Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

When I Saw My Husband’s Painted Toenails

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It’s so quiet in my house right now, which never happens. My six year old went for a sleepover at grandma’s, and I’m holding a napping baby. My four year old went to work with her daddy just moments ago, and as I read the text message from him I thought again about his pink toenails. 

“Enjoy the quiet time alone with the baby,” he had said. 

I looked down at her sleeping, so peaceful, so beautiful, but so big! She wasn’t the tiny baby she used to be. She was starting to repeat every word she heard, and if she couldn’t say it she would try in her own toddler gibberish. She was growing up quick, but thankfully still loved to snuggle with me more than anything. I needed to soak it up, for sure. After all, that’s why my husband’s toenails were pink. 

I had noticed the changes in my husband lately. A working man, he enjoyed his quiet, restful time in the evenings. He had his own way of relaxing, which typically involved playing a game on his computer, but last week it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen his game on in a while. 


“Sometimes I wish they could stay just like this,” he had said to me recently as we drove along together to the store. “This age is perfect. I wish they could stay little.”

At night, instead of playing his game, he had started putting on television shows that our six year old enjoyed watching with him, shows about building spectacular fish tanks, or catching river “monsters” in other countries. They would make plans before he left for work of what board game we’d play when he got home, or how they’d have a soccer tournament, just the two of them, on his next off day. He cuddled with our middle child, and made up fabulous, elaborate bedtime stories that would rival J.K. Rowling. In the mornings I would smile as I picked up stray rubber bands and hair bows left over from a late night game of beauty shop makeover. A girl daddy for sure!

So last night as I hugged him before bed I looked down and saw his feet. Bright pink toenails stared back at me, and I giggled loudly at the sight. 

“Yeah,” he mused, “she wanted to paint my toenails, so I let her.”

As I lay later drifting off to sleep I uttered prayers of thanksgiving for a present husband who saw the importance of time with me and the children. He inspired me to enjoy this phase more. Many times it was absolutely exhausting and chaotic, but then it was also perfect. It was so wonderful that you just wanted to freeze time, keep them little, and enjoy all the cuddles that came without coaxing. So you watched the baby sleep a little longer instead of folding that laundry, and did an impromptu take your daughter to work day. You didn’t mind playing that board game for a billionth time, retelling the same old bedtime story again, and you even let them paint your toenails a vibrant, girly pink. 

They say the days are long, but the years are short. And I’ve certainly found that to be true. Each day that my eldest daughter grows taller and taller, it becomes more difficult to picture her chubby, newborn cheeks, or the way she suckled on the air when she slept, dreaming warm, milky dreams. The knees become knobby, replacing those fat, dimpled joints from before, and the time they spend out of your lap lengthens. Each day that goes by is the last. The last time to rock them to sleep, the last time to kiss a booboo better, or to read a bedtime story. The last time to bend down and tie a shoe, the last time to cut their meat into little pieces, or the last time to turn on the nightlight before bed. You have to enjoy each moment as if it’s the last.

My husband’s pink toenails weren’t just about a silly night of playing beauty shop, or even about being the dad of girls. It was about time, time that passed so quickly, and enjoying that time no matter what it might entail. We enjoyed a crowded bed at night, with swift kicks planted in our back, because we knew one night would be the last time they wanted to cuddle under our covers. One day would be the last time to hold hands crossing the street. So, until the last time came, you made the time count. You made each and every moment count.

When I See Your Face

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I watch you sleeping. You don’t know it, but I do. 

  
When I see your face I see myself, and I’m reminded how you landed in my life like a cataclysmic event, altering my everything, and changing me into the woman I needed to be. Sometimes I wonder, what was that life I led before you came?

When I see your face I’m reminded how much I want to be for you. You make me want to be the very best me. You make me want to be a better person, simply by being you. 

  

When I see your face I see your Daddy. I see the very best part of me, and the most special parts of him, combined to create this dynamic package that has taken our life and hearts by storm. We’ll never be the same, and I’ve never been so glad. 

When I see your face I’m reminded of all the ways I mess up. You see, I want to give you the best. I want to be the momma you deserve, but I know sometimes I fall completely flat in my efforts. Forgive me. 

  

When I see your face my breath catches, and my heart feels like it stops. I wonder, what did I do to deserve this? I feel like the luckiest woman alive, if I were to believe in such a thing. As it stands I know I’m supremely blessed, and when I see your face I’m floored by just how much. 

When I see your face I see my own fear. 

Am I doing this right?!

When I see your face I see my dreams made into reality.  

I was made for this. 

When I see your face I see my own heart on display. 

Have I ever loved this much?!

When I see your face I feel elated. 

I must be doing something right. 

When I see your face I feel like I have the strength of ten men. 

No one will ever hurt you!

When I see your face I feel limitless. 

I would do anything for you. 

When I see your face I see my motivation. 

I’m doing this for you. 

When I see your face I feel God’s love made concrete.

Thank you for my babies, Lord. 

When I see your face I feel unworthy. 

I don’t deserve such perfection. 

When I see your face I feel grateful.

Thank you Lord for trusting me to be their mother. 

When I see your face I see everything I’ve ever wanted to see, and I know I was made for just that moment. When I see your face I am complete, and I feel as if I could conquer the world. 

When I see your face all the frustration I encounter melts away, and I am left with a marvelous awe. Any hardship I’ve come against seems trivial, any sacrifice I endure seems worth it, any pain I’ve felt seems distant, and any feelings of failure fade.

I can try and fail many things in this life, but when I see your face I feel like I’ve done well. All is see is you. Your face. And when I see that it’s all I need to see.

A Letter for the Dad Who Left Me

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Dear Father,

I recently came across a folder on my Facebook messenger that I did not realize existed. It was a message archive Facebook had filtered for me of people I was not “friends” with, and in this place I found a message from my Aunt Lynn, your sister. She wasn’t a woman I could remember, but her name was one my mother had mentioned to me before. In fact she had said we favored. 

Aunt Lynn had reached out to me, and since you left when I was just a small child of five I hadn’t seen her since before that. In her message she mentioned that you had spoken of my blog, and that surprised me since a Contact Page is easily accessible on my website, yet I hadn’t heard a word. But then I thought of all the things I had written over the years. Wince. 

A large number of my blog posts have mentioned you and your absence, and I cringed wondering what you had thought of my musings. I wrote those things with no knowledge that you would ever see them, but now knowing that you might I decided to pen this letter just for you. 

First off, my intention is not to hurt you. That would do neither of us any good. I don’t desire to “get back at you” or even “lash out” to try and make myself feel better. You see, the fact is that I’ve forgiven you. I’m not mad, and I haven’t been for many years. I came to a place where I had to realize some people aren’t made to be dads who are present in their children’s life, and that’s just how it is. 

But although I have forgiven you and I don’t wish you any ill thoughts, I do want you to know how your actions have impacted my life. I think it’s only fair that you know. I don’t know the complete specifics of what went on between you and my mother. I only know what I heard, what I personally remember, but most importantly, how it all affected me in the end. 

I don’t think people realize how their actions impact another, or even how it can serve like ripples upon the water after a hastily thrown stone. They don’t see that absence can impact just as much as presence, and that empty places sometimes leave hollow hearts. 

When my mother remarried and I decided as a young girl that I liked this new man, I watched him with a distrusting eye. I remember once pouring Elmer’s glue in his backpack so that he wouldn’t be able to leave like you had done. 

Because of your decision to go away a part of me always feared he would go too, no matter how much he proved his love for me. 

Did you know that even as a thirty year old woman, when my mother died, I feared he would decide there was no longer anything to tie us together?! Because of that deep-seated rejection I still carry to a degree, I irrationally was afraid my adopted daddy would be done with me. Crazy, I know. 

I don’t want to place my self-esteem issues on you, or even the string of failed relationships I experienced where I chased men trying to find one who loved me. I won’t try and put a Freudian twist on it all, or say I tried too hard to please a man who never really loved me over and over again because of some “daddy issues” I have. I just won’t do that. 

I’ll just say it hurt. It hurt when you left. When you left the first time, the second time, and even the third. 

It hurt when I tried to keep visiting you as an eight year old and you didn’t have time for me. 

It hurt when you gave up your parental rights so easily, although I know now that was God’s will for me. 

It hurt when I reconnected with you when I was twenty, but you let me drift back away. 

It hurt that you didn’t know me at all, or that your wife signed the birthday cards. 

It hurt when I called you to cry about Mom’s death, and you had no idea what to say to me. 

I don’t know why I sought your comfort so much at that time, but I did. 

And it hurts that as I write this that unwanted, unexpected tears come to my eyes. 

But we cannot undo hurt feelings anymore than we can un-break an overturned vase. Instead what I can do is tell you how the good Lord has used it. 

God showed me through the adoption by my Dad, Michael, how it feels to be chosen. It feels lovely. To be picked to be loved, that is precious. Dad has done a really great job. 

God showed me how He also adopted me into His Kingdom, and I was able to grasp more deeply the Father Heart of God. He showed me that despite any earthly hurt I could cry out Abba Father and He would be there.

He would never leave me. 

I guess you can see why that meant so much to me, and why now I cling to my faith so deeply. It could have gone the other way, but I’m glad it did not. 

I see now that every thing that has happened to me God has orchestrated. Did He want you to leave? No. I don’t think that was His design, but when you did He worked with it and He set into motion the many things in my life that would bring me back to Him. 

So the end of my story is a happy one. I don’t know if you’ve ever wondered or worried if I’m ok. And if you haven’t, that’s fine. My joy rests on no man. But if you do then I can tell you this. 

Although your leaving hurt me then, wounded me later, and impacted me in so many ways, it did not destroy me. I am fine. I am stronger, wiser, and quick to keep the flicker alive in my own daughters’ eyes. I have chosen a man who is a wonderful husband and father to our children, and I don’t take him for granted one bit. 

The thing is, I love you, and honestly, sometimes I think of you. I think of you and it makes me sad. So then I push those thoughts away. 

In Honesty,

Your Daughter

The Messy, Awful Wonderful

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I am convinced that the job of parenting is a crazy concoction of terrible moments that make you want to bash your skull against the wall and perfect, beautiful instances that make your heart feel like it will burst right out of your chest. 

It’s a messy, awful wonderful. 

It’s being so sleep deprived after your newborn’s arrival that you almost don’t even like them. Not even a little. 

But then one day you look at their perfect, squishy-fat face, and you realize you have never been more in love. 

It’s being so tired and frustrated after another full day of picking up the same messes over and over. So frustrated that you just want your kids to leave you alone and go to sleep. 

But then it’s that feeling of overwhelming pride and adoration you feel when you watch them sleep. 

You almost want to pick them up, wake them, and tell them how much you love them! 

Almost. But not quite. 

It’s that relief you experience when your oldest child can finally do something for them-self. 

But then that fear and shock that they’re growing so fast that they can finally do something for them-self! 

  

When did she learn to make her own chocolate milk? Where was I?!

It’s the frustration of molars coming in. 

Followed the next morning by the most joyful smile you’ve ever seen!

Like it makes you want to be a better person when you look at that face!

It’s the never ending mound of stinky, dirty diapers. 

Followed by the monumental and demanding task of potty training. 

Followed by the day that you realize they don’t need your help wiping anymore, and surprisingly that makes you want to cry. 

It’s that day you look at the enormous pile of laundry you have to fold, and you think to yourself, I will never get this done!

It’s that day your five year old daughter helps you fold laundry, and you laugh silently to yourself at the way she folds shirts. But you beam with pride as she carries her own pile upstairs. 

It’s the day you find a tiny baby sock behind the dryer, and you collapse in an unexpected pile of tears because no one’s feet will ever fit in that piece of fuzzy cloth again. 

There’s the aggravation of a full sink of dirty dishes. 

And there’s the satisfaction when everyone has a “happy plate” after the meal you made. 

There’s anger when you step on a Lego, or when you accidentally sit in the bathtub and get accosted by Barbie’s outstretched arm. 

There’s joy watching your children unwrap presents on Christmas morning, or the sense of accomplishment and pride when they say excitedly, “oh thank you Mommy. Thank you so much!”

There’s sleepless nights. 

But there’s also morning snuggles. 

It’s the shrillest cry imaginable.

But it’s also the sweetest rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star you’ve ever heard. 

There’s tantrums, tears, and teething. 

But there’s also hugs, holding hands, and happy smiles. 

There’s spilled juice, spewed food, and snotty noses. 

But there’s also hearty giggles, the tickle monster, and bedtime stories. 

Sometimes there’s raised voices, stomping feet, and slammed doors. 

But there’s also apologies, forgiveness, and warm embraces. 

There’s fights over eating your veggies. 

But there’s also ice cream dates. 

Aren’t those the best?

So you have a messy, cluttered home.

But you also have contented, full hearts.  

And then there’s the “I love you’s.” I don’t guess anything trumps those. 

It’s true. Nothing compares to the roller coaster ride that is parenting. Up, down. Thrills, chills. Round and round we go. 

But when it comes down to it, you never want the ride to end. 

Sometimes being a parent is messy and awful. 

But then again, it’s simply wonderful. 

Daddy, Do You Know?

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I recently was eating at a favored fast food place in town when I glanced to my right and recognized the face in the car beside me. I looked away quickly, and I felt my insides bristle with distaste. Normally a calm, understanding individual, the feelings that bubbled inside me were a shock to my senses. 

I was bothered by his presence, angry at his inaction, and personally troubled by his inability to see the error of his ways. 

Daddy, do you know what you’re doing?

The man I saw was the absentee father of a friend’s child, and though it was really none of my concern, it concerned me nonetheless. 

He didn’t live hundreds of miles away. They weren’t separated by multiple state lines. He lived right there, in the same town as his continually growing child, yet he was like a ghost. 

I didn’t know the intricacies of the circumstances, didn’t really want to know. I didn’t pretend to understand what was underneath the lack of motivation on his part to be involved. In fact, the only thing I did know was this. I knew what it felt like. 

I knew all too well what it felt like to be a child abandoned by their father, given up in favor of no requirement to pay child support. But more painfully still; given up in favor of not having to be present for the hard times. 

Being a parent isn’t easy. It comes with a bookoodle of responsibility. For some, it seems, it’s just easier to walk away. For reasons that blow my own mommy mind, it’s more comfortable for some parents to leave and never come back. To somehow pretend their parental rights never were. 

But I wonder. Sometimes I wonder. 

Daddy, do you know?

Do you know the hole you leave in your child’s heart?

Do you know the lasting pain you cause?

Do you know the crushed spirit, and the self-esteem issues your absence leaves in its wake?

Do you know you leave behind a child who wonders, was it me? Was it something I did, something that makes me unlovable? Not worth fighting for?

Daddy, did you know?

I chanced another glance at the wayward father in the fast food parking lot, and I wondered. I wondered if he had even a clue the damage his noninvolvement could be causing? I wondered if he knew. 

Probably not. 

I’m a Trash Receptacle. And Other Parenting Gems. 

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I knew when I became a mother that I would be privy to a love I had only imagined, and sure enough I was right. Every day I am rewarded with the joy of being a parent, and that’s probably a good thing. After all, if it wasn’t for that overflowing feeling of pride when I gaze at my lovely daughters, I would probably strangle them in those particular moments when that fleeting thought enters my head. Just being honest. 

Motherhood is the most wonderful thing I have ever experienced, and though the hours are long, the pay nonexistent, and the bosses are incredibly demanding, I still wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love being a mommy. But there are certain tasks that have come with motherhood that I never knew were in store. 

I never realized that I would become an automatic bellhop, required to carry all my kid’s “luggage” on every little excursion. A simple run to the local store requires bags of goodies, refreshments, and a favorite toy or three. And while children run wild, Mom is left holding the spoils. 

“Here Mom. Can you hold this?”

But I discovered this request isn’t strictly for discarded dolls. It seems I am the holder of gum that has lost its flavor, masticated food that doesn’t taste like they hoped it would, or any number of empty wrappers or spent tissues. 

Yep, I’m a trash receptacle. Among other parenting gems. 

I’m a referee, a peacekeeper, if you will, negotiating treaties amongst the warring natives. And not a very good one at that. 

I’m a mode of transportation when little feet grow weary, but no one ever wants to repay the favor. 

I’m a mind reader, and an imaginative, story-teller extraordinaire. I can come up with games on the fly to play in waiting rooms everywhere and road trips aplenty. 

I’m a butt-wiping, nose-blowing, detangler of unruly hair. I can cut up a hotdog into small, safe pieces in record time, and pull a string cheese out of my purse in a moment’s notice. If that’s what you’re into. 

My lap is the most coveted place on planet earth, second only to the bathroom when I want to use it. My shirt makes the best napkin around when dirty fingers need wiping, and it makes an even better tissue for snotty noses. Plus my bed is the comfiest one in the house; just ask anyone. 

I am a perfect nursemaid when little ones feel ill, yet interestingly enough, when I am sick, it’s business as usual. Hmmm. 

It must be my mommy magic that makes me not require food, rest, or time alone. My powers certainly do wonders in drying all tears and healing all booboo’s with a simple kiss of my lips. Actually, that part’s pretty cool. But sometimes I do wish someone would hold me and let me cry my eyes out. I guess that’s where daddies come in, huh?

Most days I feel as if I wear more hats than any person should, be it a chef’s toque or chauffeur cap, but I suppose I wouldn’t have it any other way. I guess you could say I like hats. Multiple, hardworking hats. And my momma hat fits me just right. 

Plus the hugs are cool. Really cool. 

Even though I didn’t realize I’d yearn constantly for a shower alone, miss perfect silence, or weep in the bathroom because I think I’m a parenting failure, at the end of the day I suppose I’m okay with being a trash receptacle. I mean, somebody has to throw away used gum, right?

The Most Important Thing I Do for My Kids

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Becoming a parent was one of the most life-changing experiences I have ever been through, and it continues to be a learn-as-you-go process for me. Parenthood continues to stretch me, refine me, and inspire me to be a better human being for the little people who mimic my every move. When I became a parent I found myself suddenly thrown into the responsibility for another life, and it was overwhelming to say the least. 

As a new parent I suddenly discovered that the decisions I made had an impact, be it negative or positive, on someone else. No longer did my poor decisions only hurt me. And so began my journey as a worried mother. 

When my first daughter came I worried about what she ate. Was I making enough milk to sustain her? I worried about everything from the brand of diapers we purchased to the possible adverse reactions of immunizations. I worried if she was sleeping enough or sleeping too much. I worried about sniffles, gas, and teething. 

And even though it gets easier as you go, the deep concern over making the best decisions for your child never stops. 

Too much television? Not enough story time?

Public school, private school, homeschool?

And what about stranger-danger, kidnapping, pedophiles?

You have to teach your children right from wrong, how to be safe, how to look both ways when crossing the street. They have to know not to go places with people they don’t know, and that the words they speak can hurt other people’s feelings. 

You teach your children The Golden Rule, how to share their toys, and to wash their hands before they eat. They are taught vegetables are good for you, and that it’s important to brush your teeth twice a day. 

You give them chores to teach responsibility, but try to balance work with fun. Basically, as a mom you strive to get everything right; which never happens. 

  
Parenthood is a lot like being a teacher, a guidance counselor, and a role model all rolled into one. And you never get a day off. The level of responsibility doesn’t pass you by, and if you’re a good parent you take the job pretty darn seriously. I know I do. 

In fact, each morning and every night I pray for my children, and I ask God so many things for those precious babies. Naturally, I pray for protection and health, and I also remember to thank God for the gift of their lives. I pray that I am a good mom, and that He would lead me in that direction. 

This morning was no different, but as I spoke to Jesus about my tiny charges I realized the most important thing I must impart to them. There’s so much, really, but this one thing seemed of the utmost to me. This one thing I knew I must do for my kids. 

Lord, let them see you in me.

Children arrive like a clean slate. They are born innocent, pure, without hatred or the evil influences that come from living in this world. Everything they learn is given to them, and what better present can I provide than a proper representation of Christ’s love?

As a Christian mother it is my responsibility to show them Jesus, and the absolute best way I can do that is through my words, my actions, and my example. When they look at me I want them to see as much of the Lord as they possibly can. I desire my life to be a worthy representative of God’s love. 

Honestly, I fall short of this often. Like, every single day. But despite my present failures, my overall goal since their births has always been to give them the best I possibly can. Nothing is more precious than providing them with a foundation on Christ set forth via my life. My goal is for them to see Him in me. That is my prayer. 

As my children grow older this becomes even more important. They’re watching. The words I speak, the way I treat the strangers we encounter, the influences I allow within our home; it all matters. I am helping form the future, and the women my girls will become rests heavily on what behavior I model for them.

My job as a mother is no small task, and the number of things I will teach my babies is huge. But none is more important than this. 

Let them see you in me, Lord. Let them see you in me. 

15 Things Little Kids Do That Drives Me Over the Edge!

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I’ll tell y’all the truth. I love my kids. Like I really love them. I love them with this undying love, this unconditional commitment, this feeling inside that I never knew existed until I had children. I would kill somebody over my kids, but that doesn’t change the fact that some days I want to kill my kids too. 

They take me to a place in my heart I never knew existed. And then they take me right over the edge. To the brink of insanity. 

Here’s 15 things, off the top of my head, about little kids that drives me crazy. Pretty sure most of this happened today. 

1. When they repeat things. 

My toddler shrilly screeches the same phrase over and over until I acknowledge her. If it’s a question she wants a “yes” to, and I instead say “no,” she’ll keep repeating her request in hopes of a different answer. 

2. When they want to go outside, so you get them dressed and shoes on. Then 5-10 minutes later they’re ready to come back inside. And they’ve managed to become completely filthy in that short period of time. 

3. When they wait to talk to me until I’m either on the phone, or I’m conversing with another adult. It’s usually something really important too like, “Mom, why don’t dogs get married?”

4. When the only time they want to “help” or contribute to housework happens to coincide with me being in a hurry to get it done. I’m sorry baby. You’re not really helping. Nice try though. 

5. The above is a cousin to them desiring to “do it myself.” They want to dress themselves when you’re running late. Every time. I want to foster independence, but I start to twitch while those tiny fingers struggle with buttons and put shoes on the wrong foot. 

6. Potty training period, but specifically their desire to pee at inopportune times. 

They don’t have to pee at home before you go somewhere, but they do have to pee right when you pull out of the driveway. Or when you leave the store. Or when there’s no available bathroom. Or if you’re in a hurry. Naturally. 

7. You know when they’re crying, and you go to console them and hold them, and then they blow their nose on your shirt? Yeah. That. 

Subsequently this usually happens when you’re wearing a nice shirt. 

8. You know how nice it is to finally sit down after you finish your plethora of required, household duties? Well, that’s when they ask for stuff. When you sit down. Every. Time. 

9. How they have an uncanny ability to ask for stuff when you don’t have it. 

Forget the sippy cup? They will be the thirstiest they have ever been in their life. They will be certain that imminent death due to dehydration is very near. 

10.  When they don’t like what’s on their plate, yet they love the same thing when it’s on yours. 

Why is that?! It’s the same thing. Why are you eating off my plate like a little Helen Keller?!

11. Play-doh. 

And that’s really all I have to say about that. 

12. My hands are full; they’re always full. So why do they ask me to hold their stuff? 

Why bring your favorite cuddle buddy and then not cuddle them?! 

No, I can’t hold your sippy cup. You’re dying of thirst, remember?!

13. All accidents occur away from home, and usually when you are lacking extra supplies. 

For example, diaper blowouts only happen when you forget the diaper bag. Or peepee accidents occur when a change of clothing is forgotten. 

14. Missing shoes period, but especially the fact that they can’t see them right in front of their face when sent to look. 

You don’t see that shoe in your room right at your feet until I point it out, but you found the one speck of pepper in your scrambled eggs this morning!

  

15. And last but not least. 

When they do bad, annoying stuff, and then I realize they got it from me. 

I love those little darlings, but yes, they drive me crazy too. 

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

We’re Not Disappointed so You Don’t Have to Be Either

by

Three girls. We had three daughters, and even the girl was a dog. I watched my husband with our little ladies, and he was just perfect. He was a man, a big, tough guy, but something about having daughters brought out the best in him. 

I saw a protectiveness I never knew he was capable of, and it made me proud. It made me feel safe, for them and myself. Their presence seemed to cultivate his kindness, and while in their company a gentle spirit emanated from his being. He led them with a strict, fair consistency, but he also handled them gently and compassionately. His parenting of little girls was like a work of art, and watching him kiss their booboos or allowing them to brush and fashion pink bows in his hair made me love him even more. 

The gentle giant that melted under the gaze of his gaggle of girls made me certain God had created him precisely for such a task as this. 

Yet, when I became pregnant again my thoughts were on a male son. 

He needs a boy. 

Doesn’t every father need a son to carry on his name? That’s certainly what everyone said, and not a day passed since I announced the pregnancy that someone didn’t proclaim, “Perhaps now God will bless you with a son.” Or something similar. 

In fact everyone felt certain our next child would be a boy. The odds certainly pointed in our favor, and most people seemed very excited over the prospect of us finally bearing a boy child. Even I was in agreement, and I felt the general consensus that my husband needed a son. 

And so we waited. 

Yet in all the waiting the one person who never spoke of the baby growing in my womb to be a boy was his own father. My husband never voiced a desire that it be a male, and he even told me a few times with a smile, “We will have another daughter.”

When the day came that I had eagerly anticipated my spouse seemed indifferent to the whole ordeal, and though he made it clear he wished to be present, he seemed to lack the nervous expectancy I carried. 

I just wanted it to be a son. For him. And though I worried what in the world I would do with a boy when it finally came, I wished to give my husband that gift. 

I watched with baited breath as she ran the ultrasound wand over my swelling belly, and it didn’t take long to see a sight I was accustomed to. I waited for her words to confirm what I already knew, and before she could even speak my husband belted out joyfully, “it’s another girl!”

  
Later in the car I felt competing emotions running under the surface. I was so elated, but a mild dismay lingered. I grabbed my husband’s hand, looked at his face, and could tell immediately his feelings were different than mine. A smooth river of radiance flowed there, a calm contentment was his countenance. 

But still I asked, “Are you disappointed?”

I just had to know. I had to know if his dreams of a son were dashed, and if he felt resigned to only be a girl-daddy forever. 

But he answered honestly with a soft smile, “Of course not. Why would I be disappointed? Didn’t I tell you it was another girl?”

As we continued to laugh and speak about God’s plan for our family my heart filled, and any feeling of lacking I thought I might have felt also dissipated. He knew what God had for him as a father, and he was just fine with that. 

I loved our daughters like he loved our daughters, but his care of them was something I couldn’t replicate. Only he could show them what a loving man was to be in their lives. Only he could provide them that certain kind of steely strength and protection. And only he could show them the Father Heart of God. 

In turn they showed him the gentleness and soft spirit God places in a female’s heart, and somehow his recognition of a lady’s mind and soul served our marriage well. They had him wrapped around his finger, and he had them lassoed into his strong arms. And I got to be a part of it all. 

  
God had blessed us after all. He had blessed us with another daughter, and despite anyone’s concerns over my husband’s feelings (including myself), the fact remained we had precisely what we needed and even wanted. 

It seems God made us to be parents of little girls, and considering how perfect it all works out I can’t imagine it any other way. I don’t think my husband can either, and deep down we don’t want to. 

We’re not disappointed so you don’t have to be either. We’re not disappointed; we’re blessed beyond measure. We don’t feel like our family is lacking; we’re too busy with the precious lot we’ve been given. We’ve been entrusted with girls that we have the privilege of molding into women, and that sounds just fine to us. 

I have decided there’s no perfect, nuclear family by a worldly definition. There’s only what’s perfect for us. There’s what God has placed before us, and really, who could be disappointed about that?