Busy Mama, I'm Tired, Too

I'm picking fake pine needles out of my finger nails, and there's something that tried to be pumpkin spice granola congealing on the kitchen counter next to me. The house is decorated. I'm trying to make holiday gift bags, and I've stepped on the same cold lump of sweet potato three times.

This time of year is hard on mamas, ya'll.

Several days ago, after valiantly battling dirt (both figurative and literal) in my children's lives all day, I collapsed. My husband walked in the door, handed me the car keys and a Starbucks gift card, and don't you know, I pealed out of our driveway so fast they could probably hear the tires squealing two towns over.

I was wearing black yoga pants (the stay-at-home mom standard uniform) a brown cashmere sweater (because all my sweatshirts were dirty) and a black and white striped shirt. I was wearing socks with shoes that should never have socks with them. And as I huddled in the corner of Starbucks, I dumped a coconut milk latte down the front of myself as I fumbled for caffeine and my sanity.

Motherhood is hard.

And you know when it gets harder? When you really, really, really try. Anyone can be a mom for a day. Or a week. Or  a month. All it takes is a ready supply of "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood," animal crackers, and coffee. Honestly, some days of motherhood are a breeze. Plop kids down in front of a TV (or an "iPLad" as it is affectionately known in our house.), then enjoy your third cup of coffee, throw some mac'n'cheese their way at lunch time, and try to get everyone in bed and comatose by 7. No biggie.

But when you try... when you discipline, when you try to review Sunday school lessons and they don't listen. When you try story time, craft time, teaching time, meal time... and you enter each activity with a goal, with a purpose, with a direction (that your kids couldn't care less about). THAT'S when it gets tough.

We hear it over and over and over and over, "Disciple your kids. Teach your kids. Invest in your kids."

Guess what.

That's exhausting. It's hard. It's brutal. It's grueling. It's not a pretty Hallmark Card, it's a failed Jackson Pollock.

We think glowing white Instagram perfection.

We get cold sweet potatoes stuck to the bottoms of our feet.

When we expect kids to sit still, when we require immediate obedience, when we dish out consequences for both good and bad behavior, when we faithfully study our children and design environments and tasks to encourage strengths and bolster weaknesses... that's when it's hard. It's exhausting. It's minute by minute faithfulness. It's discipleship.

So, I'm here, as one tired mama to another, wanting to help. If I could, I would pour you a cup of coffee and we could sob and laugh and celebrate and moan over this tricky road of parenting.

I can't really do that... So, I'm offering this: The Busy Mom's Advent Calendar. Here's the deal: there are only 12 days. If you're like me you will forget some days, so this guarantees there's no irreparable falling behind. You could even (almost!) get through it twice before Christmas! It comes with a little teaching paragraph for each day.

Just go up to the top, right-hand corner of this blog and click "Subscribe," and I'll pop this little advent calendar in your mailbox today. Easy-peasy. (Please be aware, emails may not arrive until around 4 p.m. on the date you request this calendar.)

Just print it double sided, cut along the lines, and you're ready to go. No folding, no glueing, no elaborate set-up. Just a basic little tool to help you with your teaching and discipleship during this sticky-peppermint season with your littles.

I laminated mine (because I'm addicted to laminating. Hard core. In love. LAMINATE-ALL-THE-THINGS!), and we used little clothes pins for kicks and giggles (because hello, Target dollar section, you clearly have my number).

The separate daily pictures come together to make one big picture highlighting multiple aspects of Christ's advent. As a kid I always liked uncovering the whole picture. It's how my mom got me to eat oatmeal: she put it in a bowl with a picture at the bottom.

I still don't like oatmeal. But that bunny bowl was pretty amazing.

I love you, tired mama. And I'm with you. And next time you see a mismatched, bleary-eyed, mascara-crumbling, poorly dressed woman huddled in the corner of your Starbucks... just smile understandingly. And maybe buy her a peppermint latte.

Nope. Scratch that. Definitely buy her a peppermint latte.

Motherhood is hard, ya'll. Let's be faithful soldiers together. Happy Advent!

Battle Wisely, Mamas... this is a big war

Several weeks ago, while scrolling through Facebook, I came across a picture of a toddler/young school age child who had clearly just thrown a temper tantrum, or had an icy stand-off, and the mother captioned the picture, "Well... you have to choose your battles."

And something inside of me snapped.

Honestly, I don't remember who this mother was. I don't remember who this child was. All I remember is that I am sick and tired of the "choose your battles" line.

It's complete crap.

Now you, as a mother, as a human, you have a finite energy pool. That's why this lie makes sense. It rises up and bites you when your child throws their 37th temper tantrum of the day, and you know you could make it all go away for an hour if you just gave them a bowl of ice cream and a Netflix stream of "Daniel Tiger." And you think, "eh, pick your battles..."

Don't buy the lie.

Parenting is war. And anyone who tells you different is selling something. (Yes, I just paraphrased "The Princess Bride." All of my cultural references are super-old. Because I'm a mom. And I just don't get out much.)

But parenting is war.

The temptation is to avoid the massive battles. To just fight when you have energy. To shy away from the possibility of a three-hour show-down. To say, "Well, it's not inconveniencing me now..."

But then we completely lose it about stupid stuff: family pictures, how everyone looks on Sunday, nap time being interrupted, childish public behavior (not disobedience, just childish behavior from children), and messes.

Today, Grant pushed a chair over the counter, popped open a Tupperware storage container full of brown sugar, and began glibly shoveling it into his mouth. It made a mess. And he, and everything around him, was sticky. I'm fairly confident I'll be finding brown sugar in the crevices of my kitchen for days to come.

This was not a battle to fight. I told him to stop. He did. He helped me clean up the mess while we talked about how yummy sugar is, but how our bodies can't be healthy and strong if we eat too much of it.

I did not blow a gasket. He did not disobey. We did some teaching and we moved on.

But more often than not, I see mothers (yes, I'm in this category, too!) where little things that aren't sin are elevated above obedient, joyful behavior. I see mothers caving because they're tired, because it's the same battle day after day, because it's exhausting, and thankless, and wearing... and sometimes it's just so much easier to shrug and say, "well, you've got to choose your battles."

Here's the deal, someone is choosing battles. And he's fighting for the next generation. Wake up, Christian mamas! The war for the future of the gospel is real, and intense, and daily... and SMALL. There are very few truly massive battles you will fight in your child's first 10-13 years of life. Instead, it's like a small steady water drip... And drip after exhausting drip, you have to fight the battles.

You have to fight for obedience, joy, self-control, patience, and love. You have to fight to instill these in your children. You have to fight to plant the gospel, to plant faithfulness, to plant the beauty of the truth. There is a war, and we're missing it because it's so small. It's being fought on the daily hills you die on with your child.

Do you die on the hills of mess, inconvenience, and time drains?

Or do you die on the hills of obedience, joy, and kindness?

Because "choosing your battles" is much trickier than we realize. And too often, we choose the wrong ones...

You Don't Need Kids To Be A Mother

You don't need kids to be a mother.

Eloise never got married. I'm fairly confident she never even dated. She had no children. Aside from some distant great-nieces, her family was pretty obsolete. Yet, somehow she wound up with twenty-four grandchildren. She became my grandma. She hosted junior-high girl sleep-overs. She taught us how to make butter-cream mints, snickerdoodles, and sweet pickles. She shared the gospel with countless people in schools and nursing homes, and she brought us with her. She prayed over us every day. Did you read that? Prayed. Every. Day. She took us to the mall, watched us play dress-up in prom dresses, and had quiet talks about priorities and our futures. She was one of the most intensely fierce, dedicated, committed mothers I've ever met.

You don't need kids to be a mother.

I know women who counsel hurting college students. Women who throw baby showers. Women who teach preschool classes. Women who knit blankets. Women who feed hungry new moms. Women who pray every morning over a myriad of hurts. I know women who organize Christmas gift drives, who rock babies in nurseries, who lead Bible studies, and take teenagers on winter retreats.

You don't need kids to be a mother.

We have somehow defined motherhood by a very narrow set of criteria. We have decided that to mother you must give birth, or at least fill out paperwork and pay a lot of money. You need children. Preferably, young ones. No one wants to sign up for motherhood with a full-fledged teenager. You need to have peanut butter always in your pantry and an unending supply of fruit snacks. There will be diapers involved.

But ladies, this is WRONG.

Each one of you, by virtue of being a woman is a mother. You are hardwired for mothering.

Eve, in the garden of Eden, was named Eve "because she was the mother of all living." There were no kids. But she had already been deemed a mother. The name "Eve" sounds like the phrase "life-giver" in Hebrew. By being made a woman, Eve was automatically a life-giver.

We live in a broken world. This is the same world Eve entered immediately after her terrible sin, with the pressure of giving birth, and carrying the (as yet unfulfilled) name "life-giver." Alone. Her job was to give birth to sinful humans. She was given this job without a close walk with God, without a mother, without an idea of what was going to happen. Eve faced painful, brutal mothering hurdles.

It's not much different today.

Today, some women can't have children. Some women won't get married. Some will have far fewer children than they hoped. Some will lose children. Some will watch children walk away from truth. Some will watch children suffer. Some will never hold a new baby. Some will watch that new baby break their hearts.

Motherhood is broken.

But one of the redemptive truths is: you don't have to be a mother to practice motherhood.

You, as a woman, are hardwired to mother. Just as Eve was. Before there was a baby in existence, she was called a mother. A life-giver. By default of being a woman, by default of being created to mimic God's gentle nurturing, you are a mother.

One of the most powerful mothering figures I know is a mom who had two children, and then was given no more. (Of course, if you're going to have just two, these are a pretty awesome duo!) But she went on to mother countless college girls and young moms. She (probably even today!) is sitting in a coffee shop, listening patiently, passing Kleenex, dispelling truth, and pointing to God. She is a mother to hundreds. By the time she's done, those numbers will probably be in the thousands. What a way to enter eternity! The mother of thousands. She is a life-giver.

So, here's my question... Who are you mothering? (Please, don't mention a pet. I mean, pets are amazing, but if they are the sole beneficiaries of your life-giving, you need to re-evaluate.) Where are you giving life? Intentionally. Becoming a mother takes some work when you pop them out biologically or through adoption. The same is true when you become a spiritual mom.

You need to be a mother! The church needs you! There are countless, floundering "babies," that need you. Maybe you should be with the babies in the nursery. Maybe you should be teaching them in elementary Sunday school. Maybe you should learn how to counsel, organize a ministry, or help in a nursing home.

Your children may not be as cute as the mom down the street, who gets to push her little babies in a designer stroller and dress them in matching outfits. But when you enter heaven, it won't make a difference.

You are woman. You are a mother. Find your babies. They need you.

I Didn't Wake Up This Crazy (or why we are pursuing foster care)

It has been a fascinating experience telling people that we're pursuing foster care.

When we announced that we were adopting, we got adulation, encouragement, and horror stories.

When we announced that we were having a baby, we got excitement, big hugs, and horror stories.

But, when we started telling people that we were pursuing foster care, we got horror stories, horror stories, and horror stories.

And then some more horror stories.

And a few more.

In fact, I can count on one hand the number of people that expressed excitement and encouragement. There was a very small number of people who reacted with joy and a pat on the back. Only a very small percentage were thrilled that this was the path we were taking.

I was not one of that small percentage.

This was not my plan.

I have some friends who, even while they were dating, talked about their home being a haven for hundreds of children. They talked about the beauty of foster care, the selfless love, the willingness to spend yourself... and then have a baby ripped away. And they were game. They were ready.

I was not.

I don't like foster care. It's a broken system. I don't like getting in other people's lives. I don't like nurturing a baby and then have it be taken from me. I don't like the idea of countless meetings. I don't like the idea of handing a baby over to someone with sub-par parenting skills. I don't like it.

God pushed me here.

I don't have a naturally selfless heart. I don't have a generous spirit. I don't have bountiful love.

So, God pushed me here.

Adoption was part of my "plan." Natural child-birth was part of my "plan." But foster care? Not part of my plan.

God pushed me here.

Adoption is too expensive. Natural child-birth is too dangerous (for me and my sick body). Suddenly, I was out of options, and standing in the middle of a childless desert, clutching three convictions I knew to be true.

I knew these three things were true. God proclaimed them. I cling to them. And suddenly, He had cut off all other avenues. And He was there, looking down at me, asking, "Do you really believe? Do you really trust me? Do you know that my truth is enough?"

Then He asked a very sobering question, "Are you going to back-up your convictions with actions? Even if these actions are unpleasant and unplanned? Are you willing to sign-up for something you deem "miserable" because you know my commands are marvelous?"

So. Here I am. Getting finger-printed by the FBI, sitting through a sexual education seminar (in which we discussed the "right age" to make a drawer full of condoms available to your children and how to help them masturbate "appropriately"), filling out piles of paperwork, and buying cribs, dressers, and booster seats like they're going out of style. 

Because I believe these three things:

1. Love doesn't care. 

Love doesn't care if you're going to be ripped from our home. Love doesn't care if I dump massive resources into a baby and then the baby is gone. Love doesn't care if it hurts me. Love only cares about you. 

Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13)

In my head, I always read this verse in the context of martyrdom. Will I be willing to die for Christ? That's not what the verse says (sure, it's what it implies, but stay with me!). Am I willing to give up  my life. My schedule. My safety. My convenience. My money. My heart. My ease. My comfort. My insulation from pain. My life. Am I willing to scrap everything that I hold dear, because of love?

My answer has to be "yes." It's a painful "yes." But if I claim Christ's name, then I must also claim his painful, inconvenient, life-sacrificing love. 

2. Children are a blessing.

We live in a world that doesn't believe this. Oh, we believe children are a rare treasure. You should only have a couple of them. You should lavish them with everything they could possibly ask or imagine. You should let the one or two you have run your home, run your marriage, and run you.

But we don't believe that children are a blessing.

Children are a gift from the LORD; they are a reward from him. (Psalm 127:3)

Notice, there are no caveats on "children." It doesn't say: "healthy children are a gift from the Lord." It doesn't say "emotionally well-adjusted children," "beautiful children," "well-behaved children." It just says "children."

I love kids. Love 'em. And if I am to live as though ALL CHILDREN are a blessing, then I can not pick and choose those I will love based on their history, back-story, or whether or not they are "permanently mine."

3. I must practice what I preach.

This basically ties into the previous two points, and all other un-listed points on life, love, and being like Christ.

Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you. (James 1:27)

I'm supposed to be caring for the "social outcasts." People in their distress. This isn't just about these stranded kids. It's also about their families. I am to care for these women and children in distress. If I am actually practicing "genuine religion." I hate a good hypocrite. I'd also hate to wake up one morning and realize that I am a hypocrite.

So, that's it. I'm falling in love with a crazy form of love. I'm not holy enough and intentional enough to have arrived here on my own. God shoved me into a corner, desperately clutching my beliefs, and then he asked me, "Are you willing to live it out?"

And I gulped.

And said, "yes."

This is crazy, but this is good. This is amazing. This is terrifying. This is where God wants me. And I'm excited. And reluctant. And thrilled. And horrified.

Hello, foster care. It's gonna be a great ride...

Making Eden

This. 

This is peace. 

I'm curled up in "Clifford" our big, red chair, coffee cup cradled in my lap, a candle flickering. Peace. Quiet. Clean. 

I love learning about God, and honestly, I'm one of those people who need quiet in order to meet Him. I think most of us are that way. If we'd really stopped and acknowledged the need. If we cared enough to step away from the noise, the mind-numbing, the crazy. 

One of the things I've been falling in love with is God as my Creative Father. He designed the earth, filled it with goodness, and prepared years of activities and fulfillment. He prepped the ultimate nursery/playroom. Then he put two children in this beautiful newness. Imagine his joy as they stumbled around in new delight and awe. As they began to work and play as he had designed. 

This year, I've struggled and tried and pushed and shoved, trying to buckle my selfish laziness under the saddle of responsible home management. I'll paint a wall in a red-hot second, but dinner dishes? They can sit in slimy water till the next morning. Honestly, housework with toddlers can seem a little futile. Pick-up, get out, pick-up, get out. Scrub, spill, scrub, spill. 

But when I stood in another spot, when I looked at house-wifing from a different vantage point, I saw the creative possibilities and the endless delight that could come from creating Eden. 

So, I've worked really, really, REALLY, EXTREMELY (you got it?) hard at cleaning. And organizing. And purging. And managing. For months. Yes, months. I'm not a quick study. But over the past several weeks, I realized that it has become easier. My house is clean. My kids are cuddled and played with. Laundry is kept up with. Dishes promptly done. I've even had time to tackle several creative projects.

All of this born from a realization that God sees creativity in my juggling of cleaning babies and bathrooms. God encourages invention in the world of husbands and housework. 

And He makes it delightful! By mimicking God's creativity, I'm also allowed a slice of His joy. 

I'm enjoying creating my Eden. It has a lot of weed pulling, and only a smidge of planting and inventing, but I'm learning to love weeding and to "plant" and create more wisely. 

My Grimy Little Eden

I shouldn't be writing.

It's a stall tactic.

My kitchen is covered in carrot shreds, there are crumbs and dripping substances caught in the crevices of my cabinets. A pile of laundry is sitting in the doorway. Somehow, I always think that this will make me fold it faster. Instead, I wind up stepping over it 17 times throughout the day and slap-dash folding it right before my honey walks through the door.

Our weekend does not allow for blog posts. We have 15ish women for breakfast Saturday, a church-planting group from Rochester (hellooooo, New York!) coming for dinner, worship team Sunday morning, set-up (gotta love church-in-a-box), and then a big, backyard BBQ after church with 30+ people. 

I should be cleaning bathrooms.

Instead, I'm sitting here, meditating on one of my newest delights... Wanna hear? Yes. You do.

Several weeks ago, I attended a parenting class before church. It was taught by my husband. (I know. He's super-wise, isn't he?!) And as I sat there, like a good lil' student, pen poised and notes ready, he said something which I hadn't thought of for a long time. He said, "God modeled parenting with the Israelites and into the New Testament with the church. God is our Father. He is the example we are to follow when parenting." 

You're saying, "duh."

But my mind was blown away. I knew that God was our Father. I knew I was supposed to be like Christ. But somehow the practical connecting of those dots: parent like God, never really sunk in.

God is a god of order, law, consequences, grace, forever peace... and he parents us like that. Do I parent like that? (And everyone mutters, "Um, obviously not...")

But my whirling mind encountered a beautiful thought when just a couple days later I stumbled across this quote by Derek Kidner:

"The earthly paradise... is a model of parental care. The fledgling is sheltered but not smothered; on all sides discoveries and encounters await him to draw out his powers of discernment and choice, and there is ample nourishment for his aesthetic, physical and spiritual appetites; further, there is a man's work before him for body and mind." (Genesis, p. 61)

As an imitator of the Father God, I am supposed to model Eden!

So when I'm cleaning, organizing, painting... I'm creating a mini-paradise. As I help my kids color, explore, make messes, re-arrange things... I'm letting them explore the way that God wanted Adam and Eve to explore. When I'm structuring the things they're exposed to, the places we go, the books we read, the movies we do (or don't!) watch... I'm nourishing and equipping them for a delightful future of work and delight in God.

Suddenly washing dishes just got a whooooole lot more interesting.

I think, as human beings, the repetitive, constant tasks of cleaning, organizing, explaining, helping... they can get a little wearing.

But when I see it not as drudgery or chores, but as a chance to mimic God in my own little kingdom, suddenly it becomes a delightful, colorful, exploding-with-creativity adventure.
 Now... excuse me as I go clean up my rather grimy "Eden."

Learning to juice his veggies.
While eating bacon.
If this isn't Eden, what is?

Enjoying the grandeur (and
dirt!) of God's creation.

Enjoying our patch of green.

Home is the perfect place to explore
Bible stories in more artistic/less
traditional ways!

Wear a basket on your head!
I'm a firm believer that home should
be a place to be ridiculous without
ridicule. At least until your high
school graduation party....

Helping the "earthly dad" figure out
a tricky plumbing adventure.

God's Work Through Grime

There's a potty chair bleaching in the sink in my laundry room. My leggings I am wearing just busted a hole. They chose to do this right in the part of my inner thigh that I was already uncomfortable about. I just cleaned out my bathroom cabinet, painfully aware of how many beauty products I haven't touched in days. Okay... weeks. Fine. MONTHS.

We own 7 sippy cups. They are all dirty. I only have two children. My youngest has latched onto her first "purse" and I've caught her delightedly stuffing it full of pepperoni and clementines. This "purse" is also the pocket on her bib. I'm not sure she's eaten a full meal all day. But her "purse" is well-stocked.

The piles of dirty laundry are taller than me. I'm not sure how this happened. I had a system. A SYSTEM.

I planned a delightful eggplant French concoction for supper. We ate pizza.

My body aches all over. I'm tired. I have three foreign substances on my shoulder alone. I'm pretty sure at least one of them is salmon alfredo sauce from lunch... the others, I'm not sure.

I ate a yogurt parfait for breakfast. Hard boiled eggs for snack. A delicious salad for lunch. AND THE ENTIRE REFRIGERATOR AS SOON AS MY CHILDREN WERE IN BED FOR THEIR NAPS.

Here's the deal... everyone's always talking about being "real."

This is the real me.

I smell like old salmon, I have crusty bits all over me. My hair is frizzing up and breaking off, and I'm growing a zit the size of Montana on my chin. Today, my children were not exactly angelic. And I'm calling my housekeeping successful because the house is still standing. I'm exhausted, bloated, ugly, and wearing busted leggings. And we're out of chocolate. Because I inhaled it.

This is the real me.

And you would think I would be crazy depressed.

Honestly, if you saw me right now, I might induce depression. I wouldn't blame you for sobbing tears of horror/pity/gratitude-that-you're-not-me. I'm a warning poster for all young women/non-mothers. Today, I would make you older women feel like blazing successes. And for my peers? You're looking good, my friends. You're looking good (especially compared to me.... you are welcome).

But I'm not really depressed. I'm tired. I would really like to smell better. And a live-in hairdresser would be lovely, but I'm actually feeling very contented. Yes, even loved.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not happy with how I handled every part of my day. (The spoonfuls of peanut butter and chocolate come to mind...) But I'm not crushed and despairing. I'm just tired.

And a little amazed.

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. (Romans 5:3-5)

Let me say it in short sentences. (Those are the only ones I understand right now.)

I've had rough patches.

They built some endurance.

That endurance has kept plugging away in my life, gradually shifting my character.

My character has learned to latch onto God's love for support.

And this gives me hope.

Even on a messy, grimy Monday.

So today, in the whining, tornado-mess that was my life... I am tired. But I am not hopeless.

And now I'm super-psyched because I love seeing the way God is transforming me! Eek! So keep plugging away, sister! Keep dragging that mind back to truth. Keep running to God for help. Keep praying, reading that Bible, and disciplining your time/mouth/thoughts/etc.

Today wasn't a big trial. But after hours of little bumps, I'm still hopeful. Still resting. And pretty excited that God has been gradually transforming me.

That being said, I think I need to go shower...

My Sister Is Amazing {and other such sentiments}

During the month of February, Scott and I returned to Lafayette Indiana for the Biblical Counseling Training Conference.

Go to this.

No. Seriously.

It trumps a week on the Florida beaches and it will change your life.

Promise.

Go.

I mean, who doesn't want to hang out in Lafayette, Indiana in the dead of winter?

While we were there, I mooched off of my sister's amazing talent, and we had family pictures taken for the first time in 14 months. If Bets ever complains to you that she's not in the family pictures that are currently hanging around our home, please inform her that she was in those pictures. She was just in my uterus and hadn't made her formal debut into the world. BUT SHE IS IN THE PICTURES.

Okay. Kind of.

I got super-excited because of my radically inventive suggestion of taking the kiddies back to some of the sites where Scott and I had our engagement photos snapped almost exactly four years earlier. (My sister had already thought this. And she also had already come up with some additional cute ideas... so... Basically anything creative in the following shots is because of her amazing genius.)

All that to say, she's incredible. (Seriously: http://www.erikaaileen.com/)

Last time we stood there, we weren't "allowed" to kiss. We made up for that on this day!

I'm fairly confident we will always spend hours in bookstores as a family. We may be single-handedly keeping B&N afloat.

Mr. Grant loves running the aisles.

And Princess Bets is selecting her first journal.

These are the greatest children's books EVER. Hilariously simplified classics as board books. Here we are enjoying "Huckleberry Finn" while Bets lobbies for "Pride and Prejudice." hashtag: raisingthemright.

Precious.

So, Bets was a pickle this entire shoot. She had just come off a twelve hour car ride the day before, and was working her way into a stomach bug. But you would never know all that from these pictures. Seriously, my sister is amazing. Have I said that yet?

I can't believe this is my life. Delightful happiness!

Lil' ham. Loves the camera.

Bets' face. :)

My handsome men!

Exploring hot cocoa!

I don't know... it's like they're used to seeing their parents make out. ;)

Chuggin' the hot cocoa.

Like a man.

Which cracks Daddy up.

Thank you, Er!
The Allisons
2015
Bets {12 months}, Grant {26 months}

You And Your Mommy Guilt {Part 2}

So, you read this post. 

And you want to hurt me because I claimed "mommy guilt" might be legitimate.

And I left you with an impossible standard. Horribly high goals.

And guilt.

I'm your favorite person right now, aren't I?

Here's the deal: I'm not the perfect mom that I outlined in my previous post. I don't effortlessly walk my children to the foot of the cross. I'm not ceaselessly patient, or endlessly wise. I become grumpy, lazy, and overwhelmed. I try. But I fail.

If you are the wonderful mothering anomaly that I spoke about, I'm coming over. Right now. I'm going to sit at your feet, soak up your wisdom, and maybe leave my children with you forever. Because you're perfect. And I'm not. And my children probably need you. Not me.

Except, God gave me my children. My adorable Grant and Bets were entrusted to me. Your children, the ones that you're supposed to be shepherding flawlessly? God chose them. To be with you. Before the foundation of the world they were destined to be YOURS.

And He gave them you. The imperfect mom.

For their good. And yours.

See, God knew that you wouldn't parent flawlessly, and He knows how often you battle that monster of guilt. And He didn't haphazardly place you in this tricky place, with sinful children, and this crushing feeling of inadequacy. He didn't just throw together a life for you and then move on, forgetting all about you.

He designed this time. He designed your mothering inadequacies. He designed the personalities of you and your children. He designed every particle of every day. He planned that sippy cup spill, that rebellious outburst, and that teenage temper-tantrum.

Because you need to know that you're inadequate.

You need to know you can't do it. You need to know you're a mess.

Because then, you'll run, not to yourself. Not to denial, cliché self-esteem, or a box of hidden candy bars... but to your God.

He's waiting. He wants you.

Just as you never want to turn down a cuddle from a sticky, crying child, you Father in heaven will never turn you away. When you're tired, broken, and weighed down with the enormity of your task, run to your Father.

Cry out to him. (I hide in the bathroom.)
Pray without ceasing. (Grant has learned to join me when I collapse on the floor.)
Memorize verses to cling to.
Read books that remind you.
Get up early to meet with him. (5 a.m. = my new favorite.)
Stay up late to talk to him.

You are horribly inadequate for this job.

AND THAT'S OKAY.

Your inadequacy and weaknesses are there to drive you to a God who is beyond adequate and immeasurably strong.

Paul, resting in this, states: "Not that we are sufficient in ourselves to claim anything as coming from us (he was speaking of any good they might have accomplished), but our sufficiency is from God." 

If your children leave home with the firm conviction that their mother could not have survived without her Savior... that will be a beautiful thing.

So drive out the mommy guilt (after carefully looking to see where you need to grow!). But then drive that guilt OUT and run to a God who fills up all our emptiness and inadequacy. This is the God who planned the children you have, with the exact personalities that they do, and placed them with their sinful, struggling mother... He did this so that you would daily run to Him. Which is never bad. Mommy guilt has a way of evaporating in the light of his love.

You And Your Mommy Guilt {Part 1}

We had a date night this week.

I didn't really know what to do with myself. I mean, I was able to eat the entirety of my steak fajita salad without once saying, "No, sippy cups stay on the table." or "Take a bite!"

It was like a weird piece of heaven, and I'm totally willing to only visit it occasionally.

I love my kiddies. I missed them.

Even after what feels like the 36th lunch in a row of, "But you like mac'n'cheese!"

After dinner, hand-in-hand, the hubster and I browsed one of my favorite places: Barnes and Nobles. Had I unlimited time and resources, I would have a massive library, a huge reading chair, and a crackling fire. And I wouldn't move for days. But I sense that such a lifestyle wouldn't be entirely good for me, so God has refrained from giving it to me. Doubtless, I wouldn't turn into a wise sage like C.S.Lewis, I'd just turn into a fat, grumpy recluse.

But on special nights out, it's fun to pretend that I could be Lewis, and it's delightful to peruse all the fascinating things that I may, someday, have time to read.

Unfortunately, in between biographies on astronauts' wives and delightful children's books, I usually find several things that I'm tempted to hurl through a window and burn in the parking lot.

I was very tempted to mention certain authors and books in this post, but my common sense got the better of me, and several nights of sleep has lessened my vitriol. But it has not dulled my conviction that motherhood has taken a serious blow.

The "Me" generation has raised their babies, and now the "More of Me-Me-Me!" generation is launching into their children. The number of books out there to talk to mothers is astounding. And do you know what their overwhelming theme is?

You are okay. 

You are doing a good job.

You are a wonderful mother.

Don't feel guilty. It's society's fault.

Don't stress it.

But then I glance up from these nice thoughts and see a section for teenagers full of smarmy love stories and vampire-obsessed literature, and I think to myself, "Ah, but we should be stressed! If we are raising kids who like this CRAP, then we're doing something wrong!"

So, let's talk about "mommy guilt:" that insane pressure apparently all women have felt from the dawn of time... When you type the phrase "mommy guilt" into Google, these are your top links: "Top 7 Mommy Guilt Trips: and how to handle them," "31 Reasons You Shouldn't Feel Mom Guilt," "Kiss Mommy Guilt Goodbye."

Apparently, the only thing we should do with "mommy guilt" is get rid of it. Banish it. Smear on some "You're a good mommy" cream and move on.

But I'm here to argue something else. Perhaps there's a reason why countless women wrestle with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and ineffectiveness. It seems that one of the few, universal truths of motherhood is that everyone feels like they're doing a horrible job. At least once. A day. Okay, all the time.

Perhaps you have "mommy guilt" because... okay, this is going to sound radical... maybe it's because you really aren't doing a great job.

I fully expect you to slap me across my face next time you see me.

Okay, but stop. Think.

We moms have a lot to think about, tons to juggle, and countless errands, tasks, and projects to complete. If you work outside the home and  parent, I'm in awe of you. Regardless, motherhood makes life chaotic. Perhaps, what we worry about with our children, is not that they are getting to know their God and learning obedience to Him, but perhaps we worry about their socialization, their hobbies, the way they weren't invited to some one's birthday party, the irritating habit they have of leaving toast smears and crumbs all over the kitchen. Or once we take care of the immediate needs of our children, we tune out with TV, or a women's group, or the phone... And our parenting stops there.

I know that I'm often thoughtless and distracted when I am with my children. I know I err on the side of "disengaged" and counter-top wiping as opposed to gently teaching and actively involved. Being a parent requires that you be ON. You know what I mean: catch every little thing, analyze your child's character, actively teach, pour into, and invest in. It requires energy. Wisdom. Patience. You have to be responsive and thoughtful.

But although I know this, I also know that I react much more quickly to things which make me uncomfortable as opposed to things which make my Savior sad.

For instance, that infamous grocery store meltdown: does it grieve me that my child would sin and display such a horrible lack of love and self-control, or am I embarrassed that everyone is looking at me and my ridiculous child is making this trip such an ordeal and I'm getting a headache and just want to go home?

We can fill up our motherhood moments worrying, fixating, and obsessing about things which don't matter. And if this is ever you (um, the author sheepishly raises her hand), then the mommy guilt is real. And you shouldn't try to banish it. Look at it head on. Calmly evaluate. Take steps to change.

You are tasked with raising a soul. And although God in his sovereignty graciously works outside of our feeble attempts of parenting, he has given you a precious task: to teach souls. Your child is not "yours." They are a gift. Which you are to be stewarding.

So, stop for a minute, before you explode about the toast smears:

1. Did my child disobey?
2. Does my child know how to pray?
3. Does my child hear me talk about my Savior?
4. Does my child daily see the benefits of obedience and the consequences of disobedience?
5. Am I helping them grow self-control? In their eating, their talking, their whining, their sleeping, their playing...? Self-control doesn't come. It is pursued.
6. Am I showing them love? Do they see that I love their daddy, the people we encounter and all their grandparents (on both sides of the family!)?
7. Am I praising small obedience and tender hearts?
8. Am I demonstrating joy?
9. Do I read them the Bible and talk about the stories?


Is your child obeying? Yes. Do they know how to run to Jesus? Yes. Do they seem to be cultivating (with your help) the fruits of the Spirit, or a tenderness to their Savior? Yes.

Okay. Then you're good. Banish the mommy guilt. Wash it away. You're doing a perfect job. Mothers want to be you, kids want you for their mom.

Unless...

Unless you can't possibly do all those things. And unless the mommy guilt is there for an additional reason...


{This post has a follow-up post. Click link to continue.}

Thanksgiving... a big happy picture pile! Photo Journal (November 2014}

We went home to Michigan for Thanksgiving! We drove out on Thanksgiving. Spent Friday and Saturday with family and blitzed back in over a Sunday. It was a whirlwind, love-packed trip and we all enjoyed it.

Yes. I realize it's nearing the end of January and I'm just now posting Thanksgiving pics. If you would like to come organize my linen closet and feed my children, I'll make sure the next batch gets posted more quickly.

Grandma cuddles are the bestest.

The highway out front is going through construction, so it was a perfect place to yell "BIG TRUCK!"

Grandma's vintage toy collection is impressive and super fun.

Betsy-boo is playing with a toy that I used to have in my crib.
How my mother-in-law hangs onto these things is truly amazing.

Rough housing with Grandpa!

Whisker tickles on the feet!

My careful, contented girlie, playing with her very pretty grandma.

I just love this bundle of preciousness.

We met cousin Evie! Evie is 2 months younger than Bets and could probably eat her
second cousin (twice removed?) for breakfast.

Grandma and Grandpa have a big yard that we love to explore.

Swing smiles!

I love this little man with every thump of my heart.

I got teary when I saw this picture... was my baby seriously eating bottles not this long ago?
When did she grow up!?!

Checking out the Black Friday deals with Grandpa.

Happy girlie! (Seriously. So happy. Almost always. Without fail.)

Cuddles with Aunt Sarah-Bear!

I married this man.

Birds of a feather... 

Uncle Josh was quite a hit.

Learning to play Uno.
(Or enjoying scattering cards... definitely more likely.)

They just lined up like this, so I had to get a highly awkward, 1980s-ish family pic.

Isn't she just lovely!

Selfies with Sarah! (Critical nephew/aunt bonding)

Grant discovered one of Aunt Sarah's old beanie babies... a rodent.
Mommy then **ahem** had a little bit of fun with The Rodent.

The Rodent checks the bird.

The Rodent mashes some potatoes.

The Rodent caffeinates. Thanksgiving prep is grueling.

The Rodent butters. Because Paula Dean recommends it.

The Rodent makes some green bean casserole.

The Rodent bastes.
(Okay, I'll stop now.)

Acrobatics with Uncle Josh.

An hors d'oeuvres of Catch Phrase.
I love the faces in this candid shot!

Because nothing causes more glee than adolescent photos.
(I've hidden mine, but Scott's are hung where all can see!)

The bird. Butter-crisped, of course.

Updside-down with Grandpa!

The whole fam eating dinner together.
(Please note the amazing bear prints across the wall.
My mama-in-love found an AMAZING stencil!)

No child should be this skeptical of turkey.
(Now, if he's skeptical of stuffing, I'll allow it...)

I love people. Around a table. Eating. Makes me happy.

I love this clan. I'm so glad that the Allison/Johnson clan has welcomed me!
Happy Thanksgiving 2014!