Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

To the Mom Shaming Your Kid on Facebook

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I fell asleep last night with peace in my heart and a bit of pride for the fact that my son was smiling as he kissed me goodnight, even though he had been crying when we first laid down to say our bedtime prayers. I mean, I knew the Holy Spirit had a lot to do with his change in demeanor, especially following our heartfelt intercession, but yeah, a lot of me felt good for myself too. I felt like a good mom. Which was awesome, since I feel like I fail at it on the daily!

A large majority of the commentary you’ll see about parenting teens and preteens champions tough love. It states that kids today need to toughen up, that they need more discipline, and that they need to face the harsh realities of this world so they can be high-functioning, productive adults. I get it. I am a Gen-X’er, after all. A latch key kid. The generation that had zero hand-holding while we transversed the neighborhood or woods without supervision. I’m tough! I also thank God I’m alive when I think back at the stupid stuff I did that almost got me killed, that my parents were clueless about. But alas, this isn’t a blog about the pros and/or cons of helicopter parenting. It’s about being a good parent. So what is that exactly?

Yes, it’s disciple. It’s teaching your children to respect authority, to listen, and to learn from their mistakes. To work hard earn their reward. It’s provision and meeting their physical needs. Yet, it’s so much more. If I had to sum it up with one word it would be pretty easy. I’d base it upon the best role model father I know. God, My Father. So, who is God?

God is so many attributes rolled into one, but the one that stands out to me as His daughter is love. And that’s what I thought of last night after holding my twelve year old.

The Lord said, “it matters to you because it matters to him. That’s how I love you.”

My son had been working for days on a digital art project, and as he neared completion his program screamed for more storage capacity. In a rush to delete the unwanted stuff and make room, he accidentally deleted his project. He had not saved it. It was gone forever. Even The Cloud couldn’t help. He tried to put on a brave face, but I could tell he was disappointed to have lost all that time and effort because of a mistake.

I was at a crossroads. I could say, “I bet you learned your lesson about hitting save!”

I could state what was obvious to me. “It’s just a drawing. Get over it! Do another!”

Or, I could walk in the fruits of the Spirit, the model my Father in Heaven gave through His Son. Patience, kindness, gentleness, love. I could allow him to cry, to let it out. I could hold him, listen, offer advice, and love him through the disappointment that was a big deal to him at the time.

Or, I could post a picture of him crying and upload it to Facebook, I talking about how this generation needs to grow a backbone, learn responsibility, and work hard for the things they want!

Maybe I’m being a little over the top with my particular scenario, but sadly I see pretty similar stuff a bit too often for my taste. I see it over and over, these posts where a mom shames their child publicly on social media, toting the virtues of making your kid learn the hard way. I just don’t believe that’s the way.

A majority of the time it is parents who claim Christianity as a basis of their life that are the promoters of tough love, but I don’t see that Christ walked that way. God certainly isn’t up there punishing us for our missteps. He allows us to fall to the consequences of our own stupid actions, but He never puts us to shame. That’s the other guy. He’s the one who forgives us, the Dad who picks us up, kisses the booboo, and holds us tight, counting our tears. He’s the one who took all our mistakes on His own back, paying for them in blood, and certainly didn’t put ‘em up on a sign in the public square to get likes and shares from the angels.

When your child messes up, you can lovingly guide them to the truth, the consequences of their actions, and the way back to the goal at hand, or you can let them learn their lesson on their own. Sadly, years down the road, the lesson they may have learned is a skewed version of what a father/mother should be. They’ll carry that version into many aspects of their life, such as how they see the Father Heart of God, how they parent themselves, and how they deal with shame and self-doubt when they fail as an adult.

I want my children to learn grace! I want them to know loving kindness, compassion, mercy, and confidence that they can move forward in imperfection, growing as they go. They can learn from mistakes (because they will, without an “I told you so”), but not feel like those mistakes define them. But most of all, I want to model the love I see in Him. And I just don’t think social media shaming is it.

I Cried in the Shower Today

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Have you ever cried so hard it hurts? I’m talking about that deep burn in your throat that reaches all the way to your heart and back, only finding escape from the flames via hot, molten tears. That was me, sitting in my shower, somehow enjoying the emotion, yet begging it to simmer down before I hyperventilated. The last thing I needed was my husband to run into the bathroom, following an echoing thump, and find me slumped naked in the billowing steam. So, I tried to qualm my cries, yet the overflow of emotion erupted again, a fresh cascade of tears across my already wet face.

We had recently gone to a child’s birthday party, and I guess that’s where the story of tears started. My daughters were excited to see an old friend, and even opted to miss dance and voice lessons for the occasion. We had shopped excitedly for a present, each child contributing to the basket before making a final selection. They had chosen the outfits they would wear, and had asked me each and every day leading up to the event, “how much longer until the party?”

So, what happened?!

We had arrived to the gathering a little after its commencement, and already swarms of girls and boys bolted along the sandy beachfront. The birthday girl came running towards my oldest, screeching her name with excitement, enveloping her in a hug.

And my girl stood there awkwardly stiff, having trouble accepting the embrace. I heard Stephanie Tanner in my head proclaim, “how rude!”

Our awkward entrance continued. I looked around at my girls standing on the periphery of the group, looking shy, uncertain, and uncomfortable.

I encouraged them to “go and play.”

Yet, they kept coming back, and sitting on the outskirts, as if unsure of exactly how to go play. It didn’t make sense. These were their friends, and sure there were lots of other children they didn’t know, but my childhood wallflower self silently screamed, “go, be a part of the group!”

Yep, I had been that awkward kid in school, unsure how to act in social settings, sitting on the outside looking in. I had always done better one on one, a single bestie, and that trend had followed me my whole life.

“It’s Covid,” I thought.

Over a year of telling your children to stay away from other kids had surely stunted their social growth I hypothesized, and while I’m sure that’s true, it didn’t explain the fact that my tween had refused to bring her swimsuit, refused to wear shorts, and I had to buy her a baseball cap just to keep her from wearing a winter boggin pulled down over her head. Was that just a phase? Y’all, parenting is hard.

She had headphones in her ears, so she wouldn’t have to listen to the voices of others, and sunglasses because the sun hurt her vampire eyes. I’m sure it had nothing to do with being holed up in her dark room most of the time (insert tired mommy sigh).

I texted my spouse, “our kids have no idea how to act in a large group.”

I was questioning my own parenting skills, imagining all the ways I was messing up my kiddos, and trying not to worry I might be creating an ax murderer. Just kidding. Kinda.

My husband quickly replied, “uhhh, neither do their parents.”

Oh Lord, my husband and I were closet introverts. We loved people, and even flourished in one on one relationships, but put us in a group setting, and our left eye started to twitch. We hated crowds and avoided going places on weekends like the plague. We were happy to sit at home, and neither of us had the desire to go out with friends to blow off steam. We liked the bed, dinner and a movie, quiet time, and no expectations. His words made sense.

But still, I worried about my babies.

And that’s what I talked to God about in the shower. I handed Him my worries and my babies, listening to the counsel of the Holy Spirit. At some point in our conversation He brought me a vision of a flower in a field. Like the sunflowers we had grown last year, this flower tilted its head towards the light, and the light shown on its face, giving it new life.

The sun set and darkness surrounded the solitary plant. From above came a thermal blanket, like the kind a gardener would use to protect his prize winning roses from a spring frost. I knew at that moment, that was how God covered me and my family.

Each flower in His garden was unique, each created and cultivated to be its own creation, for His glory and kingdom purposes. His light illuminated and fed each one as it turned its face to Him, and He protected them from dark and cold places.

I felt the Lord speak to me, “nothing is by accident. I created each of your children according to my giftings. Nothing can take away from that. Nor does it need to be.”

I recognized that perhaps my children were different than the average child. Each one had nuances, sensitivities, or gifts that made them unique. I had grown up feeling like a square peg, longing to fit into a world I couldn’t seem to become comfortable being a part of. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized God created me square, with a square hole in mind for me. After all, squares make the best block for building God’s Kingdom. I wanted my girls to feel alive and beautiful in their uniqueness, and I realized that started with me not expecting them to fit into standard social norms. They were created for more than that. I didn’t need to worry so much as trust. And while there was nothing wrong with noticing peculiarities, or even learning more about those particular social styles, making a diagnosis or treatment plan if necessary, the bottom line was they were beautiful flowers in God’s garden, perfect in their specific design. Even if that made group events a little cringe worthy.

So, why did I cry? Gratitude, I suppose. What the world calls wounded, God calls blessed. What society would view as imperfect, He sets apart. And best of all, His light and love never fail. His covering persists, through every season, even the ones of drought and doubt. I’m still growing. My girls are too. I suppose, sometimes it’s the tears of gratefulness and joy that water the soil best.

How to Survive Raising Tweens

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I was driving home from work when suddenly my message notifications chimed, and stamped across the screen I saw the words, “I wish I had Wifi so you could come get me.”

At the stoplight I read the messages that followed:

“Mom I feel uncomfortable here I want to go home”

“I’m scared of all these people.”

My heart did that Momma dip, where it falls from your chest, into your stomach, with the weight of concern for your child. I quickly realized she could have typed these words hours ago, anytime really, over the last 8 hours. My eleven year old didn’t have a phone of her own, but I sometimes let her borrow my old one. With it, she could message me at work through a child’s messaging app, if Wifi was available. That day, I knew she had taken my phone to an acting class she attended, so she could video a musical number they were performing.

My only thought (after the jumble of cryptically delayed pleas) was, oh, dear… What happened?!

Y’all, they had been mean to her! Some kids in this class had ganged together and made fun of her. The song they had chosen for their mock music video had cursing, and Chloe had decided she wasn’t going to lip sync the curse words like they wanted. She sat the video out! Then, I discovered, as some of her classmates (many older, since the class wasn’t divided by age groups) had been using cuss words in their regular conversations, she asked them to stop. Even going so far as to ask the teacher to tell the group to stop cussing.

Ouch.

My teen years flew through my mind.

Now, let me just say, we’ve explained to our children that this world contains all different types of people, and they are all precious in the eyes of God. We’ve explained that different families have different values, and just because our family chooses not to do, for our own reasons, certain things, that doesn’t mean it’s bad for other families. They understand that they may not see alcohol in their parent’s hands or hear curses from our mouths (except for the occasional slip, wink, wink), but that doesn’t mean people who choose to do differently are bad, or more importantly, that we are morally better.

We have explained these things, but still, I suppose since she doesn’t hear them from home, it makes her uncomfortable. And she let that be known. And some kids bullied her for it. And… it hurt my momma heart for her. Sigh.

I remember being the different kid in school. The weirdo, the outcast, the subject of much bullying. I never wanted that for my babies. I didn’t want them to experience being the outcast, at a young and emotional age, when self worth was still emerging, but more than that I didn’t want them to feel pressured to try and fit in with the “cool kids.” I had experienced that rollercoaster growing up too. So, it’s like, I was proud of her for being different, and for sticking to her principles, but it also hurt me that she had to experience the ridicule of it.

“It makes me not want to talk to anybody outside of my family,” she had confessed during our conversation.

I could understand that. There were mean people in this world. As a homeschooled kid, only ever being around cousins, church friends, or in Christian Co-op classes, she had not really had to face this yet. We talked a long time about the mean people out there, why they’re mean, and how we love them anyway. We talked about how despite the mean people, you still sought the kind ones, because they were out there too, and friendships of that caliber were worth digging for. I think she got it.

In a way, it was really good for her to experience life outside our safe bubble, something I knew she needed. Yet still, my mommy heart worried. As we laid in bed later that night, saying our prayers together, it struck me…

God was listening!

I mean, of course He was listening. I knew that! But the events of the day reminded me on a deeper level of His hand in the life of my children. Every single day I prayed for my babies. I prayed for God to protect them and keep them healthy, of course, but I also prayed for their relationship with Him. Every night we prayed together that they would hear God’s voice and feel His presence. That they would know they’re never alone. As Chloe grew older I prayed the Lord would guide her, give her wisdom and discernment for His will. I prayed for God to give me and my husband those things as we attempt to parent well.

God was listening. He was answering our prayers, and His Holy Spirit led her each day.

Y’all, this gave me great comfort. I guess my heart will still worry for her feelings, and my mind will still become anxious over how she will transverse this world with all its many different people, but I will also have peace knowing we are not alone in parenting our daughters. Even throughout the emotional tween years, and later the crazy teen years (I’ll probably need to re-read this post at that point). And with His Shalom Peace I can survive this parenting journey.

It’s hard not to worry for your children as a Christian parent. You know that their still-developing, immature mind cannot grasp the truth of the spiritual matters that give you peace. They’re not there yet. But then I’m reminded that God is still present, walking them through their budding relationship with Him. I think of John the Baptist, leaping with the joy of the Holy Spirit, while still in His mother’s womb, and I understand that same Spirit is with my babies too. Today, I’ll take it. And I’ll take it tomorrow. I’ll take all the help I can get as I learn more how to parent each and every day.

The Conversation I Just Had With My Child That Rocked Me!

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I’m going to share a story with you. I almost titled this “my parenting regret,” but regret is probably a strong word. I know I’ve been a good mom, but do you ever look back, wish you could hit rewind, and do things a different way? Maybe my particular hindsight can help you see things in a different light.

I was driving in the car this past week with all three of my daughters, when my eleven year old said, “I’m glad that I’m getting to know you better, now.”

Confused, I asked, “what do you mean?”

She answered, “well, I just feel like I get to see you more now than I did when we lived in the blue house.”

She was referring to our life before traveling, our life before leaving our small town, but most importantly, our existence before we truly discovered what’s important in life. Allow me to recap for those unfamiliar with our personal life.

Almost five years ago I came to a place in life where I realized I wasn’t happy. I mean, I was happy. I had a great husband, children I loved, a wonderful home, and so much more. Yet… something was amiss. I was stressed, struggling, and considered myself what many women affectionately call one another, a “hot mess.” I was always running, always busy, and stretched on every side. My husband owned a business and worked six days a week, at least twelve hours a day, and even on his off day, he was sometimes doing stuff for work. I worked part-time, 24 hours a week, but homeschooled the girls five days a week, and spent my spare time (I know, hilarious) working a side business to try and earn extra income. Crazy. I felt like I was a single parent, breastfeeding around the clock, and striving to be better at all the things. It. Was. Exhausting. I was stressed, my husband was stressed, and apparently so were my children.

Back to present day, riding in the car, I continue the conversation with my oldest, “that’s weird, cause I work more now than I did then!”

Work may not be the best description here. More specifically, I work outside the home more now than then, but looking back, I suppose I was always working on something during that season of the “blue house” as my child put it.

My daughter replied, “yeah, I know, you work more now, but back then it seemed like I never saw you.”

Interested in this line of conversation I purposely asked, “who do you feel was home more, me or your dad?”

She replied quickly, “Dad.”

You know, the dad who worked six, full days a week!

I continued, “I was home way more than him. You don’t remember me there?!”

I watched her contemplation, and then she replied, “I guess I remember doing school with you, but I hated school.”

Ahh, yes, my initiation into homeschooling. Now, if I did call something a regret, it would definitely be how I handled schooling my child at five to six years old. Instead of looking at her as an individual learner, I compared her to other children. I compared her to her public school cousin the same age. I compared her to my SIL’s child who started reading at four, or my other nephew who had no troubling picking up his phonics in kindergarten. But I think my big mistake was the doubt I had for myself as her teacher. I was afraid I wasn’t doing good enough for her, so I unintentionally pushed her too hard, basing my worth as an educator on her unique performance. She would cry through her reader, and I would yell a lot. No wonder she banished it from her memory!

But it gets worse. The nail in the coffin.

She added, “oh, and you cleaned a lot.”

From the backseat my nine year old chips in, “yeah, you cleaned a lot back then.”

Sigh.

Not to be outdone, my eleven year old continues, “I can remember Dad being home really well! He would take me to Walmart, buy me a toy, and we’d sit on the couch watching Sponge Bob and eating Oreos all day.”

First, I made sure I relayed this to my husband later. He had mentioned to me more than once regret over not being around more when our girls were little. After I told this little story, he had peace that they only remembered that time of his overworking with fondness, and he hadn’t mucked things up too bad after all. I suppose all parents are their own worst enemy.

This conversation in the car didn’t so much guilt me as it taught me. I wasn’t drowning in regret, but it did rock my thinking. My husband had one day off a week, but that one day he made sure was quality time. That’s what our girls, six and four at the time, remembered.

I had focused on the things I thought were important at the time. Housework, ensuring my five year old knew all her sight words for the week, cooking every night, and building my business that was supposed to financially bring both of us parents home. I had rushed us to dance classes and homeschool co-op’s, but I had not taken as much time just to simply enjoy them being little.

Ok, I’ll look at this from all angles. I understand that things need to be done. If I didn’t clean the house, we would have been covered in our own trash. And reading is fundamental! Ha! Building my future via a small business was a wonderful plan, and activities and classes are important to childhood development. So, what’s the takeaway?

Remember when I said we had learned what was important over the past four years while traveling? See, we made a decision to sell our big house, sell our possessions, trade in the two cars for one vehicle, and travel for work so one parent could stay at home fulltime. We realized we didn’t need all the square footage. We realized we didn’t need to work more to have more stuff, but we did really enjoy more time. By doing the above, huge life-shift, we discovered what was important to us. Time with one another.

I can’t turn back the clock on the first six years of my oldest daughter’s upbringing, but I can move forward a little wiser. I can understand that young children won’t remember things like the fully-balanced meals every night or what grade they got in their school subjects, but they will remember Oreos and snuggles. Our relationship won’t be built on a foundation of how many days I was home from work with them, but rather the quality of the days we did have. And I’m telling you, as a fulltime working mom, that’s a huge deal. As mothers, we can often feel guilty for working out of the home, but if my experience teaches you anything, know that sometimes you can be home, but not really be there.

If anything, remember to be there when you’re there. That’s what I do now. As a working mother I don’t focus on quantity of the time with those I love, as much as the quality of the time we have. If you’ve lost a parent, like me, then you’ll understand a grieving child mostly wishes for “just one more day.”

I guess my goal, at this season in life, is to leave a legacy of quality. That the time I shared with my children will be fondly remembered as time well-spent, and while they’ll probably still grieve for one more day, more importantly they will recall fondly the days we had, no matter how many there were.

Are We Killing Our Children’s Creativity?

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What will come of the future dreamers? Where will the artists draw their inspiration, and how will the free-thinkers function? I wonder if the young minds full of hope will be able to spring forth despite the chains that bind them, and if those who dare to push the envelope will even be heard. Will the next generation be able to climb out of the box, or will they be subdued back into the status quo? It makes one ask if innovation can be wrung from a dry towel? Or if creative, yet dry bones can be resurrected? Again, I say, what will come of the future dreamers? Are we killing our children’s creativity?

I was recently watching my middle child bing-bong back and forth with a happy giggle. It brought back memories of the old Atari game, Pong, and much like the game she bounced to and fro through our living room. At times her intensity and energy were exasperating, and I joked with my husband about it.

“You know,” I mentioned, “if she was in public school they’d probably tell us to medicate her.”

And he agreed, with a laugh. I was only joking, but a part of me imagined there was probably some truth to my statement. I felt bad for public educators. You see, they were forced to take a room full of young children and fit them all into the same mold. So, although each child was an individual with unique learning styles, the constraints of the setting required them to all learn the same.

Let’s say you had a child like my own. High-spirited yet shy. A huge imagination, but not always eager to share it in a large group. She was a tactile learning, meaning she enjoyed hand’s on education, and carrying out a task rather than listening to lengthy instructions. She could focus on instruction for short periods, but absorbed them more by doing. She was sensitive, easy to cry, yet also just as easy to laugh.

My daughter liked to move around, hop, dance, and fidget. This wasn’t a bad thing, but in some settings it might be considered that way. The thing was, she was five, and she was high energy. A lot of children that age are, but they are often treated older than they are. I’m of the opinion that much more is expected out of young children than twenty to thirty years ago. I recall kindergarten as a place where I napped, learned to share, tie my shoes, and go back home by noon. Nowadays, according to public school friends, the hours of instruction are longer, sitting still at a desk, without a nap, and with more focus on an advancing curriculum. If they can’t fit into this mold they might fall behind in class.

The thing about my girl is that although one moment she might be bouncing off the walls, the next she can be sitting still and transfixed on something that interests her and sparks her imagination. She will sit in the floor for hours at a time drawing, coloring, and creating her “art.” She’s told us for some time that she desires to be an artist when she grows up. So we cultivate her interests, and we often structure her school around her creative appeal, while ensuring she also spends time on her A,B,C’s and 1,2,3’s. It works well for her, but I see stories in Mommy groups I’m a part of that make me wonder if it also goes as well for other adventurous and unique young ones out there.

When I see the way the education system is shifting, I wonder if we push too hard in just one direction. The system creates markers that children must hit, with little wiggle room for trying a different approach to hit that mark. Standardized testing, increased homework requirements, and a plentitude of projects that are well above the child’s level of understanding. School years that go year round, and if your child rides a bus then you may have a five year old with almost as long of a day as I have as a bedside nurse. I see cute little pictures of tiny children asleep in the car after school, or crashed out at the kitchen table. Adorable, yet a little sad to me as we push young boys and girls beyond what their little bodies can handle. We have less recess time, but more work that must be completed at home, when children should be spending quality time with their families. This isn’t the educators’ fault, but rather the powers that be who create the overloaded curriculum requirements. I don’t claim to be an expert on such things, but rather share how it appears from the outside looking in. It looks like kids are overwhelmed and exhausted.

And what of the ones who don’t perform well in this environment? Not everyone has the opportunity or circumstances that can afford them the ability to homeschool or send their children to private school. These poor parents are told to take their unique child and put them in a standardized education box. It’s a place where children who like to move must be still, a place where children who learn well with their hands are told to hit the books harder, to prove themselves with improved test scores. It’s a place where suddenly the diagnosis of ADHD or ADD is heard more often than not, and medicating behavior is the standard treatment. It may be a place where the study of arts is pushed out in favor of increased comprehension of Common Core Math.

We now live in a society where everything is seen. Social media is the worst enemy of raising children. It’s become a place to compare behavior, and parents might feel more forced to make their children fit a certain mold. Free thinking is discouraged, and we worry far too much how others parents raise their own children. What will people think?! Social media serves like a herd mentality, where we are made to believe all our children should act the same, have the same interests, or hit milestones at the same time. People judge their parenting compared to the parenting of their peers, forgetting that each child is different, and as such they force their children to follow a certain status quo.

If your child can’t read at a second grade level by the end of kindergarten, they’re behind. In fact, a second grade level is the new kindergarten level. And the fact that there’s even levels? Don’t get me started. Who set the bar of achievement? And who in the world is it that keeps raising it year after year? Over the past few years I’ve seen a rapid increase in the number of worried posts on Facebook from moms concerned about their six year old not being able to read like the exceptional scholar that’s expected. It hurts my heart. These babies don’t have learning disabilities, nine times out of ten, but rather an inability to bend into the box and achieve this standard set by society today.

It almost seems like we’re rushing our babies along. At two months old we’re putting rice in babies’ bottles so they’ll sleep longer, as all our friends keep asking, “are they sleeping through the night yet?!” We’ll potty train by 18 months, have the ABCs mastered by 24 months, and rush them off to preschool as soon as the diapers come off. They’ll be reading by four, and I suppose that’s so they can master an Instagram and YouTube account by seven. Get them out of your bed and out into the world! And as we mourn our empty nest we wonder where the time went, even though we were part of the evil slave master pointing to the clock.

Hurry, hurry. Rush, rush. There’s time for extracurricular activities, but only if they look good on a transcript (or Facebook). Gotta get into the right college. No room for trade school, for sure. In fact, we’ve placed such a high importance on educational excellence that we miss out on even the simplest of things, like being a decent human being.

I just wonder, in all the educational changes over the past twenty years, and with the push to learn faster, where do the dreamers fit it? Where do the free-thinkers or the intuitive, out-of-the-box children fit? Our future artists and creative geniuses, I wonder how they thrive being pushed and pounded into a certain mold? I would imagine the creative juices are siphoned right out, and after being medicated into submission, being told they’re bad, slow, or too hyper, they just submit to the chain-gang. I remember hearing Einstein didn’t perform well in elementary school. I wonder where our world would be had he or Mark Twain been placed on *Adderall?

Now, I know this is a tender subject, and I know it likely won’t be received well, but let’s just think about it for a minute. Why have we become a world that would rather seek a quick fix of medicating our kids over finding out what environment will help them excel in their own way? And I’m not saying that every child with their head in the clouds not listening to the teacher is the next great genius. But who are we to say they’re not? We’re not even giving them a chance before we put a muzzle on them and push them back into the box that this decade has labeled “normal.”

If we’re not rushing children to hurry to the next milestone, appointment, or extracurricular activity, we’re telling them to slow down, pay attention, and focus on the things we deem worthy of time. We’re telling them to learn a certain way, sit still, and get involved, even if they don’t want to. We praise them for good grades, but don’t notice when they pick up the friend who fell.

“Run faster,” we say. “Don’t slow down for anyone!” And when they find themselves unhappy, years down the road, with the race that is called life, they can always find a new medicine to make them feel better for the dreams they were never able to fulfill. I know, I know. It sounds melodramatic. But isn’t it peculiar that the faster we go, and the more we place on ourselves, the more depressed we become? So, why do we keep up the tradition with our offspring?

Well, you ask, what’s the solution? I guess, maybe, we as parents need to think outside the box. We need to see our children as unique gifts from God, and not expect them to fit a certain mold. We need to relax, stop placing unrealistic expectations on our littles, and put our foot down when the world tells us we must. We have to stop comparing our parenting skills and our kids to others. We have to celebrate their special personalities. We can slow down on searching so desperately for a diagnosis and just love them. We can slow down and savor their childhood, and stop the rat race before it begins. We can look for alternative options for education when our kids won’t fit the new mold, and relax already. We can stand firm, stand up for our kids, and be proud of them. We can focus on what’s really important in life, and stop drinking the kool-aid that says it’s anything more important than loving your children and teaching them to love others.

Is this to say there aren’t children with special needs or children who need medication and diagnoses? Not at all! I just find it interesting how these things have recently become such an epidemic. And it makes me wonder if perhaps we (society) are not the epidemic. It’s worth considering, right?!

What will come of the future dreamers?

I guess you could say if we’re not careful, we might just snuff them out.

Addendum

*You may wonder if I’ve had experience with this medicine? Yes, for many years, I’ve seen firsthand how it affects a child. No, I’m not a fan.

Confessions of a Clean-Freak Mom

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As I stood in the shower quickly working shampoo into my hair that I hadn’t washed in over three days I glimpsed streaks of soap sud residue marring my tile wall. I thought again how I really needed to clean the shower. I sure would like to try that vinegar solution I saw on Pinterest. 

In the background, as water ran through my thick hair, I heard the baby begin to cry. Her nap was over, I cleaned myself briskly, and I knew in my heart I wouldn’t get to scrubbing my tile walls today. No matter how much I wanted to. 

I guess that sounds peculiar to some, but for a closet clean-freak it was my sanctuary, my happy place. Cleanliness made everything seem okay with the world, and if my house was in order then I was good. Like how heroin was the drug of choice for some addicts, shiny countertops, freshly swept kitchen floors, and the way just-vacuumed carpet stood up erect gave me the ultimate high. 

Yeah, I’m a weirdo. 
It wasn’t that hard after my first baby. I was able to clean while she napped, and thereby kept a semblance of normalcy to my uncluttered life. But then the strangest thing happened. I discovered I loved that drooly, chubby baby way more than I loved a dust-free mantle, so I knew mothering was the tip-top job I wanted to do forever. Naturally I had more babies. 

And that’s when it really got crazy. I was surrounded with such adorable cuteness I could hardly stand it. But they were so flipping messy I could hardly stand it. It’s like my life goal was to love them to the best of my ability, and their life goal was to make as many disasters as possible. Gone forever were the days of my perfectly alphabetized DVD collection. I looked at my sweet daughters’ faces and realized I was fine with that. 

The problem for a woman addicted to order is that when confronted with a pile of old hair in the corner of the bathroom her right eye begins to twitch a little, and when dust lines the top of all the picture frames she feels unbalanced. So factor in a continuously overflowing sink and tiny little socks scattered everywhere, and it’s pretty anxiety inducing. I’m a closet clean-freak stuck in a frumpy, spit-up-covered mama body.

I’m a woman who desires things a certain way, and when accosted with the reality that things just aren’t in the cards for me in that regard, I’m left feeling kinda defeated. I’m left feeling a step behind, a dollar short, and last place in a race of my own design. It’s exhausting. 

Then I find myself in the shower staring at soap residue streaked across the fixtures, and I hear myself praying to God to help me manage my time wisely. Help me get just enough done that I don’t internally combust, Lord. 

I’m reminded that this is the season in which I find myself, and while it’s a messy, booger-stained season, it’s my season. And by golly, I love it; dust bunnies and all. 

As I later buttoned my toddler’s coat she asked in her perfectly squeaky voice, “can we go play on the playground?” Although I had to disappoint her with a no, it occurred to me then how much I adored taking them to play. I wondered what I would do when they no longer wanted to play. I supposed I’d have more time to clean, and that was a sobering thought. 

So for now I’ll enjoy the chaos as it comes, be it rings around the tub or stained sofa cushions. For I know God is stretching me, refining me, and making something lovely for His service via spilt milk and mounds of unfolded laundry. Plus, the playing part is so much fun. 

It Isn’t Fair

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I pulled my weary body from the couch with the full intention of dragging myself to the bedroom for a much needed night’s rest, but I stopped in my tracks unexpectedly. I was stuck in place as effectively as if my feet had been nailed there. Either way I couldn’t budge. I couldn’t move a muscle. I was transfixed. 

It isn’t fair. 

That’s what I thought at the time as I stood motionless staring down at my baby girl who had fallen asleep on the floor. I suppose she wasn’t really a baby anymore, but in my eyes she should be. In my heart she was. But this opinion stood in stark contrast to the sight before me that had indeed stopped me dead in my tracks. 

  
It isn’t fair. 

I thought it again, unable to think anything else. Well, anything other than the pride and love that swelled up inside me, threatening to spill out in the only way it knew how. Tears. 

How?! How? I wondered in shock and awe. How had the tiny baby that had changed my life morphed into the girl at my feet? Her legs stretched the distance of the living room rug, and I couldn’t believe that this giant, long-legged child had once fit comfortably in the bend of my right arm. What happened?!

It isn’t fair!

Her face! Her face had changed; her features had become more defined, less pudgy. The fat rolls had faded, distinguishable knee caps and knuckles had replaced them long ago. But this was different! Her face; she no longer looked even like a little girl anymore. She looked like a big girl, and somewhere in the line of her jaw and the sweep of her lustrous eyelashes I saw a glimmer of the young woman she would become. 

It isn’t fair, my heart lamented. 

I recalled long nights nursing every two hours, when gas drops were my go-to thing. I rembered her excitement at the first big toy we bought, a Weeble Wobble treehouse, and how she would dance clumsily to the music it played on two short, chunky legs, her diaper sagging like it always did. 

Learning to talk, I was so excited. My baby was so smart, and I eagerly anticipated each new word as they grew into more each day until she was stringing together whole sentences. Then one day she could say anything she wanted. Anything at all. 

But now she asks questions. Big, big questions, seeking answers to the curious world around her, and not stopping until she knows more. 

It isn’t fair. Not at all. 

The other night I had returned home from work, and she sat in her room busy at play with her older sister. I stood in her doorway gazing at her beauty. Oh, how I had missed her so! I stood in anticipation of the running, exuberant embrace she would throw around my neck as I bent down towards her. It’s what we had always done when I returned home from a long day away. 

But she just looked up, smiled, waved hello, and back to playing she went. Talk about not fair. 

It was like every day my love for her grew, but then again so did she. If I wasn’t present to see it for myself I’m not sure I’d believe the quickness of her transformation. Her legs just kept getting longer. Her mind kept expanding, amazing me daily with the intelligent thoughts that emerged. 

I stood motionless in my living room gazing at my big, baby girl, and I finally stepped forward. I had to move, do something. So I scooped her up lovingly and took her to bed. As I laid her down gently her eyelids fluttered open, and musical words floated from her mouth.

“Hold me.” She said. 

And I did. I held her, but the thought persisted even stronger in my mind. 

It isn’t fair. 

It wasn’t fair that someone like me deserved a gift like this. All the mistakes I had made in life, the people I had hurt, the shameful, selfish acts I had committed. It wasn’t even fair that I deserved to love like this, to be loved like this, but yet somehow I was. I was quite certain then that God had given me that baby girl to show me just a portion of His grace, and how much He loved me. And as she grew bigger each day He gently whispered in my ear, “See. Don’t take the love for granted. Hold it tight always, just as I hold you.”

So I held her tight. My big, growing girl, and though it wasn’t fair, as I fell asleep next to her I realized one thing absolutely for sure. 

But it was wonderful. 


What I Thought I Knew My First Pregnancy

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I was thinking the other day about when my husband and I were expecting our first child together. One thing we did frequently was eat dinner together in bed. Basically towards the end of my third trimester I was so exhausted and sore that all I wanted to do after work was go lay in the bed. And of course eat. So we did both. A lot. 

At the time I was frustrated at how I felt, but now I look back at that time with fond remembrance. And while I did delight in my first pregnancy and enjoyed doing it with the man I loved, I think back now and wish I had complained less and savored more. 

The thing was I thought I was tired. I was certain that the way I felt then was the most tired I had ever been in my life; even worse than sleep deprivation in my military experiences. I realize now that I didn’t have a clue. I just thought I knew what exhaustion was. 

People told me back then that how I felt was practice for when the baby came, that the sleepless nights you experienced with a newborn would really show you what fatigue meant. Well, even after a daughter who woke to nurse every two hours around the clock until she was nine months old, I still think pregnancy exhaustion is the most grueling. But that’s just my opinion. 

Regardless, back then, with my first pregnancy I just knew I was sleepy. So I napped. A lot. I got so frustrated that all I wanted to do was nap! I did not know that one day I would look back fondly on my daily ritual of afternoon dozing. Sigh. 

I thought I knew what sleepy was. 

  
Even with my second pregnancy I was amazed at my fatigue. I worked outside of the home less, but something about chasing a toddler really wore me out. All I wanted to do was nap! So I did. I napped with my toddler every day. 

Remember, back then I thought I knew what sleepy was. 

The other day another mother of a small child suggested an educational outing for the kids, but offered that we could wait if I wanted until my second trimester was well into swing. She concluded, “I just figured you didn’t feel like doing anything right now.”

Boy, was she right! But I still happily agreed to the trip whenever she wanted to go. The truth was I didn’t feel like doing anything, but the hard fact was that I had to do things. I had to take care of a rambunctious toddler and homeschool a preschooler. I had to clean, cook, and whatever else came along just like before. Now I simply had pregnancy fatigue added to the mix. 

I just thought I had known what tired was before, but once again I am being reeducated as motherhood seems to do to us women. There are no naps. I could take it easy I suppose, but you can only slow down so much when you’re chasing little ones. 

I think back on the time alone with my husband eating pizza in bed, and I smile. I am glad we had that experience together, and though I might not have appreciated it as much then, now I do.

Now we have new experiences, new challenges, and a new gift growing in my belly making me the most tired I’ve ever been in my life. The most tired. I’m sure of it!

But on second thought I better hold off on that assessment. After all there’s really no telling what the future holds!