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.

When a Haircut Is a Kick in the Sack

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I stood in the kitchen with my husband putting groceries away. My oldest child and I had just arrived home from a trip to town for some food essentials, plus a trip to the Barber Shop.

“I wasn’t prepared for that,” he whispered, while pointing into the other room. “It was like a kick in the sack.”

He looked down, at a loss for words, but none were needed for me. I knew exactly how he felt. I had felt the same emotions watching the first haircut nine months ago, and again today, as the barber took the hair down to the scalp, the shortest it had ever been. It was grief, plain and simple, yet not simple enough for others to understand what I mean.

I see the news stories, read the articles, gape at the vitriol on social media. I can’t say I understand the current political environment, but I do see it. And it frightens me. The commentary often centers on the parents of a transgender teen. Like, how dare they abuse their child in that way?! I can say this wasn’t my idea, nor my husband’s. It wasn’t society, the leftist’s agenda, or even TikTok to blame. It just happened. My beautiful, confident daughter started puberty and hated what her body was becoming. She didn’t know why. But she did know that death seemed better than existing in a body that she didn’t feel was her own. Fast-forward through months of therapy following suicidal ideation and self-harm, and you come to this place where you shop for clothes in the boy’s section for the first time. Something so simple, a request granted that brings that first smile in six months or more. Strange.

I guess people only see the end result, not the agony that brought you there. They see the proud, yet hesitant announcement, but don’t see the tears shed behind closed doors.

I love being a girl mom. My husband is amazing at being outnumbered, so gentle, loving, and strong. I love the pink, frilly dresses, and learning how to french braid all that long, blond hair. I can remember three Christmases ago begging my oldest to please wear the matching dresses I had picked out for photos, “for your mom, please.” Now, no dresses remain in the closet for him. Him. The child I now call son.

Fathers dream of walking their daughter down the aisle. Mothers dream of their daughter having children, so they might share that bond of parenthood that childbirth brings. My husband and I are grieving those things. We’re close to the year mark of when Chloe asked to be called Noah, but for us, it’s still like it’s yesterday that we laughed at little feet clopping around in pink, plastic heels. We no longer say the non-preferred name or pronoun, but we do still have ton of brick, kick to the sack moments. Those moments where, to no decision of our own, we have packed away the dreams for our daughter, replacing them with hopes for our son. It’s a surreal feeling, a loss of sorts. We chose to lose our daughter in gender, rather than to lose her all together physically. We cried for our daughter who wanted to die, and now we laugh with our son who made the brave decision to live.

To live in a world that hates him! I think that’s what worries us the most. I shared with him last night the recent stories and posts I had seen about Dylan Mulvaney and Bud Light backlash.

I said, “I hesitated telling you because I want to protect you from a cruel world that hates you, but I also knew that for your awareness and safety, we have to talk about these things. You have to be careful. There are people out there who will hurt you.”

And I didn’t just mean emotionally.

What parent allows their child to make a decision that could get them killed?

What child makes a monumental choice to become the most hated, most judged, most incorrectly labeled (eg, pedophile) people group of all times?!

We got hens recently. My husband was going to pick one up, and in her scurrying, frantic fear, that ole hen put her head through the fence hole and tried to break her own neck! That’s what I think of when I consider the past year (more than) of our life. Our child was frantic, confused, and fearful. Our baby would have rather died than live an identity that didn’t feel authentic to him. My husband had to gently calm that chicken, and we had to gently love our firstborn, whether he went by his birth name or not, whether he ever wore a dress again, whether he got haircuts at the barber that were severely masculine. That didn’t mean they weren’t still a kick in the sack.

I reckon folks forget that part. They’re so focused on blaming the parents for bad parenting, that they neglect the emotional toll that led to this place. They’re so busy making something a battle to fight, where one doesn’t exist, that they miss the war raging in the minds of suicidal, transgender kids. They forget that whether a boy wears a dress, or a girl gets a shaved head, that inside them that beautiful soul is the same. That is one thing that keeps us steady in the sea of the uncertainty and worry that is being a parent of a transgender child.

There are questions you ask yourself. Like, will they one day decide to be the assigned gender at birth again? But for now, the answer doesn’t matter. What matters is how we love them now. We love them through those inner thoughts of “my daughter is gone,” and we love them through all the kicks in the sack. I love him as I look at old photos, seeing a daughter that used to be. I love him because even though my daughter is gone, my son is here. He is happy, healthy, and smiling. For now, that is enough.

What Do I Have to Be Thankful For?!

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I baste the bird, liquid butter with bits of garlic poured out over the bulging breasts of our Thanksgiving turkey. My eyes burn as I go about the task, gritty from lack of sleep after sitting in the psych hold of the local ER all night, but more so still on fire after so many torrents of tears spent. Rivers of tears over driving to the hospital with my child, but leaving without them.

Thanksgiving, a time to reflect on the gifts we have been given. Opting to celebrate the holiday early since I’d spend the actual day at work, I had planned to put the turkey in the oven at 2am. But it turns out that at 2am I was tossing and turning in a rigid recliner pulled alongside my son’s stretcher, wrapping a blanket tighter around my ears to cushion the sound of nurses’ laughter or the cursing screams from the head-banging, combative neighbor next door.

How many times have I cried to the Lord, “am I doing the right thing? Give me wisdom!”

I slide the buttery bird back in its heated cave. We have to eat, right?! The planned dinner, with side dishes still sitting at the ready in the refrigerator, prepped the preceding night, before I knew what lay ahead. What were we actually celebrating, anyway?!

In the lone room of the child and adolescent inpatient wing, sitting in an abnormally large, yet childlike chair, I wept into my wrinkled sweatshirt while they searched my baby in another room for hidden objects that could cause self harm. I cried out to my inner thoughts, “please tell me I’m doing the right thing!”

Today could have started very differently, it occurred then to me. I wasn’t simply thinking about an appetizing spread ready on the dining room table by noon. I was thinking of trying to wake my son to eat, but instead of being greeted by his sleepy grumbles, being confronted with his cold, blue flesh. That is how today could have started.

Instead… instead, the Holy Spirit had prompted him to come to me.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, after sitting criss-cross, apple sauce on the bathroom floor, “but I’m afraid it will make you sad.”

“You can tell me anything!”

Thankfully, he did.

What a week it’s been. Last week brought frightening messages while I worked, of feeling disconnected and unreal, a stranger in another’s body. Walking out in the cold rain just to feel something, anything.

Two nights ago brought self-harm, six horizontal cuts on his left, inner calf, driven to “scratch a nagging itch” that refused to abate until the damage was done.

I’ve always considered us blessed that Noah feels so comfortable coming to us about everything, but even I was surprised by the extremely detailed plan of suicide he had concocted, and shared with me in the bright lights of our bathroom last night. He had planned on waiting until we were all asleep, ensuring we would be none the wiser until finding his body this morning.

I pull the browning bird out at determined intervals, coating its skin with flavorful moisture. What do I have to be thankful for?! As I prepare a meal of Thanksgiving, sans my firstborn present. He is not here, but he will be.

He is not at the table today, but he will be for all the tomorrows. My baby is alive, and after facing the plan to end Thanksgivings forever, and Christmases to boot, he decided to stay. To reach out for a lifeline, to feel better, to cling to that thread of hope that must still be there somewhere. I have a lot to be thankful for.

It didn’t feel that way as I left him at the hospital. He cried, “don’t leave me,” and I probably would not have had the staff not ushered me away. Gosh, y’all, this is hard. It’s hard to spend a year trying to pull your baby out of darkness, and finally realizing you cannot do it alone. It’s hard trying to do your best, to make the right decisions, to follow the advice of the many mental healthcare professionals invested in your child’s future, yet still feeling like a piece of your innermost being is lost in a dark forest of sadness and dismay. Can I leave breadcrumbs to bring him back? Is there a way back to the happy child I remember? Can I feel peace amidst so much turmoil? Maybe that’s the real breadcrumbs in the stuffing we will eat. Peace knowing that we are not alone.

In fact, that is the last thing I whispered to Noah before I had to leave, “you are not alone.”

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.

Did You Know This About Your Husband?!

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I was mopping the bedroom floor with our brand new mop. Man, it was so dusty in there! I’ll start by saying, I was the first one to use this mop. I bought it two weeks ago, and when I pulled it out this morning my husband exclaimed with surprise, “I forgot all about you getting that!”

That kinda sets the theme for this story, y’all.

Back to the bedroom, it was so dusty because my husband rarely did the floors in there. Important to mention, at this point, is the fact my husband sweeps the living room and kitchen floors every single day. We have three children under eleven in the home, all day every day. He homeschools them. They eat about a billion meals a day at the bar, dropping a tsunami of enough crumbs to feed the state of Rhode Island. He does plenty of housekeeping. Remembering this as I mopped our dusty bedroom tile helped me mop with a happy pace rather than the rage against the housework moms can get while they pick up after other people. I mean, seriously, no one executed tasks like a woman!

As I went about my mopping my mind zigzagged through an off-day to-do list as it usually does. You know what I’m talking about, ladies. You have this one day, and you have a list of things you want to complete. The only question is, what gets crossed off and what gets moved to the next day.

Toilet paper, my brain shouted, like a dog who sees a squirrel. We needed it. I’d have to go get it. Why hadn’t my husband offered to go get it?! He knew I worked tomorrow. He knew I hated running errands on my last day off!

Like I had shot a mental arrow, he appeared through the doorway. “Babe, stop. You gotta work tomorrow. You need to chill.”

“That reminds me,” I replied, “I was wondering if you could go get some toilet paper from the store for us? I have been to the store the past two days, and my goal is to not leave the house today.”

“You betcha,” he replied happily. “I forgot we needed some.”

As I finished the last section of tile, already looking forward to reading a book in my favorite corner, I laughed to myself about men and women. In case you haven’t figured it out, we are way different. The problem came when we, as women, assume our men should be like us.

I remember it took me some time being married to learn this truth. Men do not think like women. Not at all. I know there are exceptions to all rules, so to speak, but for the most part, women are better at task completion and multitasking. Sorry, fellas, who may have gotten this far, if you’re offended, but this is how we ladies see it. Lol. We remember the things. We lay in bed at night thinking about the things. Meanwhile, hubby is snoring softly. Know what I’m saying? Point is, women remember things like needing toilet paper, sweeping dust bunnies out of the corner, or calling the cable company about last month’s bill.

I’m not sure why our brain, for the most part, works so differently from our male counterparts, but knowing my Heavenly Father like I do, I know it’s with good reason. I think of my tendency to sweat the small stuff, and how my husband’s chill and nonchalant manner, while sometimes exasperating to me, also helps to keep me anchored towards a kingdom mindset. When my anxious thoughts of things of this world want to run rampant, my spouse is the steady buoy of my mental storm. He’s the steady truth to my sometimes cray-cray, so if he forgets to try out the new mop, he’s forgiven.

One key I’ve found to a happy marriage is not expecting my husband to be like me or to be who I think he should be. He is who God made him to be. In times past, when those differences have been bothersome, I either pray to the One who can change a man’s heart better than me, or I have responded to my husband with love, patience, and understanding. In turn, he responds to me in love and service. Plus, I try and remind myself what’s really important in the long term. Is it a healthy relationship with the man I love or a ball of dirty socks in the floor? Is it always being right, or being humble and happy?

Every day in a relationship we are faced with how we will respond to the action (or lack thereof) by our partner. Yes, there are big issues that warrant discussion! But there are hundreds of tiny, insignificant matters that must be recognized as such so they don’t build up and become big issues. Often when faced with a small nuisance, I can combat that by recognizing my own faults and remembering the many, beautiful sacrifices my partner makes in our relationship.

He’s not like me. He doesn’t think like me. But that’s ok. He loves me. He loves me more than I’ve ever been loved. He takes such good care of me! He protects me, and he would lay down his life for me. If I ask, he does it. He waits on me hand and foot. Y’all, I’m blessed with what I consider to be the best husband and father to my children in the world. If I need to remind him we’re out of toilet paper, so be it. Plus, would I really want to be married to the male version of me?!

Don’t Underestimate the Significance of Your Calling as a Parent

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I fell asleep a little earlier than usual last night. After a long and stressful day at work, I was beat. I said bedtime prayers individually with each of my daughters, and then I fell asleep before my head even settled on the pillow. A couple of hours later I woke suddenly, and keeping quiet I gazed upon my eleven year old preparing for bed. I watched in a sleepy joy while she read from a kid’s devotional book I had bought for her, and then while she proceeded to read from her Bible. I fell back asleep, contentment carrying me to dreamland.

My husband and I recently had a conversation about the amazing plan God must have for one of our children. How else could we explain the course our lives had taken?! We both carried pasts that were the whispers in church circles. An addict and alcoholic having a baby?! But God’s Grace had won. I tried to commit suicide by hanging as a child, but the poorly constructed noose didn’t work. My husband had a horrific car wreck as a young man, unrestrained, that left him without front teeth, but somehow no other injuries. When he awoke in the wreckage, he had been misplaced from the crushed-in driver’s seat, to the less impacted passenger side. And these are just a couple of our miraculous survival stories. Our past problems caused us to live individual, high-risk lifestyles, but in His mercy we were protected from our own stupidity.

As a teenager, new to the faith, I had known Ben was going to be my husband. I wasn’t very confident yet in my ability to hear God’s voice, but I never doubted he was the one. The problems and roadblocks of the world would separate us. For ten years, even! But somehow what God meant to place together, no man could keep apart. In my thirties, I finally married the man I knew at nineteen God had for me.

I could drone on and on how I believe my current path was meant to be, but I’ll spare you any further details. The point is, I have seen the hand of God in my life time and time again. So has my spouse. We consider each of our children a gift from God, and we have no doubt that the Lord has wonderful plans for their lives.

My husband used to own his own business, and he even built rockets once upon a time. But during this season, he is a homemaker. He homeschools our children and does about a billion other important tasks at home, while I serve in the role of primary and sole breadwinner. Albeit untraditional, this works wonderfully for our family. I think some men might tend to feel unfulfilled in their role as a stay-at-home dad. Not simply because society has deemed it a woman’s place over the years, but because, let’s face it; full-time parenting is hard! I’ve been in his position, and it’s crazy, hectic homeschooling multiple young ones. There’s one thing that he’s done that makes it fit him so much better than it did me, though. He understands his calling.

One day, a couple of years ago, my husband commented, “God told me today that what I’m doing is important.”

As simple as that. The encouragement of the Holy Spirit gave my man peace and purpose. We knew that financially we were doing what made sense, but budget balancing won’t fill your heart with purpose. The Spirit drives my spouse to parent well, and his determination and commitment are seen in the fruit of our babies.

It’s easy to see parenting as a chore. It’s work! It’s the hardest job you’ll ever love. It’s moments of ridiculous frustration mixed with moments of surpassing joy. It’s a love/hate relationship that you’d never let go. It’s the thing you need a break from, but also the thing you miss the second it’s gone. It’s a journey of perseverance, a practice in patience, and somehow humbling to how little we know. What we tend to forget, is that it’s also a great task for the Kingdom of God. As parents, we hold in our hands the ability to mend, but also to break. We have to be intentional to keep the damage to a minimum, and passionate to cultivate a loving environment of acceptance and success. We love our children as Jesus loved us; not for what we receive in return. The greatest gift we can give our babies is the heart of Jesus. This unconditional love that carries the fruits of the Spirit. Thankfully, perfection isn’t required, just the ability to show them the perfection that exists in Jesus, and that is there for their taking within them, as His perfect love resides there. This is the calling.

My husband takes seriously his calling, and it’s something I remind myself of often also. I mentioned in the beginning my girl reading her Bible and seeking God’s truth. This is something we taught! I don’t say that in a prideful way, for I know it’s only the true work of the Holy Spirit that keeps her doing it when the lights go down and she doesn’t know her parents are watching. That’s what truly gave my heart joy. She was able to experience the peace that comes from the Lord. We set up the practice, and we modeled the behavior, and the rest God took and ran with.

Children can be taught anything. They can be modeled hate. Abusive marriages often arise from watching abusive parents. Racism is engrained, and a false doctrine of religious works can be given precedent over the grace of God. You can even “scare the hell” out of your children by fire and brimstone, if you so choose, but when the lights go out at night, it’s the peace of abiding in Him that will persevere. That’s the calling, and it’s not an insignificant one.

It’s no secret that people have taken notice of the state of our world lately. I can hardly spend a few minutes on social media before seeing the hopelessness that persists because of the current, social climate. All I can think lately is, it’s up to me. Unless Jesus comes soon, the future is my children. It’s your children. The Bible tells a parable of ten virgins who had to keep their lamps lit as they waited on the bridegroom. Half let their oil run out and their light diminish. When the bridegroom came, only those who had remained prepared were rewarded. We are the ten ladies. The coming of Jesus is our groom. We don’t know exactly when He’ll return. It might not be in our lifetime. Does that mean our light goes out when we die? No! We keep our light burning through the oil of our children. The light of Jesus shines to future generations through the preparation we make as parents. The hope of the future lives in the loving light they carry to their own children. When He comes, no matter when, I want my lamp to still be burning for His return. That is the calling. It’s one we all share.

The Mess Won’t Keep

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“Well, that was the last of the Christmas money,” I said to my husband, as I stooped over to sweep up the pile of plastic bits and pieces. Leftovers from toy packages.

“That’s good,” he replied, while tying up a trash bag of discarded cardboard.

Our house had looked like the morning after a frat party when we got out of bed, and we set to tidying quickly so we could relax and enjoy the day ahead. As parents of three daughters, all of the age that still played with dolls and such, we were used to picking up our fair share of strewn toys. But nothing could turn a house upside down like the aftermath of the holidays. Considering we had two birthdays in December, the situation was doubled. Add in the fact that long-distant relatives sent gifts too, and the mess never seemed to end.

That was life with little kids, though, right?! I mean, it wasn’t just me that consistently stepped on tiny, plastic shoes, or tripped over a misplaced Barbie car, right?! If my kids were breathing they were making messes. It didn’t matter the rules set, boundaries placed, or chores assigned. Their trash and treasures proliferated throughout our home. Most days began (after coffee, of course) with me corralling their belongings back into their bedrooms.

“The mess won’t keep.”

These are the words my aunt spoke to me over the phone recently after I had finished another round of “return thirty, three-inch, laughing little dolls to their case.”

I knew this. I knew all the truths that little ones didn’t stay little. I had personally watched a decade fly by since I had my first child. But it was her mood this particular morning that caused me to pause and count my blessings rather than count how many times I had picked up their clothes from the bathroom floor.

I ended up spending some time with my aunt this particular day. She was feeling down, and we went shopping and lunching together to lighten her emotional load. You want to know the weird thing about grief? It has no expiration date. My cousin had passed away thirty years prior, but that didn’t lessen the sadness that had erupted within her unexpectedly that morning over the loss of her son.

“I’ll never get him back,” she had told me.

Even though she was eternally minded and took solace in seeing loved ones again one day, like anyone, the loss of the here and now was many times much too hard to bear.

We had a good day, and though I know I left her back at her home still working through her grief in her own way, she had reminded me once again not to take a thing for granted. Not the work. Not my daughters. And certainly not the mess. After all, the mess wouldn’t keep. The old adage was true. We weren’t promised tomorrow, and cherishing my children was about more than how quickly time passed. It was true that time was fleeting, but time also was abrupt. The time we had with someone could be cut short at any moment. That was the real truth of it.

That evening I hugged my babies a little tighter, and I allowed the kiss on my husband’s lips to linger a little longer. I promised myself to keep in mind the truth of life’s fragility. This world was a mess. My house was a mess. Many times my life is a mess! But I’m reminded to count it all as joy. A beautiful mess, if you will. My job was to embrace the mess. After all, the mess wouldn’t keep.

Raising a Challenging Child

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I sat in the bed watching some late night television, and as my middle daughter entered the room, I knew immediately something was wrong. She was a waif of a child, a tiny wisp, and somehow the slenderness of her face made her expressions all the more animated. A grimace crinkled her countenance, slowly becoming a mask of wailing, and I knew she was about to crumple into emotional tears.

“I’m stupid,” she howled!!

And my heart fell out. It literally came out of my body and dropped onto the floor. It had to of, but then it must have hopped back in, cause I could feel the ache of it all through my chest. I rushed to her.

I’m not normally one to jump up and rush to a crying child. I’m not trying to sound callous. Just being honest about parenting multiple, miniature, drama queens. I mean, it was no thing to hear a scream like a limb had been severed, only to discover the cause was something akin to a broken crayon. But this was different. My sweet, sensitive star was proclaiming insults over herself, but it was more than that. At her tone I had felt a sense of defeat in her voice, as if she was finally admitting to herself the negative connotations floating around out there.

As I reached her side she was confessing, “I spilled my drink! Again!”

A chocolate, protein drink (provided by me to help add a few ounces, at least, to her spindly frame) sat overturned in a puddle of sticky brown, soaking into the carpet, and streaked across the pages of her favorite, Bible story book. She was right about the again part. She had just spilled another of these pricy drinks in the kitchen less than a half hour earlier, but she was wrong about the “stupid” part. So I went about trying to convince her of that, while her dad mopped up thick, chocolate liquid from the hallway. Parenting was hard, man.

I mentioned as much to my husband later. I complimented his gentle handling of the situation, and he expressed my own heart in return, how hearing her ridicule herself had broken our hearts. Had we said things in the past to make her feel this way? Or to make her feel less? Probably. When you sign up for Parenting at the local job fair, no one explains how you can scar a human for life if you aren’t careful. I wasn’t one of these softie-types, who let the kids rule the roost. We believed in discipline, for sure, but we also believed in love. Every child needs both, but some need each piece in different doses.

I could correct my oldest and she’d try to argue with me about it. I could correct the youngest and she blew me off, or wrung out some fake tears of manipulation. The middle one, though. Each word she took to heart. Each word, I had learned over the years, had to be measured carefully. Like I had told my husband that same night, “she’s the child that makes you want to lose your cool the most, but she’s also the child who takes you losing your cool the hardest.”

She was my sensitive soul. She cried with pain when she felt she disappointed anyone. She was accident prone. Yet her tears were usually less about the pain of her mishap, and more about the disappointment she felt over the incident happening at all. Your human brain wanted to scream, “you klutz!” But your mother heart usually scooped in with a “it’s ok, baby. Accidents happen.”

I had learned when she was around three years old that I would need to handle her differently than I had her older sister. I could see it shining in her big, brown eyes. Something different, something spectacular. I had never seen a child so concerned with the feelings of others. I had never seen such a young child surrender her spot in line, her turn to others, or even the last piece of cake. She was a tiny thing, but somehow carried a heart bigger than the ocean. I knew God had created the most wonderful, caring spirit. I realized then that my job would be to cultivate that, and not to dim it. I wondered how many selfless souls had once existed in little bodies, but had suffered the world taking their shine away? I didn’t want to be responsible for that.

And so began the journey of parenting my special sprite. It. Was. Hard. It still is. Sometimes when she cries loudly over something I consider ridiculous I want to scream, “am I in an insane asylum, or something?!” I can’t promise I’ve never uttered those words. All I know is, God has a beautiful plan for this challenging child, and my main goal is to show her more of Jesus, and less of what I think she needs to be. Many times when I pray for her I ask the Lord not to change her, but to help me parent her the best way I can. I ask Him to give me wisdom, to help me lead her to becoming the young woman He has for her to be.

If she was in public school I’m pretty sure somewhere along the way a teacher would suggest medication for ADHD. She’s so hyper sometimes, full of energy and giggles. Sometimes I have to make her stop moving, look into my eyes and focus to hear the instructions I’m giving. I’m grateful we can provide tactile learning in an environment that stimulates her particular style of education. I would hate to see medication change the person she is.

She’s frightened easily. She cannot walk by Halloween decorations or the horror movie section in electronics. If she doesn’t like the “feeling” of a place, she’s ready to go home. If it’s too loud, she doesn’t want any part of it. Yet, in the quietness of our home or vehicle, she’s the loudest kid I know. The shy, timid one among strangers, but the class clown and comedian of family gatherings. I think her giggles could fuel a flight to the moon.

She’s a happy girl. She loves so passionately. She prays for strangers at night. She teaches me how to be compassionate to others, when I am lacking that part of me. She reminds us all how to be better human beings, each and every day. Every time I look at her I am in awe of her beauty, and each night I thank God that I get to be her mommy. I sometimes feel like I fall short in raising her, but I also cannot imagine a better blessing in life. A practice in patience, but also a treasure chest of never-ending joy. That’s the best way I know to describe raising a challenging child. I only pray I can do it well.