Powerful Grace ~ Jen

We just got home from a wonderful vacation, courtesy of Shea and State Farm. We spent six nights at the Walt Disney World Yacht Club resort with hundreds of other rock star State Farm dads and moms and their families.

I have two stories from our trip that I want to share. This one is a Here moment. The next one is a “This stuff only happens to Jen” story. Stay tuned for that Friday. Unless you have a weak stomach.

Two years ago, we were at the same hotel for the same week at the same State Farm event. I was a year out from my cancer surgery and treatment. We had been cleared to try for our third baby, but four months had passed with no results.

Everywhere I looked there were babies and pregnant moms, and my heart ached. After four months of trying, which was longer than it took with Gabe and Kate, it was hard not to feel defeated, and angry at my cancer and my age. Shea had worked hard for the trip and the kids were super excited, so every day I took a deep breath and made my outsides look happy.

It wasn’t that hard to do, in the relaxing lap of Disney luxury and with the joyful noise of my kids’ laughter. But there was a film over that vacation that darkened it just a bit.

Thankfully, we had our third baby. Her due date was nine months to the day after we arrived at Walt Disney World.

Last week, when we walked into the lobby of the same hotel, a wave of anxiety and longing swept over me. The feeling stayed with me when we swam at the pool that night, surrounded again by babies and pregnant women. It wasn’t until the next morning, as Annie toddled around the lobby and Shea said “Look how big she’s getting” that I realized I was holding my breath, just like two years ago, waiting for something and scared that it wouldn’t happen.

But there she was, dragging her blankie across the floor and smiling up at the bell captain.

And my heart quieted. It was a moment of powerful Grace.

I have struggled with the knowledge that we could be done having kids. Even with three c-sections and cancer and postpartum anxiety and the fact that Annie just…won’t…wean, I thought maybe there would be time for one more. The longing was not as strong or loud as last time, but it was there. I prayed over the last year to know if the longing was mine alone, or placed in my heart by God. And I also asked that if another child was not in The Plan for us, could God please remove the longing from my heart?

I prayed for contentment.

I guess sacred moments don’t always happen in sacred spaces. Or maybe sacred moments make places like hotel lobbies sacred. Either way, in the middle of the Yacht Club lobby at Walt Disney World, my prayer was answered. I saw my family, and I knew it was enough. More than enough. I understood that God’s plan is for us to move on to the next phase, that there is something else coming our way.

It’s the end of the having phase of our parenting. Now we move on to the raising part.

And the space in my heart where the longing used to be is peacefully empty. It’s reserved. I don’t know for what or who, but it’s ok not to know.

I am contently*waiting for the something else while I thank God for answered prayers and moments of Grace.

*I think I made a word up right there. But you know Dana and I used to be English teachers, which totally qualifies us to make words up. For reals.

Eve, Modesty and Baby Bikinis ~ Jen

I found a pair of shoes at Nordstrom’s Rack that struck me, so I took a picture of them and uploaded to Instagram:

My 20 year old niece responded that they were “SO CUTE!!!! Where are you? Do they have my size???”

She thought they were grown up shoes.

They aren’t. I found them in the toddler section. Size 12.

This Spring, as the catalogs arrived with new summer clothes and suits, I noticed that everything seems more and more like mini-versions of adult clothing. And not in a good way. Like this:

This one is available for three year olds

And this:

This was initially available starting at 6-12months

And maybe most disturbingly, this:

String bikini available in size 0-6 months

It’s probably not new. But this is the first year I am shopping for Kate in the Big Girl sizes, and the lack of material available is a problem.

The anxiety sister in me looks at those bathing suits and thinks immediately of the creepy guy on the beach with his phone, taking pictures of little girls dressed like mini Hawaiian Tropics models and posting them on some sick website.

But it’s not just that. Part of my job as a Christian mom is to teach my children to be modest in their dress and their behavior. The Bible tells us “Know you not, that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:16,17). As a Christian Feminist, I am not getting on board with the folks who see women as the source of temptation and use Eve as proof. I have never understood the concept of modesty in only women and because men are some kind of animal who cannot be trusted to control their emotions or actions. Thankfully, my church teaches that the Adam and Eve story is allegorical, so for us, Eve is a cautionary tale of sinful disobedience, and not the founding example of the Whore archetype.

(Plus, think what we are saying if woman is the source of sinful lust and temptation AND a temple of God? Yikes)

More to my point is that if God is in there, we better be careful about the message that we send through our clothes, words and actions. My kids are little, so I am in charge of that message right now. What am I telling the world if I dress my little girl up in a swimsuit that makes her look like she has a waist and some boobs? Or let her teeter around on shoes with a two inch heel. To make her look…what? Taller? Older? Sexier?

Blech.

I can’t live vicariously through my daughter’s figure, or revisit glory days. I shouldn’t look at her five year old self and imagine the bombshell she might be at twenty. Just the thought gives me the heebie-jeebies.

If God is in there, then Self-respect equals God-respect. That is one of my major goals as a mom, to teach my kids that how they dress, act and speak is a reflection of who they are. Who they are is a temple of God, a sacred space, proof of love. I want them to understand that they are precious and deserving of respect and honor. I hope it will help them make good choices in action and people as they grow older.

Our secular society teaches that it is the light coming off a person that makes them valuable. The more we glitter, the “better” we are. But people of all faiths should know that is not true. It is the light coming out of a person that makes them Love in this world.

Because God is in there. So dress Him appropriately.

The F Word ~ Lesley

Lesley is my person. And my cousin. When her Canadian husband stole her to Toronto almost ten years ago, it was a thing. Luckily, Brian is a very good man. We have survived by never letting 365 days go by without seeing each other.

When she called and told me this story a few weeks ago, I knew she had to write a post. This is a SUPER parenting win, and a reminder for all of us that a little bit of prayer and thought goes a long way. I always listen carefully to her parenting stories, since she has been a mom longer than me–three whole weeks longer. She is wise.

Enjoy! ~ Jen

My seven year old is my sensitive child, deeply aware of everyone’s feelings, especially his own. He’s also a rule follower, like his dad. So, when he steps outside the rules, he is very affected. In this case he was curled into the fetal position on my lap, head buried in my neck, making a confession that was broken and choked with breathy sobs.

“Mom, I have to tell you something.”

“Ok, babe. What has you so upset?”

“I accidentally said the F word.”

“How do you accidentally say the F word?” I ask. “Saying a word like that is a choice. And where did you hear this word?” I cringe, waiting for him to say he heard it from me. “Are you trying to be cool? That word is not cool.”

“I know. I am so sorry.”

I think.

“Wait. When and where did you say this word?”

The whole truth comes out. He tried it at school with some friends that he refuses to identify. They are not encouraging him to say it but he has used this language on the playground. And he confesses that he just said it in our basement before he came up to talk to me. My first concern was that he said it to his younger brother or sister. But he was alone. He could not explain why he said it but he knew it was wrong and came to tell me.

It is one of those moments. I need my son to understand that he has made a bad choice and there are consequences. But the only reason I know he used the F word is because he told me.

I breathe. Acknowledge that his conscience works. Celebrate that he came to me to unload his conscience. Provide meaningful discipline.

Ugh.

There are several feelings in this for me. Pride that he came to tell me, and that he has chosen to keep his friends out of it and only stand on what he did—no deflection to anyone else. Shock that my angel faced boy is walking around using this kind of language. Longing for the days when Mickey Mouse Clubhouse was a part of his present, not his past.

What to do? I decide to pull a page from someone else’s Momma-wisdom and use it as my own. I believe that if a Momma shares a bit of wisdom with you, that is implied consent for you to use it as you own. I took this page from Glennon at Momastery. I’m sure she would approve.

I tell him “Babe, you know how your heart is hurting and you are so upset? That is God telling you that you made a bad choice and to come talk to me or Daddy. I’m really glad you listened to God. That is hard to do sometimes, but it is very important.

“You made a bad choice. That language is not allowed in this house. I understand there are lots of words you will hear from your friends and you will know some of them are not ok to use. You can always come talk to me. But the rules don’t change and so bad choices have consequences. What would be a consequence for this?”

He chooses, bravely, to lose his favorite possession—the DS. We spend a few minutes talking about if losing his DS would help him make a better choice the next time. There was not a good answer for that, from either of us. I used my favorite Momma card and deferred a decision until I could discuss with his dad.

I believe that bad choices are necessary for good choices to happen. But that can only be true if the consequence includes a mix of humility and a better understanding of the impact of the bad choice. It is not always easy to find a consequence that meets these criteria, but I do think the big lessons are worth a minute of reflection to find one.

My son and I had had a big important discussion. It was an opportunity to grow. I knew that losing his DS did not feel like the right consequence. So I percolated, which in our family means I let it bubble gently on the back burner while I went about my business. I have superhero guardian angels who help and guide me. I knew the right answer would arrive. I just needed to make some space for it to come in.

Sure enough I became aware of that voice in my head, chewing on the issue. Foul language. Ugh. Garbage. How do I keep my babies from that? And…there it was: If my son was going to dirty the world with garbage out of his mouth, he could pick garbage up to make it clean again.

Cue the hallelujah chorus.

My son spent the week picking up litter all around his school and taking out garbage for his class. It took me a few minutes to write the needed letters. My son provided the letters, with his own explanation for why he was asking to do these tasks. His principal, teacher and after-school care providers were all onboard.

Humility, check.

Then we talked again about how using curse words makes the world an uglier place. We talked about how some words hurt and why it is important to know what the words you use actually mean.

Which, thank God, did not lead me into the definition and explanation of his chosen curse.

The F word. Ugh.

Everything AND the Kitchen Sink ~ Jen

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

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.

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