Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

The Benefits of Having Babies in Your Forties

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I always knew I wanted children. When I was a little girl I played with baby dolls and nursed puny, infant animals to health and vigor. As I grew older my parents had more children, I was the perfect, built-in babysitter, and had a natural, easy way with little ones. But wanting babies one day and actually finding the right person to have them with are two different things. Sometimes finding the right formula (perfect time + intense desire x the correct baby daddy) can be difficult. So you find yourself like I was. Thirty years old, divorced, sitting in my parent’s spare bedroom alone with my cat, wondering what happened to my life.

Thankfully I did find love again, and it met all the right calculations. And even though we weren’t even kinda close to ready, we certainly became ready when the flame got turned up on high in the way of a positive pregnancy test and the baby that followed. We were madly in love with parenthood, and before we knew it we added a couple more ladies to our passel of girls. Fast forward ten years and the joy keeps growing each day.

This morning as I drove to work I thought about how happy I was with life, and as minds tend to do I pondered on the possibility of how things could have gone differently. What if I had married my college sweetheart (who’s my husband now) at nineteen when he first proposed, and then we had started our family straight away? I mean, I’m certain we would be extremely blessed and happy like we are today, but I’m not sure it would have been quite as sweet. Let me explain.

One thing that brought these thoughts to my mind this morning was the echoing words from my father-in-law. My in-laws had traveled into town to visit with us all week, and as we said our goodbyes last night he had taken my head in his hands, kissed my cheek, then looked intently in my eyes and said, “trust the Lord, and He will steer you in the right direction.”

I had smiled at his words, so true and full of love. Since his son and I had dedicated ourselves to following Jesus, life had taken on a fullness and even simplicity that it had never held before.

I responded to him, “it took us a while to get our heads screwed on straight, but I think we’re headed in the right direction now!”

Then he replied, “well, y’all certainly got it figured out sooner than it took us!”

I thought about all this as I drove to work this morning. My in-laws were awesome folks, and I couldn’t remember a time they weren’t amazing examples, but perhaps he had meant during the “tough years.” You know what I mean if you’re a parent. It’s those rocky, ever-changing years of young babies and sleepless nights. It’s those years that you beg the long day to hurry by, but look back and wonder why the months zoom by so cruelly. It’s those younger years, those tiring years of early parenting that show you what you and your marriage are made of. Sometimes you feel like passing ships in the night between colicky babies and the morning alarm for work. It’s so easy to get stressed beyond the max, it’s too easy to sweat the small stuff, too easy to miss the joy in the seemingly mundane, and so hard to simply enjoy the moment.

There was still a lot I had to learn in life, but looking back I was astounded at what the years had done to me. I had matured in ways I didn’t even realize I needed to mature in, and I had grown personally more than I could have ever fathomed.

I wish I could remember who said it, but I once read a quote that stated, “children don’t become tolerable to be around until about the age of thirty-eight.”

As a forty-something woman reading that, I had laughed, naturally, but more-so because of the truth it held. If only I knew at sixteen what I knew at twenty, and if only at twenty I realized the things I had figured out by thirty. But in all honesty, my life was a total disaster even then! I thought I was getting somewhere by thirty-two, but even reading a diary entry or blog post from when I was thirty-four makes me shake my head in shame. What is it about years and life experience that changes everything?! Isn’t it wonderful that we never stop learning the lessons life gives?!

Having the privilege of hindsight makes me think that I started a family precisely when I should have. I mean, I certainly can’t see my crazy, twenty-something self keeping anything alive for more than a week. I barely kept myself above ground. I wasn’t the epitome of good decisions, after all. But seriously, I’m grateful that I had my children later in life. It’s easy for me to see how raising babies at forty was best.

For one, I got all my wild oats sown, so to speak. By twenty I had already traveled out of the United States and even lived and gone to school abroad. By my mid-twenties I had served my country in a time of war, sailed across international waters, and totally (and finally) figured out what I wanted to do when I grew up!

I had partied myself into a stupor (too many times to count), blacked out, passed out, fell out, and whatever else you can think of. I had gotten arrested, done things in New Orleans that stayed in New Orleans, gone clubbing with Russian strangers who couldn’t speak English, and played Truth or Dare challenges we can’t even discuss in this forum. I popped pills I wasn’t 100 percent certain of their origin, drank flaming shots, and flashed strangers at a strip club. I’ll stop before I shatter anymore innocence. Suffice to say, I tried living life to the fullest by whatever means necessary at the moment. I’m no better for it, if anything I have regret, and you’ll never find me wondering if there’s more to life than what I see in front of me.

I’ve been the life of the party. Now I’m more content to quietly sit at home with my family. While there’s nothing wrong with going out with friends, that’s something I don’t even do. I did enough going out already to last me a lifetime. I don’t feel as if there are areas of life undiscovered for me, I don’t long for greener pastures. I’m content (abundantly so) with something as simple as a sunset, and I’m never so happy as when I watch my children play. I don’t feel like something is missing, or like I had my youth stolen from me. I don’t need to seek sweet release after a rough day at work; my best release is found in a hug from my three year old.

And then there’s my career. I had the privilege to attend college for a cumulative five years with no responsibility for anyone but myself. I was able to spend the time discovering my career path, the time to pursue my studies for it, and even the time to work extensively in my field. I was afforded the freedom to try different areas of my vocation to determine what suited me best, never feeling stuck in a position because I needed to support someone else. By the time I started a family I had found fulfillment in my career. I was able to fully devout myself to motherhood when I desired to do so, not because I had to out of necessity. I didn’t give up one for the other, and I never felt as if I did. I was able to embrace motherhood, feel confident and seasoned in my vocation when I went to the bedside, and not let one interfere with the other. I was able to separate the two, and more importantly, find peace and joy in each piece of my life.

But aside from traveling, being a prodigal child, and getting an education, I also went through the natural transition we all do as we age. I was able to grow in confidence and appreciate who I was as an individual. I was able to finally see that it didn’t matter what other people thought of me, how they did things, or how I performed in comparison. As I grew older I was able to see that God created me to be precisely me, and that I was perfect to Him. Utilizing this mindset made being a mother so much easier. I didn’t expect perfection, and especially not someone else’s idea of what that meant. I worried less and enjoyed more.

Being an older mom gives you a special perspective. You no longer worry about the little things, and you laugh easier. You can relax in your good credit score, financial stability, and stress-free life. Most of the time, anyway. Wink, wink.

Being an older mother opens your eyes to appreciate your own mom more, or in my case, the other women in my life who fill that role. I’m able to see how special it is to have family, their advice, and willingness to help. I don’t take a critique or correction/suggestion as a personal affront to my parenting style. I’m able to see the wisdom others have and not think I’m less for knowing less. Nowadays everyone gets so offended! But us forty-something mommas are just sitting here sipping our tea. Mmhmm.

I’d never say my way was the best way for someone else, but I do feel it was best for me. I can see precisely how beautiful parenthood has been to me as a middle aged woman. I appreciate my role so much, never taking it for granted. Is parenting still hard? Of course! But I never let that overshadow the blessing of it. I think that’s a perspective that’s easier to obtain with age.

Yes, being pregnant as an older woman was hard. Heck yeah, I’m tired. But then there’s how young I feel. Something about having babies in your forties is like a fountain of youth. In the past week I went down two killer water slides and gleefully screamed as I rode Orlando’s tallest, fastest, and longest roller coaster. My daughters keep me young, and most days I don’t feel “middle aged” like my years on earth proclaim. The benefits of having babies in my forties are too many to count. So, I just count my blessings instead.

Your Child’s Education Isn’t Important!

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Your child’s education isn’t important!

Woah, stop the presses. Isn’t your child’s education the most important thing there is?! Well, while I’ll agree (as a strong, college educated professional) that education is important, I believe that as a society as a whole we have placed far too much value on it. So it might be better to describe it this way.

Your child’s education isn’t as important as you think.

I was watching TV with my daughters while on vacation when a particular commercial came on the screen. I won’t state the specific company, but it was a well-known educational app that was aimed towards helping children to learn. In fact, once upon a time I subscribed to this educational app for kids. I still thought it was great and really put together well. Props, you know? But the commercial? I always had a problem with them. They fed into the worried parental mind that exists so readily today.

This particular mindset of the modern parent said, “is my child up to speed?”

It was a mindset that was seeped in comparison and anxiety.

It said, “is my child learning fast enough? Are they smart enough? Are they going to be behind?”

So, back to the commercial. This particular one showed an interview with a once-panicked mom.

She states happily, “we were so worried Billy was falling behind! But now he’s learning by leaps and bounds!”

Leaps and bounds. The camera switched over to little Billy playing happily with his tablet. He looked to be about two years old. The only leaping he needed to do was over mud puddles. And the only bounding truly required was towards his favorite playground. He was a toddler, preschooler at the most, and his parents were causing undue anxiety for not only him, but themselves when they kept sweating if a child who couldn’t yet tie his shoes recognized every letter of the alphabet and what sound they made. Just my opinion.

I’ve been there, you see. I’ve been that worried parent, and I did it long enough to come out the other side wiser and more relaxed. I still have a lot to learn about parenting, and I don’t consider myself the know-all, be-all. But my kids are pretty darn happy. That’s good enough for me.

Have you ever noticed how when you rush about trying to get out the door on time that your children fall apart? It’s that way with most things when you push a child beyond what is possible or what they’re ready to handle. I look back at many afternoons at the table, my daughter crying, and me feeling like a terrible mom!

I guess I started to realize the error of my ways a few years ago. I was so anxious about it all. My daughter was in first grade, and she couldn’t read! I mean, she could read her sight words and trudge through some Dr. Suess, but when it came to picking up a book and simply reading without the painful phonics and stumbling pauses, she wasn’t there yet.

Her cousin could read!

Other kids in her homeschool group could read.

It was me, most likely. I was messing my kid up!

As a homeschooling mother, I worried I wasn’t giving my child what she needed. I worried I wasn’t preparing her adequately for the future. I worried it was my fault she couldn’t read!

I pushed harder. She fell apart easier.

School days were often painful, and I realized my child hated reading.

As an avid reader, and an even more passionate writer, the thought of my own flesh and blood not being a book worm like mommy was especially painful. She loved her some science, which my medical field self was proud of, and she zipped through math better than I ever could, but the reading. Painful. Painfully behind.

I sat at the kitchen table going over curriculum, lessons plans, and catalogs for the upcoming school year, and at that moment I realized I was pushing my oldest child too hard. She wasn’t ready to move forward to the next grade. She hadn’t met the milestones she should for reading. Sometimes she hit the mark every time, but it wasn’t consistent. I felt in my honest heart that I needed to hold her back a year.

Y’all, I was crushed. She didn’t care. I explained she would be repeating a grade, and I let her know that her cousin (the same age by a week) would be moving ahead of her. She was fine with it. I slowly followed suit.

See, I thought it was my fault. I thought she was behind. I had set in my mind the particular path her learning should take, and anything other than that seemed like an epic fail!

We live in a world that shows commercials for teaching your baby to read. Ads tote the importance of your child being ahead, and certainly not behind. They talk a lot about ensuring your child’s successful future, as if when they learn their ABC’s will determine if they get into Harvard.

Well, here’s the truth of it. Billy may not get into Harvard. In fact, Billy may not want to go to Harvard. He may not want to attend college at all. And that’s okay! We have fewer tradesmen and blue collar workers than ever before because society has placed such a value on higher education, forgetting that it takes all kinds to make the world go round.

Want to hear the craziest part?! My child wasn’t behind. The only reason she was even in the grade she was in was because I enrolled her in it. As a homeschooling parent I had started her Pre-K early. We had moved on to Kindergarten before her friends in our neighborhood who were the same age. If she had gone to public school she would not have been able to attend Kindergarten when she did, but I had been so excited and determined to teach her. And that’s fine and dandy! But I had to know when to throttle down, when to push her, when to relax and take a breath. I look back now and wish I had that time back. I wish we had played more with toys in the floor, spent more time cuddling and giggling, and less time making her sit at a table and learn how to count to twenty before she could even pronounce the number correctly.

The world she was growing up in said she needed to read by five, but it said nothing of yes ma’am or no sir.

The world she was growing up in said she needed to be involved in as many extracurricular activities as possible to build character, teamwork, and a competitive spirit. It said nothing about the benefit of time with mom and dad, or how much knowledge could be gleaned from sitting on the porch shelling peas with grandma.

The world she was growing up in said the honor roll was a must, but said very little about befriending the quiet girl sitting on the bus alone.

The world we were living in said I was a failure as a parent if my child didn’t keep the same pace as the majority. It said there was only one way to learn, one style, one setting, and one ruler to measure everyone’s success by. It said nothing of individuality, special gifting, unique talent, or how the planet could keep spinning even if your offspring weren’t number one at absolutely everything!

Billy could fall down and be okay.

Billy could make straight A’s, but be a bully.

Billy could hate homework, but still be successful in life.

Sally could have trouble learning to read, but create a symphony that brought people to tears.

Sally could flunk math and still lead a productive, happy life!

Good grades didn’t predict your future, but being a decent human being said a lot.

Being first place wouldn’t earn you a wonderful life, but putting yourself last would lead to a fulfilling one. Do you know what I mean by that?

We have to teach our children how to be kind, love others, and serve as Jesus did. Heck, He told His followers to drop their nets, leave their jobs, give away their gold, and even go on their journeys without a bag packed. He didn’t plan for a perfect future for them, but He did give them the tools to build up an everlasting treasure in Heaven. He showed them that kindness was cool, being last put you first, and hanging with the outcasts was where it was truly at! I wanna teach my kids that!

You know what? My daughter reads beautifully now, and learning how a little behind the average age didn’t harm her a bit. I had to learn to settle myself and not place too much stress on either of us. I had to realize what’s important in life and what’s not. The world will tell you a lot of things are must-haves and have-to-be dones, but nothing is more important than relationships with those around us and learning to be a better person tomorrow than you were today.

I am a college educated professional, and I make really good money. I have so many options with my career, and I could live anywhere in the country. There’s tons of room for growth, promotional potential, and retirement benefits. My education allows me a lot of freedom in my life, and I think that’s awesome. But it’s not the most important thing.

I could have the highest degree possible for my vocation, and I could have obtained the highest GPA in my graduating class. I could have attended the most prestigious program out there, and have a billion certifications behind my name. I could keep my educational level ever-growing, learning everything I could possibly know about my changing field, but it would mean absolutely nothing if I was a jerk.

I am a successful nurse because I treat my patients like people rather than just a number or diagnosis. My patients love me because I consider my job a privilege to serve mankind. I do well in my career because I’m a good team player, I have a positive attitude, and I’m easygoing in what is a difficult, changing environment. Yeah, I needed the degree to get me to the bedside, but it’s my love for people that keeps me there and happy. I don’t want to be that person who hates their job, and I don’t want my children to be that person either.

You’ve seen technology. The world could be run by robots if we wanted, but one thing prevents that. Love. We need it to make the world go round. We need humanity. We need a smile. Everyone hates self checkout at Walmart because they want the friendly checker to say hello. We need more friendly hellos.

We need more people who love what they do.

We need more people who are passionate about one another, about helping the planet move forward in harmony. We’ve become a selfish place to live. We cut line, cheat, and win by whatever means necessary. We think that will bring happiness. A bigger degree, a more successful career, a fatter bank account, a larger home. Surely these things will bring us happiness! We spend so much time running faster for something better that by the end of our lives we lay there exhausted wondering where the time went. When did the kids grow up? Why don’t they ever come to visit? We sank all that money into our savings account, we built up that retirement cushion, but now that the time has come, no one is there to enjoy it with us. We’re alone. A bunch of highly educated, loners with a huge, extremely quiet home. Where’s the laughter gone?

Ahh, man, I could go on with this forever, but if you’re not getting it by now then I don’t know if you will. But I hope you do, before it’s too late. When you’re on your deathbed it won’t be Billy’s great grasp of phonics that flashes before your eyes. It will be all the lost time with those you loved, all the missed opportunities to build a treasure for yourself and your family beyond this world. It will be regret. And you will finally see that all the things you spent so much time worrying about were meaningless.

Why My Beautiful Daughters Don’t Do Beauty Pageants

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I grew up competing in beauty pageants, or beauty reviews (as we called them when I was little), and I enjoyed them too. It was fun for me to get dressed up, put on makeup, and get my hair styled. My mom and aunt would fawn over me, telling me how stunning I was, and I sure enjoyed their attention. Sometimes I placed, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I won, and sometimes I didn’t even make it to the top ten. I tried to understand that each judge had a different idea of beauty, and my mom and her sister would try to make me feel better when I lost.

“That ugly girl’s mom must know the judges!”

Hey, y’all don’t gasp too loud. You know all your mommas said stuff like that. Or maybe it was just mine. Bless her heart. She just loved her baby. But anyway.

I competed in everything from tiny-town USA pageants, where less that a dozen girls participated, to Miss Teen of Mississippi pageants, where the winners were chosen on talent and scholastic achievements too. Some titles got me a tattered banner with Elmer’s glue and glitter words across the front, while others offered scholarships for college and modeling opportunities. So what I’m saying is, I know how the pageant thing works. I’m no expert, but no novice either. I played that circuit for years, and though I placed less and less the older I got, I typically enjoyed myself and tried not to think I was getting uglier with age.

I suppose things began to change my senior year of high school. I can remember getting all glitzed up in a tight, sequined number that my mom was convinced brought out the green in my eyes. She had also insisted on taping my chest and adding some eye shadow to create the illusion of cleavage and further sell the twenty pounds of padding in the dress, since I had exactly zero boobies to fill it out. Did you know they put darts in those formals for breasts? Us flat girls were out of luck. Big boobs equaled pretty, but I digress.

Back to senior year. Despite the extra fluff up top, I did not place. I didn’t even make the top ten. Dang, southern girls are gorgeous and hard to compete with. Afterwards I tried to dampen my disappointment, even though my crush couldn’t look me in the eyes backstage (I think the sudden cleavage thing made him uncomfortable). At that moment, as I watched my fella stare at the floor and stammer, a group of friends, who also didn’t place, came up to me.

“The judges are letting you meet with them,” one girl exclaimed. “They’re telling us why we didn’t place!”

I found this kinda odd, and I asked what they had said.

The first girl was so excited to spread the good news of epic judginess that she had wandered off, and another friend told me her flaws per the panel.

“They told me my lips were too thin,” she shared.

I thought to myself, my lips are thin.

“They told me my hair was too straight,” she added.

I had curled my hair, but really? Too straight?!

Too thin.

Dress too sparkly.

They were looking for natural beauty that year.

The hits just kept coming, and they weren’t even about me, but I was offended nonetheless. I didn’t know what made someone beautiful compared to another. I mean, I was no expert judge, but I did know that the thought of going before strangers, opening my chest cavity before them, and then allowing them to rip out my heart with their ideas of why I was ugly sounded awful. Okay, maybe I’m being melodramatic, but really, have you met a seventeen year old girl?! All I knew was I didn’t want to hear their opinion. I was sensitive enough as it was. I didn’t think I needed the constructive criticism. I let the pageant thing go.

As I’ve gotten older a lot of my opinions on life have changed, and I am aware that many of them don’t go along with popular opinion. I’m the same mom who doesn’t let my girls wear bootie shorts, and the same woman who herself won’t wear a bikini. I think I could rock the bikini bod in a forty-one year old mother of three kinda way, but I also figure I’ll just save that show for my husband. So, point being, my opinions aren’t mainstream, and that’s why they’re called opinions. I get that beauty pageants are a Southern Staple. Kind of like sweet tea and saying y’all, getting gussied up for a pageant is just what you do. So I’m not judging anyone, but rather simply sharing my thoughts. And my thoughts are no pageants for us.

The story I told from high school is just one aspect. It seems almost ridiculous for me to have women judged beautiful by other people. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So while one person may love blonds, another will think bushy eyebrows are where it’s at. To win or lose placed on only the outer surface is superficial at its best, and it puts inner beauty in the backseat. And to me that’s the most important part. You can be an absolute stunner physically, but if you have a mean personality then it’s downright ugly. I’ve done pageants with interviews, and even those only touch the outer edge of a person’s heart. How can we rate people in order of awesome based on five minutes of their life? You can’t.

Am I being overprotective of my girls’ self-esteem? Perhaps, in a way I am. I totally understand that they won’t always win in life. I’m realistic. I know I can’t guard their hearts forever from the judgement this world provides, but I think they get plenty of real-life, worldly judgement just walking out the door each day. Young hearts and minds are easily molded. So to promote to them an idea that celebrates outward beauty on a pedestal while telling them it’s ok to say this girl is prettier than this girl, that just seems so totally out of whack to everything their father and I teach to them.

We teach them to be kind. We teach them to love everyone, to love like Jesus. We teach them that inner beauty is the best attribute. We teach them to be humble, to not think too highly of themselves. Yes, I tell my girls they’re beautiful, but to put them in a contest that tells them one is prettier than another? I can’t get behind that. It would be like sitting my daughters down and giving them banners that ranked them amongst themselves.

You are the prettiest daughter.

You’re the most photogenic daughter.

Sorry, kiddo, you don’t get a place this time around. Maybe next year, if you work hard and practice how you walk and smile.

Again, I know, perhaps a bit overboard, but deep down isn’t that what a beauty pageant does. I can’t understand why we as parents love them so. It’s like, here, let me drop a bunch of cash I don’t have on a dress you will wear one day, put enough makeup on my toddler to make them look twenty, and pump them full of sugar so they’ll stay up and smile all day long. I’m going to tell you that you’re the prettiest girl in the world, but let’s go a step farther. I need you to stand in a straight line smiling next to a dozen other pretty girls so we can prove you’re the best. We’ll have this total stranger who competed in a bunch of pageants fifteen years ago rate you based on things like the fullness of your lips and how high your heels are. Sure, she won’t be able to see how you help your grandma do dishes, pray for the sick kid you saw in the doctor’s office, or suggest we make cookies for the garbage man, but she can place you in order of importance based on how many sequins you have on that rented dress.

I don’t know. Again, I don’t fault anyone who finds them fun, but I guess I just can’t understand. I can’t get how we live in a society where women want to have the right to chose what to do with their own bodies, to get paid the same as their male counterparts, and to stand on the frontline along the soldiers who are men, but they still get giddy about judging each other based on feminine appearance. They want to be respected for their mind and to stop sexual harassment, but have no issue putting on a plunging neckline or tiny swimsuit to walk on a stage and be judged like livestock. Too much?

I love y’all. I do. And I love seeing photos of your precious daughters in gorgeous dresses with their hair just perfect. It makes me smile huge! Every picture I see I think, that girl is beautiful! They are! And I hope they feel that way. I hope they don’t feel like they are less lovely if they don’t place against their peers based on a stranger’s opinion of what pretty is. Heck, my mom told me I was Most Beautiful every day, and that it wasn’t about winning; it was about dressing up and having fun. I’ll bet that’s what you say too, and that’s great. Really. But I also remember what it’s like to be little, to have a mind that doesn’t completely understand how the world works or a well-established self-esteem. I remember not understanding that it was not what other people thought of me that mattered, but rather how I loved others. Or the huge fact that how God sees me is what’s most important. I didn’t get that until I was like, thirty! Not sure how we expect a six year old to catch up.

I am sure that beauty pageants can teach a kid camaraderie and how to be a graceful loser. I certainly learned those things, and I had fun for the most part doing them. My mom didn’t make me do it. I wanted to. The scholarships are awesome, and a little healthy competition is good for a child. I can support all those things. But for our family, pageants aren’t an option. We’ll chose other activities to foster those things. I have beautiful daughters (in my opinion), but I don’t want to raise just beautiful daughters. I want to raise kind daughters, loving daughters, daughters who see themselves and others more than skin-deep, daughters who know their worth in Jesus, and most importantly, daughters who know the worth of others because of Jesus.

I don’t want to confuse them about what matters most in this life. I can’t say, “it’s what’s inside that counts,” on one hand, but have them compete with others based on the outside on the other hand. It would be like I was talking out both sides of my mouth. It’s my job to guide them in life, not confuse them. It’s my job to practice what I preach, and to model behavior for them. Maybe I don’t trust how I would act as a pageant mom. I only have one chance to raise kids after God’s own heart, the kind of kids who make the world a kinder place. I could be totally off base with this pageant thing, but I guess I’ll take my chances.

My beautiful girls, inside and out

A World Where College Beats Out Compassion

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Being a parent is really hard. Like, really hard. You get through the nine months of crazy symptoms that would ordinarily send you to the ER, grit your teeth through the labor pains, then they hand you this tiny little human to keep alive. It’s not like the egg experiment in high school. You don’t get to just not break it for a few weeks. You gotta not break it forever. Or roughly eighteen years. No worries, though. The labor and delivery nurse pats you on the back, hollahs “good luck sucker,” then sends you on your way with only rudimentary knowledge of how that seat for the car thingy works.

Ok, so you make it through the first couple of weeks without accident. After you tackled the fear of bumping their little head (with the fleshy piece protecting their brain) up against door frames, you feel pretty confident. I mean, you still sleep with one eye open and stare at them in the middle of the night to make sure their chest is rising and falling, but overall you feel pretty legit. Heck, by the time they’re two you have a handle on the parenting thing. Sorta. I mean, kinda. You even start thinking about having another one.

I think you get my point. Parenting ain’t easy. No matter which way you slice it. You can feel pretty confident with it one day, and then the next they’ll successfully knock you down a peg. Children are humbling. You think you have one phase of childhood or the parenting paradox navigated, but then you enter another challenging stage.

I have three daughters, and while newborn coupled with toddler while teaching homeschool rocked my world, the thing I hear most from people to watch out for are the teenage years.

“Just you wait until they’re all going through puberty at once,” a well-meaning acquaintance will say.

And while I’m not even ready to think about such a thing, I’m also not convinced that will be the toughest thing I face. I believe the hardest part of parenting I come against is already here. And that is trying to raise a child in the selfish society we have become. Attempting to instill morals in a morally corrupt world is no easy task. Convincing my girls to be selfless in today’s selfish world is a challenge. In a society that’s all about “me,” and one that places far too much importance on outward appearance, what others think, and making a name for yourself, it’s like the deck is stacked against you. It’s an unfair fight.

Today’s parenting examples show picture prefect photos of little girls in designer duds or snapshots of tweens who look like they’re twenty. We have no problem toting our kiddos goodies for the world to see. Smile for the camera.

Today’s parenting examples celebrate learning to read before three or enrolling in an elite daycare while they’re still in the womb. It’s a society that pushes for number one, plays sports seven days a week, and gives such motivational wisdom as only the strongest survive. Or weakness is for losers.

We’re a world of winners. Everyone wants to be an American Idol, Instafamous, trend on Twitter, or get a million YouTube hits. It’s all about the likes, the followers, and how many “friends” you can amass.

We’ve become a community that places importance on face value or what’s on the outside. We place even more value on test scores and class ranking. It’s not about the person you are, but rather, what you become. You have to make something of yourself, for goodness sake!

We are currently raising children in a society that does absolutely whatever it takes to get a kid into a good college. Or rather, a prestigious one. We’re raising children in a society where the kids who work hard, study, and do “the right thing” can be pushed out of a spot they earned by someone who’s better at lining pockets. We have to raise children in a world where we want to tell them to keep their nose clean, hit the books, and do well. That it will pay off. Except, we live in a world where that’s not always true. It’s a world where so much value is placed on materialistic expectations that good grades and morals aren’t enough to get them ahead. They’ll be stepped on and over by the vultures who seek the top position, and will pick the bones clean of anyone who gets in the way. That’s the world we’re living in!

If you missed the news lately, here’s what I’m talking about.

I desire to teach my girls to be kind, compassionate, and to turn the other cheek. Yet I am faced with the task of raising them amidst the polar opposite.

I try and tell them they’re beautiful on the inside and out. Society says your waist needs to be smaller, your butt needs to be bigger, and your lips need to be fuller. Here’s an ad for a waist-shaping corset!

I try and tell them to be a good friend, to help the helpless, to lend a hand. Society today tells them to step on people like stairs to reach the top.

I face the monumental task of raising my girls to be ethical and compassionate. I try and teach them how Jesus said the first would be last, and the last first. Yet they’re surrounded by a world that stands in opposition to that. They’re pressed in from all sides by a world that says there is no second place. If I was not so firm in my convictions I too might be swayed by the masses of parenting peers who place value on anything but what’s on the inside or loving others.

So if you’re just starting out on this parenting thing and you think the newborn/colicky period is the worst, I got news for you. You haven’t even scratched the service. It’s not a certain age or phase, like terrible twos, threenado, or mean teens. It’s from now until the day you die. From the moment you put on the parenting badge of honor you are responsible to raise a decent human being who is a positive influence to his/her peers. And not for any credit to themselves or even you. It’s to God’s glory that we as Christians must rise above the muck and mire of this world. We must teach our children the same. By example. And certainly not by cheating on college entrance exams or buying your admission.

There’s More to Life Than Just Being the Cool Kid

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Last night I lay in bed watching Netflix with my husband. While we watched a favorite show I glanced through the pictures I had taken that day. I especially loved one of my two youngest daughters looking out over a natural spring in Central Florida. We had all watched with glee as a trio of otters dipped and ducked through a bed of lily pads. I showed the photo to my spouse.

He commented, “you know, I’ve never seen otters in the wild before. And I’m forty-one. The girls got to see that today. That’s awesome.”

I agreed. A year ago this week we had made a monumental decision to travel the country together with our children. And in that, already our young daughters had seen things we had not even known existed at their age. Yet it was more than swimming otters and multiple coast-lines.

Last week my husband had met a new friend. It was a guy about his age, and they spoke for some time, having multiple things in common. And I’m not even counting the fact that this man and his family had decided to focus on the finer things in life like we had done.

After they had met that day, and as my husband shared some of their conversation, he spoke, “the guy said something that made me think of you. He mentioned how the things he once thought were important, turns out, they’re not.”

I chuckled. Yes.

I can look back at my life and I see a lot of wasted time.

I remember when my mom and I first moved onto the land my new stepdad owned. One day in particular I got to meet my cousins on his side of the family. I acted like an absolute nut. My mother had mentioned it to me later, after they left, and even at age eight I realized she was right in her assessment. The entire time I had been screaming, “look at me! Watch this! Watch me!”

I had just wanted them to like me.

I remember the first day of third grade at a new school I had told the little blond girl I met on the teeter totter that I had epilepsy. I had wanted her to feel sorry for me. I had wanted her to see I was different. Beat me, bore me; just don’t ignore me. I had shared something that set me apart from the other children because I wanted to be seen, to be noticed.

They noticed me, all right. It didn’t pan out like I hoped.

I entered elementary school as the sick kid, the different kid, the kid with a weird accent.

I went through junior high school as the kid who wanted to be the cool kid. I scoured my YM magazine for inspiration. I wanted to dress cool, say the right thing.

I wanted to fit in.

In high school I sought out the pretty girls, the athletic guys, the popular kids, the cool clubs. They seemed so happy, like they had it all.

I wanted to find that place. I wanted to find my place.

I thought maybe I found it in college.

I mean, there were so many other people like me. Young people searching to find their fit.

Searching for acceptance.

Searching for love.

Searching to stand out.

Searching to make a name for themselves.

It was even kinda cool to be different, to be weird. Yet still…

I couldn’t really find my place. So uncool.

Ever since I began homeschooling my first daughter I received flack from my peers. Even people who had never laid eyes on my children had something to say.

Coworkers questioned my children’s socialization, even proclaiming things like, “oh my God, please don’t do that to your kid. Don’t make her one of those weird homeschool kids!”

I’ve seen the same pushback when we decided to travel.

“What about their friends?!”

Cause, you know, my three year old is the president of the nursery. Her peers elected her most likely to potty train first.

I saw other moms question our lifestyle.

“I could never do that! I’d be afraid my children wouldn’t know how to act in social situations!”

“What about school?”

“Aren’t you worried how they’ll act when they get to college?”

Ahhh, college. I remember it well. It was the place where I almost lost myself searching for who I needed to be. It was a place where a public school kid went wild, still searching for my fit. I wasn’t even a “weird homeschool kid,” and I still didn’t know how to proceed in life. I grew up, no fault to my parents, always thinking that was the goal. The goal was to fit in, to find my niche, to succeed, be a cool kid. Maybe I was a product of too many John Hughes’s films. I chased popularity, fitting in, and finding favor with man for far too many years. I was highly socialized, but into the wrong society. I was socialized into the world. We were never meant to try and fit into that.

My daughters are afforded every opportunity in life to “socialize” with others, but they also know there’s more to life than being the cool kid.

They understand it’s not about the clothes you wear, or brand names. It’s about carrying yourself like a Child of the King, robed in righteousness.

They understand it’s not about fitting in; it’s about helping others feel like they fit.

It’s not about being the best; it’s about being kind.

It’s not about chasing love. It’s about knowing they are highly loved and favored already by the One who formed them in my womb.

It’s not about trying to fit in and find their place in this world. Because they understand this world is but a vapor. Their goal is to love people while they’re here, enjoy the gifts they’re given in life, and be thankful for each day.

It’s not about being popular. It’s about being a good friend.

It’s not about being a winner. It’s about being a servant.

It’s not about having a big house. It’s about having a big heart.

It’s not about their last name. It’s about being a good example.

It’s not about how much money we have. It’s about how much we share.

It’s not about the best school and best grades. It’s about the life lessons we learn and how that shapes us to be better people.

My daughters don’t make friends based on appearance or reputation. They make friends based on The Father Heart of God. They’re not perfect kids! They can be mean little brats! But they’re learning. They’re learning that there’s more to life than being a cool kid. It’s all about being the kind kid.

They make friends regardless of color, religion, or if their playmate has two dads instead of parents of the opposite sex. They “socialize” with others regardless of the clothes they wear, where they live, or what their parents do for a living. They aren’t manipulated into believing they belong to a certain group. They know we’re all God’s kids; even if we don’t know it. And that means everyone is cool.

My hope for my daughters is that they won’t waste time trying to find their place or fit in. They’ll understand that God made them unique, but places them exactly where He needs them to be. They don’t have to run to find their niche. They’re in His hands already.

My hope is that they won’t chase the things of this world, the things that fade, rust, wear-out, and fail them. Instead they’ll rest in an eternal mindset.

Yesterday my eldest daughter and I talked about sand castles as we built an elaborate sand city. I told her that life here on earth was like building sand castles. You knew that one day the rain, wind, or a wayward person would knock down your castle. But that knowledge didn’t stop you from building them. It didn’t make you want to stop building sand castles. Instead, you simply enjoyed your time building your castles. That’s what we’re here for. We’re here to enjoy the sand God gives us to build with. We can’t take it with us, but we can take along the friends we make building castles together.

So shouldn’t we offer to make castles with everyone? Shouldn’t we love building castles, sharing our castles, and making the most of the construction? There’s more to life than being the cool kid. There’s more to life than building the biggest, best castle. Build to the best of your ability! But don’t build just for those watching you. Don’t just build to seek gratification from those around you. Don’t just build to make a name for yourself. Instead, build for the guy alone in the corner who hasn’t figured this castle thing out yet. Build a bridge so he can come to your kingdom, meet your king. Even the coolest castles get taken out to sea when the tide comes in. So don’t worry about your castle’s outside. It’s what’s inside that matters most.

You Are a Tree

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“Do you see the tree? So strong, so tall. It reaches so high? Do you think you could tip it over?” I asked.

My daughter softly replied, “no.”

I continued, “What about your dad? He’s bigger. Could he knock it down?”

“No,” she giggled.

“Well,” I pondered. “What if it was just setting there flat on the ground? Do you think it could be knocked over then?”

“Yeah,” she answered quickly.

“So,” I continued. “What is it that makes the tree stay strong, where it can’t be knocked down?”

She easily replied, “the roots.”

My eight year old had been battling insomnia and fear for months. She experienced difficulty going to sleep one night, and then it spiraled from there. She began to dread bedtime, worried she’d be unable to sleep. We tried changing her schedule, getting her up earlier, cutting out sugar, and new bedtime routines. We were doing everything we could do, but it was like once the fear made its way into her spirit, it was a difficult thing to dispel. We had taken to praying specifically for rest every night before bed, and while it helped, her fear remained.

We sat together, and she held the piece of tree branch I had given her from the front yard. I had given it to her to serve as a reminder. When she was afraid, she could look at it and remember. Remember that she was a tree.

I explained, “just like how the tree is strong because it is rooted in the ground, you are strong because you are rooted in God.”

She nodded, her eyes glued to the piece of wood.

I continued, “storms come. They blow the tree, but it doesn’t fall. Some branches may fall off, but it doesn’t topple over. It stands strong in the storm. Because of the deep roots.”

She turned the piece of weathered branch over in her small fingers.

“The tree didn’t start big, you know,” I explained. “It began as a tiny thing, but over time it grew. It remained rooted in the ground, and every day it grew taller, stronger, bigger. The storms came, but it continued to grow. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mommy,” she replied. Then she hugged me.

“You are a tree,” I spoke in truth. “You remain rooted in God, and He will help you grow tall and strong. Nothing will be able to blow you over.”

She squeezed me tighter.

“When you are afraid,” I explained, “I want you to look at that piece of branch and remember, you are a tree.”

You are a tree.

When It Could Be the Last Time

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One, two, brush, brush. Downward strokes, one after the other. Each brush stroke further smoothing the long, blond hair of my eldest daughter. Her head titled to the side slightly, her eyes closed in contentment.

“Mmm. That feels good,” she whispered.

Yes. Yes, it did. I enjoyed brushing her hair. It was a simple time together, a quiet time, where no words were spoken, but none had to be. It was an action of adoration, love poured out with each journey of the brush through her fine locks. She enjoyed my affection, enjoyed my attention, and I enjoyed her reaction. She wanted me to do it.

One day she wouldn’t ask me. She would just do it herself.

What if this was the last time?

I contemplated the thought while I brushed. Smooth strokes, my hand traveling down to the ends.

“It feels so soft,” I commented.

You never know when something you’re doing may be the last time. It’s easy to take for granted the everyday, never realizing it’s to become the not again.

I can remember sitting on the couch at my mother’s house visiting. I was about to start a string of twelve hour shifts at work, and I started getting ready to leave for the night. She asked if I could stay, stay the night, and go to work from her house in the morning.

“I just love having all my chicks in the nest,” she had mused.

I stayed. I slept there on the couch. We watched a movie together, I can’t recall which one. But I do recall how she looked sitting in her chair, the new blanket I had given her for her birthday spread across her lap, the way her face transformed when she laughed at something funny I said.

I never knew, at the time, that moment would be our last, that night my last memory of time together, the last time I would see her smile. I didn’t realize the next time I saw her she would be in a casket, and that her smile would not be the same. I’m glad I stayed that night. Even though I didn’t know it would be the last.

I brushed my daughter’s hair. Downward strokes, soft, shining, beautiful. I wasn’t a morbid thought, like I worried my child might pass from this world any moment, but rather it was a realization of the passage of time. Time. Such a fleeting thing. It went so quickly, so much so that if you didn’t take a breath to enjoy it, it might slip before you were even aware.

Parents died. Babies grew up. Chubby cheeks became defined cheekbones. Plump fingers lengthened into graceful and dexterous joints. Legs lengthened, they learned to crawl, then walk, then run. Sometimes they fell, but one day you’d kiss the very last booboo to make it better, and you’d wonder where your magic went.

Brush, brush, smooth, soft. Downward strokes, one, two, three. Bedtime kisses, morning cuddles, piggyback rides.

This morning I heard her calling to me.

“Momma, Momma,” in the distance she cried.

And when I entered the room I was welcomed by outstretched arms eager to hug their way into my day. I laughed as I tackled her in the warm, dim covers of morning. She giggled while I tickled her with my nose, burying a hug into her ribs.

“Come on,” I invited.

My back to her, hands beckoning, welcoming my long-legged, little lady for a piggyback ride into the living room. She was really too big for me to carry, and I often told her so. But for now I could. I could still carry her. I could still handle her hopping on my back and hefting her across the house. For now I could, so I would. You never knew. This could be the last time.

They grow so quick.

The visits with family, worth the time. The memories in the making. Hugging grandma, listening to her words of wisdom. Not rushing off, making excuses, saying “we gotta go.” Instead hanging on, savoring the time that slipped away so easily and unexpectedly. You never knew when a quick visit could be the last one.

Quick to forgive, slow to anger, easy to love. That’s what life and relationships needed. Letting go of grievance and hurt feelings, in favor of joy and love. You never knew when a much-needed hug would be the last one.

My daughters asked me for help. To reach the high shelf, to pour the drink, to rinse their hair, to find the missing toy. You never knew when a request for assistance would be the last time you’re needed.

“Hold me.”

“Pick me up.”

“Help me!”

Yes. Yes, I will. You never knew when it would be the last.

The last time to dry a tear, the last time to tie a shoe, the last time to sing a lullaby, cut a sandwich in triangles, or wipe up spilled juice. You just never knew.

Brush, brush. All the tangles were gone. But I kept brushing. I savored the silky feel against my fingers, the gentle slope of her pale neck, the glimpses of the stork bite at the nape. One, two, downward strokes. I enjoyed each pass through her locks, I memorized the way her mouth turned up in an expression of enjoyment. It matched my own.

20 Remarkable Things My Children Can Do

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I’m not usually one of those competitive moms, but what good is social media and the Internet if you can’t brag about your kids, right? Aside from taking a picture when they’re wearing a new, expensive outfit, being exceptionally nice to one another, or when I catch them doing something that makes them appear like Jesus-loving angels and simply sharing those highlight reels that paint me as a stellar mom, I thought I’d share today some specific things that my children do that are truly remarkable to me. Like, mind-blowing.

So, here’s 20 remarkable things my children can do!

1. Fight over ridiculous nonsense. Like, throw-down brawl over a scrap of gum wrapper.

2. Talk for thirty minutes straight, without taking a breath, about nothing.

3. Eat an entire week’s worth of groceries in one day.

4. Completely undo, in twenty minutes or less, any house chore I have done.

5. Change their tastebuds from one week to the next.

6. Hate something venomously without ever actually trying it.

7. Persevere through an outing of their choosing like Lance Armstrong on a pleasure ride around the block, yet somehow loose the ability to take steps when in the grocery store with me. Aka, I’m soooooo tired.

8. Not have to pee when we’re leaving the house. Have extreme desire to pee in their pants once we have left the house.

9. Miraculous ability to become extremely bored regardless of mount of toys in their room.

10. Not to be confused with… the ability to suddenly become extremely interested in their toys right after I clean their room. The right way.

11. Not to be confused with… their ability to forge a strong connection with a formerly forgotten toy when it is labeled “giveaway.”

12. They can also watch oddly animated adults play with toys on YouTube from now until Jesus comes back, without a break from the screechy-voice monotony.

13. They can adore getting wet in a sprinkler, pool, or even mud puddle, but take a very strong stance against the tortuous act that is taking a shower.

14. They have an uncanny ability to beg to go outdoors when it’s raining shards of ice, but cry for the injustice of me forcing them outside on a lovely, sunny day.

15. They can think of the most thought-provoking questions. When I’m on the phone. Or in the bathroom. Or at bedtime. Otherwise, 2 + 2 = potato.

16. They have a knack for forgetting every single instruction I’ve given multiple times, but will immediately recall and repeat the four letter word I let slip when I stubbed my toe.

17. My children have mastered the art of altering their ability to hear! For example, they can miss me telling them in a loud voice, while in the same room, to shut the door, but will catch every word of the whispered conversation I have with their dad in another zip code.

18. My children are pretty good at ignoring me. Until their sibling is getting attention from me. Then errbody love Momma.

19. My children are great eaters! For example, they always want seconds when I sit down to eat.

20. They really know how to make a mom feel special. Like, when they come and ask me while I’m pooping to fix them a drink. Even though their dad was right there in the room with them, not doing anything.

Like I said, I’m not usually one to brag, but I simply had to share my children’s remarkable talents with you all.

What about you? Feel free to share something extraordinary your darlings can do!

That Morning I Thought the Kids Died

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I was almost to work, turning down a residential street when I smelled a strange odor. You know how smells can invoke certain memories or thoughts? Well, this smell coupled with people that I saw standing outside an apartment complex brought to my mind a recent, local news story. A housing complex had been shut down after a leak had been discovered. A few people had been found deceased in their beds with carbon monoxide poisoning being the cause of death.

First, I guess I should tell you that my mind is a forest of tangled thoughts. It’s a Rand McNally roadmap of twisted tangents of mental madness. Call it over-thinking, call it a rabbit hole. My mind follows its own thought trail forever. I’ll find myself thinking about something off the wall and wonder how I got there. I’ll backtrack through it, how one thought led to another, and usually be able to untangle the mess.

Okay. Where was I?

So, somehow a smell led to a news story, which led to thoughts of an odd smell outside my RV since we started running the gas. This led to me remembering how I turned up the heat before I left that morning, which led to me thinking of looking at my sleeping family as I walked out the door. I ended up landing at the conclusion that my husband and daughters could be suffering the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning at that very moment!

Yes, we had a carbon monoxide detector!

Yes, it was working the last time I checked it!

No, I hadn’t checked it this morning!

They could be dying right now!

They could be dead already!

My whole world gone all at once!

What would I do?!

Well, I wouldn’t lose faith in God.

Remember Job.

I wouldn’t want a new family, though, God.

I like the one I have.

I wouldn’t get remarried.

I’d be so lonely, though.

God, please don’t let my family die.

This is silly, Brie. They’re not dead!

They could be.

God, are you trying to tell me something?

Should I call the police?

The feeling is so strong that something is wrong!

God! Help me hear your voice! Are they ok?!

My emotions wanted to skyrocket, but my spirit said settle down.

I trust you, Lord. I surrender this fearful situation to you. I know your plans are to prosper me and not harm me. No matter what, I’ll always trust in you. I know you hold my family in the palm of your hand. They are yours; you just let me take care of them for you here on earth. I release this to you and let go of my worry. I pray they’re ok, but I trust you in all situations.

I quieted my spinning mind, and at that point I felt the Lord impress this upon my heart.

You asked me to empty your soul.

And so I had. Earlier in my commute a worship song came on titled “Empty My Soul,” with the premise of being refilled by more of God. I had sung along, and as I recited the words, had spoken them as a heartfelt prayer. So when He reminded me of that I realized that one place that needed consistent emptying was my tendency to fear, my worry for things I couldn’t control, and my anxious thoughts.

This morning He had emptied those things out of me in a flurry, then He had shown me that He could replace the anxious parts of me with His sovereignty. Trusting in Him took up the spaces of my mind and heart where worry had resided. It was a good reminder for me, and as soon as He had spoken the words above to my heart I felt peace come over me like a blanket.

I knew my husband was fine.

I knew my children were fine.

They were warm and sleeping, and God was in control.

When God Gives You Girls

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Noah. That’s what we planned on naming him. My husband had bought me a little red teddy bear for Valentine’s Day and we affectionally called it Noah in honor of the bean-sized baby forming in my belly. We dreamed of what our little boy would look like. I secretly hoped he’d take after his handsome father. We doted over tiny blue outfits and I imagined photos in overalls, holding a tiny fishing pole. I knew in my heart that a strong son was growing inside me, so imagine my surprise when the ultrasound revealed a daughter.

I was shocked, and I even half expected it was wrong. I remember looking at the fuzzy, black and white image trying to discern the private parts and figure out how they could know for sure. We went for a 4D ultrasound, paid for it out of our own pocket, and I thought it might reveal my son. But as I looked on in living color at the little lady parts I knew I was going to be a girl mom.

I think I was scared. I had never really liked girls. I mean, I was one, and I liked that, but growing up I didn’t have very many girlfriends. Girls were mean. They were dramatic. Usually I had gotten along much better with boys. As a young girl I played war games in the back woods, road my bike barefoot through the dirt and gravel, and made pals with frogs, lizards, and bugs. Even when I grew older, and especially then, I preferred the company of males. They were easier to get along with. I just had trouble relating to other females a lot of the time.

Then there was the whole girly business. I was not a girly girl. I didn’t wear a lot of makeup and a pony tail or short cut was my go-to style. Baggy pants, bare nails, and I had never even gotten a pedicure or facial. Goodness. Wouldn’t a boy just be easier?!

But I settled into the fact that I was having a girl. Determined not to push too much “girliness” on her I painted her room yellow, bought my baby gear in neutral tones, and definitely didn’t purchase all the frilly, lace, and ruffles in differing hues of pepto bismol pink. I would let her decide just how girly she wanted to go!

This funny thing happened. As my firstborn daughter grew she blossomed into the most feminine thing I could have imagined. Drawn to pink, dolls, and the whole lot. So I began to embrace it too.

When I became pregnant with my second child I was certain it was a son. I felt it in my bones! I was going to name him Harrison. Yep, you guessed it; it was another girl. By the third pregnancy I didn’t even venture to guess, and so came my third daughter. My husband had a daughter from a previous marriage, and that gave us a whopping quartet of laughing ladies.

Everywhere we go people take notice of all the girls. We’ve heard it all!

Dad, you’re outnumbered!

Just wait until they’re all teenagers!

That’s four weddings to pay for!

Y’all gonna try again for a boy?

I get that last one a lot. And we did think about it. But we decided that our quiver was full. We didn’t want a son! We’re perfectly happy with our girls! We aren’t even sure we’d know what to do with a boy.

I’ve learned a lot these last eight years. A lot of everything! But most importantly I’ve learned that I’m a Girl Momma at heart. It’s what I was made for, it’s how I’m built, and God knew what He was doing when He gave us daughters. I watch their dainty play and smile. I mean, my girls can be rowdy, and they talk about farts and butts with the best of them, but at the core they are gentle, mild-mannered, and sweeter than sugar.

They’re so sensitive. Just like me! I worried I wouldn’t relate to a girl, but as I witness their caring attitudes, tender spirits, and thoughtful actions, I see myself mirrored. They feel so deeply, love so strongly, and have hearts of a giver. It melts me daily!

I love the dolls and all the pink. They all love pink. I never knew I loved pink until I saw it on my daughters, but I tend to think I’d fall in love with olive green if they wore it routinely.

Their laughter is musical, their voices like a song. Their hugs would cause the worst criminal to change their ways, and don’t get me started on what their sweet kisses could do. I’d almost venture world peace.

So dainty, so feminine, so tender, so sweet. So girly, and I can’t imagine my life any other way. Neither can my husband. He is outnumbered, but he loves it. He’s surrounded by lovely ladies who adore him. He’s our knight in shining armor, our protector, our big, strong guy.

Now don’t get me wrong! Our girls have strength too! They have passion, determination, and rock-solid will. I think it’s hard to be brought into the world through the pain of childbirth and it not instill a strength inside you. I mean, is there anything stronger than a woman’s pain threshold?! Haha!

So, they are strong, yet they are fragile. They are tender, but they are persistent. A perfect mix of grit and gentleness. A strong will and passionate heart. The ability to love like I’ve never been loved before. I never knew I wanted to be the mother of girls, but God did. He knew exactly what He was doing when He gave me girls, and I wouldn’t change it for the world!