Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

The Thing About That Last Baby

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“It’s like someone flips a switch,” my husband mused. “One day they’re little and cute, everything they do adorable. Then you wake up and they’re grown.”

We sat together on the front porch, sipping on our coffee in the shade, as a cool breeze blew making the morning pleasant despite the beating sun. I nodded my agreement in the quietness of our conversation. Our daughters all still slept, and in the stillness of early day, before their raucous laughter filled every crack, my husband and I talked freely about every topic from Old Testament prophets, to why Publix bakery could do no wrong in our book of sweet treats. I pondered his most recent observation, and I won’t lie; it caused my heart to whimper.

My five year old daughter was the most spirited, unique, and joyful child I had ever encountered. I’m sure I am partial, but each word from her mouth either made my eyebrow raise, jaw drop, or body convulse in laughter. A trip alone to the store with her brought the kind of content to inspire a sitcom. She currently hung in the balance between innocence and childhood discovery. She teetered in that very special place of believing in fairies, but more importantly, believing her daddy hung the moon. Her cheeks still held cherub-like chubbiness, her fingers without the lines of grown hands. Her head was larger in proportion to her body, her appearance the last of toddling giggles before Buddha bellies disappear and real childhood takes shape. She was still the pint size that made piggybacks possible and rocking in your lap a thing. Her frame was the perfect makeup for early morning cuddles, or late night hideouts under the covers. For now, at least.

Like a switch, my husband had said, and no thing could be more true. Having watched my other daughters spring up as the years rolled by had given me an educated insight, but had done little to block the blow of it happening again. Perhaps it was different this time because she was the last. The last baby.

Preschoolers, you see, have their own unique language as they’re transversing the land of phonics and annunciation. L’s are W’s, and pronouns are very little understood. Grammar unheard of, plural possessives erroneously uttered, but it’s cute. Eventually you have to correct them, but for the most part you smile, locking away in the memory banks of life that particularly adorable way they say words like pasketti (spaghetti) or aminal (animal). My own mom always reminisced over my requests for pale nolish on my toes. Nobody tells you, though, that one day your kid suddenly describes a banana as yellow instead of lellow.

One day they eat the crusts off their sandwich or they go to bed without kissing you goodnight. One day they smell like baby powder, but the next thing you know they smell like B.O. One day you’re nourishing them from your breast, but before you even have time to mentally prepare, you’re shopping for your daughter a bra. It’s crazy how that happens.

My husband’s words on the front porch interrupted my thoughts, “I soak up every bit of her being little as I can.”

I nodded some more. I think I even whispered, “yes” in agreement.

It seems, life was like a river. Sometimes the water level was low, but other times it threatened to overflow the banks. Sometimes you could sit lazily on the side, watching the ripples of the calm current, reveling in the way the sun reflected off the water. But most of the time, I reckon, it seemed like the river just flowed. Certainly faster than I preferred. You had to hang on to the raft to not fear the rapids, to enjoy the ride no matter how wild it sometimes seemed. You had to take the time to picnic on the outer banks, enjoying the company of those God put in your boat. I mean, before you knew it, they were too big to fit inside. And yes, I’m totally thinking about my king-sized bed being too small as of late.

That afternoon, after our morning quiet, coffee and conversations, I took my youngest to the store with me. I buckled her seatbelt when she had trouble doing it on her own. I sat in my seat patiently, waiting for her to put her shoes back on in the grocery store parking lot, even though I had told her not to take them off. I pushed a stray, wirey curl back behind her ear, and I held her tiny, chubby hand as we slowly plodded through the crosswalk. The thing was, the switch hadn’t been flipped yet. So, I lived each moment not in dread of the passage of time, but in enjoyment of the journey that took me there.

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.

The Gift of Giggles and Gal Time

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As I drove to work this morning the sun had yet to peek over the horizon, but a smile had already risen on my face. Despite the dark hour, sleepy brain, and still full coffee mug, I felt a joyful energy flowing through my veins. My thoughts came back to my eldest daughter’s giggle, the one that had just recently tickled my ears, and I beamed anew. I realized her sweet spirit had injected itself into my marrow, and I felt rejuvenated by the memory of her smile. What a gift!

Just to let you know, my oldest daughter, still age nine, loves to sleep. In fact, she reminds me of a teenage boy. If we didn’t make her wake she would Rip Van Winkle her life away. Even on school days, she didn’t get up until at least nine or ten, thanks to her homeschool schedule. Yet there she had sat when I opened the bathroom door. After a hot shower I had opened the door to allow the steam to exit, and sitting on the floor, waiting patiently, she smiled underneath sleepy eyes.

This wasn’t the first time my girl had woken up as I got ready, and as I hugged her tight I commented, “I hoped I’d see you.”

It had all started a couple of months ago. My big girl had heard me leaving for work, and she had woken brightly to give me a goodbye hug and kiss. Later that night, when I had returned home, she had exclaimed with conspiratorial glee, “I saw you this morning!”

It was like it had been our secret meeting, something that she as the eldest child could take part in alone, and it became apparent it was a big deal to her. So much so, that she started telling me before bed to wake her in the morning before I left. At first, I tried to let it go. I had whispered her name, and when I didn’t get an answer, gone about my way. I liked the quiet time in the mornings to reflect and pray, and surely she didn’t really want to wake up intentionally at 6:00 am!

Boy, was I wrong. I had to hear all about her disappointment. Then she took to adding to her bedtime prayers, “and let me wake up before Mom goes to work.”

Gulp.

The first morning the Lord answered her prayer, you would have thought He had caused the sun to stand still like He did for Joshua in the Old Testament. She had gushed to me at bedtime about how God had heard her. Spurred by her childlike faith she ended her prayers in the same manner, petitioning the Lord to wake her when I got up.

Well, He did. She woke up, and it seemed to make her so happy, I didn’t tell her not to. It got to where I found myself praying in the shower for God to help her wake up, and I assumed I was praying that prayer for her benefit, but this morning I started to wonder if it wasn’t also for me.

“Bark, bark, bark,” came the sound of our family dog.

She had giggled, holding a hand over her laughing mouth, and I had snickered along with her. That was the scene this morning when we had sat on the bed together before I left for the day. While I pulled on my compression socks she had shared story after story with me, like we were two gossiping girls at the back of the school bus, and the driver, aka dog, had let us know we were getting too loud. As I heard my husband grumble, “be quiet, Lizzie,” I stifled more laughter, and I exchanged amused glances with my daughter. We almost got caught!

As I later drove to work, still feeling the high of giggles and great big hugs, it hit me the absolute gift of these unexpected yet joyful meetings. I had not known I needed them, but now felt myself abundantly grateful for them. I couldn’t believe I had almost brushed off her attempts to meet with me, assuming we could always find a better and more convenient time. I had almost forgotten that one day she wouldn’t remember to pick up the phone and check in with her ole mom, much less get up hours early for daily gab sessions.

I didn’t know when might be our last morning to hug, or lay on the bed together while I played with her hair, neglecting thoughts that I needed to hurry up and get moving. I had grown to adore our morning prayers and hearing her middle-school-age thoughts on life. And I knew I better savor these precious moments while I could. I had to savor the fact that she wanted to spend time with me even more than she wanted to sleep in, and it humbled me to realize I must be pretty darn special in her book. The thought made me smile again.

Then I pondered, “is this how God feels when His children take the extra time to have a conversation with Him?”

All I know is, I’m grateful for this morning. I’m glad I took the time, that I enjoyed the time, and that I recognized that time with those you love is so very precious. Sometimes you might have to carve that much needed time out of your day, whether it’s to wake early, stay up a little late, or curtail your lunch break. I’m certainly glad my daughter felt I was worth it, and I’m blessed to see the gift that arrived this morning in the package of giggles and gal time.

I Don’t Want to Forget

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They sat side by side along the edge of the pool. My husband patted the leg of our middle child affectionately.

“It’s alright,” he soothed.

His face showed zero frustration and abundant love. I watched the way his head dipped low to meet her eyes, and she stared back in obvious adoration. He had jumped into the water with his clothes on when she cried out in fear. After swimming too far into the deep end and growing fatigued, our young, novice swimmer had called for dad’s help, and he had answered. I watched them together, and I knew I never wanted to forget this.

I never wanted to forget the tender, yet protective way my husband parented. I never wanted to forget the way his face changed when he looked at them, or how his eyes crinkled at the corners in joy when he was especially proud. I never wanted to forget the way his countenance transformed, taking on a look of total peace when he hugged our babies close. I wanted to see that look of contentment, the fierce protector on guard, or his proud grin forever. I never wanted to forget how my husband looked raising our daughters.

This morning I stood in the shower with my little girl, and I washed the thick conditioner from her long, blond locks. The water bubbled up slightly as it cascaded down her thick tresses, and I realized I never wanted to forget the feel of my hands in her hair, or how she giggled when the water first hit her. She wouldn’t always come tapping on the shower door asking to join me. She wouldn’t need my help much longer with the hair rinsing, or beg me to blow it dry. I didn’t want to forget how grateful she was for my help, or how much each child needed me. It was easy to get flustered or aggravated in the midst of the mess of being depended on so much, but I never wanted to forget the feeling of reward.

Yesterday my child had been walking ahead of me in the restaurant. She knew her own way back to the table, and she bounded ahead while still staying close. She skipped as she walked, her feet dancing with glee at every step. She found joy in every moment, she smiled easily. I watched her tiny frame, spindly little legs moving, blond hair bouncing up and down with her footfalls. I felt such happiness watching her in the everyday mundane, and I wanted to store away each bit of bundled joy. I never wanted to forget that moment. I wanted to lock it away in my pocket, press it between the pages of my heart, never let it slip from my memory. So perfect was that moment of pure love; I never wanted to forget.

I never wanted to forget the hugs. You know, the way their little bodies fit inside your arms. Or the way they’d rest their head against your chest in total surrender, complete trust, and unconditional love. A small child can sleep so deeply and peacefully in their parent’s arms, and I never wanted to forget that feeling that you get when you hold a little human being who trusts you totally with their life.

I never wanted to forget the utter joy of nursing an infant, looking down in your arms at the tiny person whose complete sustenance depended on you. I never wanted to forget the way their tongue would curl into a little loop afterwards, like they were still trying to drink milk in their dreams.

I never wanted to forget baby giggles, first steps, or the initial “mama” they spoke. I never wanted to forget how my kisses healed scrapes or how my hands wiped tears away for good. I always wanted to remember the way they greeted me with excitement when I came in the door, or the sweetly whispered prayers before bed.

I want to hold onto the memory of phrases like, “hey, mom, can I talk to you,” or “I’ve got something to tell you.” Those softly spoken words prior to pouring out her heart. The fact that she can’t keep a secret from mom, or that I’m the person she wants to share uncomfortable situations with, the person whose advice she seeks. I pray I’m always that person, but if I’m not, I never want to forget how it feels right now.

I always want to remember how easily amused she can be, getting excited over a sucker or a dollar store toy. I never want to forget the shrieks of excitement over going to a new park or driving for an ice cream cone. I want to always remember the joyful, “this is the best day ever,” proclamations, or how she giggles with glee over taking a bath in the kitchen sink. Please, Lord, don’t let it fade.

Parenting is a struggle. It’s tiring, and some days I don’t want to snuggle. I want my bed back, I want a moment of quiet conversation with my spouse. I want to not have to pick up the same things over and over, clean up spills, or scrub cups of curdled milk. I want a day where my name isn’t repeated 5 bazillion times, or where I never hear, “hey, mom, watch this.” But then I’d miss the look of accomplishment when I do “watch this,” so there’s that. I never want to forget the sweet is stronger than the sour, or that time is cruel in how fast it speeds by.

I never want to forget how to appreciate each moment for what it is, a passing morsel of time that tics away far too quickly, a moment that could fall away and be forgotten if I don’t take the time to look and lock it away. And I never want that. I never want to forget that each childish laugh will fade, each body grow taller, and each toy will be boxed up and given away. When the air is silent, the bed empty, and the cupboard full, I want my memory to be overflowing with each cherished moment I have right now. I don’t want to forget.

Always My Baby You’ll Be

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I sat on the couch watching a show on Netflix with my husband. My eight year old daughter had shown an interest in the series since we started it, and she currently sat beside me on the sofa watching along. This was a new development and I kept looking her way, stealing glances, as the laughter of her younger sisters carried from their room. Wasn’t it just last week she would have been in there with them, too short of an attention span to keep up with something other than a Pixar cartoon?

As I looked upon her I couldn’t help but notice her hair was growing out. She had requested a more grown-up cut about six months prior, and it was starting to flip up on the ends in an adorable fashion. New growth at her hairline added to the look, and for about the fifth time that evening I thought to myself, “she is stunning.”

She was at that odd age of childhood. Too old to be a little kid, too young to be grown. Her face still held some baby fat, yet I could see the elongation of her neck, and the foreshadowing of the young woman she would become. Sometimes when I thought of her as a lady it caught me off guard. I wasn’t ready to see that part of life. Not yet.

As if reading my mind, her attention left the TV screen and her eyes met mine. “I’ll always be your baby,” she said with a shy smile. Then she giggled.

The night before she had jumped into my lap after I got home from work. She was already just a little over a head-length below my full-grown height. We both knew she’d catch up soon. She was all legs and arms, but as she curled into my lap I gathered her limbs, patted her bottom, and squeezed her up against me.

Always my baby you’ll be.

She asked questions now. She had always asked questions. All children do. But now her questions were more than “why is the sky blue” or “are we there yet.” They were thought-provoking, big girl questions. The kind of questions that surprised me yet made me proud all at the same time. They were the kinds of questions that took you off guard with something so well-thought and mature spoken, yet also made you smile with thoughts like, “I made that brilliant, little creature.”

Sometimes when she spoke something especially bright and witty I would almost want to cry. The same baby that used to soil all her onesies with spit-up and diaper blowouts was now capable of inquisitive and tantalizing conversation. Well, sort of. She was still goofy enough to keep us both grounded.

In other words, she was big enough to make a lump form in my throat, but still small enough that I could talk myself off the ledge of maternal breakdown.

Always my baby you’ll be.

When she had spoken my thoughts and giggled so sweetly, her gap-toothed smile charming me completely, I had suddenly thought of my mother for some reason. I thought of me sitting in her lap at twenty years old, crying into her red hair, pouring my heartbreak into her understanding ear after a terrible breakup with a boy I loved. I had never thought for even a moment that my grown woman body was too big for her lap. Instead, in my angst, I had simply fallen comfortable into the place that felt best, and where I needed to be to find comfort.

And I missed her then. My Mommy. This adult woman missed her Momma’s lap.

Always my baby you’ll be.

I suppose that’s why God granted me the gift of motherhood within the year after my mother’s passing. So I could take comfort in holding my own baby girl in my lap, to soften the blow of no longer being the baby myself.

I glanced over to my right. My eight year old looked radiant beside me. So grown, yet still so little. Beautiful, cute. Big, little. Inquisitive, innocent. Bold, dependent. Always my baby, no matter what. She had just turned eight, and if you thought about things in a five-year-plan sorta way then she would be a teenager in just a short, half-decade timeframe. It seemed only yesterday that we were hanging Noah’s Ark wall border in her nursery, and I would take frequent breaks in the floor because my belly ached with the weight of her pulling on my abdominal muscles. Now, though, I had to catch my breath from the weight it tugged on my heart to think of how fast that baby had grown. Too fast. Long days, short years. No saying had ever proven more true.

I stole one more quick glance at my growing girl. She smiled back slyly, and we both grinned.

Always my baby you’ll be.

Always.

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.

Take the Time, Momma. You Need It. 

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I am a busy mom, and I have no problem with that. Yes, I’m semi cuckoo for cocoa puffs most of the time, but at night when everything gets real quiet I typically want to burst into happy tears for how awesome my life is. And maybe that’s a little cuckoo too, but I think we can give me a hormonal pass. I’m still postpartum after all. 

My point is I don’t mind the chaos overall because it’s beautiful. I wouldn’t say I’m too blessed to be stressed, per se, but that’s only because I can’t control my frustrations over repeating the same commands to multiple tots under five fifty times a day. But whatever. It’s still awesome. 

I love that I homeschool and work as a nurse. I adore taking kids to the park and even hauling them to the store. It’s fine. I enjoy cooking and keeping house, even if I’m majorly slacking at the latter. Everyone has a laundry chair/sofa in the living room, right?!

But sometimes I do get tired. I sell skincare products on the side, and sometimes I look at my dark circles and think, “that’s bad advertising girl.” I digress. The point is I don’t sleep through the night with a breastfeeding baby, and my waking hours are packed from the moment I wake until I pass out after midnight. Even if I do happen to sit down for a moment my lap is never my own. Plus that’s usually when someone asks for something. 

Lately I’ve put a lot of time into my small business, and I’ve been doing events 1-2 nights a week. Last week I had two, and this week I had scheduled two more. A part of me dreaded what would fall away at home while I was working, but I told myself it was for the greater good and surged ahead with zeal. But then my week changed on me. 

My first event got canceled, and I secretly sighed with relief. But then my second event got canceled as well. I started wondering worriedly if I should try and throw some time and effort into putting something else together last minute to benefit my business. If I wasn’t running I guess I felt like I wasn’t being purposeful. Being still felt odd. 

But then God whispered to me. 

Take this time. You need it. You can run yourself ragged trying to make something succeed, but you know deep down that you don’t make it happen in your efforts alone. I make things happen for you. Take this week. Enjoy your family. You deserve it. You can run again next week. 

And just like that any guilt I had over not doing enough was gone. I have done school and picked up around the house, but many times I’ve just sat on the couch with my kids. I’ve cooked, but because I love it. I’ve shopped for pleasure, not just necessity. I have taken the time this week for me, because I needed it. 

I think most busy women could take that cue. We could stop for a minute and listen to God tell us to take the time. The success of our lives isn’t solely dependent on our efforts. He drives our lives, He’s at the helm, and too many times we frantically try to steer and head things straight for a storm. Sometimes you just have to take a minute, take a day, take the time and do nothing because you deserve it. God honors that. 

The responsibilities of parenthood, marriage, work, and home will never stop. They just keep spinning around, but sometimes we’re so tired and frustrated we end up spinning our wheels too. 

God would say, “Take the time, Momma. You need it.”

Everything won’t fall apart in your rare moment of self-preservation. It will be waiting eagerly no doubt. So do what you love. Take the time to enjoy life. Smile, laugh, sleep. Whatever. Next week will come soon enough, but you’ll be all the better to face it anew. 

Parenting Isn’t Pretty

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Today we took a trip to a local pumpkin patch, and I followed my daughters as they ran here and there excitedly. At several stops I paused in my pursual, pulling out my camera phone, and recording our day. 

Click. 

That’s a perfect shot. 

Like any good day it eventually came to an end. The park was closing, and I gathered my girls and their cousin for a picture with their pretty little pumpkins. As they sat on a bench, pumpkins placed in the middle, they complained about the sun. I snapped quickly, and found myself laughing as I looked at the scene on my screen’s display. 

  
It certainly wasn’t picture perfect, and I could imagine no Instagram filter that could enhance this particular shot. I realized that it reminded me of many of the faded photos in albums from my childhood, a simpler time before pocket cameras were within easy reach. 

And it was true. When I was a child my mom didn’t photograph every single day, and if she did happen to have a chunky camera on hand she took one single snap, and hoped for the best. It was great. 

Nowadays we take a dozen different angles of the same scene, scrutinizing every take for the one most complimentary, and then applying programs to further enhance lighting and such. We strive to capture beautiful memories of lovely days, and it’s almost a practice in forgery. 

After all, parenting isn’t pretty. Not really. No matter what filter you apply. 

You can dress your children in the finest frocks local boutiques supply, but at the end of the day they’re covered with the same boogers and food stains as every other child. You can dress it up all you want, but at the end of the day we’re all a mess. Cause parenting isn’t pretty. 

It certainly isn’t pretty when potty-training fails, toddlers throw tantrums, or pre-teens give you the evil eye. It’s not at all lovely when you’re sleep deprived, covered in spit-up, or suffering from postpartum depression. It’s all worth it and what-not, but that certainly doesn’t mean you want to put it in a picture album for all times. 

Parenting isn’t pretty on the days you lose your cool, lose the keys, or even lose your marbles. Sometimes it’s downright ugly, especially when you lose your patience. 

And what’s worse is the world we live in currently where only pretty pictures of parenting are published or posted for the world to see. We look longingly at everyone’s lovely lives and wonder why we’re the only one failing. We seem to be the only one with stains on shirts, scrunched up eyes, and screwy smiles on our camera roll. 

Parenting isn’t pretty, and that’s pretty much the truth. It’s rewarding and wonderful, but it’s also messy and mind-blowing. It’s great and good, but it’s also difficult and demanding. It’s periods of perfection, followed by instances of insanity, all crammed into one package.

In fact, the only really pretty thing is the God-given grace to wake up anew to tackle triumphantly another tumultuous day. It’s the peace from above that despite where you fall short, that in essence you were made for this thing. Even when it’s ugly; which is a lot of the time. 

Parenting isn’t pretty, but it’s still pretty perfect of a fit for those of us who dive in head first day after day, taking pictures, taking punches, and taking each moment as it comes. 

So parenting isn’t pretty, but it’s still my favorite thing. Even when the pictures may prove otherwise. 

My Kids Watch Too Much TV. So Sue Me. 

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I sat on the couch with a little girl on either side of me, and it was perfect. The third one inside my belly squirmed back and forth, and all I knew was that it felt good to finally be sitting down. The sofa suited me just fine, and my daughters stared transfixed at a holiday special on Disney Jr. My biggest concern was how long it would be until I had to get up to pee, and that was it. 

I certainly wasn’t worried about my children watching too much TV. 

Yes, this evening we deserved a little down time. After all, we had spent a full day attending educational classes and running errands. But many times, to tell the truth, I let them watch television when it wasn’t just a relaxing reward. 

In all honesty, I let them watch it first thing in the morning so that I could have a little peace with my much needed cup of coffee. And other times I sat them in front of it while I balanced the checkbook, cleaned the kitchen, or locked myself in the bathroom to take five. 

My kids watch too much TV. So sue me. 

There seems to be an abundance of opinions on what is and what isn’t best when it comes to raising children, and I’m quite aware that I don’t always pass the test of public opinion when it comes to parenting. 

I’ve been known to say yes to ice cream for breakfast. No, not every day, but I can think of mornings it just hasn’t been worth the fight. I give them sweets. So sue me. 

I don’t put a time limit on how long they play on the iPad. We play games, go outside, and take fun field trips. But sometimes I give them my phone to keep them quiet. So sue me. 

My girls like a wide array of foods, including plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables, but I can also think of days where chicken nuggets and macaroni are what they get fed. Lots of days actually. So sue me. 

I don’t make my toddler go to the nursery when we’re at our Homeschool Co-Op classes. I let her stay with me when she asks, and maybe some think I should force her to interact with other children for her own social development. Or maybe she’s two, and I can do whatever I want as her mom. So sue me. 

I don’t read bedtime stories every night, and we don’t have a specific bedtime routine or bedtime period. I’m just glad when I remember consistently to make them brush their teeth. So sue me. 

I’m a homeschooling mom, but some days we don’t do cool, educational crafts. Some days I’m just lucky I finish the lesson without strangling my students. So sue me. 

I am an advocate for breastfeeding, but I really don’t care if you formula feed your own. I’ve co-slept with a newborn, and I’ve let them cry it out. Whatever works man. 

My five year old is still in my bed, and that comment gets plenty of judgmental stares, but ask me if I’m bothered. I figure I’m the one getting kicked, and my husband doesn’t care. So sue me. 

It doesn’t matter to me if you spank your kids or give them a time-out. That’s your business. Homemade baby food or Gerbers is your prerogative, and mine too. Cloth versus disposable diapers? Whatever. 

Despite popular opinion of what’s most beneficial for children, the truth is that all kids are unique. All moms are different, and there is no best way. And above all, mothers are human, not perfect. 

Some days you need a break. Some days are off days, and you need to sit them in front of the television to gain your composure. That’s not bad parenting; it’s just being real. And the real truth is that parenting isn’t easy. It isn’t always fun, and you make plenty of mistakes. Sure it’s rewarding overall, but some days that may be harder to see. So sue me. 

Do your kids know you love them? Do you hug them tight at the end of every day, and spend quality time with them often? Then what exactly that time entails is up to you. No one else. And that’s just fine. You’re fine. I’m fine. Most importantly, your kids are fine. Promise. 

Kids don’t care about Pinterest or what childcare researchers say is the best education app on the market. They’re fine with coloring books from the Dollar Store and Go Fish.

You do the best you can, and as long as you’re trying, striving, and persevering, I say you’re good. Maybe some people disagree, but they aren’t paying my kid’s doctor bills or saving up for their college. 

So I’ll keep doing my thing, and maybe it’s not what Parents Magazine quotes as Best of 2015, but it’s certainly the best for us. So sue me.