amidst the absent girl issue. Sadly there’s no time-out for a momma, no matter how the Calgon commercial may beg for one. As I carried my screaming children back towards the condo, my sister-in-law came outside, as if beckoned to spell me by some physic, mommy connection. As I trudged up the steps, and the three year old refused to wash off her feet with indignant tears, I felt as if I might burst. I felt like the end of my rope was there. I was reminded of the high tide, and how if you stepped into the surf too deep, you would be pulled under. Life is like that a lot. It feels like if you take one more step, your feet will be lifted out from underneath you, and you’ll get carried away, never to return.
- In my moment of frustration, feeling like I wanted to scream at my children, and realizing with a wince that I had, I felt like a terrible mom. And I’m wanting to have more!? I thought. I felt like a “can’t hack it, failure,” as if I couldn’t handle even simple parenting on a mundane, routine issue. I felt terrible. Then I remembered God’s words. “I’m proud of you.” I thought back to my morning walk. I had been enthralled by His mighty power displayed in the awesome ocean waves. As I walked, though, my eyes had been drawn to the tiniest seashell sitting on the sand. It was beautiful in its delicate intricacies. I knew this tiny shell, as much as the huge waves, this minuscule shell, it was also His doing. I serve a God of details, who sees every single thing as precious and deserving of His mastery. Often times we can feel as if we don’t quite cut it. We can feel different, small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, or in our actions, or even our inactions. I am reminded that no matter what I can do or can’t do, how I perform, or how I think I perform, God sees me, and He is proud. He forms my life in great detail, taking pleasure in me, and He is proud. No matter what I can do, or even what I can’t, He sees me, and He is proud. When I think I have failed, whether I have, or even if I haven’t, He sees me, and He is proud.
That is all π
3 Facts for the Day (Daddy’s Girls Edition)
- As I stroke her fine blond hair, feeling her hot cheek as it rests upon my leg, I am overcome with the love I hold for her, and concern over her fever despite reason telling me it’s nothing major. I make slow circles on her bare back with my fingernails, feeling her rhythmic breathing rise and fall against my arm, and I am also reminded of a father’s love. In the van, returning from dinner, my spouse had whispered to me, “I just can’t be happy when she’s sick like this.” Our three year old succeeded long ago in wrapping a lasso around my husband’s heart. When she was just a tiny baby, they spent most of the day together. At that stage of her life he worked part time and I worked full time. Those two were thick as thieves, inseparable, two peas in a pod. Even now, she eagerly anticipates her daddy coming home from work, and when he does they stay up late together building forts, playing ball, and many other imagination games. The week prior to going on vacation, they set up a beige blanket in the living room floor and pretended they were going to the beach each night, playing volleyball and having picnics on the sand. After the baby was born, my three year old and her father became bosom buddies, and I often overhear her say to him, “You’re my best friend!”
- Late last night, my husband nudged me awake. As usual, our daughter had fallen asleep comforted in my arms, but had set-up her nightly residence burrowed into his side. It was with this close-quarters sleeping arrangement that he woke and noticed her skin radiating heat. He whispered to me across the bed, “I think she has a fever.” We got up together, moving and speaking silently since our vacation accommodations meant the baby held residence in our room as well. We worked together checking our sweet girl for a fever, making her comfortable, and giving some medicine for her symptoms and discomfort. After our finely tuned parental concert, he would offer to take our sweet, sick girl for the night, not wanting to contaminate the baby or me. I fell asleep in a king bed, all alone, thinking of my sick girl and her good daddy. I fell asleep eventually, but knew he would stay awake until her fever broke and he was certain she would be okay for the night. He is always protective, and selfless in his love for his little princess, the keeper of his heart.
- The night before I had watched those two walking hand in hand down the beach directly in front of me.
She and I had decided to take a walk down the beach together. We had a shovel and a bucket, and a mission to collect some fine shells. We made our way down the beach, stopping frequently, enjoying the scenery, and finding seaside treasures. At one point, I looked behind us and saw my sweet groom coming along to join us. He carried our baby daughter. Upon seeing me, the baby leaned towards me, calling for me with a gentle whine. On the other hand, our three year old eagerly asked her knight in shining armor to pick her up. “I’m tired of walking Daddy. I can’t walk anymore. Can you hold me?” He obliged quickly, managing to tote her and her treasure and excavation tools. As I watched him carrying her down the sandy beach I was reminded of our Heavenly Father. I enjoy seeing the character of Father God in my husband, watching God’s love manifest in how my spouse cares for our little girl. When we become weary and can go no further, our God carries us, often taking our baggage along. When we are low, or sick, He holds us, and cares for us in our time of need. He delights in us, seeing us as His little princess or prince, of whom he is very fond, and so in love. It’s easy sometimes to forget that God loves us this way. It’s difficult sometimes to imagine that someone so mighty can love someone so small, but He does, and so very much. We hold a special place in our Father’s heart, just as my little girl does with her earthly father here. We are all Daddy’s girls (or boys) whether we realize it or not.
That is all π
3 Facts for the Day (A Confession Edition)
- “I am on the phone! I won’t tell you again to be quiet!” I screamed, hopefully away from the receiver. Then I continued in a sweeter, softer voice, “5:30 sounds just fine. We’ll be there.” My three year old, despite my increased volume of voice, was still in my lap. As I hung up my phone she got up and walked into her room, humming happily. I’m not sure what possesses children to do this, but they all do. If I really want to get my child’s attention all I need to do is either pick up the phone and call someone, play with the baby joyfully, or attempt to have an adult conversation with my husband.
- As we drove along the road, destination frozen yogurt (with all the toppings, yes please), I had the radio turned up. I was enjoying a favorite praise and worship song on the radio. The DVD player is usually on, and the accompanying voices of Max and Ruby or Doc McStuffins fill the air. I was enjoying the nice change and was getting into it a little bit, about to raise my hand into the air in agreement with the words I was hearing, when from the back I hear my three year old daughter. “Mom, turn down the radio so you can hear the words that are coming out of my mouth!” I smiled despite it all, and turned down the volume. I asked, “Ok. Is that better? What would you like to talk about?” She was silent for a moment, and I was distinctly aware that she had no particular topic in mind even as she had fought for my attention. She reached for a quick save, “I love you momma.”
- As I pulled into the parking space and cut off the engine, I stared vacantly into the distance, feeling the warm sunshine on my face. I realized I hadn’t particularly felt like I could hear God communicating with me today. In that moment, He said, “Have you been listening?” The conversation was broken by my daughter’s insistence, “I want to go in now!”
Later, at home, with two girls napping, I fell back into prayer as I washed dishes. I realized something as I prayed. I’ve been wrong. I admit it. I confess. At first I thought, maybe I’m not hearing God so well today because I’m so busy. Both the girls and myself are fighting off a small cold, making them fussy and me foggy. I’ve been packing for vacation for two days straight. That must be it. Then I realized something. I was listening selfishly. I’ve been asking God to speak to me about me. We live in such a self-entitled culture. We’re like a bunch of three year olds running around this world wanting to know what’s going to be done for us. It’s a huge problem in our government, our schools, and our homes. Today I realized it was a problem in my spiritual life. “God, tell me what to do so I can be happier and more blessed?” That wasn’t my exact wording, but that’s what it all came down to in the end. I was in constant prayer, but for me, myself, and I. Even when I tried to tell myself I wasn’t. “God, what can I do for your kingdom?,” rather than, “God, what would You have me do for your kingdom? How do You desire to use me?” Perhaps God wants to use us in the very place where we are not our happiest. It’s not about me alone. It’s so much bigger than that. While I am His child, and I can always find comfort in His lap, I can’t selfishly behave, vying for His affection and His blessings as if the world revolves around me. I still believe God loves us so dearly, and does desire to bless us richly, but how can He if we’re interrupting Him? “God, God, God, I need, need, need. Me, me, me. Can you hear me God?” He can, but can we hear Him? Maybe we need to change the way we’re listening. Maybe His direction, His voice to us, isn’t always about us. As I sit at a table in a coffee shop asking Him what He wants me to do about my personal situation, maybe, at that moment, He just wants me to go talk to that woman in the corner by herself, and speak blessings to her. I admit it. Lately I’ve been listening all wrong. It’s not all about me, and what God is doing with me. Some times, most times, it’s so much more than that.
God forgive me. Show me your way, your desires. I pray that I may hear you for others, for your kingdom, your church, not just for me.
That is all π