Everything AND the Kitchen Sink ~ Jen

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It started with Annie screaming us awake at 12:45 am. When I got to her room, she was standing in vomit and looked like the phantom of the opera from where the pasta had congealed on the side of her face.

We spent the next three hours on the floor while she puked up everything she has ever eaten in her short life. We ran out of clean linen, so at the end, I just folded the towel over the puke and we fell asleep.

No surprise that 36 hours later, I was laid out with the worst case of stomach flu I have ever had.

I felt it coming and isolated myself in our room to protect the innocent. Shea slept downstairs. No matter. Thirty six hours later I woke up to the sound of him puking in the kitchen sink.

My OCD reared its ugly head and escaped the Zoloft prison. I sent Shea upstairs to the sick room, reached deep into the cupboard past the safe and natural cleaners, and pulled out the big guns: bleach and Lysol.

Dana laughed at me in a text: “This is no time for green cleaning, huh?”

Hell no. There’s a woman with an entire blog devoted to stopping the stomach flu.  I got on board her crazy train without a thought and covered my downstairs in bleach followed by Lysol. Every stinking surface. I was possessed. One time won’t hurt us, I told myself. One time.

When the kids woke up an hour later, my hands were raw and my downstairs was sanitized. I handed out the marching orders: Wash your hands! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch the baby! And for the love of God, don’t breathe too deeply!!!

Thirty six hours later, Gabe was puking.

I knew there would be a post in all this.

First, I thought it might be about husbands who puke in kitchen sinks.

Then I thought it would be about how when you are elbow deep in vomit and out of clean towels, you are not interested in hugging any God-blessed trees.

Then the kids got sick anyway.

So this is it: I had a crazy, hysterical fear of the stomach flu tearing through my home and in an attempt to stop it, I sprayed poison everywhere. For naught.  Norovirus triumphed.

And we lived. A week later, the laundry is done and put away, our appetites have returned and Shea and I both lost 7 lbs. What is so stinkin’ scary about that?

Kids get sick. Thank God they don’t get sick the way they used to a hundred years ago, but that’s not because of Lysol. It’s because we know more about handwashing and treating illness. I can’t stop them from getting stomach flu. Silly mama. Stomach flu happens.

Next time, we change our protocol. Hand washing is the most effective way to stop the spread of stomach flu. We will continue to “hanitize”. But I will use vinegar and hydrogen peroxide to sanitize surfaces. And—in what might be the best ever use of cheap liquor—vodka to disinfect upholstery. I know, right? Freakin’ brilliant.

We will be revisiting appropriate places to puke: toilet, check. Trashcan, check. Bathroom sink, check-ish, emergencies only.

The kitchen sink is way off limits.

Husband of mine, are you listening?

Celebrate the Wins ~ Jen

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There’s a trend on the mommy blogs right now—full of mea culpas, some of them tongue in cheek, and some not so much. People are holding up examples of their own poor parenting and laughing about it.

Being a mom is hard, and every mom makes tons of mistakes, but starting a blog by saying “I’m pretty open about the fact that I’m not a good parent”? Sad. Maybe the bar was too high before, when every mom was held to some insane June Cleaver standard. But I’m not sure that wearing our bad mommy moments like badges of honor is the way to go either.

Dana said “But look at those blogs. They have thousands of followers. And there are hundreds of comments after the self-deprecating posts. It must resonate with women on some level.”

It’s true. It must resonate.

Here’s my question: What part of them is it resonating with and are we sure we want to cultivate that part?

Glennon, at Momastery wrote this type of post recently. Hers was tongue in cheek. But the comment section was disturbing and telling. From the woman who mopped her floor for the first time in a year—and only because she spilled coffee on it—to the woman who dressed up like she was going to work, dropped her kids off at school, went home, changed, slept for two more hours, went to the movies, put her work clothes back on and picked her kids up five minutes before daycare closed. The comments were full of story after story—not tongue in cheek—that made me cringe. Not necessarily what the women were saying, but how they were saying it: proudly, and cyber high fiving each other.

Then this comment: “I think mommy guilt should be a thing of the past”.

Ahhh. So that’s what’s going on here.

I agree with this statement. Not the way she meant it, that we should not ever feel guilty for the things we do. Guilt is a useful emotion. It reminds us when we have let ourselves and our own values down. If we feel guilt over something that we did, it’s probably for good reason.

But we need a way to reconcile that guilt. In my Catholic faith, we have Reconciliation—we confess our short comings and ask God for forgiveness. I don’t have a ton of mommy guilt in my life. Not because I don’t make mistakes. Of course I make mistakes. And not because I don’t feel guilt—I do. But I reconcile that guilt and then ask God and myself for forgiveness.

The thing that helps the most is this: since I was very young, I have heard my parents describe life like a baseball game. A long game, with extra innings. Lots of at bats. Sometimes we bunt, sometimes we hit a grand slam. And sometimes we drop the ball or strike out. It’s all part of the game.

Parenting is just like that.

The voice inside my head tells me this: “I get it right and sometimes make mistakes”. I had a friend with tremendous mommy guilt who told me that she just couldn’t think like this. She believed that she made mistakes and sometimes got it right. She needed to give herself permission to make mistakes, to not be perfect.

I don’t get it.

First, who’s asking for perfect? No one. But of all the jobs we do, isn’t parenting the one that deserves our very best effort?

And why, why, why would you ever tell yourself you are a screw-up most of the time? Doesn’t that self script just devolve from “I am not capable today” to “I am not capable this week” to “I am not capable”?

We aren’t playing that game here. Our whole lives, Dana and I have reached for excellence—in school, in sports, in marriage, at work and as moms. We take pride in the fact that we mostly got it going on. We will always assume that you mostly got it going on, too. We’re not saying that we’re perfect moms, or that we don’t feel guilt. We’re not and we do.

We’re just saying this: Let’s stop holding up examples of bad motherhood for entertainment. This job we do is important and we need to treat it that way.

Let’s focus on the mostly. Let’s talk about what’s right and good and loving and strong. Let’s celebrate the wins.

As for the rest, reconcile and forgive, baby.

Because it’s almost time for the next inning.

Amazing Grace

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Sometimes, life requires a pause.

This week is one of those times when what we believe might be challenged by what we see and feel.

It’s good to remember the Truth:

Bad things happen in the world, but the World is not bad.

People do evil things sometimes, but People are not evil.

We can be scared of a moment, but Life is not scary.

We will die, but death does not win.

The storm will not blow out the light unless we let it.

Love is there. It just is.

God is there. He just Is.

Pray for grace. Grace will heal us.

Listen:

Amazing Grace (My Chains Are Gone) by Chris Tomlin.

Thanks to Missindeedy for introducing us to this song.

The Promise of Spring ~ Dana

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So, it’s been a while.  And I have wanted to write this great post about the symbolism of Spring and Easter, about the daffodils and the tulips pushing their way up through the ground to greet the first days of spring, about the warming earth, about the days lengthening into summer after the equinox.  But it just didn’t come.

I blamed my writer’s block on kids, stomach flu.  You know, life.  And as I was talking to Jen about it, she, as a good committee member should, told me the real truth.  “Maybe you haven’t written your spring piece because you just don’t feel like writing about life and regeneration and renewal.”  Boom, baby.  Truth.

Since Halloween night, I’ve watched my dad waste away to 120 lbs at the hands of chemotherapy.  He missed the birth of my second daughter.  We’ve missed holidays, birthdays, and just every days.  This week he’ll be heading to San Diego for two months to undergo a stem cell transplant.  How can I write about Spring, hope, and life, when I’m watching and fearing his death?

But on Easter morning, I had an epiphany.  While on Facebook, nonetheless.  I was up early with the baby and I felt pretty sorry for myself.  I would miss seeing my mom and dad again.  Another holiday missed.

I settled down on the couch with my phone and began to read my Facebook news feed.  Glennon from Momastery updated her status with the following: “Easter means that nothing is too dead to live again. Underneath the frozen, barren ground a seed is pushing its way toward the light. We can’t see it, but it’s there just the same. Friday comes and we cry. Saturday we wait. Sunday we REJOICE.”

Suddenly I couldn’t stop the tears.  NOTHING is too dead to live again.  Nothing.  In the depths of my sadness, these words were a small pinhole of light. This is the symbolism of Spring.  The tip of the equinox means that days are filled with more light and warmth.

And hope.

Before all of our modern conveniences, Spring’s warmth meant health. It meant that the cows had their nutritious milk.  It meant longer days for farming.  It meant the return of the crops.  All of these things brought the hope of life that winter’s cold stole all too easily.

Perhaps underneath his frozen, barren ground, he is pushing his way toward the light.

We have passed our fall and winter, literally and figuratively.  And Friday has come and gone and we have cried.  But when those cells are transplanted, they will be his own little Spring tulips and daffodils, pushing their way to the surface.  It’s true that we are in the Saturday wait.  And waiting sucks.  We wait and we pray.  But Spring shows us renewal with the return of the sun, and promises us the hope of life.

Mary Meets Jesus~ Jen

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It’s Holy Week. So I’m going to be repentant and reflective one more time. And then, with the Easter season, we will embrace the warmth and light and love of Spring.

When I first saw The Passion, it was on DVD. There was no way I was facing that thing down on a large screen. I knew it would hurt me, and it did. Not when they flog Jesus. Not when they nail Him to the Cross.

When Mary meets Jesus.

She’s following her Son, but not where He can see her. She’s hiding. She knows she has to witness her Son’s pain. But she’s terrified.

She leans against a wall, agonized. He’s coming, she can hear the crowd, and if she doesn’t turn now, He won’t see her. Then He falls. And in her memories, she sees Him fall as a baby. As she did when He was young, she runs to Him and says “I am here”.

Watch it here.

Jesus’ suffering was immense, and purchased my salvation. He is my Lord and Savior.

But I relate to the women of the Passion: suffering Mary, brave Veronica, and the weeping women of Jerusalem. Now that I have children, Mary’s story is personal.  She was obedient, but God asked so much of her and her faith never waivered.

How did she survive it?

My journey this Lent has been to let go—of the paralyzing fear that feeds my need to control and steals my joy.

And Mary’s story, the loss of a child, is the thing I fear the most. The Worst Thing.

I found a story a few months ago, when Glennon from Momastery posted it on her Facebook page. I think that reading this story was the first step on my Lenten path. I believe that examples of Mary walk among us. And I believe this is how we survive the Worst Thing:

Nelba Marquez-Greene’s daughter, Ana, died at Sandy Hook Elementary on December 14.

On January 14, Ana’s parents gave an interview to Good Morning America. You can see it here. It’s rough. Nelba’s pain is fresh, her face is worn.

Afterwards, through a mountain of love and support, some folks also called her motivations into question.

Nelba responded on Facebook:

I wept when I read some of the comments after our interviews. Most were beautiful. Some suggested we were actors. Oh how I wish that to be so. It was purely by God’s grace we had the strength to stand yesterday and everyday since December 14th. One comment read, “So fake. These people are actors. What 6 year old loves God”? Well I’m here to let you know that our six year old loved God! So DOES my eight year old. So do I. So does my husband…For me, love is not about what others choose to feel or act or say. It’s about what I choose to feel or act or say. I choose love. 

Then she said this:

Evil visited Newtown. Now it’s our choice to respond. We choose good. We choose life. We choose hope. We choose that even though we’re sad and we weren’t perfect parents we got one thing right- we invested in eternal things.

Eternal things. An Ultimate Plan. A Life after Death.

Jesus died on that cross to save us. It was horrible and painful and bloody. But it was also Glorious and Loving and Amazing. God’s love wins.

That’s what Mary knew. That’s how she survived the Worst Thing. That’s what Nelba knows. That’s how she’s surviving the Worst Thing.

On Sunday morning, we celebrate the victory. No more fear. God’s love wins.

https://www.facebook.com/RememberingAna