Boom.

We're all flying by the seat of our pants here

I have several friends right now expecting children.  Some are pregnant and some are in the process of adoption.  Either way, new parents are new parents - giddy with anticipation, anxious with worry, and all in all completely idealistic in the giant "unknown" that's in store for them.

Ah, I remember those days.  I remember my perception of what parenthood would be like.  Having years of nannying experience and being an aunt to 7 nephews and nieces before having my own, I thought I was about as seasoned as they come when it came to knowing what raising a child would be like.  I was ripe with earnest enthusiasm when it came to predicting the schedule shift, lack of sleep, and complete interruption my new bundle of joy was about to bestow upon my nest.

And then, I actually became a parent, and my dreamy bubble burst like a poorly fastened diaper on a full belly.  Kapow!  And I found myself shrugging my shoulders in disbelief and exhaustion that I, too, had fallen victim to the notion that I thought I knew what I was doing.  I didn't.  I don't.

Now, only a few years of parenting under my belt, I find myself in the seat of the bestower of said-advice instead of the bestowee.  (I know that's not a real word.)  But, it's true.  With so many friends becoming first-time parents after myself, they tend to turn to me as one source of information they can rely on for "telling them like it is" and so forth.  And, I love it.  I mean, I love everything that has to do with pregnancy and birth and raising kids, I could talk about it for-just-about-ever and still find new things to question or examine.  It's kind of one of those inexhaustible topics that is ever-changing and so, it's easy to keep re-examining how it all works!

While I love to talk about it though, I laugh at the idea that I might necessarily have a clue what I'm talking about!  Indeed, one of the first bubbles to burst in parenthood is the fact that we're all kind of flying by the seat of our pants when it comes to raising a kid.  Nevertheless, as the questions come, I can't help but give my take on whatever-child-rearing-subject arises and do my best to leave them feeling excited and validated.  However, I rarely predict that's the case.

Current parents can't help but sound condescending to a parent-to-be.

I remember this well.  I hated it when I was expecting.  I mean, there's only so many times you can hear "go see more movies now" or "get sleep while you can" or "you have no idea how hard it is" or "you know you'll have to watch her all the time" before you just want to punch someone in the face!  I completely remember feeling like I wanted to wear a sign saying "I'm pregnant, not stupid" just so people would shut-up already and stop trying to tell me how much I didn't know.

She can totally tell I have no clue what I'm doing

And yet, here I am...the giant condescender of information, belittling my expectant friends with my bubble-bursting anecdotes of truth (out of love!)  Yikes.  How can this be helped?  Have I earned this right or should I shut up and let them enjoy the idea of never letting their kid watch TV and always having the laundry folded and put away neatly?

Just the other day, one of these expectant mothers texted me saying, "I don't want my child to eat anything that's not truly organic."  My response?  That's cool.  Just don't feel bad when you eventually lose it and find yourself throwing chicken McNuggets at her.  It will happen.  You will both survive.

Becoming a parent isn't about becoming perfect.  It can't be.  It won't be.  We each have our bubbles and our unique process that bursts them somehow in someway along the journey of growing into the individual our new child shapes us up to be.  That involves growing pains on both our parts, parent and child.

Don't get me wrong - ideals are WONDERFUL.  Establish them, strive for them, even cling to them for inspiration!  But, don't be controlled by them.  The biggest piece of advice I can give to parents-to-be now is this:

When you disappoint yourself (because you will), don't buy into the lie that you're not what your child needs.  Chances are, you have just crossed a new boundary stepping into the person you are supposed to become.

If that takes a few chicken McNuggets to get there...I'm cool with that. This isn't to say that your mistakes are "good".  (Probably far from it.)  But, when I allow myself the freedom to let go of the control, let go of what I consider the perfect picture of parenthood to look like, then I'm one step away from retreating to what I really need:  Jesus.  If I'm being really honest with myself, that's all I really want to model for my children...not someone who has it all together and is always right and always looks great (especially since that is impossible), but someone who turns to Jesus when I get reminded again and again that I'm not.

And for all those loving parents who tried to warn me ahead of time, let me say Thanks for trying.  I may not have received everything that you said at the time, but I certainly heard it.  The fog has lifted and I can clearly see now that I have no idea how to do this parenting thing.  Ha!  The great news is...we're not in it alone.

Welcome aboard, new parents.  Get ready to burst that bubble.

Amen!

If I've said it once, I've said it a million times...I'm raising zombies.  It's true, my girls are terrrrible sleepers.  Most nights, it is a battle of the wills to corral them into their room, lasso them with jammies, and wrestle them into bed before they melt down into a hot mess of tears and wailing.  While it hasn't made a huge difference to the unpredictability of their sleeping habits, we are extremely protective that their bedtime routine remain the same night-after-night so that they can seemingly adhere to a rhythm that will set off some magical sleep pattern for them.  It sounds good anyway, right?

It makes sense, so we do it, though I'll admit it doesn't always seem worth the effort (an hour to get them into bed and an hour of listening to them laugh, cry, scream, sing, what-have-you can really make one question the sacred "routine").  Nevertheless, sometimes it does seem to work, so we stick to it like Winnie the Pooh in a honey pot.

The routine is simple enough: brush teeth, jammies, stories, prayer, sing, hugs & kisses, Bonsoir my darlings!  (That is, goodnight!)  And this has become our sacred, family routine night after night.  Every night, I find myself exhausted and wondering how in the world I will do it all again tomorrow...and then...we pray.  I hear Daphne throw her arms up and mumble the intonation of "a-MEN" and I hear the childish words of Matilda speak to Jesus with distinct and simple direction.  She talks to him like He is right there, so emphatically, like I can see the little ball bouncing over her words like a Karaoke machine as soon as she speaks them.  Of course, her prayers pretty much always go the same way, so there is a delightful predictability about them too.

Dear Jesus, Thank you this day.  Thank you daddy, mommy, Daphne.  Thank you dance class.  Thank you toys.  Amen!

Or something like that.  Playful, honest, sincere, and maybe even a little bit silly sometimes.  Some nights she will wholeheartedly jump right into praying, even announcing "My turn!" and other nights (many nights) she will stubbornly refuse.  Unless she's not feeling well, we don't allow this.  Not praying is not an option in our home no matter how cranky you are.  You will listen to mommy pray, you will listen to daddy pray, you will think of at least one thing to thank God for.  The end.

That might sound harsh, but we're planting roots of discipline and obedience here.  And besides, prayer is one of those things that as soon as you start doing it, you want to keep doing it more.  The more comfortable she gets with it, the easier it flows out of her little lips, and I'm certain to be careful what I wish for or this hour-long bedtime routine will turn into a marathon if Matilda's prayers turn into endless conversations.  (She's a talker - it could happen!)

But, she's not the only one learning from this nighttime routine of praying as a family.  I'm learning so much from her simple little benedictions.  

This may come as a surprise to you (seeing as I'm rather extroverted and outspoken about my feelings) but, I don't love to pray out loud.  It's uncomfortable.  It feels like a lot of pressure.  I might say the wrong thing and someone will judge me this way or that way.  I might sound too religious.  I might not sound reverent enough.  I might come across as self-righteous or judgmental.  I might mispronounce something or start to cry because it's getting too emotional.  I might blubber and become inaudible.  I might ramble on too long and not leave anything else for anyone to pray about.  I might forget someone's prayer request.  I might yawn in the middle.  I might fall asleep.  I might get caught with my eyes open.  And, oh yeah, how can I really be talking to JESUS when I'm worrying about MYSELF this whole time?

Yup.  All of that could happen.  It's true.  And, okay, maybe those aren't real concerns when I'm in my own home with my little family...but, as soon as I step beyond my comfort zone and extend myself out to a situation where I'm willing to get real and vulnerable, certainly I am going to combat thoughts of insecurity when I talk to my Jesus in front of you.  OUR Jesus, I mean.  

Prayer is really intimate.  Prayer is an unbelievable gift that I am so grateful for.  I honestly don't know how people make it through life without it, because that would just completely debilitate me.  But, if there is anyone I completely strip down the facade for, it's Jesus (cause, newsflash, He already knows everything anyway, right?)  But, I'm just me to Jesus.  I'm not "holier me" or "super-put-together me" or "perfect me" or "extra-religious me".  Nope - I'm still just ME, and Jesus wants me - hot mess wailing and all.

THIS is what I love about listening to Matilda pray.  That raw, frustrated, completely honest and sometimes irrational warrior of life.  Cause, if I could be so blunt, sometimes there are moments when I know I need to get on my knees and talk to God and I find my insides punching and screaming and refusing to obey.  I want comfort and MY way and when it's convenient for ME.  I'm a ridiculous child.

But, God wants to hear that too.  He wants it all.  So, I buckle at my knees in awe of His grace and patience with me, and I give in with relentless gratitude and get reminded of my NEED for Him once more.  And then I just barf up the truth to Him and He makes sense of my words and listens to my voice as if it was a melodious symphony of worship.  

Prayer will never come out perfect.  I'm not perfect.  THAT'S THE POINT.  My imperfection and need for Jesus reminds me of my longing to be in relationship with Him, which ignites my desire for prayer and my gratitude for the restoration I feel when that need is met...which reminds me of my need...and so forth.  

That's the power of Christ.  Only He can turn my whining into worship and my pouting into praise.  And that's a routine worth sticking with.  Amen!

Psalm 8:2 (The Message)

Nursing infants gurgle choruses about you; 

toddlers shout the songs 

That drown out enemy talk,    

and silence atheist babble.

Tug-of-war

I often play tug-of-war with my willpower.  Do you know what I mean?

Take, for instance, something I want, divide it by two, and then make a case for each side of the argument.  Let's say I want to feel better about my body.  (This is true, of course, as it probably is for many of you out there - those of you who are not robots, anyway).  When I divide this thought in two, suddenly I see jogging and working out and sports bras and spandex and tighter abs on one side, and on the other side is some delectable cupcake or pasta dish or the sedentary state of relaxing in front of Downton Abbey for the night with a lovely goblet of Merlot.  And just like that, I'm at war with myself.  Whammo-kablammo, I'm at odds.

I hate this feeling.  I am a gal who likes to know what I like, go after it, earn it/master it/consume it, and then move on to something new to conquer.  Of course, there's no "conquering" life and the beauty/trouble with it all is that the awesome part to life is the ongoing challenge of it all.  New lessons, more improvements, inexhaustible ways to limitlessly expand our horizons.  And yet, so often I find myself collapsing on the couch watching TV and trying to escape it all.  My goodness, this life is full of confusion.

Am I the only one who is just tired?

Okay, maybe I am.  But, I doubt it.  It seems to me that most of what I hear from my peers is about how relentless this world is getting, how most of us are just trying our hardest and feeling tired, and how we are all needing as much encouragement as we can get our hands on.  I can't be alone in this, and thank goodness, I'm not!

Still, my self-war wages on.  My wants combat my resources.  My resources combat my strengths.  My strengths combat my willpower.  And so, I gravitate towards the path of least resistance.  I manufacture excuses to fit my agenda.  I manipulate my own ideas for what is "good enough" for my purpose.  And, sadly (too many times) I am complacent with the thought that my life is perfect being nice and mediocre.  This is comfortable.  I can be this.  This is fine.

But, then again, I've always been one to resist comfort.  I like stretching my legs outside of the box, dipping my toes in new waters, taking the road less travelled (sometimes completely unmarked!)  Are you with me?

I'm seeking some radical anti-self-war-changes for my life.  "Radical" might be a bit of an overstatement.  I bought a new dress today and that was pretty radical for me...so, don't get any crazy ideas here that I'm about to tell you I'm going vegan (I'm not) or shaving my head (never gonna happen).

No, no, it doesn't really have to do with any particular vice or item at all.  Instead...this is the new and radical THOUGHT that popped in my head today and it sprung up in my brain like a geyser of self-reflection that swamped my muddy tug-o-war right out of the water:

It's not about giving in to what I want.  It's about wanting what I already have to give.

I've juggled this around my brain for a little while now.  I've applied it to my battles and it's starting to slowly de-bunk all these illusions I might have about myself.  It's not about giving in to the cupcake, it's about choosing to be grateful for the body I'm already living this life in and caring for it out of the love I have for it's purpose.  It's not about giving in to the self-loathing for the size I wish my thighs were, it's about learning to appreciate that these thighs walk me around to get me to where I'm supposed to be.
And so forth.

So, here I am, nearly one month deep into this new year.  I didn't necessarily enter in with any grand resolutions.  I am embracing 2013 and all it has for me, the trials and triumphs that are to come.  But, I'm giving up this war on myself before it starts up again.  I'm waving the white flag and ready to simply give rather than give up.

What do I have to give? is really the question I should be asking myself.  And sometimes, I need to be okay with admitting that the answer might be "nothing more".  This is okay.  This is wonderful, really.  This is necessary and honest.

At the end of a hard day when I'm a wife, a mother of two, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a cook, a writer, a maid, and a zillion other things (including a gripe) it has to be all I can do to collapse on the couch and watch Downton Abbey.  That's okay.  Sometimes.  But, I also need to grow up and recognize that filling my soul with the right ingredients (time, people, and opportunities, etc.) is providing me the resources I truly need to become all I really want, and all God wants for my life.

The only thing standing between my intention and my ambition is my ACTION...not my motivation.  

I tend to mistake lack of motivation for deliberation, and not for what it really is:  evasion.  (This is another way to say - stop making excuses.)

Okay, everybody, is this starting to sound like a pep talk or what?
So, what is your ambition?  What do you have to give?  What self-war are you waging that you need to diffuse with gratitude?  These are the questions I'm asking myself this year.

This is going to be a great year for embracing some new ideas for myself.  Maybe I'll try cooking escargot or dye my hair red.  Maybe I'll hit a new writing goal or introduce myself to a new friend I'm intimidated by.  Maybe I'll confront a fear or forgive someone for something I don't even know I hold a grudge against right now. Maybe I have no idea why I wrote all of this and I'm super nervous about throwing it out there, but I'm believing that for some reason God used these hands of mine to type all this because one of you out there was supposed to hear it and I'm putting my trust in Him that it will find its way to you.  Maybe?

Maybe that's what I have to give tonight.  And maybe that's all that matters.

xoxo

Dance Pardy

It was only a matter of time.  A girl can try on only so many tutus before she starts to get ideas in her head.  Dancing ideas, that is.  So, a couple weeks ago when Matilda (3) matter-of-factly informed me that her life vocation had been chosen, I sighed and listened intently with much anticipation.

"Mom-mom.  I am a bee-ree-na.  I go to dance class?"

Dance class.  A ballerina.  Oh boy, here we go.

This venture is such a paradox for me as a parent!  On one hand, I have gut-wrenchingly-adorable visions of pink tulle and toe shoes and sweet buns knotted atop her little head (when that hair finally sprouts, anyway) and little recitals that we can invite our begrudged childless friends to attend.  On the other, I have angst-ridden-jumping-to-ridiculous-future-hypothetical-quandaries that include thoughts of competition, malnourishment, expensive costumes, schedule-burdened weekends, and a host of other delusions that my little three-year-old daughter has no idea to even begin worrying about.  Whew.

Of course, it's my glory and privilege as a parent to want to and get to offer her as much as possible that will take her in the direction to find her calling, her purpose, her joy.  It's also my honor and opportunity to set healthy boundaries, realistic expectations, encourage resiliency, and esteem her efforts no matter the outcome.  No pressure, right?  I mean, all this and I have to check myself that I'm not vicariously placing my own ambitions or shortfalls on her shoulders as well.  Right.  Did I mention she is only three?

What am I getting myself into?

Nevertheless, in the end, that pleading and precocious smile got the better of me and by the end of the week I had booked her for a trial ballet/tap combo class that she could try out for free and see how she liked it before committing to anything too time consuming or expensive.  Within minutes of our arrival, we were hooked.  Maybe it was the shiny wooden floor, maybe it was the princess castle mural, maybe it was the tiny little tap shoes I tied around her ankles, or maybe it was simply the pure elation on my child's face...but, whatever it was, I knew I'd succumb to this adorable new world of little dancers.

I can't help but fear for my child's wants.  It's such a precarious balance, right?  I mean, I don't know any girl who didn't (at one point in her life) want to be a dancer.  They are beautiful.  And, if you've ever seen a live ballet recital or production of the Nutcracker, you know that these creatures are extreme to the average human.  They are lithe, they are fierce, they are lovely.  Dancers (amazingly good ones, anyway) are held to an entirely other-worldly standard and revered for it.  It's awesome and scary all at once.

Of course, that's not exactly what I'm throwing my three-year-old into, I understand that.  She was thrilled to be doing jumping jacks with scarves and learning what a "pliè" was.  Simple, sweet, innocent, and fun.  She absolutely absorbed every second of it and swallowed up the information like it was cotton candy.  It made her happy.  That made me happy.  And it was all about her exploring something she innately liked and was curiously drawn to for no other reason than finding joy out of the discovery of it.  Awesome!  That's worth pursuing.

We stopped at the "Discount Dance Warehouse" before heading home and made our tiny investment in the cutest little ballet slippers and black patent leather tap shoes you've ever seen.  I'm so happy to be able to provide simple joys like this for my little girl.  I think of all the children of the world who aren't so spoiled and days like this remind me that these are precious moments gifted to me.

Who am I to deserve to witness such joy on my child's face?  What a gift!

Sometimes that's hard to remember when my daughter is whining incessantly or my 18-month-old throws a chicken nugget at my face while I'm just trying to purchase said-adorable-shoes.  But, the reality is that I'm living in a place and time where my daughters are incredibly blessed and I get to be in on it.  I get to bear the responsibility of issuing some of that blessing.  I get to reap its benefits.  And, 5-6-7-8...I'm not going to take that for granted.


Jazz hands.  Thank you, Jesus.

There's no telling how long Matilda will want to be a ballerina.  By next week she could be asking to trade in her slippers for snow skis or cowboy boots.  Maybe she will find her niche right away and catapult into stardom.  Maybe she will struggle her whole life to find a talent that suits her best or makes her a living or provides her the contentment she seeks.  Maybe she will be good at many things and hate them all.  Maybe she will terrible at many things but love it anyway.  There's just no telling.

The exciting (albeit, daunting) thing about being her parent is that I get to pray her through this roller coaster of life.  I do my best to buckle her in safely, and then trust that the ultimate Engineer has constructed the road ahead to her best advantage.  I will doubt it.  I will fear it.  I will question it.  This, I am sure.  But, I will do my utmost to remain there, by her, blessed to just be within the blessing of her life.

I might not know too much about the days and trials to come as my girls grow up and discover how their talents, strengths, and desires all match up (or don't).  It's just such a gift to be able to witness it all.  And, until then, I will enjoy these fleeting moments of watching my eldest merrily fumble her way through first position and tap her way to happiness.  I will do my best to count these blessing with each 8-count of her little routines.  And that's enough for me to keep the beat to for right now.

Let the Dance Pardy begin.