Our family identity

I caught her again Saturday, still clutching the hastily eaten tube of toothpaste. This is the third tube this weekend. My discipline arsenal is exhausted. She’s bought more toothpaste with her own carefully saved aquarium money. She sat in time out until she fell asleep. Frustration sags my frame.

“Why are you doing this?” Two concerned parents sit down with the wayward three year old.

“Because I sneaky. I your midnight ninja.”

That silly nickname I made up one morning after she crawled into our bed in the middle of the night without waking us. How could I guess that she would own my joke as her identity.

“You are not sneaky,” her daddy replies. “You are our Sweet Afton. You are a good girl.”

Talking and more talking ensues. Talk with her about who she is. Our girl. Our sweet, big hugging, hard loving, good girl.

More talk with each other about how we present identity to our kids. We are in an uphill battle to build their frame of reference, how they see themselves and the world around them. Our task is to give them a Biblical frame in the face of a society with a fundamentally different understanding.

In society, what you do determines who you are. You bank, therefore you are a banker. You blog, therefore you are a blogger. We wear these activities like so many name badges, creating an identity. 

In God’s kingdom, who you are determines what you do. You are an adopted child of God, a new creation, an heir to Christ’s eternal glory. Therefore you worship the Lord; you love the church; you serve other people; you spread good news. All your activities, even quilting, cooking, mowing flow from a predetermined identity: Christian.

In society, my girl is an untrustworthy sneak. I want to treat her as such, taking away the privilege of privacy from her day, insisting that my all-watching eye be on her every move until she proves that she is other than what I think her to be. Which is why God gave her two parents. Daddy, who is not operating out of desperation to correct behavior, sees God’s way.

“You are our good girl, so we will treat you like a good girl.”

“What?!” My heart screams. “And let her disobey again? If this backfires, what will she get into next?!”

The conundrum of the Christian’s relationship to God. God doesn’t treat his children as screwed up messes unworthy of trust. He doesn’t hold back His hand of blessing. We are new people as He has promised, as He has identified. Thus He treats us as His good children, knowing that in doing so, He is further subjecting Himself to injury through our disobedience.

More than that, we will label God as weak and passive because He stays His discipline. He stores His wrath for another day to show His goodness now, and we mock that He is impotent. Still “the Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” Exodus 34:6

Gracious. Merciful. Slow to anger. Abounding in steadfast love. He shows these things because He is these things. They are His identity.

But you have the mind of Christ. 1 Corinthians 2:16

Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus. Philippians 2:5

We are not who we were. We do not think according to the established pattern. Because we have the mind of Christ. Now. in the flesh. not just a promise for another day.

As parents, we make every opportunity to speak identity over our children. You are good. You are helpful. You are important. You are ours. Disobedience works against who you are. It does not define you.

Christian, you are God’s much loved child. You are sealed with his Holy Spirit. You have a new mind with Godly desires. You have a heart that longs to worship the one true God. Your sin acts in direct opposition to who you are. Your weaknesses do not define you. They cannot. Your identity is set in the cross of Christ.

Therefore, act like who you are! Throw off sin as counter to your nature. In the words of the immortal Mufasa, “Remember who you are!” Or as Paul would say, “You were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.” 1 Corinthians 6:20

As always the proof is in the pudding... 

The tube of toothpaste remains untouched since our good girl heard her true identity...

And we guard the silly monikers we create to mask our frustration with our children...

And we are defining our family according to truth...

Because we are our beloved Savior’s, and He is ours.

P.S. If you are struggling with your definition of self in Christ, I humbly suggest reading 1 Corinthians. You are not the first person to need your identity laid out. The entire Corinthian church and every church thereafter needed this encouraging, convicting letter.

The Great Horned Owl Debacle

Yesterday brought a new parenting challenge for me. A situation that tested my resolve in God's Word. Not in a life altering way. But aren't all temptations soul altering.

The story...

Washing dishes, I glance up to notice a promising shape perched in the oak behind our house. Birds of prey enrapture me, and this shape looks very owlish, the most fascinating of the group. I grab my camera and sneak out the door, stalking my way around puddles and into the fort to catch a difficult picture with the light behind him. He watches me through half opened yellow eyes. A squirrel sits paralyzed {except for the occasional sign of the cross as he prepares to meet his maker}.

The stirring silhouette

After observing the owl quietly sitting, I remember Gwennan. She's supposed to be napping, but I've heard her quietly interviewing the walls. I sneak back inside and signal to her to follow me in stealth mode. Outside, we stand together observing and quietly discussing owls {something this sacred produced a real whisper in Gwennan}.

Then without warning, the owl's great head bobbed and dipped. He lost his balance, and with a vain attempt to right himself, withered and fell from the tree with barely a glide to the ground. Did you see that?!!! Gwennan and I exchanged shocked looks.

Mommy, Why did he do that?? Where is he??

Thus began the quick scramble for rain boots, the wade through ankle deep water to the back fence and the team climb up the compost bin to peak over the extra tall privacy fence. There was the owl, sitting on the ground, trying to maintain his dignity. His eyes half closed in that all-wise pondering position.

I finished the lectures on birds of prey, but I left school a couple of days before the rapture lab. I have no experience handling large birds with talons and sharp beaks. Especially when they fall on someone else's property.

So I called parks and rec. They required permission from the home owner, our neighbor who I've never seen. The best I could offer was to walk over and ring the bell after Afton and Carrick woke up.

We waited the 30 minutes or so for nap time to finish and everyone to complete their wake up process {Afton sprang out of bed upon learning that we were going to rescue an owl with the ranger doctor - I'm surprised neither of the girls thought to ask for the vet kit}. Before tying Carrick on and pulling out the scooters and helmets, I figured I'd check on the bird. No sense disturbing the neighbors or pulling out all the gear if the owl had flown away. I peak over the fence to discover one very dead owl, head thrown back at a spectral angle.

Now you know my dilemma... What do I tell two very excited children? The truth, that the owl died, then field questions all day about how the owl died or tears over the dead animal or worse, demands to see the dead owl. Or do I tell the smallest of lies, that the owl flew away. No one will be any wiser. No questions. No scooter voyage. And no dead owl to inspect.

You can land where you will on this one.

I chose to tell them the truth.

It seemed simpler in the long run. When do I start telling them the truth if I start with lies now? Where is the line between shielding and reality? It was too blurry for me. Best not to be attempted.

Upon hearing the news, my two junior pathologists insisted they see the evidence that the owl was dead. Mommy could have missed some important sign of life. Amidst vision of nightmares and sleepless nights, we perched on the compost bin again and peered down at the specimen. Both specialists agreed with my original assessment: that was a very dead owl. Still beautiful with his barred feathers, but certainly deceased. They bowed their heads for one solemn moment.

Mommy, why did he die?

I guess he was old and sick.

Oh, like your red grandmother?

Yep.

Oh.

A minute later they were splashing through the small ponds in our yard, looking for treasures in the muddy water. The owl banished from the memory until Daddy came home to be regaled with tales of the planned owl rescue sprinkled with news from the morning's ballet lesson. No trauma. No tears. No nightmares. No undue questions. The owl was cool, then he was dead. That was kind of cool too. And they would have thoroughly enjoyed a good stick poking necropsy had he landed in our yard.

As always, they are more durable than I believe. The truth of the universe that I assume will produce so much trauma is an acceptable fact of life. My 'slight' temper tantrum over the spilled glass of water, that sticks with them. I obviously have a lot to learn about life altering moments.

A tidbit of owl trivia courtesy of the Newport News ranger service: Raptors, including owls, do not know how to be prey. They have no defense systems against predators on the ground. If you approach a grounded raptor, they will stare at you so intently that they fall over. I find this hilarious and have added to my bucket list, "make bald eagle fall over."

Ice cream fix

True confession time: I was into the chocolate ice cream before 11:30 today. Yes, 11:30 am. Why would an otherwise healthy person eat chocolate ice cream before lunch? Because we have no vodka in the house. 

It's that sort of morning.

We just returned from our walk around the neighborhood so that Gwennan could deliver her "I'm sorry" card to the babysitter. Brother is bemoaning the time change, by far the most traumatic thing in his life since circumcision. His whole life's schedule has been a wreck since 2 o'clock Sunday morning. When I declined to fix lunch at 10:30, Afton threw a fit involving peeing on our carpeted stairs and using the basil we potted together as a hammer throw.

I earned that ice cream.

The last spoonful hadn't dissolved on my tongue when I glanced out the window to check on my entirely too happy children only to find the little exhibitionists completely naked on top of the fort, well above the privacy fence, playing "go to the beach," the nudist beach apparently. {Anybody else notice that my sentences tend to run on when I'm frustrated? Tim has, I assure you.}

Why even bring this up? Everyone has these days, these "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" days. Gwennan, Carrick and Afton would probably tell you that they too deserve ice cream for putting up with their grumpy mother on a 5 day headache streak who insists that the babysitter was right, that daylight savings time is over, and that lunch must wait until closer to noon. Oh, and that you must pretend going to the beach with your clothes on, clearly an impossibility.

I write out this ridiculous day so that on another bad day, yours or mine, we can say, ah yes, we will get through this ludicrous day, might even laugh at it later.

I write it out so that when all you see are cute pictures of my girls playing or catch a gummy smile from my prince charming son or hear me talk about practicing yoga and baking stuff you barely have time to buy, you'll know that this momma is losing her mind plenty.

My momma promises this too shall pass. And I believe her. I even believe the people who tell me I'll miss it. I also think that maybe when my kids are teenagers and still driving me crazy that I might find some courage reading their preschool antics, even the not so cute ones.

Cutting paper hearts

We are all harshness, demanding tones, warning looks around here. Ugly mess. The big people keep looking at each other with sympathetic war time faces. This cannot be the new norm for our family.

This momma is exhausted, feet up, dishes stacking because I've tried to pull love up from my toes only to find I have none. Just clanging words squeezing through taut lips. Reflexive hugs after irritated gestures. But I still ask where did this attitude come from when Gwennan commands her sister to action.

Break to pray. Plead for love to come from him because my grace bank is broke.

Broke because I've forgotten the source of the love. We love because he first loved us, right. We are capable of love, servant, godly love because the God who is love have himself. We have that love poured into our hearts. Ahh, I see. Holy Spirit let your love flow through me to them. Where my attempts fail, Your love overpowers to bring peace.

My attempt to teach love ended with girls separated by a baby gate. Conflict avoided. And sometimes that artificial quiet is needed so momma can quiet her heart before her Father.

Beg forgiveness for believing I could fix this mess by trying harder to love

Beg for a feast of the first fruit of the Spirit

Beg for a way to show love for God's glory

{And what seemed like a silly gesture to a God directing the universe,}

Beg for an idea

A simple idea for a tired momma to engage her girls in encouraging them to love through the Spirit. A heart orientation not merely managed behavior.

I settle on Valentine's in August. Break out the glitter glue and stickers, the after-holiday clearance stamps and construction paper. We cut and color and paint a gallery of love reminders. Small one points to the blackboard we our memory verse is kept, Da fruit of da Spirit {holds up her index finger to count off the nine} is love,

She stops there, smiling. Injection of encouragement. We carry on making gifts for each other.

When Big one shrills, Mother, I want juice now. Sounds just like Veruca Salt.

I didn't expect paper hearts to change real ones. My day is not shattered. The craft was a segue to family prayer. We bow heads and pray. Say our amens.

I sit back still thinking about where this horrible voice is coming from when the veil is pulled back to reveal a mirror. Foolish me has forgotten what my face looks like when I'm annoyed, forgotten what my voice sounds like when I'm ignored. Until a three year old mimics my tactics right back to me. Raises her voice and commands my attention. And what am I going to say? You may not talk to me like that! Echo her own tone right back? Do as I say, not as I speak.

Do you ever hear the Spirit say, Now you see it. Ugly, huh.

Love is behind this revelation. If I don't have love, I don't care. I settle for behavior modification. Enough correction and control to mask hypocrisy for a long time.

Only love opens the heart's eye wide enough to see the ugly.

Only love wipes that ugly clean. Not my love. His. His love changes my heart's beat.

Time for me to beg again.

Beg forgiveness from my children for abandoning the speech I teach

Beg a soft voice and face, the teaching of kindness on my tongue

We've made it to naps.

The girls responded instantly. They cleaned their room without incident, gratefully received their lunch, quietly hopped in bed, and politely requested a story.

No.

Not at all.

The baby wasn't quiet either.

Lots of opportunities for me to practice a new heart beat. With more to come, I have no doubt.

Hiding my face {or admitting my shame}

On my better days, I remind myself that I don't need to be embarrassed by my children. Not because they're so well behaved or because everyone else has miniature tyrants too.

Because they make their own decisions. The fits and selective hearing and disobedience... all on them. I don't have to take credit.

I remind myself that I only need be embarrassed by my reaction. When I hiss through my teeth or turn a deaf ear or roll my eyes that I have to tell them "one more time not to touch that."

So why did I feel humiliated this weekend as my children ran wild?

I tried to tell myself I was only being humbled, put in my right place. But that's not how I felt. I felt humiliated. Hang your head in shame before the gawking stranger as you waddle after your wayward 3 year old trying to keep the screech out of your voice. Humiliated.

I'm humbled when I have to ask for help so that I can stay on the couch.

I'm humbled when I see the dog hair forming a protective second layer of carpet on the stairs.

I'm humbled when I'm gently reminded of my weakness. My Christian-trained mind values humbleness, even if I bawk at first.

But this weekend was no gentle reminder. And I found myself asking The Lord, why aren't we out of this awful phase yet? Why are they still fighting after all the talks and time outs and spankings and appeals and rewards? Haven't I done enough to bounce us out of this funk?

And why do I feel brought low, humiliated? I thought you were the gentle humbler? I don't feel like a bruised reed unbroken. I feel like a child whose been jerked up short. Do you do that? Do you catch me by my wayward ponytail and snatch my attention?

Humiliate 

verb (used with object) hu·mil·i·at·ed,hu·mil·i·at·ing.

1. to cause (a person) a painful loss of pride, self-respect, or dignity; mortify.
   I might have reminded myself not to be embarrassed of their poor choices, but had I repeated that mantra on the good days too?
   No. Absolutely not.
   I wanted full credit for those days, the children who walk calmly by my side, listening for my voice. Those were brought about by my wise counsel, my diligent discipline.
   Pride.
   And there is no room for pride in a heart full of Christ.
   Or rather, there is no room for Christ in a heart full of pride.
   And a gracious father gives what we need. Himself. For I have no good apart from him.
   This mortifying, this humiliating work is painful and public. It has to be. If no one sees, I keep telling myself the lie that I have achieved parental success.
   But what is parental success or failure? What do I give account for? 
   The girls behavior cannot be my witness and proof. That's pride or humiliation. 
   My success in parenting must rest where it lies for everything else... Jesus Christ and him crucified. What else do I have?
   This putting pride to death phase isn't over yet. I wish I could glimpse the lesson and experience the burden immediately lift.  So far, it has never worked that way. I see what I'm being taught, then have it hammered in a few more times. Repetition works for heart memory too.
   So we press on in a mortifying season trusting that his grace is sufficient, that his power is made perfect in weakness.
   Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly in my weaknesses, for when I am weak, then I am strong.
   
   
   
   
   
   

Legal mess

Sometime during the night my sweet girls were replaced by highly destructive monsters. Monsters who feed on messes and wanton demolition.

The proof...

While I read a book about Godly parenting{!} during my quiet time, they stole into the bathroom and emptied a bottle of Castile soap into the carpet then colored over it with bathtub crayons.

While I made their breakfast, they shredded the table bouquet.

While I called Tim to talk me off the ledge, they painted Afton in blueberry yogurt and splattered the dog in milk.

All. before. 7:30.

I really wanted to leave them to be raised by wolves Jungle Book style. The outcome couldn't be significantly different.

What do you do when mess monsters invade your home?

Give them a mess to feast upon.

I pinned a recipe for homemade slime months ago, then promptly forgot about it. 5 minutes, glue, liquid laundry starch and food coloring - that's all it takes to pacify mess monsters {recipe here and here}. For an hour and a half, we made pancakes, cupcakes, popsicles, lollipops. The princess crown and earrings caused some issues {slime and rapunzel hair mix entirely too well}. Glorious, contained monster fun with very little momma mess. Followed up by a long overdue midmorning bubble bath {recipe here}.

I don't share this crazy-turned-fun morning to show that at my wit's end I found great wit, that I solved this problem all by myself. SuperMom to the rescue. Far from it.

By 7:30, I was done. Ready to quit. A desperate animal caged in by my obligation. The gift of mommahood felt like a yoke of lead.

If any of you lacks wisdom...

That became our cry around the breakfast table. Momma bowed and prayed. Afton bowed and prayed. PoppaDaddy bowed and prayed from across town.

Prayer answered with divine prompting to make a mess for my monsters. He doesn't only answer with lofty words and high theology. And this was no who fills the storehouses with snow? morning. The Spirit's voice was completely practical. Distract them with what they want to do. Redirect destructive energy into a legal mess.

Thank you Lord for wisdom, both understanding the deep and recalling the practical. You give to each momma as she has need.

What bed rest reveals

When the contractions started, however many months too soon, and the doctor told me, I won't put you on bed rest, if you'll put yourself on bed rest {essentially, I set my own up verses down hours}, my heart beat in panic mode.

Didn't she understand that I have a home to run and a family to feed {gluten free, from scratch, I might add}, and two other children to raise{!!!}? 

Didn't God remember how much was on my plate? How much He put on my plate?

I was a little peeved and a lot stressed {except I'm not allowed to stress - stress causes contractions}.

As a family, we've been at this momma rests on the couch thing for a while. Gwennan reminds me to let her pick things up because she can bend down, Mommy. Afton insists on walking now and happily plops down next to me when we read, leaving my lap for baby brother {breaks my heart a little}. Tim, well, he's a champ, could not do this without him. And me, I'm swallowing my dose of humility.

And exposing my fears:

Like work. I'm a work-a-holic in my own home. I fear inactivity, fear laziness. Because I fear I will like it a little too much. Which has revealed:

I fear being the 'velour tracksuit SAHM,' the one on Super Nanny whose children run wild through the house overflowing with singing plastic toys and unfolded laundry, and she screams over General Hospital for everyone to just shut up. If I model my behavior out of fear of that stereotype, won't I just fall into a different one? Say, the 'jean jumper SAHM,' the overly stern, homeschooling, sew-and-bake-everything-by hand, work-a-holic mom who must let everyone know that she does more in an hour than everyone else does all day {crap - that sounds familiar}.

I'm finding a new balance:

Dirty dishes take a back seat to baby projects. I could buy crib sheets and Aden and Anais swaddlers and passie holders. Amazon keeps reminding me that it's one-click-away. But if I have two hours of work in me, an hour is spent at the sewing machine. I need easy nesting more than I need clean bathrooms. Reminds me of the baby I'm taking care of while resting.

My busted sewing machine was a blessing. How I griped at God for allowing my sewing machine to break with all these nesting projects left undone. I had to apologize to him again this morning as I sat down to sew without needing to prep the machine or fuss with tension. Stress-free start every time. I would not be able to rest in baby projects with my old stress machine. Again, thank you, Lord.

Green veggies are still what's for dinner. Quality meals are the first things to go when I feel bad. How about Chick fil a is the standard fix. But man cannot live on chicken nuggets for 13 weeks {or little girls, for that matter}. Keeping real food on the menu has been awesome - everybody feels better. It's not complicated fare, throw chicken and veggies on the grill. Dinner will be ready in 10. Props to Tim for stepping up on the nights I can't and working out real dinners. Love that man!

We are all blessed by some extra reading time. I can't do playgrounds and such, but I can sit on the couch and read. The girls are getting plenty of book time, replacement therapy for structured school. And this momma, who regretfully spent the last two difficult pregnant stretches watching a tragic amount of tv, finds herself buried in books as well. There's too much to explain in grown-up tv, and little ears miss nothing. A book I keep all to myself. A world that isn't brought to me by the letter K.

Our family priorities are ours, specialized to our little family, and may not translate to anyone else {you might not see baking bread as a top 10 weekly priority}. That doesn't imply wrong-ness for either party.

I'm learning to let my family be right for us, not right for everyone. Learning to let my way be right for me, not right for every mom. Our choices are our own and diligently sought {we hope}. I'm learning to trust other parents to do the same for their brood.

When hands bleed

Like most overly pious people, I like to tell myself that I'm not attached to 'stuff.' It feels other-worldly and spiritual to renounce trivial possessions. 

Then my stuff break.

And I shed tears.

Memories of Christmas morning with my Nannie, opening the box I knew was just for me. It was a ritual between us. These carousel horses. Every year, a new horse with a new song.

I climb the stairs with a heavy heart after Gwennan complains that Afton broke her favorite carousel. I know what this means. It's not just her favorite carousel; it's my favorite. The music box memory of Nannie that I wanted to share with my little girls

And there are their hands and feet stained with tiny smears of blood from trying to clean up their own mess. Shards of evidence buried in the carpet. Glitter and broken glass embedded in quilts and stuffed animals. A stack in the hallway where they wanted to hide their shame, remove it from the scene.

My heart breaks, and my eyes leak as I wash skin, checking for slivers. Wash carpet, checking for slivers. Little pieces of their disobedience lying in wait to pain them again.

The end result: pile of broken glass.

Picture of our sin. All sharp edges. Wounding us over and over as we run circles around the mess we made trying to fix it ourselves.

But this mess needs experienced hands. Fingers that know how to pick up the shards. Fingers that will be cut by our sin, cleaning up the remnants of their own broken treasure.

For he was pierced for our transgression...

He was crushed for our sins...

By his wounds we are healed.

Disobedience breaks God's world, God's order, God's heart, God's relationship with his favorite creation.

And cuts our hearts to pieces, slivers of sin piercing deep and leaving rivers of blood. Slivers of our sin lying around waiting to cut us again.

Then he comes, perfect unstained hands picking up all those pieces in his own skin. Wiping clean our bloody stains. Perfectly gentle and patient with those who deserve the blood and pain. He runs his hands over the wake of our disobedience, leaving nail-shaped scars.
Blood and tears. The price of relationship. The cost of sharing.

I could keep memories packed up, out of reach, safe from damaging forces. But they would never share those memories. Never see the memory of Nannie spinning slowly, plinking out a lullaby.

I could keep my heart packed up, out of reach, safe from rebellion and dishonesty. All those child sins that break momma's heart over and over. But they would not see forgiveness and grace, love from their momma.

I could hide my sin, bury it deep in dark shadows, safe from exposure, conviction. But I would never see the bleeding hands of a savior picking up the shards, taking the pain himself.

The break is good. The shatter a glory. To see the beautiful work of the cleaning.

Chatter over breakfast {or what makes a name tall}

Breakfast is our 'around the table' family time. Some of our best conversations circulate over pancakes and coffee, especially on Friday mornings when we have nowhere to go.

This morning, Tim brought up the topic of the trimester... What are we going to name Little Man?

Tim: Girls, what should we name baby brother?

Gwennan: Isaac Daniel Manza

Me: So we should name him Isaac?

Gwennan: No, Isaac is just his tallest name.

Me, philosophically curious: What makes a name tall?

Gwennan, slightly exasperated by my dumb question: Drinking milk from Mommy's boobs.

Ah yes.

Outside of a few cute moments like this one, our conversations seem to be failing recently. Momma's in no mood to talk, to you, to God, to anyone. At least that's how it feels on my end. My every move is punctuated with a sigh. My conversations spoken through unfocused eyes.

Do my girls know I still love them? Do they know how much the pain of carrying brother is weighing on my soul? Do they understand at all?

And where is grace on weeks like this? When I seem to have none?

Grace sneaks up in a child voice. Big one talking to herself at play, I have two beautiful, precious, precious girls. I love them so much!

Through a Holy Spirit filter, she holds fast to momma's phrase of love. She doesn't sigh at her baby dolls and slowly rise from the table to wipe spilled milk. She hugs and sings and latches hard to the good moments. The moments worth sharing.

And I shout silent thanks to the Lord for the encouragement I desperately need. Shot in the arm better than espresso for empowering an exhausted momma to re-enter the fray. The crazy fight to love my family.

When I started this momma journey, I thought momma love was a natural thing, brought on by hormone storms and maternal instinct. Train the younger women to love their husbands and children seemed superfluous. Like instructing someone to train to feed themselves.

Because I did not grasp love. Not real, honest, sacrificial love. No inkling of the root of selfishness burrowed deep in my heart. Or how much hard labor it takes to expose such a root. Or how easily it would grow back just as strong as ever when my world spins a little too chaotic for my taste.

A quiet voice whispers to me I have a beautiful, precious, precious girl. I love you so much! He has not forgotten me, could not forget me, any more than I could forget my beautiful, precious girls yawping in the next room or the wonderful little man squirming inside me. Where my love is learned, his love is nature. He cannot neglect me any more than he can neglect himself. His love is who He is.

As high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him. Psalm 103:11

Crunchy messes

I avoid you on days like this. Days when I have nothing to offer. At least nothing positive.

I'm angry and frustrated, and maybe I'm not honest enough about these days.

I'm angry about how much of my day is spent watching other people poop. That's the real result of early potty training. You can't trust them to wipe or call you when they're done. So you sit in the bathroom awkwardly {is there any other way?} while they strain. And I get angry.

I'm angry because big one sang through her nap, which happens to be my nap too. So this insomniac prego momma hasn't found rest yet.

I'm angry at the sponge cake that was supposed to be awesome for hubby's belated birthday dinner - it's a flat, crunchy mess. Which reminds me that I'm also angry with the loaf of bread which stubbornly refused to rise.

I'm angry that my kids can't find a single safe, legal toy when I'm in the middle of a project. I think the collapsed cake had something to do with the sand fight that erupted during the 2 minute 'watch carefully' step.

And I'm angry because my heart is wallowing in the frustrations around me. I have been given truth to overcome these days. And I seem to have lost it.

I don't post on these days because I don't feel godly or helpful.

Instead of hiding in silence today, or posting a recipe, I'm opting for more dangerous transparency. Because I know every mom has these days. Days when we want to give our children away, or envy anyone who talks to adults all day. Days when we know joy and peace are out there; they are simply eluding us. If I hide these feelings, these ugly days, do I leave you feeling lonely and broken on your angry days? I certainly feel lonely and broken today.

Even now I'm searching for a wrap-up that leaves on an edifying note. I have none. Nothing to offer. I'm merely a sympathetic virtual shoulder to anyone else whose day stinks.

Faith created

We are learning the 'fruit of the spirit.' Count three fruits three times: love, joy peace. patience, kindness, goodness. faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. We pray for these fruits. Ask the Spirit to give us kindness towards one another. To bring us happy hearts, his joy. To give self-control when we feel none.

source

I'm stuck on these gifts. How they can all be faked, learned behavior, masquerading as heart change, hiding the hypocrite inside. All, except faithfulness.

We can't fake faithfulness, not for long anyway.

Life is built to challenge our faith, that the one who is faking it will be revealed and the one bearing true fruit will be pruned.

In that realization, I find a terrifying, freeing parenting truth. No earthly thing creates faithfulness.

I brought you into a plentiful land to enjoy its fruits and its good things.
But when you came in, you defiled my land and made my heritage an abomination. Jeremiah 2:7

How can I bless my children more than God blessed his? How can I give them more, train them more, cite example upon example of God's goodness more than God himself did?

But my people have change their glory for that which does not profit. Jeremiah 2:11

Earthly blessings do not produce faithfulness. No amount of blessed rituals or sacred family practices. I cannot create faith.

Nor can I force it.

In vain have I struck your children; they took no correction. Jeremiah 2:30

How can I discipline more effectively than God? How can I hope to correct my children perfectly, justly, lovingly, in proportion, faithfully at all times?

Yet my people have forgotten me days without number. Jeremiah 2:23

Discipline, even Godly discipline doesn't force faith.

Terrifying. This human momma wants control, wants results, wants a formula. Blessing + discipline = faithful children. Isn't that in Proverbs somewhere? Do it right, and they have to respond.

No. It isn't. And how many times have I watched parents 'do it right' before the eyes of unrepentant children.

Terrifying.

And freeing.

Because I won't do it right. I don't do it right. I will never balance blessing and discipline. I will never parent so diligently. I am frail and weak and prone to wander myself. How can I teach anything else to my children?

And freeing because the book doesn't end with chapter 2 {how horrifying if it did}.

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be my people. For I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more. Jeremiah 31:33,34, emphasis mine

He sets his word in place, in hearts made fertile to grow and bear much fruit.

To guarantee that this new covenant will not fail, Christ takes the initiative to create the faith and secure the faithfulness of his people. ~~John Piper 

Faithfulness isn't about training, but covenant. Promise from God through Jesus that he will change our hearts. Create in us a new person that longs for him, that blooms with faith.

His steadfast love completes what all the parenting in the world fails to achieve. Create faithfulness in his children. Amen.

Living before a mirror

With enough kids, two usually does it, every parent has a mirror. The child that acts just like us, reflects our childish faults that we hide behind social filters.

Big one is mine.

I sit in the playroom watching her interact with her friends. She doesn't know which way to turn in her frustration. Three two-year-olds, none of them are playing correctly with her toys. Don't they know that you can't pour tea into the baby doll cups?! And boys aren't supposed to cook! Even her sister, who has been carefully trained for years, isn't following procedure.

I see that day in college when I realized how other people saw me. An ice breaker that I'd played before, so I took charge of the 20 man group and told them exactly how to beat the game. Everyone blew me off, and I didn't understand why. Days later, I introduced myself to a new employee who responded, "Yeah, I heard about you... You're the one who told everybody how to play the game."

I was devastated - I was bossy. I was cold and controlling. I wouldn't let other people use their skill and imagination to solve a problem. My way was the only right. I wouldn't be friends with me.

I'd like to say I've outgrown that side, but DH can quickly refute it. Even if I don't say anything, my face contorts every time I hear a word mispronounced. I might go along with his plan, but my attitude lets him know my plan was better.

Parenting is the same devastating encounter. The heartache my kids approach weighs heavy on my momma heart. The mirror child reminds me of the sins I managed for years without repentance. Of the heart change that still has to occur in both of us.

Big one and I snuggle at nap time. I brush her hair with my fingers and pray. Lord thank you for the way she... how she... Everything that comes to mind brings frustration. Frustration because I know how much sin and hurt those same characteristics have wielded in me.

God, is there nothing in her that doesn't have to be redeemed first?!

Softly I hear my answer, Of course not. I must make all things new. Her entire personality must be made over. Every part of her can glorify me or idolize herself.

The same is true of me, of small one, of all of us. Nothing is born perfect, until it is reborn.

My heart calms. He planned every part of her, every part of me. And when he makes new, he can use every part of her, of me.

Love in hard phases

I'm adding chicken to the soup pot when big one waltzes into the kitchen. What are you making?

Good dinner. I heard years ago never to tell your menu to a toddler so they couldn't decide beforehand that they didn't like it. My trick failed.

I hate it. I'm not eating it.

That's where we're at right now. A very difficult three year old stage. She hates mac n' cheese; she hates the Veggie Tale movie Sister picked out. She is so hungry, but she can't eat that. She wants to play, but there's nothing to play with in the brand new play room.

I think this stage is usually called adolescence. But I'm learning that adolescence starts as soon as baby can exert his/her will. It just climaxes in the teenage years {we can only hope}.

The family sits at the dinner table. PoppaDaddy and Momma stirring cheese and spinach into chicken chili. Small one eating like a recently rescued refugee. Big one staring at her bowl in disgust, whining that she is hungry.

She calls my bluff and loses. At 6:30 she is in bed for the night with no book, an empty stomach, and the promise of chili for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, small one is chatty and cuddly. In the midst of the best phase of two - past the tantrums when the world is opening up. She and I have the evening all to ourselves, just mommy and baby girl. We giggle and snuggle and sing together and read all her favorite books. And I enjoy her crooked smile and her growing heart.

Some days, I don't know how to balance my favor. How to enjoy the child in the difficult phase as much as the one in the sweet phase. I love them the same, but how do I like them the same? How do I show the obstinate child that I wish I were spending an evening singing and reading to her too?

Moments.

Bursts of my sweet little girl.

That's what I have with big one right now. A glimpse of sun behind clouds, and when the rays shine, I must run and celebrate them.

Watching for those sunbursts requires patience and diligence. And mostly presence. My hardest fought gift for my family. So busy caring and serving that I forget the people I serve. In trying phases, the  hard-liking phases, she needs my attention to her detail. She needs to hear, 'yes.'

Yes, Mommy can put off writing to cuddle you to sleep.

Yes, Mommy will hold you accountable to your poor choices.

Yes, Mommy can put off washing to read one more book.

Yes, Mommy is serious that we don't tear down those we love with hurtful speech.

Yes, Mommy can still see that you are my beautiful girl through all the ugly words you're throwing.

Yes, Mommy loves you and likes you just as much today as I did when you were 2 1/2 years old and discovering the world.

Yes, Mommy will love you and like you just as much tomorrow when your heart hasn't softened yet.

Yes, Mommy is praying for you, today and every day.

What goes around...

Your morning has taken an interesting turn when you hear yourself saying, "You'll have to wait - I'm washing Preparation H out of Sister's hair."

This is my reward for showering. I didn't hear the baby gate crash, so I didn't realize the girls had escaped. And the baby monitor added to the deception - I kept hearing them playing happily in their room. But it didn't tell me they were decorating the walls with conditioner, Preparation H, and bath crayons. I know. I should have invested in the video monitor.

Here I am, preparing for an awesome school day with fun craft to reinforce numbers and Jan Brett coloring pages, and I keep hearing, "chhhhh. chhhhhh. chhhhh." Hmm, that sounds like water running, but I haven't started laundry yet, right?

Following the noise, I find the girls standing together on the trash can, turning the faucet on and off into an overflowing sink, not unlike Mickey and the brooms. The vanity is empty, except for a few cups of water. Five pitiful half-open sponge animals uncurl on the puddled floor. Little Sis has a glob of greasy white cream in her hair. Both of them are naked and soaked. Sanitary pads and razors are strewn around their bedroom. Two rolls of toilet paper lay on the floor like streamers on a rainy New Years morning. Oh, and did I mention the wall art?

In case you're thinking, "this is the moment where Katie goes ape, and the neighbors call Child Protective Services," I actually didn't. No screaming or crying or pounding the walls or promising ridiculous punishments. Maybe the Spirit gifted me with supernatural self-control. But mostly I was thinking, "oh, this is how Daddy felt."

This is how my daddy felt when he finished mowing the lawn and poked his head in to check on the toddlers he left safely playing in their cribs. Only to find the walls and cribs and dresser and both toddlers painted with vaseline and desitin. Oh, and I gave my Little Sis a cocktail of her prescription ear drops, which led to an ugly stomach pumping incident. I know how he felt. The survey of the mess. The surprise when you find the hidden stash under a pile of bedding. Surreal.

So Mommy, if you ever thought to yourself, "that wouldn't have happened if I'd been home," oh yes, it jolly well might have.

My take away from the morning: showering is overrated.

No really, I did find out that a mixture of conditioner and Preparation H takes crayon right off the wall, no scrubbing necessary. However, removing the conditioner and Preparation H is extremely challenging {the wall still feels a little greasy}. Stick with a magic eraser for crayon wall art.

Hope my ridiculous day brightened yours!

Does sateen need glitter??

The strangest things become mile markers. An unexpected picture of how time is passing. I found one at the fabric store.

Small one was pressing a bolt of fabric to her cheek screaming, Pink! while big one leaned out of the cart, pointing at the aisle of tulle, saying, Our dresses need the golden sparkles too.

Six yards of pink and purple glitter sateen and gold glitter tulle. An alternate universe.

A year ago they wore crocheted hats and eye liner to black their noses on Halloween. Everybody awww-ed over our baby bear and lamb. And the girls were clueless.

Now they are princesses. At their request. With the fabric of their choosing. They even played happily outside for two hours so that I could sew. Small one hugged the finished dress to her chest while her feet pranced in delight.

I don't know how you feel about Halloween. Whether you only dress up as Bible characters and attend church-sponsored events, or paint the whole family as Zombies and groan around your neighborhood. I haven't made up my mind. The day is made extra complicated at our house because we can't eat half the candy. And it's big one's birthday.

The girls don't care what the day is. They just want to wear princess dresses. To church. To the playground. To Trader Joe's. With rain boots. Whatever. Any excuse to dresses head to toe in pink glitter.

A brief guide to surviving childhood, part 1

Something is in the water. All of my friends are pregnant {if you're a non-pregnant friend, you're still my friend, but the hyperbole doesn't work if I say 'about half'}.

As I watch them nest and prepare and count down, especially the first timers, I keep thinking of things that I wish had been included in prenatal classes. So I'm passing one along:

Make Poison Control a favorite contact.

I seem to call poison control as often as some of my family members {more often than some}. We should be on a first name basis. My children eat any and every thing that grows in the yard, which leads me to my second point:

Do not buy the adorable, printed on 100% post-consumer recycled cardboard gardening book that teaches colors and features the catch phrase: I pick it and eat it.

Thanks to this book, the girls pick and eat everything. They stripped our tomatoes, blueberries and strawberries this spring, all while the fruit was still green. They've collected buckets of berries from the monkey grass and buds from the crepe myrtle {both non-toxic, I checked, but I imagine that if they were yummy, grown ups would eat them too}. They've sampled random mushrooms out of the yard {somewhat toxic, I checked, but not the kill you kind}. The other day I looked out the kitchen window and saw small one gnawing on the end of an eggplant still attached to the vine. She picks it and eats it.

Before you reach for a paper bag, only once have I needed to take them to the hospital. Which brings me to my final point, a carryover from vet school:

The solution to pollution is dilution.

When your kid eats something mildly poisonous {real life example - Borax} or simply disgusting {real life example - poop}, give them water, lots and lots of water. Water solves almost every oops, shouldn't have eaten that moment.

Alright, I'm done scaring the soon-to-be moms. This will be fun. Promise.

                                                                                                                                                              

Curious babies put stuff in their mouths. They are blessed with good immune systems and gag reflexes and great ER's when the other two fail. I find the PC staff comforting and supportive - not once have they criticized me for not hovering over my children. A terrific resource.