Four Stages of Procrastinating

I spent 2015 trying to work on developing better habits.  I exercised more, I made better choices with food, I steadily worked on decluttering and being more organized.  I've even managed to be more awake in the mornings while I get the kids ready for school.  (No tardies!)  But something people may not realize about me is that I am a committed life-long procrastinator.

Especially since I published my first novel this year, I've been hearing the same thing from lots of people.  It centers around how amazing it is that I managed to do this on top of everything else: being a full-time mom, having other kids in my care (whether it's for a few hours or a few months), volunteering at church, and I don't even know what else.  Every time, I cringe a little.  I think about all the time I spent avoiding writing, all the days when I lost confidence and wondered what I was doing and wanted to give up.  It took me three years to finish that first book, but I know that I could have finished it much sooner if I hadn't spent so much time procrastinating.

Now that I'm nearing the final pages of my second novel, (completed in less than two years with a little more focus!) the desire to slack off and push the deadline has been strong.  So I thought I would break down the four stages of procrastination that I find myself cycling through.

1. Whirlwind When that blinking cursor begins to overwhelm me, the first thing I'll do is throw myself into family time.  I will be the most energetic mom, I will build Legos and play endless games of Candy Land, I will take the kids to the park or McDonald's or the library.  Anything to stay in motion, to convince myself that I'm making better use of my time.

2. Mindless drone Eventually, the kids go to school or bed or find something to play that doesn't involve me.  And rather than return to that waiting document, I'll find some super boring task that's been sitting undone for months.  Remember my decluttering project that I mentioned?  All completed while avoiding writing.  This is a great time to sort through the pile of junk mail or rearrange the cupboards or sort through the lotions and medicines in the bathroom.

3. Internet rabbit holes So at this point, you're probably thinking, Hey that doesn't sound bad.  So you take a break from creative work and engage with your family or clean your house--you're still being productive!  And I totally agree.  I tell myself that when I go back to the computer, I'll be more focused and ready to write again because I've just satisfied my other commitments.  Like making sure the house is pristine before leaving on vacation.  Then you can really enjoy your time away, knowing that everything is done.  Except I come back to the computer and decide to check Facebook.  Or Suri's Burn Book.  Or catch up on the blogs I follow.  Or price trips we might take once my book becomes a best-seller.  My husband calls this "falling into an internet rabbit hole", and as someone who loves to accumulate information, I can be there for hours.  Rarely do I accomplish anything productive or worthwhile once I've gotten to this stage.  This is when I click on links to celebrity gossip sites or research the British monarchy, none of which pertains to the book I'm writing.

4. Catatonic The fourth and final stage of procrastination finds me in hibernation mode.  I've given up pretending that I'm doing anything worthwhile, and retreated to the couch or bed.  I might go to sleep, but even rest can be refreshing, so usually in this stage, I binge watch something online and play stupid apps that I deleted from my phone, but are still loaded on the family iPad (looking at you, Candy Crush Saga).  I probably look like someone who is bored, who has nothing to do.  But I haven't felt bored since I had my first kid almost 9 years ago.  I actually get to this point when I am most overwhelmed, when the pressure, the tasks, the endless cycles of life are pressing in.

So 2015 has been a year of learning better habits.  In looking at the habits I have, the ones I unintentionally created over the years by default, I've learned more about myself.  I've realized the bad things I run to when I feel stressed, and I've made an effort to rewire my brain so that I choose good things instead.  Procrastination has been both a curse and a crutch for as long as I can remember, in college and high school and probably even before that.  It's not always a bad thing, like when it spurs me to spend more time with my kids.  But if I didn't put off my work, I wonder if I would be more like the other accomplished people I know.

As December winds down and 2016 approaches, I don't know what word I want to focus on in the new year.  But I would like to set some boundaries for myself.  Sometimes I need to go catatonic.  But when I withdraw, I need to set a timer for 30 minutes.  I've found that if I give myself half an hour to disengage and retreat, I can return to my task feeling better about life.  But if I just go catatonic without an extraction plan, I'll be out for the rest of the day.

I've also learned how to break up writing into manageable goals.  Many full-time writers can put out thousands of words a day, and I've done this myself when an idea hits or I have the support to write all day.  But most of the time, I am on duty for all the other people in my life.  I've found that all I have to do is write 500 words a day, which I can accomplish during gymnastics lessons or nap time.  And those words add up!  In January, I'm starting a new novel.  If I can stick to my 500 words a day goal, I'll have it finished by the time school lets out in May.  Writing in summer has been virtually impossible so far, and I know I'll have to give myself a few months off.  So I'm challenging myself to do in about 5 months what has taken me years in the past.  Procrastination, be gone!!  There will be no room for you next year.

Are you a procrastinator?  What goals are you setting for 2016?  Leave a comment!

Peace on Earth, and Other Impossible Dreams

I woke this morning to an ominous sound.  Someone was rustling through the cupboards in the kitchen, but my husband was still in bed next to me.  This could only mean it was a child in search of candy and fruit snacks for breakfast, so I grabbed my glasses and hurried downstairs.  I walked into the kitchen and saw my six year old, already dressed for the day, standing on the counter with his face in the cupboard.

Not from this morning, but you get the idea

He turned to me and said, "Mama, I already got a bowl, but I can't get my cereal out."  We have funny storage in our octogenarian house, so I helped him jump down and did the little twist and wiggle required to get the Cheerios down.

I poured him a bowl and said, "Hey, you're already dressed!"  He nodded and told me he had brushed his teeth and gotten ready, and now all he needed was some breakfast.  I looked at the clock and saw that we had just entered the last hour before school starts, so I told him if he got socks and shoes on (somehow always a difficult task for my little boys) that he could watch an episode of Jake and the Neverland Pirates and eat his cereal on the couch.  This is a huge treat in our house, as we are scrambling most mornings and rushing out the door.  Rarely do we have the time to sit and watch 20-30 minutes of TV in the mornings.

He obliged (quickly!!) and settled in to watch his show.  One kid down, and still plenty of time to get the others ready.  Next I went to wake the 8 year old.  He is my special boy and needs longer stretches of time than we usually give him to wrap his mind around getting ready for the day.  I climbed up to the top bunk just as he was rolling over, exposing one soft cheek, which I kissed as I whispered, "Good morning!"

His eyes popped open and he smiled at me, saying, "Oh! Good morning!"  His words still feel like a gift to me; the memory of those frustrating years of nonverbal communication still fresh in my mind. "Are you ready to get up?" I asked him, and he said no.  I gave his cheek another kiss and climbed down, knowing that this is all he needs at first, to wake up and have some time to process.  Unbeknownst to me, he snuck upstairs after I left his room and climbed into bed with Daddy, who has the day off and got to sleep in.

Then it was time to check on the third kid, the one who is usually up before anyone else.  I found him in bed, holding the treasures he had acquired on his early morning trek through the house: the iPad and a sleeve of crackers.  I have found worse things in his bed at 8 in the morning.  He smiled at me and I asked him to pause his game and change into school clothes, which he did without argument.

I was doing good, and realized I had time to make some coffee and breakfast for myself.  This is usually something I end up doing at 11am or later, once I finally can sit down or return home and my stomach is growling.  While I got that ready, the oldest emerged and helped pack his lunch and got dressed, then had a good twenty minutes to play in his room.  I could hear him singing a song (an Angry Birds song that he has loved since before he sang along) as I sat at the table and ate my oatmeal.  Then the youngest came in with a puzzle he wanted to do, so we pieced it together, finishing right when we needed to get on coats and shoes.

I got the oldest to brush his teeth and put on his coat just as his bus arrived, then got the other two boys finished up and heading down to the car.  I have three kids in three different schools this year, but they all have to be there at 9am.  It is not so fun somedays.  But this morning, I got all three of them off on time, with no tears, no yelling, and basically no arguing.  Once the last one was dropped off and I was driving around running errands, I had a moment to reflect on how calm I felt.  I had eaten breakfast, played with one kid and had a nice conversation with another.  Each of my kids had displayed a sign on independence, which meant less of a burden on me.

If peace in my house is possible on a busy Thursday morning, then maybe peace on earth is possible too.

The tears are still easily accessible to me this holiday season.  I had hoped that by talking about it with my friends and pulling back from all the nonsense that distracts me from the miracle of Christmas, that my heavy heart would lift and I would get into "the spirit".  Instead of enjoying my usual Mariah Carey pop-heavy Christmas songs, I've been drawn to the more somber and slow ones.  What Child is This? or Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and even Kenny Rogers Celebrate Me Home made me cry this morning in the car.

The only time I have felt my grief met (not relieved, not unburdened, but matched and held), is when I am reading my Bible.  I've almost given up on social media; what used to entertain me just makes me upset these days.  And all around me I find people who are unhappy and falling apart.  But when I open the Bible, when I read through these ancient words, I feel like I'm not alone in this heavy season.

Psalm 46 begins: "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.  Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though the waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging."

It reminds me that it's not about calming the world around me, it's about calming the storm inside me by finding refuge in the One who will not disappoint.  And what if we all did that?  What if we turned away from the wars we start and the fights we join and remembered that the Lord Almighty is with us?  I think it would lead to the end of Psalm 46...

"He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear, he burns the shield with fire.  Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.  The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress."

My prayer this Advent season is Come Lord Jesus come.  Make wars cease to the ends of the earth.  Break the bow and shatter the spear.  Calm our hearts and bring peace to the earth, so that your Name will be exalted among the nations.  And I remember that it is possible when I can eat breakfast with my kids and enjoy a quiet morning free of tears and fights.  "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.  I do not give to you as the world gives.  Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." (John 14:27)

And just for fun, here's Pentatonix....

Season's Greetings

Every couple of weeks I get to meet with a couple of my friends.  I think of these women as "my girls"; they are the ones who have my back, who are admitted into the deepest places of my heart, who lovingly tell me the truth.  Last night, we gathered in sweatpants and warm blankets and listened to music and spent some time envisioning our coming month.  It is the advent season, the time when we wait expectantly for the arrival of Jesus.  And I had to admit to my girls that I'm not excited about Christmas.  I'm not feeling hopeful and expectant right now.  There is so much ugly, from the petty stress of finding gifts for my loved ones to the brokenness all around.  As we listened to the songs of love and peace and victory, I wrote "The world is tearing itself apart".  That is the dark place where I found myself.

Then I opened my Bible, flipped to Isaiah and the prophecy of the Messiah.  I know in my mind that the Savior has come, but my heart couldn't seem to get on board.  Then I read these words: "Nevertheless, there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress." (Isaiah 9:1)  I was immediately reminded that the Bible is God's Word, the way He speaks to His people across time and space and heavy hearts.  I didn't need a Christmas cheerleader to give me a rah, rah speech about carols and lights and togetherness.  I needed a reminder that "the people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned."

December and the holiday season is usually a time to look around, to share with those in need.  It's when we give Toys for Tots and pack shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child.  We make food and deliver it to families in need, we gather offerings to bless the less fortunate.  But it was suggested to me by my girls that perhaps this month needs to be a time to look up, to stay home, to fill up on the promise of peace that I found in Isaiah.  "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be upon his shoulders.  And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  Of this greatness of his government and peace there will be no end.  He will reign on David's throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.  The zeal of the Lord Almighty will accomplish this." (Isaiah 9:6-7)

It doesn't seem right to sit back at this time of year, to rest and reflect when I know many others will take this opportunity to get out and give back.  Unless, of course, one has spent the past 11 months giving and sharing and opening one's home and practicing what we preach at Christmastime.  Everyone needs rest at some point, a chance to fill up and reflect, so that we can overflow once more. So I've spent today thinking about the things that make me excited about Christmas.  What can overpower the gloom in my heart and give me hope?

1.  The Bible: I'm excited to start my Advent Bible study online.  I want to read the words that have remained true and powerful over the past few millennia.  I want to be reminded that Jesus is my Lord and worthy of my adoration.

2.  The decorations: It's hard to feel like Scrooge with sparkly decorations around the house, a tree in the living room displaying the ornaments that my kids have made at school, the stockings awaiting the candy and treats that will fill them on Christmas morning.

3.  The movies:  There are certain movies that I save for this time of year, and it keeps them special to setting my holiday mood.  I've never seen White Christmas, and I don't get why everyone seems to like A Christmas Story. (Sorry, lovers of "classics".) We have already enjoyed Elf and Love Actually, and I hope to see them more in the coming weeks.  But my favorite Christmas movie has been a tradition that was born out of necessity.  Eleven years ago, just a few months shy of my wedding day, I was living with my parents and Chris had moved into the apartment we would share as newlyweds.  Then an ice storm knocked out my parents' power on Christmas Eve, and we crowded into our little apartment living room for the weirdest sleepover ever.  We wanted to watch something Christmas-y, and Chris scanned through his movie collection, eventually holding up the one we would watch each year: Die Hard.  So these are the movies that remind me why I love this time of year.

4.  The food: Maybe it's a shallow thing, but there are certain tastes and foods that make Christmas special.  One is Peppermint Mocha coffee.  I'm sipping some as I type this, and the warmth I feel as a result is not just from the drink.  The boys and I have begun planning which cookies we'll make, and I'm reminded how much I love to bake and share treats with the people who love me well throughout the year.

5.  The music: I always seem to forget that good music can lift my mood like nothing else.  I will grow increasingly grumpy and tired throughout the day, and then Chris will come home and put on a Spotify playlist while we play with the kids or prepare dinner, and I feel my body lighten and a smile stretching across my face.  So part of my reflection this year will be listening to Pentatonix and Mariah Carey and the Nutcracker Suite.

I've already felt a lift in my heart this morning, as I've sought rest and taken focus off all the brokenness.  A quiet morning at home watching Fantasia and reading Isaiah and holding my friend's baby while sipping coffee and eating cheesy grits have filled me more than running errands and trying to solve the world's problems.  And so I encourage you to make your own list.  What reminds you of the good at Christmas?  What fills your heart with peace and reminds you of all your blessings?  What can shift your focus from the hurt to the Holy?  Who will give you permission to rest amidst the chaos?

I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  May 2015 end with each of us finding fulfillment.

That Time I Wrote a Novel

When I think back to the happy times of my childhood, I remember books.  I remember getting lost in a story, to the point that I couldn't hear my mom calling my name or my sister asking me to come play with her.  Books truly transported me somewhere else, to Prince Edward Island at the turn of the century, to Sweet Valley, California, to the Orient Express chugging across Europe.  And like many readers before me, I wanted to use my words to move and inspire people.  I wanted to write.

I remember sitting at my desk, a fresh notebook open in front of me, pencil poised to record a new story.  That was the best moment back then, when the possibilities were endless and all I had to do was begin.  So I did.  Again, and again, and again, I began to write.  Sometimes I would fill a page, sometimes several.  But the same thing kept happening.  I didn't know what came next.  I would stop and chew my lip and tap my pencil on the desk.  I was great at inventing a character and setting and describing what was in my head...but then what?  I couldn't come up with a plot.  And because the words didn't just flow out of me (as I imagined they did for Judy Blume and Ann M. Martin and Agatha Christie), I considered myself a failure.

I never quite lost the idea that I would write something someday, that eventually it would all come together in a magical afternoon and I would finally figure out how to progress in my story, and even find the ending.  But when high school came along, followed by college, the focus of my writing turned to book reports and term papers.  There didn't seem to be time to imagine, to create something new, in a world that demanded I learn new information and regurgitate it for a good grade.  I downgraded my goal to writing a children's book after I took a class on Children's Literature in college.  It would be perfect.  The books were shorter, the stories and language simpler.  I could do that.  Please.

Except it's not that easy, if you've ever tried it.  Dr. Seuss deserves all the acclaim he gets for making stories that seem simple and singsongy...except they rhyme and draw from a pool of less than 50 words and tell a whole story in a handful of pages, with pictures to match!  It all began to feel hopeless and impossible as life moved on.  A title would come to me out of nowhere, and I would begin to imagine the story I could tell, but I'd dismiss it after a while as just a dream that would never materialize.

Then I became a mother.  I quit my job and stayed home with my tiny bundle of love and spent hours on the couch, reading classic literature and eating dried fruit while my baby slept on my lap.  And my mind began to wander in ways it couldn't while I was working or in school.  An idea took root, and I took the time to let the story come to me.  Finally, while the baby was asleep and my husband was at work, I snuck off with a pen and a notebook and began to write again.  My first story in over a decade.  There were plenty of stops, followed days or months later by starts.  I didn't put pressure on the idea.  I wasn't thinking about word count or whether people would want to read it.  I wrote what I found inside me.

The end result was a short story entitled "In My Mother's Closet".  To date, only my husband has read it.  I don't know if it's any good, but it was the start I needed.  After another baby, I had another idea.  I sat down late at night over the course of a summer and wrote.  This was it, the idea that had enough depth to become a book.  I was so excited that I showed it to my husband before I even finished the first draft.  I was proud and wanted the ego boost of his support.  Except...he didn't really like it.  He pointed out some holes in the character development and kind of shrugged over it.  It was disappointing, yes, but he was right.  I set it aside for about six months as we welcomed another child into the family.  In the meantime, I did some research.  I read some books on writing, I set a goal for myself to finish, then I pulled up the Word document and re-read it.  Suddenly, the fixes became clear, the edits I needed to make in order to finish the book and present it to my husband for a second opinion.

Because the life of a mother of three young children is hectic and distracting, it took another two years to get to that finished work.  (We added yet another child, a 3 year old foster daughter who left shortly after the book's completion.)  But I did it, I wrote a novel called Every Little Piece!  I shared it with some trusted friends, people who would be honest with me but also kind.  They offered some great suggestions to make it even better.

For the past 18 months, I've been sitting on this book.  I've sent queries to agents and researched the publishing industry and fretted about what to do next.  Four years after I began to write it, my novel is ready for Kindle Direct and becoming an e-book.  I have no idea what will come next, if anyone will read it or like it, but my childhood dream of writing a book has already come true, and now I'm ready to fulfill another goal: becoming a published author.

Friends, I hope you'll check out my book.  I had fun writing it, getting to know my characters and telling their stories.  But more importantly, I hope you'll think back to the thing you loved when you were young, whether it was dancing or playing outside or making jewelry out of dandelions or painting, or maybe even writing the first page of a story.  And I hope that you can let go of whatever distractions or to-do lists have kept you from it.  Find room for that thing to be a part of your life now, without fear or embarrassment.  Return to your first love.

A busy life
Photo credit: We Love Your Love Photography

Pajama Day

Confession:  I have this tendency to over-commit.  I am a woman of action and passion and there is so much in this world that needs done.  Add to that my lack of a "job"...there is no schedule, no boss, no 9-5 commitment.  I am the Manager of my own time, the Gatekeeper of my activities.  And I don't do very well at either.

I think it stems from an over-correction, from back in the days when I was first at home with my babies, and there was all this time, but I couldn't figure out how to get out of the house, I was up to my elbows in diapers and tantrums and Elmo videos.  When we did get out, to the store or the library, I'd find that the children looked fine but I had forgotten to wash the spit up out of my hair.  I was still wearing yesterday's stained sweatpants while my boys were in matching ensembles from Carter's or Gymboree.  I was a bit of a mess, and I did nothing quantifiable.  I couldn't even read a book longer than 15 pages.

2009 Keeping it pregnant

So then, when the changes began to take place, when I finally figured out how to get out of the house and do something for somebody else, I forgot to think about myself.  About what I needed, about margin in my schedule.  The last few years have been about Going and Doing, and I've been so excited about it, that I've kind of worn myself out.

I decided to give myself a gift, a whole day each week for rest and unscheduled time.  I had to get through the summer first, 3 months of sheer insanity, of kids filling my house and my arms and screaming in my ears.  Three months of sweating at the playground and suppressing impatience while riding bikes and desperately trying to keep the screen time to a daily minimum.  Each day of the summer, as I rose early and stayed up late, as I poured myself out in the care of others, I would imagine the fall and the day I was going to have at home.  I began to think of it as Pajama day.

Busy summer 2015

And now, fall is here, the kids are in school, and Pajama day is a real thing.  Sunday afternoons are spent with the family, making food for the week or cleaning the house, playing games or practicing piano.  Then I get ready for bed, and I choose the clothes I'll be in for the next 24 hours.  Flannel pants and baggy t-shirts, fuzzy socks and thick sweatshirts.  Even when the days are hot, at this time of year our house stays cold.  And every Monday, I keep warm in the pajamas I wear all day.

Wearing pajamas all day ensures a couple of things.  I won't make plans to meet up with someone, nor will I attend any meetings or conferences.  I will stay put, at home.  It also makes it easier to curl up on the couch with my youngest who is home with me.  We can watch movies together, or play games on the iPad, snuggled under a thick blanket.  We can eat cookies at 10am, we can snack all day.  We have nowhere to go.  Monday has also become a great day for laundry.  Because I'm home, I can switch out the loads and refill the empty drawers of my family.  (I should note here that I love to do laundry.  It is by far my favorite household chore.)  Staying in my pajamas also makes it easier to take a nap, to lay down in bed in the middle of the day and drift off for an extra hour of sleep.  This is especially fun for me, as I've taken lately to "micro naps", those 15 minute refreshers that help me get through homework and bedtime most days.  But Mondays mean a relaxing afternoon to be still, to wake up slowly.

Pajamas and blankets and lots of cuddles

I have given of my time so much in the past, that it felt selfish when I found myself with only one child at home.  I thought I should find another kid or two to take care of so that I didn't have so much down time.  And now the temptation arises to think of Pajama day as a waste, a day that can be spent on more important things.  But as a mom, the weekend is no longer a time of relaxation.  Saturday and Sunday are now spent on family activities, providing entertainment and breaking up arguments, buying groceries and cooking food, attending church and teaching middle schoolers.  Tuesday through Friday are committed to homework and lessons, after-school activities and carpools, Bible studies and Parent-Teacher conferences.  And so I hold onto Monday, to my Pajama day.  It is important and it is necessary.  And most of all, it is good.

Coffee Day

Dear Coffee:

I held you in my hand as I browsed Facebook this morning, and I discovered that it was your special day!  People were toasting you and roasting you and telling you how wonderful you are, and I had to join in.  Of course, you know how much you mean to me, not just today, but every day of the year.  A love like ours doesn't need to be validated by social media, but it is so magical that it has inspired me to climb to the top of my online platform and declare to all my readers that I am in love with you.

Remember when we first met?  I was only 8 years old, and I breathed in your unique aroma.  I drank of your brown goodness (2 sugars and 3 creams) and I knew I'd found something special.  I tried to get as much of you as I could, at restaurants and on the road, in the kitchens of my relatives and even at home.  You were everywhere, in one form or another.  When I look back on my life, the stressful moments and the celebrations, the holidays and birthdays, the hotel lobbies and airplane galleys, you were there for me.

Our relationship changed, naturally, as I grew up.  These days, I enjoy you with a little flavored cream, often in a to-go mug as I run my kids to school in the mornings.  Occasionally, we even meet up at a local shop.  I still enjoy the times we can sit outside together, fresh air and warm coffee.  You have perked me up after sleepless nights, given me the energy to get through another day of diapers, laundry, pbjs, repeat.  You have kept me warm on the cold days, when rain has soaked me through as I struggled to get three kids in their car seats.  You are who I want after an afternoon snowball fight.

Coffee, you are universal.  You go with everything.  You wash down a delicious pastry as easily as a ham sandwich.  You pair with dessert and breakfast, or as a stand alone.  You taste delicious dressed down in black or dolled up with whipped cream and caramel.  You let me choose cold or hot, and you never ask anything from me.

We both know I've dabbled in some other beverages.  You forgave me for the Butterbeer I drank over spring break, accepting that what happens in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter STAYS in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  You co-exist with water and Coke and wine, because you know that you'll always be my first love, that none of them compare to you.  And you'll be there for me to the end.  I've seen you in the hospitals and nursing homes, and we know about the senior discount.

Happy Coffee Day friend.  Thank you for all that you give me, the caffeine and sugar and warmth.  Here's to many more years of you and me!

This One's for the Girls

Do you remember that Martina McBride song, "This One's for the Girls"?  It came out around the time I was living on my own and spreading my wings, and it was my anthem for awhile.  The verses are directed to girls of different ages.  To the girls in high school, Martina urges them to "stand their ground when everyone's giving in".  To the girls in their twenties, "living on dreams and Spagettio's", she encourages them to embrace the journey of life.  To the girls in their forties (and older, presumably, since her video features grannies in their seventies and eighties), Martina reminds them that "every laugh line on your face made you who you are today."  I love this song because it recognizes that as we age, we enter a new stage of life.  We shift our priorities and our hopes, we live differently.

First class, baby!

This week, I spent several days in airports and hotels.  It reminded me SO MUCH of my early twenties, the magical two years between college and marriage when I worked as a flight attendant.  I was living on dreams and Spagettio's in those days.  But I was living.  Instead of taking the job that I could do and would pay my bills, I took the job that excited me and enabled me to travel extensively. I went to Europe and saw aurora borealis and explored museums and new cities.

Just moments before I went overboard...

After two years, I came to a very natural shift that made me want to leave the world of airlines and suitcases and settle down to build a home and a family.  For the last ten years, the most important role of my life has been a wife and a mother.  I have lived.  I have danced in my living room and skidded in a mess of vomit and ridden carousels and been the giver and receiver of a million hugs.

We are smiling to hide our fear.

But another shift is coming; I am in the midst of it as I type this.  My children are growing up.  This school year is the first time I've had all of my kids enrolled in school. (The youngest is going to preschool twice a week, so a minor shift for now.)  I feel this pull to embrace a new season of life.  There is so much that excites me, so many passions to sift through.  I want to advocate for children and orphans, for those with special needs and those who have experienced abuse.  I want to be the air that lifts the wings of the women in my life, the way other women have been for me.  I want to do the hard work of healing and unity that brings people together in my city.  I want to keep living.

Windswept at the beach.  Sports Illustrated turned me down.

So that's been the reflection on my mind these past few days.  There is so much risk in life, isn't there?  There's the bad risk, like getting in a car with a drunk driver. (If you want to know why this is bad, ask Princess Diana. Oh wait, you can't.)  There are bad risks, like staying in an abusive relationship, or mismanaging your money so you end up homeless.  But there are good risks too, risks like moving to a new city or taking a job that challenges you.  Risks like saying hello to a stranger or going out to feed the broken and suffering people of the world.

Could not get the boys on board for this one

The thing about these life shifts is that the definition of risk changes with them.  A young woman with no children can travel to far off places and follow her dreams.  A suburban mom can choose to petition her government to adapt the Nordic Model or start ministering to women coming out of addiction.  A woman facing retirement can decide to mentor teen moms and march for racial unity.  Each of these are brave, risky lives.  Each of them follow the advice of Martina McBride, to "love without holding back, to dream with everything they have."

Ladies, I have lived my life.  And I have many, many more years to keep going, to choose life over comfort and safety.  So do you.  I believe that the worst thing we can do with these years is to hide away, to choose easy, to watch the world pass us by.  What kind of life is that?  Courage is not something we are born with, it is something we take hold of and grow the more we use it.  The time for careful planning and deliberation is over.  Get up and live.

Buying Groceries and Natural Consequences

During our first year of marriage, Chris and I loved to go to the store together.  We would find new recipes to try and then go buy the ingredients.  We walked down the aisles together with hardly a care in the world (my memory might be making these trips more magical than they were).  We made our own pretzels and mozzarella sticks, we baked meatloaf and ranch chicken, we figured out which foods we both liked.  Then we started having babies.  I remember the first trip to the store after James and I came home from the hospital.  It took two days to get ready, I kid you not.  Because I was recovering from a C-section, Chris had to do the driving, and we spent the whole morning trying to get ready, nursing the baby, taking showers, nursing the baby, packing the diaper bag, nursing the baby, changing his diaper, nursing the baby, and boom, it was time for Chris to leave for work.  We managed to get there the next day, but I found walking around the store was like torture on my post-surgical body.  The baby and I were both ready to cry by the time we got everything we needed.  And that pretty much sums up our experience shopping as a family ever since.

So done

Sometimes we discover tricks to keep the kids happy while we shop, like the purchase of a $1 balloon at the entrance or a cookie when we pass the bakery.  But in general, the boys don't want to be there, and I get grouchy before we make it to the dairy aisle.  Promising a treat at the end of the trip, whether candy doled out in the car, an ice cream cone on the way home, or a trip to the park after, has been working for a while.  Yesterday, we headed out, all five of us, to load up on food for the coming week.  Despite our promise of Chipotle for dinner for the kids who were good listeners and well-behaved in the store, once we were inside, the younger two started bickering.  The whining and fussing was driving me crazy, as were the other adults walking past us and "hiding" their laughter as we asked the boys to stop fighting, to use big boy voices, to just be quiet.  When we reached the checkout, I swear steam was coming out of Chris' ears.

Then we got the question from the boys: "Are we going to Chipotle now?"  NO YOU ARE NOT.  Winston started to cry, Michael looked confused.  WE ARE MISERABLE FROM HAVING SPENT THE LAST 30 MINUTES WITH YOU.  "Why did I fight with my brother?" they cried.  "We don't get a treat!"  GOOD, we said.  REMEMBER THIS FEELING THE NEXT TIME WE GO TO THE STORE.  I was doing a little dance because that is what the experts call "natural consequences" and they are always saying that children learn best that way.  But part of me was also sad.  My tummy was growling and I was looking forward to a Chipotle dinner.  My kids were crying and a little voice whispered that I was being mean and depriving them.  I was glad for Chris, for my partner in raising these little people who helps me stay committed to the right thing even when it isn't the fun thing.

I think we can agree here: it's hard to watch your kids suffer.  Even when it is completely their fault.  Even when they know better.  Even when you gave them warnings and guidelines and were as clear as you possibly could be.  Even when they turned away from you and made bad choices.

Before I went to bed last night, I pulled out my Bible to continue reading the book of Isaiah in the Old Testament.  It was my plan this summer to read through all of Isaiah, but I've only read the first few chapters. (No spoilers!) Anyway, Isaiah begins with a prophecy of destruction for God's people.  This is the Old Testament, wrathful God that makes me uncomfortable.  The description of what is coming is not good, lots of gross, over the top violence and evil unleashed.  In the past, I have found it hard to reconcile this God with the loving Father God of the New Testament, the God who offers grace and mercy freely, the God who heals lepers and feeds the hungry and welcomes men, women, and children into his embrace.  This summer, I'm beginning to see the piece that I was missing, the part that connects OT God to NT God.  God created us in his image and he gave us the law to show us how to live, to control the spread of disease, to cherish life, to worship the one who made us.  Isaiah is very clear.  God's people have rejected his law, they have ignored his commands.  Like any concerned parent, God must give consequences.  It seems extreme to read, but my sons felt like missing out on Chipotle was pretty extreme.  It's human nature to think, Why can't I just keep doing what I want to do without having to suffer for it?

Everyone deserves a treat

But it doesn't end there, not for God, and not for me.  Because it hurts to see our kids hurt.  So there is this, in Isaiah 9: "Nevertheless, that time of darkness and despair will not go on forever...The people who live in darkness will see a great light.  For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine."  No dark night, no punishment, no necessary destruction lasts forever.  With God, there is always sun in the morning, freedom for captives, a time to rebuild.  God's mercy is new every morning, or so Lamentations tells us.  There's another trip to the store next weekend, another chance to get Chipotle, a light in the darkness.  But my stubborn children (and my stubborn self) need those consequences, we need that pain to point us back to the light.  It's a lesson worth remembering that a charmed life served on a silver platter is not the way to bring peace or develop wisdom.  But leaning in to difficult moments and painful consequences can teach us to do better.

On Racial Tension

Well, here it goes.  This is my attempt to write about something that has become a very big issue in our country right now, something that I haven't felt able or qualified to write about before (and let's face it, that hasn't changed) for a few reasons.  One is that I'm white.  I've followed the news a little and every time I see an article about white privilege, I find myself nodding along in agreement.  Yep, that's me, someone who has lived her whole life privileged enough not to have to think about race.  I would rather listen to others share their experiences than try to jump on my platform and tell anyone what is going on with race in America.  The other is that this topic is so HUGE.  It is not only what is happening now, how different cities and states and sectors of society are handling issues of race, but it encompasses everything that has led to this moment.  We are reaping the consequences of decisions made by our parents, our grandparents, and so on and so on all the way back to our nation's founders, 16th century conquistadors, Greek philosophers, and Hebrew kings.  People hating other people because of superficial differences in appearance, religious practice, eating habits, or dress code is one of the only constants we can point to in history.  No matter where, no matter when, somebody was prejudiced against somebody else because human beings just love to break complicated issues down into us vs. them.

The truth is, I am a spectator.  I am not involved in much that happens beyond my front yard.  I am a commentator at best, enjoying a good discussion about what is going on without really doing anything about it.  So this is not me taking a stand; quite literally, I am reclined in bed as I type this.  All I am really hoping to accomplish is to make public the words that I have spoken in private, and, if I may be so bold, talk about the future.

It began tonight at dinner.  My husband and I were trying to have a conversation over the children's chatter, and the topic focused on the issue of race.  My husband (and I should perhaps point out that he and I see things differently from time to time, and so I will express my own opinion and please don't ever assume that he speaks for me or that I speak for him unless we explicitly make that claim) said that racism seems to be getting worse lately for some reason.  But I disagree.  I think racism is honestly making a slow but steady loser's retreat.  However, in the past year or so (because the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner occurred last summer), racial tension has increased dramatically. And I see that as progress.

While I am not qualified to speak about race, I am qualified to speak about history, being a long-time student and lover of it.  There is a word that comes up time and time again as we look back, and that word is revolution.  Now here is the thing I find most interesting about revolutions.  Do you know when they happen?  Do you know what precipitates and provides catalyst for them?  You would think it is when things are at their worst, when people are horribly oppressed and voiceless and they just. can't. take. anymore.  But that isn't when revolution happens.  A revolution comes about when things are getting better.  There is futility in being voiceless and oppressed; only when a light begins to shine at some far off point do people seize their weapons and storm the palaces of their oppressors, demanding equality and justice and demanding blood as recompense.

And so I skim the news and I listen to people talk and I can feel the tension building.  There is anger in America right now, there are mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers demanding that their voices be heard and refusing to accept the status quo.  And I feel a revolution coming.  If you disagree, if you think we have gone backwards and black lives don't matter to the ones holding the guns, ask yourself if anyone would have cared if this happened 30 years ago.  Would anyone have known?  And if you think the police are just doing their jobs and this is all being blown out of proportion and media bias and all that, ask yourself if a cop has ever pointed a gun at you.  In my younger, wilder days (which were quite honestly very tame, but I'm a mom now and speeding seems like a thrill ride for a reckless woman) I got pulled over quite a bit.  I was caught speeding or running a red light, and even though my parents taught me to be polite to the police, I really started to get irritated with them.  And one night (let me emphasize that it was completely dark) I was cruising on home (too fast) and got pulled over a block from my house.  Instead of being appropriately contrite with the officer, I got an attitude.  I said something along the lines of "C'mon man, I live right over there, can you go bother someone else?"  And he let me go with a warning.  So you will excuse me when I say that Darren Wilson overstepped his duties when he shot an unarmed teenager dead in the street right in front of his house because the kid gave him a little lip.  In my story, the guy actually saw me break the law, and the conclusion I am forced to draw is that police treat white and black people differently.

So about that coming revolution.  The tension is building, the protestors have taken to the streets, and I say Don't let up.  Because when was the last time a Congressman sat down to meet with his fellow Congressional leaders and said, "Hey guys, apropos of nothing, I think we should give women the right to vote.  It just occurred to me that it's rather silly that we make all the decisions just because we're men and because we've just always done it that way, and you know our wives and daughters and their friends are actually quite smart and probably capable of making an informed decision at the polls."  Rather, it took more than 70 years of suffragettes marching and petitioning and getting arrested (yay Susan B. Anthony, you go girl!) and storming the institutions of government until they got what they wanted.  Similarly, the Supreme Court justices did not meet in an empty chamber and say, "You know what I just thought of?  We have actual laws in this country that prevent homosexual couples from getting married, and yet we don't have anything that prevents consenting adult heterosexual couples from doing it.  Doesn't that strike you as strange, and even a little illegal?  Why, we should just write a ruling now before anyone realizes what's happened so that if any gay dudes want to put a ring on it, they can?"  Of course they didn't!  Change came about because of focused, intentional efforts to promote gay rights as being something that should be equal to straight rights. (Is that a thing? Is that what we call it?  And btw gays, I watched that How to Survive a Plague documentary and may I just say, you guys and ladies practically wrote the book on civil unrest.  Well done.)

Those in power will always uphold the status quo until it becomes unbearable for them to continue doing so.  And pressure and tension and raging against the machine are the only proven ways to make the powerful pay attention.  So media, keep talking about the cases of excessive use of force by police.  Black people, keep your concerns front and center.  Ordinary citizens, keep an eye (and a camera phone) out for injustice.  All lives should matter, but Justice Department investigations have shown that they don't in actual practice.  I see a revolution coming against the institutionalized racism of our police departments and our courts and I welcome it.  I would like to stress, at this point, the importance of nonviolent protest, the success of both Ghandi and Martin Luther King Jr (and yes, I realize they both died for what they believed in and Nelson Mandela smuggled weapons into South Africa and lived to a ripe old age but hear me out).  I think we need action and we need tension and we need pressure on those in power, but I don't think we need armed chaos in our streets and in our cities.  I think the message gets diluted when authorities can claim that both sides have blood on their hands, when righteous anger gives way to mindless vengeance.

Let me conclude with a few things that I believe.  I believe in people.  I believe in a better future.  I believe in making the world a better place, in teaching children love rather than hate, peace rather than war.  I believe that light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.  I believe we are better than our prejudices.  I believe our founding fathers gave us the framework to pursue liberty and justice for all, even if they didn't practice it.  I believe that good wins out in the end.

Am I Enough?

It is a new season of life for me, as school is starting up and I have the time and the opportunity to stretch beyond the home I've tended for the past eight years.  I have had lots of time to take in, to learn, to read and study, to prepare, but now it's time to go and do and step in front.  And I'm scared.

The question that haunts me most is this: Am I enough?  Am I smart enough?  No matter how many times I ask myself the question, I always get the same answer.  No.  I'm not.  Sure, I'm intelligent, and I can take in and remember new information.  I know quite a bit about some things.  But what I know is just a small sliver of what is knowable.  I keep encountering people who know so much about things that I am completely ignorant of.  And then there is the unknowable.  The stuff that none of us know, nor will any of us in our lifetime.  Stephen Hawking, genius that he is, doesn't know if space and time are bendable; he only has an idea, a theory.  Albert Einstein, likewise, came up with a theory of relativity, which is unable to be proved or disproved with our finite human understanding.  None of us know how the world came to be, whether it was from a big bang or the creation of a supreme being, or if it has merely existed always.  There's no way we can know these things.  So when I come face to face with this question of am I smart enough, the answer is no.  Neither in terms of what can be known and what will forever be unknown.

In Christ alone, my hope is found, he is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground, firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace, when fears are stilled, when strivings cease.
My comforter, my all in all, here in the love of Christ I stand.

But perhaps I can make up for my lack of knowledge by being good enough.  And so I examine all that I have ever done, all that has been done to me, the way I respond in times of stress, my motivations, my deepest, darkest secrets.  Once again, I have to answer in the negative.  I am not good enough.  Of course I'm not!  What person, in a moment of honesty, can claim to be good enough on their own?  There are times when I stumble upon the right thing, the moral thing, the kind thing, but there are far more times when I act out of my impatience, my insecurity, my selfishness.  There are some days when goodness seems to be the very opposite of what I am capable of.

In Christ alone, who took on flesh, fullness of God in helpless babe;
This gift of love and righteousness, scorned by the ones he came to save.
Til on that Cross, as Jesus died, the wrath of God was satisfied.
For every sin on Him was laid, here in the death of Christ I live.

A new question springs up, especially lately, in the rooms that I have been in, the people I have sat across from, the places I have stood:  Am I qualified enough?  This is followed by hysterical laughter in my mind, and sometimes even escaping into an audible form.  Absolutely not!  I have NO qualifications for what I am doing.  I do not have the experience, the credentials, the titles that would qualify me for any of it.  I am a stay at home mother with an unused degree in International Relations and an unimpressive CV.  Almost anyone is more qualified than me, I think.

There in the ground his body lay, light of the world by darkness slain.
Then bursting forth in glorious day, up from the grave he rose again!
And as he stands in victory, sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am his and he is mine, bought with the precious blood of Christ.

And so, as shallow and inconsequential as it may be, I wonder if I'm pretty enough?  Even though I don't know enough, don't have the goodness needed or the qualifications that are preferred, maybe I can convince people to listen to me and follow me if only I am pretty enough or charming enough to distract them from what I lack.  Human beauty is defined by the symmetry and striking contrast between features.  Consequently, I am not pretty enough.  My face is crooked, my eyes different sizes, my lips barely a shade darker than the skin surrounding them, my belly still soft from carrying children years ago, my hair both limp and frizzy.  No, my looks will not be my saving grace.

No guilt in life, no fear in death, this is the power of Christ in me.
From life's first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny.
No power of hell, no scheme of man, can ever pluck me from his hand;
Til he returns or calls me home, here in the power of Christ I'll stand.

Therefore, I am certain of the answer to my question.  I am not enough.  As it turns out, that is fine, and actually, quite expected.  I don't think any of us will ever find that we feel like enough on our own.  But I don't do this alone, these new ventures, these uncharted waters.  If you couldn't guess from the song lyrics, it is by following Jesus that my path presents itself.  So it isn't my abilities or self-sufficiency that need to be enough; it is HIS.  Jesus qualifies me, Jesus covers my blind spots and Jesus' goodness more than fills in where mine is lacking.  It is Jesus' sacrifice that saves me, Jesus who sits next to the throne of God in heaven and beckons me to take refuge in him.

The question then becomes not about what I possess but about where I stand.  Do I stand in the power of Christ?  Do I live as one who has been bought with his blood?  Do I accept the love that he so freely gives?  Do I shine a light, not so that others can see me, but so they can see him?

Back to School

My kids head back to school next week.  Now that the supplies have been purchased and the calendar is marked, I find myself thinking back.  Remembering five years ago, the battery of tests (and isn't that a great phrase? because I remember feeling quite battered by the time it was all over) our son went through just before his third birthday.  All the forms and interviews and professionals that we visited, all pointing to one thing...an Autism Spectrum Disorder.  Although I remained unconvinced, desperately trying to find the reason why my son fit into the autism category when what going on with him had to be something else, anything else, something that we could fix in a day or a month or a year but not this word, this lifelong label.  Knowing that if his brain was different that it wouldn't be a quick fix and back to life as usual, but years of IEP meetings and speech therapy and adapting, because doctors can fix broken bones and teachers can make children literate and parents can give their children love and nutritious food and a safe home but no one can change a person's brain.  So I listened to the experts and held firm to my belief that I could figure this out, I could solve the mystery of what was going on inside my child.  In the meantime, I would follow the advice that everyone seemed to agree upon: enroll James in an early intervention preschool and begin speech therapy.

Preschool Graduation

I remember visiting the preschool, meeting the teacher who would have James in her class for two years, and I remember so vividly the fear.  My son was essentially non-verbal, and they wanted me to drop him off with these people for three hours a day.  How would I know what was happening to him for that period of time?  There was no way he would be able to tell me.  And they said they never physically disciplined children or locked them in closets or left them unsupervised, but of course they said that because it's illegal.  But the reason why we have laws against those things is because they have happened in the past, and what's to stop a preschool teacher from going power mad in a room of 3 and 4 year olds with developmental disabilities and sketchy communication skills?  I lived with this anxiety for a few weeks, as we prepared our son for school and more so after we dropped him off the first day.  What it basically came down to is a lack of trust.  I know how much I love my child, how powerful the desire to nurture and protect him is.  But I didn't believe that anyone else would feel the same way when they looked into his big hazel eyes and held his chubby little hand.

They might save the world, but today their mission is CANDY!

I still don't know how that year went for him.  I have no idea what he thought of school, how he was treated by the staff and the other children, what he learned and what he wished was different.  All I know is that he kept going.  That he quickly stopped crying when I brought him to the door to drop him off and that he smiled when I came to pick him up.  That the boys in his class called him "Little Screamer" and attempted to hoot and squeal with him, thinking that was his primary language (in a way, it was).  That he frequently hugged his teacher and occasionally brought home art projects that he had made with assistance.  That his teacher did a unit on the story books of Mo Willems because James loved the Pigeon books and Knuffle Bunny.

It continues to be a guide to me, watching my son for signs of happiness or distress.  It is the best indicator of how he is being treated when I'm not around, if the time has come to withdraw from a place or activity or if it is okay to continue.  I know he loves his swim lessons, because we passed the exit recently and he told me to turn around and go back.  I know he had a good time at VBS because I came to pick him up and he was dancing to the music (Let me pause here and say that beyond the baby booty shaking to Elmo songs, James does not dance. Ever.)  I know he has found a good friend in Ian because he gets excited when he comes over and willingly shares video games with him.  I know he is surrounded by caring adults at church because he hugs them and sits with them and remembers their names.

And then, this summer, he shocked me by doing something new.  We spent the fourth of July on a riverboat cruise of Pittsburgh, which the kids LOVED because it was water and boats and they drank Sprite and it really doesn't take more than that to delight them.  We were on a walk later and James turned to me and asked, "Mommy, did you like the boat ride?"  I felt like kneeling and kissing the ground, or picking him up and twirling like Maria in "The Sound of Music".  It was a huge development, and it's something he's never done before.  But I kept my mom cool and I answered his question and then asked if he liked it.  He responded and there we were having an actual conversation about what we did that day.  It happened again a few weeks later on a more mundane summer day, but we talked back and forth about what we liked and what we did and I got to hear in words how my son feels.

First day of 2nd Grade

My kids head back to school next week.  Now that the supplies have been purchased and the calendar is marked, I find myself thinking ahead.  What will James experience this year?  How much will he be able to tell me about afterwards?  Yes, his brain is different, and our lives involve IEP meetings and speech therapy and adapting, and there is no way to change a person's brain.  But this kid is surrounded by people who love him and help him learn and protect him.  And there is no limit to what he will do.

In the Middle

I turned 33 this year.  The definitions of age are shifting in my generation, so that "young" is different than it was for my parents or my grandparents, and "old" has moved further back than it was in the past.  People say things like "40 is the new 20!" which I think means that people hitting their forties are still as youthful and exciting as twenty year olds.  Not like my parents, who were packing their children off to college and preparing to be "empty nesters" when they hit forty.

So maybe 33 is still "young" and maybe (given genetics) I'm only a third of the way through my life, but I feel like I have hit the "middle age".  Not just because my knees click when I climb stairs (which they never used to do) or because I started wearing a swim skirt (the better to hide my lumpy mom body!), but because the time to figure out who I am seems to be over.  I can still try new things and experiment and fail and pick myself back up, but I have to do this in the middle of a life being lived.  I can't change course quickly, because I have a family that goes along with me, and I have to factor in everyone's needs, not just my own.

At 20, I could try a new hobby and decide if I liked it or not.  I could spend all day reading or watching tv with no guilt.  I could move to Tennessee and then back to Ohio when I felt like it.  I could eat an entire bag of chips or stay up all night or suddenly decide to bike 10 miles with no consequences.  But now?  Now I'm in the middle.  Now the consequences of disengaging from the world are cranky kids and huge laundry piles and late bills.  Now I feel the effects of what I ate or how I slept or what crazy thing I tried to put my body through for days.  All of this leads me to believe (no matter what the magazine covers say) that I have transitioned into the middle of my life.

So all of this is well and good, except I've heard about this thing called a "mid-life crisis".  Those never go well.  That's the time when people spend crazy amounts of money on sports cars or leave their spouse for someone else or travel to India to prove they can still have adventures.  But I'm wondering what has to happen to go from realizing and accepting that my life has reached the middle to a full-blown, poor decision making crisis.  I mean, I love my minivan.  I love my husband.  I love staying at home and not contracting some flesh-eating virus from, I don't know, dirty ashram water.  Maybe I'll be lucky and miss the "crisis" part of aging.  Wouldn't that be nice?

I was listening to "Coffee with Christine Caine", my new favorite podcast (because, hello, Christine Caine, and also they are about 10 minutes long which is about how much time I have to do anything for myself this summer), and she was talking about embracing new things and being innovative in our thinking.  She said something interesting, which is that being old happens when you get stuck in your ways and close off to new thinking.  According to Chris, there is no numerical age when you get old; a 26 year old can be old if he refuses to accept change and adapt to new circumstances.  Likewise, an 80 year old can still be skirting the young side if she is willing to try new things.  I witnessed that this past year when I signed up for a women's Bible study at a local church.  I joined my group the first day and was a little surprised at the white haired woman who announced herself as our leader.  She said, "My name is Betty and I've never done anything like this before, but I was asked if I would be willing to lead a group and so here I am."  Over the course of 25 weeks, Betty challenged my ideas about age and what people are capable of.  She doesn't drive after dark and she gets nervous when the sidewalk is icy, but she did her research each week and she kept our group on topic as we discussed the Life of Moses together.

Here I am, in the middle.  No longer an untethered young woman with the world at her feet and opportunity hanging like fruit from a tree.  Not yet a grumpy old lady shaking her fist at kids on skateboards and bemoaning "the good old days".  I'm navigating the middle of life, finding time to try new experiences between the demands and responsibilities of all I've been given.  To accept the limitations while continuing to dream.

Am I a Good Mom?

When I became a mother eight years ago, I was kind of obsessed with this one question: Am I a good mom?  It's something people would say when they saw me playing with my sons at the park or comforting them when they fell.  "You're such a good mom."  But I doubted them.  They didn't see me sitting at home, holding my new baby and wondering if this was all there was.  They didn't see me lose my temper at 3am when my toddler woke me up wanting to watch cartoons.  They didn't see me in the midst of crying children wishing I was anywhere but there.  Those moments made me feel like I wasn't doing it right, like I was a defective Mommy.

There are so many aspects of raising children to cover.  We want them to develop physically and spiritually and emotionally.  We want them to have good manners and make good grades and find good friends.  We worry about their health and what they eat and whether today's sunburn will turn into skin cancer in 20 years.  And I'm willing to bet (based on my own personal experience) that at any given moment, moms feel like they are getting it all wrong and ruining their children's lives.  No matter what other people tell us, our friends, husbands, even strangers, we don't feel like good moms because we know we are dropping the ball somewhere.

Here's the thing ladies...none of us can do it all.  We are all choosing to prioritize a few things over the rest.  I choose to focus on what my kids are learning and their emotional development, while my friend does great at feeding her kids healthy food and strengthening the family bond.  I know another mom who creates beautiful experiences for her children, who is dedicated to creating memories and protecting the purity of childhood.  There are other moms whose children have chronic health issues, and they choose to combat germs and research surgeries and hold vigils in hospital rooms while their children receive treatment.  And every one of us is doing a great job.

Instead of asking myself if I'm a good mom, and comparing myself to all these amazing women I know, seeing all the ways that I fall short of their mothering abilities, I've found a new question.  At the end of the day, as I am falling peacefully to sleep (...or passing out in the middle of a Gilmore Girls episode), I ask myself if I did what was best for me and my people.  Did I give my children what they needed--food, hugs, attention, correction?  Did I give myself what I needed--food, quiet, hugs, contentment?  Is my house still standing?  Is everyone still breathing?  Then I can hang my hat on a day well spent.  If I was able to control my temper or finish the day with a glass of wine, that's a bonus.  If I managed to transform dirty clothes into clean ones, I give myself a pat on the back.  If I carved out time to have a conversation with my husband, and maybe some kisses or whatever, then I am killing it.

I was never meant to do everything perfectly all the time.  That's just not reality.  I am meant for this life, for the people in my home and the ones who cross my path.  I am not supposed to imitate the awesome mom down the street or mold myself into some societal image of womanhood.  And neither are you.  So stand tall and with a loud voice proclaim: Today I took a shower! I rule!  I went to the store and didn't lose a single kid! I'm awesome!  I played Candy Land for the 8th time and didn't check my Instagram feed! I am a good mom!  I went to work and provided for my family! I'm freaking amazing!

And when you see the other moms in your life sweating as they push that double stroller to the park or fumbling in her purse for the thing her kid is screaming for or sitting at McDonald's Playland feeding her baby while the older kids run around, tell her she's doing a good job.  Even though she won't believe you.