A humbling experience

Before becoming a mother, I was barely ever on time, sometimes a minute early (unless husband was coming along, then I'd be 15 minutes early).  Now, I'm usually at least 5 minutes late.  Sometimes plans change altogether, especially when three outfit changes happen within a span of the lost 5 minutes that would've landed me in the barely-on-time category.  And that's just with one kid.  Thankfully the other one still wears diapers and we don't have to stop and use the bathroom on the way out, but that can also backfire when 15 minutes are required to clean up a blow-out.  Basically, I've come to terms with the fact that my time is not my own.

It never really was, but I liked to think that it was before--when life seemed like it was under my control. Those were also the days when I imagined that rationalizing with a toddler was an easy two-step process; when, to be honest, I viewed motherhood as something that would be easy because I figured that if you love your kid enough, you'd have all the knowledge you need to get through any obstacle.

I have learned that love is enough, but only in the "love covers a multitude of sins" sense of the word. It's enough to keep you trying.

There is a new sense of awareness that motherhood awakens. Not only are we given a third eye in the back of our head; a heightened sense of instinct that tells us to turn around when our kid is about to jump off a table head first onto slate tile; an ability to wake up at the sound of a tiny whimper 3 rooms away in a well-insulated house.  Yes, those would all imply heightened senses, but there is also a wise fear that develops.  It's an awareness that YOU are responsible for who this person becomes, or does not become.  It would be easy to simply focus on outward achievements; being responsible for the condition of someone's heart requires you to reflect on the state of your own soul.

When they're little, they speak the words you speak.  They want to walk in your shoes (literally, at least my kids do).  When they see you put on lipstick, they want to do it too.  Then, if you do it every day, they probably start to wonder why.  You may even begin to hear them say, "I want to wear lipstick so I can be beautiful" and that statement in itself is enough to change your grooming routine.  So you wear lipstick less and opt for chapstick more.  You tell them they are beautiful without make-up, but you want to prove it to them by believing and behaving as if YOU are beautiful without make-up, too.  Suddenly, you don't want to talk about your insecurities around them, how you feel like you're not smart enough, brave enough, good enough, because you realize THEY will believe this about themselves, too.

Then you decide that simply not talking about it isn't enough. ("It" being everything that you struggle with internally.)  Changing what you believe would make it enough, though, because what you say and what you believe manifests itself in how you behave, and especially how you love.  And you know they deserve the best love so that they can be the best people, the kind that don't have to struggle with this as much as you do.  It doesn't even matter if the person before you made the mistake of not changing what they believe(d) (that person being the one who was responsible for you).  Your reality? You no longer have an excuse, and if you do, you'll have to eventually replace it with an apology 20 or so years from now when they look at you with a broken heart, or a broken marriage, or even worse, a broken spirit that believes it's unlovable.

Terrified, anyone?  I'm learning to see that this great responsibility is a gift that can only be opened when viewed as a daily adventure in trusting all that our Heavenly Father says is true: We are beautiful and capable simply because we are his.  When we deviate from that belief, we begin underestimating ourselves.  Our kids know when this happens and it leads them to do the same, and that can penetrate every area of their life, leading to the very heartache we wanted to keep them from.

This belief in our capacity for great things and great love as God's masterpieces is not a profound concept.  It's something that children know and understand; it's why they believe they can be doctors, astronauts, and presidents; they are born ready to accept and give love. This concrete belief becomes an uncertainty when they see brokenness.  We distract them from truth with our own fears and false beliefs.  Our job is to be their preservationists by filtering our flawed beliefs with the truth of who we are in our Creator's eyes.  Behind every hardened, angry, bitter, criminal heart is a child who is a victim of robbery, the truth was stolen from them by someone who struggled so much with their own loss that they had to destroy any reminders of its former existence.  This is the human tragedy that starts in the home and ends when we return to our first home, like the prodigal son who finally understands that his Father's healing love is unconditional and perfect.

I am working on fully believing with all my heart that "perfect love casts out fear."  In realizing the emotional responsibilities, motherhood can become scary.  But in embracing love's ability to cast out fear, we can understand that most of our fears and insecurities are rooted in a wound that, thankfully, perfect love can also heal.

And it took becoming a mother to finally start to get it.  Here is something I wrote out of a love for my own kids, what's been a source of instruction an inspiration.  I feel honored to call them mine.  I can understand why our own Father feels that way about us, I know I can't understand it completely since it is just a glimmer of how we are adored...

I stare at what I've created,

The smaller but better part of me,

for a glare, the evidence of light

proof that I am doing something right.

When I look long enough

I see what can go wrong,

the possibilities.

Turning away isn’t an option,

but I am allowed to blink.

I am allowed to sleep;

never uninterrupted.

And it’s ok to avert my eyes

but I have to look back

Or I will miss 

everything.

It’s a masterpiece:

a piece from the master,

on loan.

I can’t afford to make the

payments alone

and I can’t afford to give it back.

There’d be too much to lose,

but I can have it taken from me

at any time.

But I still lose

myself every day

in exchange for more of this,

what lasts

when we are gone;

what holds my gaze and holds me

close and

learns how to run and hide, 

in places I’ve never thought to look.

In finding it I find myself

hiding there too.

It’s the gift that begins a new sacrament,

What carries the heirloom of who we are in its expression.

It’s the treasure whose matchless value we tarnish 

when we misunderstand our own worth.

It’s what we were meant to love into existence,

The mistake is expecting it to fully exist on anything else.

It’s the smaller but better part of me (and you),

The only heart that ever beat beneath my own,

Whose life now rises above mine 

To teach me to love from the greatest heights, without fear.

A big block of wood

My hands are so dry and cut up, the skin on my fingertips is getting rough... Dry and rough from washing dishes after cooking dinner; changing countless diapers, then washing my hands right after; from playing outside in the cold, or hanging up Christmas lights while praying I don't die.  They're dry from wiping down tables covered in glitter or finger paint, and then washing my hands again.  Dry from picking up mysteriously moist pieces of old food hidden in the corners of our dining room, thrown from a chubby hand belonging to the high chair-eater in the family (on a long day, sometimes that's me, minus the chubby hand) and WASHING MY HANDS AGAIN.  Dry from putting dirty laundry in the washer then needing to prepare lunch, and washing my hands yet again.  I've never washed my hands so much.  I promise, I don't wash them unless I truly have to.  Ironically, they are also dry from drying so many tears.

As a mom, you get your hands dirty a lot; you deal with a lot of germs.  Your kids get sick a lot as it is, so you try to limit the germs that YOU can at least avoid spreading. (Because someone is going to lick the cart handles at the grocery store or pick at old gum under a restaurant dining table, so you want to set a good example of how to stay healthy.)

I still get mistaken for a middle schooler. I'm 29 but look about 16 when I'm actually trying to look older.  I'm finally at a point in my life where I can appreciate that.  But if you look at my hands, you'd think I was much older.

If you look at the hands of an artist or craftsman, they're usually pretty dirty and beat up.  Look at the hands of a soldier.  They're tough.  But they tell their own story.

Earlier today, I was telling a friend that one of the most challenging things about motherhood is that it doesn't reap instant rewards.  It doesn't matter how many child development books you read, you won't ace parenting with flying colors when you're put to the test.  There aren't raises or bonuses, though the sound of two toddling sisters giggling while chasing each other around a certain glitter-filled dining room is worth more to me than any of that, of course.  But you're the only one who knows when you've aced your test.  You come out smiling after a tough playdate with more meltdowns than you could keep track of--you aced it.  Heck, even if your teeth are just clenched and it looks like you're smiling, and you kept your cool, you still aced it. God is on your side, and you know it because you couldn't have come out of that scenario without a few prayers.  He knows more than you think, just look at his hands.


He is the potter and we are the clay.  He molds us with his scarred hands.  The only model we have to follow regarding child-rearing is the relationship documented between God and his people, one involving sleepless prayerful nights, throwing dinners involving hundreds of guests without worrying about having enough, knowing someone better than they know themselves and loving them anyway, stinky feet-washing, taking the time out to heal others, performing miracles without expecting anything in return, and even a willingness to lay down one's own life.

Performing miracles without expecting anything in return sounds a whole lot like getting thru 40 weeks of pregnancy and topping it off with hours upon hours of labor. Or it can be something as simple as asking your 3 year old to explain their painting and listening, or successfully getting thru a day that started off with zero sleep.  It's everything you do that leads up to the finished product--that is the miracle.  Pregnancy isn't hard; it's just the sampler plate and a beautiful symbol of the whole process from start to finish: a labor of love, pun intended.

Sometimes it feels like God handed me this block of wood and he's expecting me to carve a masterpiece, when the only tool I have is a toothpick that's been chewed on by a teething one year old.  It's like, I haven't even started and my hands already look like they belong to a grandma (no offense to the grandmas, your hands are the best).  I guess I'm missing the point, then.  These dry, rough, raw hands--they're part of my reward.  Everything that has contributed to how they look is contributing to the finished product, and is changing me in the process, too, from the inside out.  When they're moms asking me how I did it, I'll be looking at more than a block of wood (even if Mirabel still calls her sister blockhead, thanks to Charlie Brown), and they'll be looking at someone whose hands aren't the only things that have changed as a result of all that carving.

Thankful for Home

Up to this point, I never really owned anything other than student loan debt ;).  Though we don't fully own our house yet, it is in our name and we didn't need a co-signer to buy our home, unlike with student loans (Yay! We're growing up! :).  I don't remember the details of the papers we signed over a month ago, but I remember the feeling of relief I experienced when I unpacked the last box and actually got to throw it away.

The truth is, I've never really had a place to call home.  All the moving I did throughout my life probably contributed to that feeling.  I've lived in a lot of buildings, but this place we're living in now has become more than that in just a few weeks.

We got to pick out the lot that we wanted; we were here when there was just a cement block above a pile of dirt; we got to see the bones of this house go up, the framing and the windows.  At times it felt like it would never be completed.  I remember the anticipation I experienced before meeting my husband, before getting pregnant, before going to college... always waiting and waiting; it felt a lot like that.

Growing up, I knew what I wanted but I hadn't seen it in many places, and that's the other reason why I never had a place to call home.  I wanted to know what it felt like to feel secure, and to be able to exhale and just be.  I wanted that for myself and I wanted it for the children I wasn't even sure I'd be able to physically have.  I wanted to create that atmosphere with the kind of husband I wasn't even sure existed.  Home was an idea that felt distant and unrealistic.

There are a lot of things we do to interfere with our greatest hopes, consciously or not, because sometimes they are rooted in our deepest fears.  I have been blessed with a place where I can breathe easy and feel secure, a home, because of the people that live between these walls with me. But in the same way that a building wears over time if we don't invest in it, a home cannot be abandoned once it's been unpacked, figuratively speaking.  We made it here because we were brought here together, after overcoming obstacles apart, but to keep this house a home we need to overcome our daily obstacles together, so that we don't slowly grow apart.  My greatest fear is unoriginal: I don't want to lose the ones I love most.  God brought them to me, and he's the one I need to depend on daily to keep them here.

I hope my children stay close forever.  I know they will go their own way.  Maybe they'll go to school out of state, or study abroad, or travel, but I hope that they always feel at home where we are.  If we depend on ourselves alone, though, we will fail by default because it's human to repeat cycles.  A house only remains a home when the foundation is unconditional love, built on the one whose love for us never changes even when our lives and situations do.  That's the kind of place we all need to come home to.

Music Therapy

On days like this 

I AM SO THANKFUL FOR GOOD MUSIC LIKE THIS:

...and Spotify :).

Thankful for passion and intelligence

Last night, I met an answer to prayer.  She is so passionate about what she does that her work doesn't actually seem to reflect itself as work, at least not to me.  As cheesy as it sounds, her passion inspired me (or made me even more excited to start school some time soon).

This sounds a lot more serious than it really is.  For awhile now, I've wanted to talk to someone about my firstborn, the one who is the topic of many blog posts :).  From birth, she's been an interesting character.  She came out screaming and pretty much hasn't stopped.  If there's a loose thread on her clothing, she screams; if she has to get a haircut, she screams and shakes in terror; if her sock gets a drop of water on it, she'll scream about that.  She doesn't exactly bounce back the way I've observed that other children her age do (and I actually have observed kids her age.  One of my favorite classes in college.)

So with a lot of prayer and research, I found this amazing lady who is a quirky genius.  I walked into her office and everything was polkadot, even her glasses.  She had tea cup lamps and whimsical pens.  She actually said that when she purchased the home she transformed into an office, she told the contractor that she wanted it to look like a hobbit lived there.  No joke.  I found a kindred spirit.  I am just as weird, but she's got the mad skills I wish I had, that's for sure.  I've never seen more books on child development and related topics.  Her walls were covered with artwork from her patients.  She's a grandma who looks like the fairy godmother on Cinderella and has 40 years of experience in her field. And, more importantly, she doesn't stop learning.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I hope I'm that cool when I'm 60 something.  She's serious, too, but not in the uptight kind of way; she's so serious that she used to lecture at Stanford.

Let me tell you, in that hour visit I had with her, I think I learned more than I did in all the courses I've ever taken on the topic combined.  And there is so much more information out there.  Neurological diets, for instance (these things aren't fads, people).  Yes, there's a reason why there is a diet for Autism.  Did you know that Ritalin synthetically does what certain chemicals in food can do, but without the crazy side effects?  Did you know that people usually become alcoholics because their serotonin levels are low? Do you know about the brain-gut connection (I was familiar with it but not enough)?  Have you ever considered that maybe children are diagnosed with more behavioral disorders today than ever before because they don't get enough Vitamin D, and Vitamin D deficiencies can lead to a host of other problems, including autoimmune disorders (which are also on the rise).  I was flooded with information, this is just a taste of what was served up.  What I liked most was that she actually provided literature written by respectable neurological psychiatrists; this isn't something you just hear about in a city like Austin ;).

I am hopeful.  It turns out, my parenting skills aren't as awful as I thought they were, either!  Apparently, I am doing some things right.  The truth is, I don't really know what I'm doing.  I believe that when we ask God for wisdom, one of the ways he speaks his wisdom to us is thru our instincts.  There are some parenting approaches I'd never heard of but just applied because they felt right, and it turns out these are some of the approaches she suggested for my particular kid.  This isn't my doing.  This is what I like to call an obvious answer to prayer.

I am excited about applying some of these new techniques and learning more about them.  I think the worst thing anyone can do as a parent is stagnate, or lose the passion that they had when they first met their bundle for the first time.  Holding onto that passion requires having the intelligence to admit that you don't know as much as you think you do, and that maybe it's ok to ask for help.

And I'll end this with another note of thankfulness.  I'm thankful for the obvious, my husband.  Tonight, I'm thankful that he isn't just here, any dad can just stick around.  But he is equally as interested in learning about what it takes to give our kids our best.  Because I said I would include a song in every thankfulness post, I'll share one of my favorites of the year.  The words are the reason why I like Hard to Tell by Young Galaxy.  They don't make 'em like this anymore, and that's also how I feel about my husband :).

All I Want

I'm not very good at keeping up with themed posts.  But I like the idea that many of you have, so I'm going to join in on the thankfulness fun, with a weekly or biweekly tune to go with the theme.

One thing that never gets old is music.  Mirabel is such a fan; I love that she's a music critic at such a young age (ask me this again when she asks me to change the song on the radio for the millionth time in a row :).  Mirabel's untamable spirit is also very refreshing, and I am so thankful for it.  She is the most outgoing little person I know.  She also doesn't know a stranger which can terrify a mom.  Everyone is her friend, until they take her toy, of course.  If she says hi and you don't greet her in return, she will keep saying hi until you respond.  So all you people who don't like children, watch out when she comes around.  The most emotional kid around, maybe, but I already see how this is going to be a positive thing long-term.  She is empathetic and sensitive to the feelings of others around her (again, not necessarily when toys are involved), and she even cries when others cry.  She will not be the cowering kid in the corner afraid of the bully; chances are the bully will be afraid of her, and I'm sure she'd eventually scare them into being her friend, in the friendliest way possible ;).

I'm thankful for this spirited kid today.  Thankful for her love of music and her friendly, fiery spirit that sees potential in every person she meets.  I hope she never loses that.

I heard this song by Kate Earl many months ago.  I thought it was cookie-sweet and sentimental, but the better part of it reminded me of Mirabel so I added it to my Spotify playlist, anyway :).  Being a mom to this kid isn't always easy, but today I'm thankful for everything she is, because of her I don't stagnate.  Creativity parenting is a must with this character.  But her personality is as colorful as her sense of style :).

What's funny is that Mirabel asks me to skip this song when it comes on.  Not peppy enough for this tiny dancer, I guess.

All I Want by Kate Earl

Easy, it will never be...

There are a lot of moments that lead me to ask myself if I really know what I'm doing.  Not when it comes to life, but when it comes to being a mother (though motherhood is my life right now ;).  I often here that marriage requires a lot of work, but I don't think parenting ever gets as much emphasis, though I find it more challenging than anything I've ever done.  I've never prayed more in my life than after my children were born.  Being a mother doesn't bring instant gratification, because you aren't rewarded for your efforts right away (at least, not always), but I can say that having to depend on a source outside myself (God) has yielded a greater reward than anything else.  I've learned the definition of joy.

As a kid, I knew there was a difference between joy and happiness, but I couldn't quite explain it because I didn't understand it.  Happiness happens as a result of an experience, but joy is something that exists apart from experience.  It's intensity doesn't wane after a bad day, but it sustains us during our trials because it is rooted in our faith which is as invisible but alive as we allow it to be.  Trials are an inevitable and even necessary part of life.  They test our faith in our Creator and everything he claims to be.  He claims that he is good and all-knowing which can be confusing to us.  What is equally confusing is that Christ was fully aware of the suffering ahead of him (his heart was heavy in Gethsemane the night before his arrest and crucifixion) but he was also aware of the glorious end and the ultimate good that would result from his obedience to go to the cross, because he was God incarnate.  He knew sadness and betrayal.  Gethsemane was not a happy place, but joy was still there.  His obedience to follow God instead of fighting happened as a result of his joy.   He had a heavy heart, and he even cried, but his obedience instead of rebellion proved that he knew God was still good.  He drew near to God instead of running away, or avoiding his responsibility. He was able to have faith in God's goodness in spite of his situation, and that is true joy.

Now, going to the cross and being a mother aren't exactly on the same playing field ;).  Sometimes it feels like torture. (Hah!  Sorry, but it's true.)  Not quite as bad as being tortured emotionally, spiritually, and physically on a cross.  That in itself is a source of joy for us, though.  I think the hardest part of motherhood is wondering if your child understands.  If they really know that you want the best for them and that they need to trust that you want to help them make wise decisions (sounds familiar).  Sometimes I feel like I'm speaking a completely different language.   I pray for wisdom and words; the wisdom to find the words to communicate with my child so that she understands the reason for our rules, and the reason why I cannot give into her deafening screams, and give her what she wants.  It's overwhelming, and sometimes I just shut my mouth and let the moment happen (in slow motion, it seems) while I utter the simplest prayer that we've all probably prayed at some point, whether literally or sarcastically, "God, help me."

Funny how that can escape our mouths whether we believe in God or not.

And you know what?  He answers my prayers.  Not always right away.  But I'm supposed to be an example to my kids, right?  I can't have a tantrum when God doesn't give me what I want, when I want it.  Sometimes I do, though, and sometimes I just eat too many desserts, instead.

I often wonder if I'm capable, and I forget that I'm not supposed to be.  None of us were equipped to handle parenting or anything in life alone.  There is a reason why kids don't come with a handbook, so that we don't even try to go it alone.  We're supposed to depend on their Creator; he brings people into our lives.  He even speaks to us thru our children, of all people.

Just this weekend I told my husband that I was afraid I didn't have what it takes to be a "good" mother (whatever that means, right? ;).  Guess how the weekend ended?  Well, almost in tears.  There were a lot of frustrating moments.  But guess how one of the frustrating moments ended?

My strong-willed firstborn: "Mommy, let's pray [and this is going on randomly when I'm taking her to the bathroom, after a heated moment]. 'Thank you God for the lesson and thank you for Mommies.'  Mommy, I'm not gonna cry and scream in church, ok?"
Me: With a tear stained face, still recovering from the billionth tantrum that morning, now laughing.  I'm speechless, and just give her a hug again.  Then, I cry again, because I realize that this is God's way of showing me that my efforts are not fruitless.

It's easy for our hearts to become hardened during our struggles.  I speak from experience.  Sometimes, I don't pray for days.  It's not something I like to admit, but I get mad at God too.  I get angry and bitter.  But let me tell you something.  We've been trying so hard.  And this parenting thing requires a group effort; the more the better, seriously.  Jose and I are trying to make a habit of starting our mornings in unified prayer, and not just at dinner.  We don't always feel like it, sometimes we get frustrated when we don't receive an answer, but we've kept going.

I can say with confidence that I would've missed out on that moment with my 3 year old if I would've given in to bitterness instead of joy and stopped praying.  Why?  She isn't much of a sleeper and likes to wake up before the sunrise, sometimes she hears and sees us pray.  She asks a lot of questions; she wants to know what we're doing.  We've also been trying to pray with her more often.  Sometimes prayer isn't something I engage in very easily, and I've always wanted it to come naturally with my kids.  The only way is to introduce it to our kids at a young age.  But let me tell you something.  I didn't give her the words to pray that morning in the bathroom.  I've never even used the words, "thank you for this lesson" when praying with her one on one.  I've never heard her say, "thank you for mommies" in any other context.

I think her prayer is an answer to my prayers.  When I asked God to help me, he answered.  He didn't shout from the heavens, "I Am!" but he spoke thru the very person I'd been praying for.  He is helping us; he is moving in her heart.  It's not up to me to change her; I can only control my own actions.  I can choose to not harden my heart when I'm faced with the daily challenges of motherhood, or any other struggles.  When I choose to have joy by trusting in God in spite of my circumstances, I am also given opportunities to experience happiness in ways I couldn't have if I had chosen anger instead of joy.  Happiness and joy aren't the same thing, but there is a connection.