I am weak today, tired, and feel not-quite-right, but can't put my finger on why. The day looms ahead with its chores, checklists, all of which I need to motivate self and children to fulfill.
I don't have it in me.
I press on anyway, and as is usual, they press back.
Sigh... Why is this so hard?
I answer my own question: Because we do not live in a void. There will always be resistance when we seek to live contrary to the prowling prince of this world.
I face off in the bathroom with one child who hates me and hates school and sit there on the only seat in the room, finally calm, yet sadly listening to lies.This is my reality for the moment, but it's not the only reality. A heart spewing is not the end of the story. I will not let angry words deafen me to truth.
The words of a song unexpectedly interrupt the barrage in my ears.
Let hope rise, and darkness tremble in your holy light,
that every eye will see, Jesus our God,
great and mighty to be praised.
God of all days, glorious in all of your ways,
your majesty, the wonder and grace,
In the light of your name...with everything,
we will shout for your glory....your praise....
Hope...the knowledge that the Light of truth reaches through the darkest anger, His word hidden in my heart overcomes self-deception, and His power is great enough to change the thoughts and attitudes of an angry child or my own. His ways are glorious, though the way is sometimes wrought with struggle, his grace is wonderful, though the pain of sin is still remembered. I hope....knowing that He loves us too much to leave us the same.
Hope. It changes everything.
There are days I will sit in the bathroom hearing words that grieve my heart, but I must remember, his work is not yet complete. He is at work. In my children. In me.
With everything, in hope, and for his glory and praise, I list gratitude.
subtraction with seashells we picked off the beach
"beautiful beyond beautiful dresses" for a beautiful price
treats and compliments "You're the best Mrs. S!"
combed hair
freshly showered boy
early bedtime for a sleepover
relaxed evening
skype
spring snow that melts by noon
the smell of ground thawing
a made bed
a husband who knows what my heart needs
A God who knows even better
That's what my kids call it. And with 8 inches or more of white fresh fluff, it's a perfect day to scoop some up and make it a snack. When I was a kid, we used KoolAid mix, but today,
my kids just mixed up a glass of strong lemonade and ...
We were picking up around the house before rushing out the door to piano lessons, and having a sudden realization that between camping and recovering from camping, both kids hadn't practiced all week, I asked them to quick run through their lessons. We had a few minutes. Enough time to just play through once.
Mitchell reacted, said it would take too long, and fussed that he'd had the same song for a month. Hmmmmm. I wonder why. Could be the lack of practice, possibly?
But he didn't think of it that way. He tends to have a disconnect with reality and what is required to excel. He expects immediate proficiency with little effort.
He fumed, claimed to have practiced and failed, convinced his incompetence was not because of his lack of practice. But, I knew for a fact he hadn't practice his new song. And regardless of what he thinks, good intentions are not the same as actual practice time. And practicing what he's already mastered isn't going to help him with his new lesson. Not at all.
He reluctantly made it through his new song once, and we piled into the van. As the kids began to argue about who knows what, I reacted like I always do: I turned the radio to our local Christian station. This is often a great way to distract the kids from their bad attitudes. They begin to sing, or listen, and words of truth fill the vehicle. Like David playing for King Saul, they are soothed. (When my little trick doesn't work, I just turn the volume up and sing along myself, drowning out their bickering.)
Anyway, Josh Wilson's song, Before the Morning came on. I've found God often sends just the right song across the airwaves to speak truth to current situations. This was no different. On the surface, the conflict and attitude toward piano may seem insignificant, but I recognize a pattern of hopelessness in my son that concerns me, so I used the words of the song to encourage him. To help him see the bigger picture.
"Mitchell, are you listening to this song?"
I turned the volume up.
all those things are happening to bring a better ending some day, some how, you'll see, you'll see.
"Did you hear that? I think God is speaking to you."
would you dare, would you dare to believe, that you still have a reason to sing, 'cause the pain that you've been feeling, can't compare to the joy that's coming
I looked at him through the review mirror and smiled encouragingly.
"Do you believe? Joy is coming!"
I could tell he was listening, and thinking. He's growing up so fast, and I so badly want to prepare him for the turbulent waters ahead. This life is an arduous journey, not a well paved freeway. I want him to have realistic expectations without stomping on his dreams. Because those dreams will take hard work.
press on, just fight the good fight
"Press on, Mitchell. You can do it, it just takes perseverance. Practice. Don't give up on yourself."
and hold on, 'cause there's good for those who love God, life is not a snapshot, it might take a little time, but you'll see the bigger picture.
He cracked a smile, accepting my words of hope.
And then God whispered my name. (Not out loud, but in my heart.) How often am I frustrated at life and expect maturity to come naturally, even quickly, and feel deep failure as a Christian mom and wife? Oh, I know I've grown in real ways these last few years, but my idealism never rests and I feel I'm not making any progress toward godliness.
It's like I keep practicing the same song. I can't keep getting by on spiritual fumes. The thought of prayer is not enough. A few words whispered are better than nothing, but this journey takes actual prayer. The kind where my knees are sore and my heart is emptied at His feet. It is a fight. I can't keep playing the song I've mastered. I've got to practice a new song, begin a new discipline.
Today, I hold on tight to Jesus. I pray words of faith and hope for myself and my son and my girls and my husband. I practice the presence of God in new ways. It's hard work, but I press on and move forward in this journey. I fumble out the notes and my fingers find a new song.
Because I know joy is coming.
My friend, you know how this all ends and you know where you're going, you just don't know how you'll get there so say a prayer. and hold on, 'cause there's good for those who love God, But life is not a snapshot, it might take a little time, but you'll see the bigger picture
The dishes pile next to the sink, an unending chore. The panic rises within me. I can’t think with the mess engulfing me, paralyzing me from finishing. It’s daily, monotonous, yes, but you’d think by now I would have accepted it and plunged my hands in the sudsy water, washing my frustration away, down the drain. I want to be clean too.
I let the feelings come, anyway. Anger. Hurt from the lack of respect from my children. I take every cereal bowl left on the coffee table as a personal attack. They don’t know how each is like a slap in my face, but somehow I think they should.
So I let myself become like them and I lash out.
Husband dresses them and they flee, and I don’t even feel the remorse I should. I flee too. I flee the chore and immerse myself in a show, not willing to face my own childishness.
For a long time, I try to think of nothing.
He comes home with the children, finally, past bedtime. They come in quietly and I don’t make eye contact assuming they’re all still mad, and I want to hang on to my own frustration, too.
I close up shop in the kitchen, leaving the dishes I never finished, and head for bed. But the living room light is on and the door is closed. Curious, I open it and see all three kids lined up on the sofa already in pajamas, their faces full of cautious expectation. A gift bag sits on the coffee table where cereal bowls had previously taken up residence.
I can tell they’re up to something. The silly grins give it away. I feel the change in attitude, sit in a chair and the tears come, tears of my softening heart as all anger melts into remorse. Husband hands me the gift with a smile and gives me a kiss. “I chose grace,” he whispers.
As I take out each small item he explains softly.
“Next time you’re stressed, go take a bubble bath, or have some chocolate. Take a break.”
I smile weakly. His gift humbles me. It is coals on my head. Coals that burn away my chaff.
The kids gather around and I murmur repentance. They smile. While out, he had told them to watch and see what their plan would accomplish. Now, they see it played out, right in their own living room.
We all smile and embrace. Because, what could have been a damaging family conflict turned into a powerful lesson on the healing power of grace.
My gift, this morning, sharing the coffee table with a cereal bowl. I’ve got grace for that.
Lord, help me choose grace in each moment. For cereal bowls and crumbs and wet towels on the floor and endless dishes and disrespectful tones. But, thank you, that even my failures give opportunity for teaching repentance. Thank you for redeeming and forgiving even my most childish moments.Thank you for your kindness toward me I don't deserve, for making me clean.
Remember this? When I went on and on about a silly doll? And then that very same month when I made a promise to my daughter and made plans to break my own rule again?
The time finally came, the stars aligned, or whatever, Madison's finger dried out, and my sister and her little one packed into our filthy van (because I'm pretty sure I heard Victoria beg to join all the girls,) and our vehicle headed in the direction of the big city. Or at least the biggest Mall in America.
The girls had talked about which doll Madison would choose. Megan had picked one that looked like her. Would Madison decide on Julie or Kit?
We arrived at little girl heaven. Madison flitted like a bee from display to display and after much scrutiny, picked Molly.
What?
Molly?
That' not what we talked about! She doesn't look anything like Molly! At this revelation and change in plans, I did not resort to meddling and manipulation. Rather, I lovingly encouraged and guided Madison to make a better choice. A cuter choice. A different choice.
Or not.
What had made her change her mind? If it was the glasses, could we buy a pair for, say, Kit?
"No." Said she, with confidence, and not a little defiant shake of the head.
If it was the fact that we already had the Molly movie, would buying the Kit movie change her mind?
"No." Again. Same stubborn shake of head.
"Nothing you say can make me change my mind. I've made up my mind. Now, let's go buy it already, mom."
I look at my sister. We roll our eyes. Do we let her make this foolish, fashion-less choice, on this last minute whim?
I envision a moment in the near future when she realizes Molly's wardrobe is not quite as cute as another's. Do I risk that amount of money, with the possibility of the doll being scorned and tossed aside later?
I reluctantly follow a Molly toting Madison to the check out line.
"Oh, look!" I see a display of accessories, conveniently displayed for last-minute buyer whims.
"Purple glasses!"
"Madison, if you get Kit, I'll buy these glasses for you, and they will even match her outfit! They're so cute!"
She checks them out.
"OK!" she agrees cheerfully.
And off she trots with Megan to exchange the box holding Molly for a box with Kit.
Whew. That was close.
Am I sorry I manipulated and bribed my daughter to buy what I esteemed to be the cuter doll?
Nope, not at all. Not me!
With relief, we all went to lunch at the American Girl Bistro and everyone lived happily ever after.
We borrowed a friend for Victoria, but she wasn't interested.
(And, in the end, Madison picked the brown glasses,
not the purple, and I didn't even try to change her mind.)
Breaking news: Madison has decided to quit sucking her fingers!
I have often hoped she would outgrow this habit, but still worried she would be ten and still have two fingers in her mouth and one in her nose. I imagined the teasing she would receive from friends, and how she would be scarred for life if I didn't exert some motherly power over her, or at least bribe her so she would quit.
So, I did bribe her a few months ago. Then, as the conversation progressed, I felt the need to clarify that she would not qualify for the bribe unless she quit for at least a month. At that point, she said she would rather keep her fingers in her mouth.
I can only guess at what has made her change her mind. Last weekend she did have a weird bout of swollen fingers, almost as if she was bitten by something- and on those exact two fingers. She cried and cried and said they felt funny and hurt and were fat. But for the life of me I couldn't figure out what had happened to her favorite fingers. It's still too cold here for any biting bugs to be out. I think perhaps they got cold on our maple syrup tour and were tingly as they warmed up. But that doesn't account for the swelling. Hmmmmm.
That night she told me she was done. And as much as I watch her, I can't catch her with those fingers in her mouth.
Thank goodness.
And the bribe? Remember that one thing I swore I would never buy for my girls? I did not promise her that. Nope. Not gonna admit it.
OK. Fine. I did. I broke my own rule for real this time. It's a small price to pay to avoid my daughter being scarred for life.
I discovered one more thing in my small stash of Easter paraphernalia: a treasure I found at a garage sale last year, new in the box. I love that!
These eggs each have a small item inside which help tell the story leading to Easter. A small devotional book comes with the eggs, explaining the significance of each trinket. This morning my kids loved passing the egg between them, guessing what was in it.
There was a rule. It was unspoken, but it grew from a childhood of scorn for all things branded. Whether it be chips, toys, or electronics, if it was a popular brand, our family probably didn't have it. Despite my attempts, I did not inherit this rule. Not me. I do not believe cheaper is better.
Not me. Really.
I have not broken this rule. I did not break the no way will anyone in our family ever own an overpriced, over hyped doll rule.
I did not let my daughter buy an American Girl doll. Not me. What a waste of money. It's just a doll.
Now, when I want to feel better about myself and my silly rules, I remind myself that at least Ididn't buy it for her. Nope. She bought it herself.
~
Megan literally vibrated with excitement while I grabbed a Starbuck's mocha (conveniently across from the store entrance) to help me survive the experience. Mocha in hand, I followed Megan as she marched in to American Girl with her wad of cash, fresh from her birthday card, hand in mine, and with a bit of prodding, approached a gentleman and asked, "Can you show me where Lanie is?"
He led us to the middle of the store, past fantastic glass encased displays of dolls, to her choice: this year's doll that looks amazingly like my own girl. Blond with long curly hair. And a penchant for outdoor adventure. And bugs. At least, that's what the book about her says.
Megan took her time. She looked at the accessories, weighed the cost of doll plus one extra. Is the doll laptop worth $26 or is the hammock? If she had a couple hundred more dollars, would she buy Lanie's camper and where would she put it? She made a full sweep of the store, admiring doll couches, puppies, sunglasses and endless matching outfits.
She chose carefully. The doll and the hammock. Oh, the decisions of a nine year old.
She filled her big red bag and checked out, chatting comfortably with the cashier.We made our way to the van, and I clicked the light on so she could immediately open the box. She fretted that the doll's hair would be mashed in the back just like a Barbie's straight from the box. No worries. Lanie came complete with a hairnet, and bouncy hair.
For days, she's done her schoolwork with Lanie nearby, admiring each detail.
It turns out you often do get what you pay for. But I will never admit it. Not me.
I’m always looking for new ways and systems to make our home school days run smoother. We tend to lose momentum, the kids and I are easily distracted and school drags on all day. One of the great things about doing school at home is, most days, at least in elementary school years, it is possible to be done by noon. But only if everyone works hard and stays on task. And if mom doesn’t get distracted by blogging. Ahem.
Yesterday I made a new check list. The previous list was too detailed, had a small font, and I think was overwhelming to little eyes. We quit using it months ago. Since that list bit the dust, I’ve foolishly expected my children to remember the work they needed to accomplish each day, and then ended up barking at them until it was. So I made a new list. Simple. A little thing.
Today began with new lists posted. And so far, my day is shaping up nicely.
On Wednesday I was panicked. I had agreed to throw my daughter a birthday party, but had NO IDEA what I was going to do to make it special. I had three days to come up with something. So I did what we all do now.
I Googled it.
And once again, Google came through for me. I found recipes and ideas for a spa party. One box of Epson salt and sea salt, a borrowed chocolate fountain, some fruit, a chapstick making kit, a pound cake straight from my breadmaker, a cake my mom made and graciously offered me, some bottles of fingernail polish, a few Mary Kay mirrors, and one Papa Murphy's pizza later, I had a success of a party. Just look and see for yourself.
The girls made bath salts, lip balm, and a cucumber-parsley-yogurt face mask.
Izzy: "Well, that was an interesting experience."
And of course, they did each others hair. And mine. (No pictures of that!)
Megan declared it, "The best birthday party ever." Thank you, Google!
On Valentine's Day we went home. To my parents' home. Megan had a birthday to celebrate, as well as my aunt and brother-in-law. And of course, we shared valentine treats along with the cake. It was nice.
My sister was there with her 6 week old Victoria. Can you say cute?
But you know what's almost cuter than a cute baby? A man holding and burping a cute baby.
My man happens to be more of a baby hog than me. At church, he'll turn around to our friends sitting behind us, and offer to hold their baby. He cuddles and coos. So I couldn't wait to see him with Victoria. Nevermind that we had words for each other on the way to my parents. I still conjured up fond feelings for my baby doting husband. :)
My dad and his three granddaughters. They're cute too.
When we were done with the cake,
and I'd found the right ratio of coffee and creamer and sugar,
We sat down by the fire and chatted.
It's nice to go home. I relax. My husband calls it reverting. Maybe
he's right. Maybe I revert to being 17. I let my mom take care of me
and my kids. But it's nice.
Sara admitted something to me recently. Now that she's a mom, she understands why I come to mom and dad's and revert; why all those years I would come and lie on the couch and do nothing. I was tired, and now she's tired and comes to take a break too. And it's nice. Nice to take a break. And nice to be understood.
So thanks, mom. For letting us come and rest, for offering us coffee or tea, or fruit shakes or pancakes or leftovers. Thanks for picking up legos and dress-ups and crumbs. For changing diapers on your daughters' daughters.
Now that my kids are older, there are more arms to go around. More hands to change diapers or pick up toys. More help to give Sara a break. And that's nice for Mom. Maybe she'll get a break now, too.
Look around my house, and there’s plenty of work to be done. I’ve heard some assume that since I am a stay-at-home-mom and we home-school, there should be no problem keeping an orderly home. I have all day, after all, right? Wrong.
I mean, yes, I have all day between everything else that needs to be done, but my kids never leave, so neither does their mess-making ability. Have you ever noticed, friends whose kids attend school, your house is messier during Christmas vacation when your kids are home from school? Yep. My life. It only makes sense that if you all eat at home for every meal, there will be more dishes.
Dishes aside, here's my job of first priority...
Schoolbooks and pencils, both colored and unleaded, and papers and scissors and glue sticks and notebooks have taken hostage my lovely craigslist dining room table. All that stuff represents work. Not just naming a place for it all to belong, but teaching and tutoring and nagging and urging.
I am my kids’ educator and that responsibility often overwhelms me! I love the stage we are entering though. They love to listen to me read out loud. We begin each day with a Bible story, then American history, and often, accounts of great Christian heroes.
During this reading time, my children like to snuggle and occasionally enjoy making forts out of our living room furniture, which means blankets and sleeping bags draped over everything. Fun is always followed by work. Have you noticed? Piles of blankets and cushions heavier than they can carry must be hauled up the stairs. And folded. This is my job. For now.
We are working on the chores thing. Child slave labor is a beautiful thing. :)
And then, of course, there’s more folding after the use of these.
I have to say though, I love my stacked Maytags on the same level as the bedrooms. No hauling laundry up or down stairs. What a treat after living for seven years where the washer was in my dark yucky basement and I carried everything up one flight of stairs, squeezing the basket through the overstocked pantry, and then up another flight. Try doing that pregnant. And my husband wonders why I never did laundry!
Anyway, here’s my final job. OK, not really. Just my final picture.
You like my double monitor? My husband has the best technology castoffs! And they are indispensable for my line of work.
I’ve been working for Carrie for a bit now designing blog books. So. Fun. I especially enjoy our weekly meetings at the local coffee shop!
Really, I think every mom needs a hobby or a job where every so often she has the satisfaction of a finished product. Something about which she can say, THIS IS DONE.
Because every mom knows that the work of mothering is never done.
Now, off to do those dishes!
Thanks for the You capture challenges, Beth, at I Should be Folding Laundry. I never would have taken a picture of my dirty dishes if it weren't for you!
