Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

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.

Dads, Take Time With Your Daughters

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Dads, take time with your daughters. Take the time to play, the time to laugh, the time to give chase as they scream excitedly with glee.

Let go of adult responsibility, if only for a moment, and pick her up to spin her around. One day she’ll be too heavy.

Forget about the pending project. Start a new project of her choosing. One day she won’t ask for your help.

Dads, take time with your daughters. Take time to notice she brushed her hair. She took extra time with each stroke of the brush, smoothing her long, blond hair, just hoping you would notice how it glinted in the light. One day she may not care if you notice.

Take the time to compliment her dress, her new shoes, the way she partnered her pink, flowery shorts with that purple, mermaid top. She’ll use your example for measuring a future admirer. One day your opinion won’t be the one she seeks the most. Take advantage of it now.

Dads, take time with your daughters. Slow down and notice her smile. If it’s there, or if it’s not. Bring it out more often. Teach her the world takes notice at her laugh, it seems brighter and more hopeful when she smiles. Capture those smiles in your pocket. You’ll want to bring them out when the pitter patter of her feet no longer fills your home.

Take the day off. Take the week off. Take the time to invest in what really matters. It’s not a trip around the world she wants. It’s just you.

Put down your phone, turn off your video game, save the ballgame to watch later. Take the time to listen, really listen. What makes her giggle uncontrollably? What brings stars to her eyes? What does she want to be when she grows up? Tell her she can be anything she dreams to be!

Dads, take time with your daughters. Show them that time with them is precious. Set a standard their future husband will need to follow. Don’t leave an example to chance, or allow the example to be absence.

Let them know work is second, that a career is just that, but family is everything. Let them know they can achieve anything, but let them know they don’t have to do great things for you to know they’re great. Tell them they are priceless while they still have ears to hear your compliments. Let your loving, tender praise be the norm rather than the exception.

Dads, take time with your daughters. Take time to lead them, guide them, correct them, discipline them, teach them. Love corrects wrongdoing, but loves despite it. Let them know your love isn’t based on good performance, but because of your love you model such a thing. Don’t leave discipline to the teacher, the pastor, the coach, or just to mom. Because even in discipline they will see love, and then they will see grace. Give them the example of grace.

Dads, take the time to comprehend the enormous impact you have in your child’s life. Understand you are their rock, their strength, their protection, and their first glimpse of what true love really means. You are the goodness they will see in the world, or you are the emptiness they will carry. You are the initial builder of confidence and the example of how to understand true beauty in the long term. You fill a place in their heart than no one else can, and if you don’t insert yourself into their life from the beginning, they will hold that empty spot for the rest of their life, never knowing why they feel like they do.

Take the time, dad, to see the task before you. It’s not just breadwinner or clog fixer. Your role is actually one of utmost importance. The thing is, you can kinda do it, like halfway work at it, and she will be ok. She’ll still grow in beauty and knowledge, but with your presence and attention she will actually flourish. Take the time, dads, to watch your daughters bloom, and realize that you had a hand in the lovely women they will become as you nourish them with your attention.

Take the time, dad, before the time is gone.

When One Parent Has Already Passed Away

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Last night I sat on the couch in silence after putting children to bed, and as the stillness enveloped me I found my mind able to ponder the day. Though I tried to keep it occupied with mindless folly via Facebook I couldn’t help but notice the mood that permeated my thoughts, and as I sat in the dim living room with my husband I felt the fear creeping into my heart. I was worried about my daddy. 


All day I had pushed away any real concern. I had made it move over to make way for logical thought. I brushed over my emotions with my own nursey questions, and I had approached the entire happening of my father’s hospitalization with a medical mindset. It was a light stroke, or something like that since we didn’t really know, nothing to get up in arms about, but I guess after a full day of smiling strongly I was feeling a bit weak. 

This morning when I woke the reality of my dad laying in a hospital bed surrounded me, and I realized that even though my nurse brain knew he was stable, my daughter mind was worried about him. I couldn’t lose him. 

It didn’t matter that I knew he wasn’t knocking at death’s door. What seemed to matter was that I knew death came like a thief in the night, and ever since it had stole my mother before I was ready to say goodbye, things had changed. My perception had changed after we buried my mom, and I couldn’t pretend that the people I loved would always be with me. I knew that accidents happened, that sickness befell the strongest of individuals, and that once someone was gone you no longer had the luxury of picking up the phone to say hello. No matter how much you wanted to. 

My dad was going to be okay, my logical mind told me so, but my daughter broken-heart whispered the things I didn’t want to hear, the rampant, rambling thoughts I normally kept hidden way down deep. I knew the pain of losing one parent, and something about that hard knock opens your eyes to the gift of life still lived around you. And anything that threatened to rock that boat was a hard pill to swallow. 

I wasn’t ready to see my strong father lying weak in a hospital bed. I wasn’t prepared to watch him have difficulty swallowing, or to realize he couldn’t remember speaking with me the day before. I didn’t like the tired look in his eyes, and as I stood there looking at his heavy lids droop I just wanted to crawl into his lap like I did when I was little. I needed him to hold me more than ever. But his right arm was too weak. 

Even now I sit crying as I hold my own daughter in my lap, and I’m ambushed by emotion at the idea of my strong tower suddenly so frail. I realize I wasn’t ready to go visit my dad in the hospital, and the pain I still feel over my mother passing makes kissing his cheek and leaving his side even harder than it would have been before. 

My only solace at a world overcome by sickness and death is the strong arms of my Heavenly Father that hold me so tight when my earthy father is far too tired to do the same. Right now I know my daddy will be okay, and though this scared me some, I know he always will be. Our Abba Father holds him too. 

What I do know is that already having one parent who has died opens your eyes to what’s before you. It makes you appreciate the people still in your life, and hug them a little tighter than you might have before. It causes you to hold that embrace a little bit longer, and brush a kiss on prickly cheeks more often. You hold that sleepy gaze a moment more, and you linger for a minute before you walk out the door. 

It also awakens you to where you have been lacking, all the ways you’ve let life get so busy that you forget to frequently tell the people who are most dear to you, “I love you so much.” 

I’m glad it’s not too late. 

So you tell them that you care, and you decide to appreciate them more. You thank God for daddies, and for mommies too, for time and relationships, and for every moment you are given together. You thank God for Heaven, and especially that death never wins. You wait expectantly and patiently for a reunion that awaits like no other.  You see more readily the gift of one another, and you cherish each and every day that you are given. 

A Letter for My Little Girl Who Refuses to Stay Little

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Daughter,

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, and when I ask your father, neither is he. But apparently while we busied ourselves with dance recitals, swimming lessons, and bedtime stories you decided to transition from a pudgy little preschooler into a bonafide big girl. 

Now when I look at you I find myself confused, for no longer do I see simply a darling, baby girl, but instead I see a blossoming beauty. It’s true. We’ve always found you lovely and especially adorable, but recently when I gaze upon your face I see the future. I see the woman you will become, and it scares the heck out of me. 

Your cheekbones are becoming defined, your eyes looking less like giant orbs, and more like the sensuous, come-hither peepers of an attractive girl. And the thought of some stray fella becoming entranced by your baby-blues causes me to get weak in the knees. Your dad on the other hand won’t even talk about it. 

While a part of me feels a motherly pride over the lovely lady I see you becoming, another part is freaking out. What will I do when you like boys more than dolls, or when you desire to enhance those glorious eyes with make-up? How will I handle raging hormones, breaking curfew, and that eventual day when you suffer your first broken heart?

What will I do when you’re ready to spread your wings and fly, when you head out for college, and leave my home?

What about when you find the one, the young man you feel completes your heart? What about helping you pick out the perfect wedding dress, or when you share the news that you’re expecting?

Right now it’s all I can do to not break into tears when I see your daddy holding you, and I realize your long legs are dangling much too far down his lengthy body. It’s all I can do to not tie a brick to the top of your head to try and prevent you from getting any taller. 

 
I still remember your fat face, the newborn wrinkled eyes, and the way your hair smelled like a perfect mix of joy and the divine. I try to conjure up that image of the way you fit in the crook of my arm, but I open my eyes and see all lanky legs and lengthening torso. And it happened so fast. Much faster than I anticipated. 

I think back again on your squirming, squealing, tiny baby self, and I know that woman holding you, although exhausted, would have fainted at the thought of the young lady you are now. She would have been ill-prepared and unable to fathom you so big and tall. Yet here I am, and here you are, and despite my weepy demeanor at times, it’s absolutely perfect. You’re perfect. And we’ve made it here just fine. 

So perhaps one day I will be ready for first dates and fighting over bad boys banging at my door. And even though I can’t imagine it now, I know at some point I will be honored to hold your hand and pray with you on your wedding day. 

I know God will give me the grace to proceed, the wisdom to do it well, and the strength to handle all the phases involved in being a mother to a little girl who refuses to stay little. So I’m not ready now, but I know I will be. Or so I hope. 

Until then I guess I’ll hold on tight, cherish every fleeting second, and roll with the punches as they come. I will. 

But could you just do your mom one small favor? Could you slow it down a bit?

Love,

Mom

Being Blood-Related Doesn’t Make a Man a Dad

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I feel very blessed on Father’s Day, and although I probably don’t make time for my Daddy as much as I should, I am fully aware of the special gift I have in him. After losing my Mother, and going through the wide array of emotions I felt trying to celebrate Mother’s Day as a mom but without a mom, I completely understand why a relationship with my living father is a wonderful thing. 

But it’s not just that. While nothing rocks your reality more than someone close to you passing on, I knew before Mom’s death that I had been given something very special in my Dad. After all, he was my second chance. He was my earthly manifestation of God’s grace. He was my own personal display of the Father Heart of God. 

My Dad isn’t my birth father, and while he is so many things to my life, the one thing he is not is a genetic contributor to my conception. But ask me if that matters when I go to buy Father’s Day cards. 

Or rather yet, ask me if blood-typing was of any importance when I needed someone to kiss my scraped knee after I fell as a child. Ask me if DNA held any significance when I had my first broken heart and I needed a strong shoulder to cry on. It mattered not one single bit. 

My biological (I almost hate to use the word) father did not possess the characteristics required to be a dad. He was unable, incapable, and unwilling to provide me the stability, guidance, and relationship that fatherhood entails. Put simply, he wasn’t meant to be a dad. He donated the sperm, but otherwise he felt his contribution to the whole scenario was complete. He didn’t want a relationship with me, and he was too selfish to even attempt one. Aside from any physical or emotional love, he also was unable to provide monetary assistance. Well, he probably could have, but he didn’t.

One of the worst things that ever happened to me was to be abandoned by my biological father, and for him to make the ultimate choice that I wasn’t worth hanging on to. But the best thing that ever happened in my life was when he gave up his parental rights and my Daddy adopted me. I was finally afforded the opportunity to understand the fullness of fatherly love, and that trumped everything!

My little heart had been hardened, broken, crushed, but my Dad taught me how to trust again. 

My biological father and I shared the same blood, but that was where our relationship ended. My Daddy had no genetic connection to me, but he was and is the best example of God’s love I have ever known. He chose me, he fought for me, and he adopted me into his family. He loved me unconditionally like I was his own, and he gave me every single thing I had lacked in my first, failed example of a father/daughter relationship. 

Blood doesn’t make a daddy, and shared genetics doesn’t do it either. A father is a man who makes the conscious choice to raise his child. He makes the decision to be present when they have their first softball game, to listen when they ask the tough questions, or just to hold them when they don’t feel well. A daddy provides for his children, not just financially, but also emotionally. He understands that raising a child is an investment, and that you must put love in to get love out. 

For me Father’s Day is a wondrous celebration. It’s a time when I am reminded that the world gave me a man who couldn’t be a father to me, but the Lord blessed me with a dad. I’m reminded that through the grace of God I was gifted with a man who showed me what a father is supposed to be, who showed me God’s heart here on earth. And for that I am beyond grateful. 

Happy Father’s Day Daddy! You were, are, and will always be the best.