Comfort Food

I didn't know what to write about tonight. I had a few ideas floating in my brain, but nothing was sticking out like it usually was. I pray every day to the ultimate Creator to grant me one more ounce of creativity to pour some words onto a page/blog for just one more week...every week...and just use me however He sees fit. It might seem fickle to some, overly dramatic to others - but, again - here we all are reading these words, so it must be working somehow, right? :)

I ponder on topics during the brief moments of quiet I get during the day...so, like, maybe right before I drift off to sleep or when I'm brushing my teeth or something. The point being - if I relied on the quiet moments of my day to be productive, nothing would ever get done. Enter: Holy Spirit. If He didn't interrupt my brain when I least expect it, I would never have anything to write about.

So, just mere moments ago, I was nursing my sweet baby Daphne to sleep, while watching Matilda on the video monitor to her room. The Pardy Man had to work late tonight, so I was rocking bedtime duty solo tonight. Since he is usually the hero who puts Matilda to sleep (stories, prayers, songs - the works...I know, I know, he's amazing) she was less than impressed to see the understudy for tonight's routine.

After multiple songs, stories, hugs, kisses, one more song and maybe another peck on the forehead - it was just time to say goodnight. The baby was doing the throw-the-head-back-rub-her-eyes-while-yawning bit, and I knew she couldn't last much longer. So, though I knew it was the last thing Matilda wanted, I kissed her goodnight and walked out. I got about one step before she threw herself down into what can only be described as "nuclear-mayhem" level of tantrum mode. Screaming, crying and gnashing of teeth, followed by the pitiful and drawn out "mom-mommmm" just to add a little spice of guilt on top of it all. Sigh.

I took Daphne to our room and nursed her (her crib is still in our room) and watched the video monitor with a pit in my stomach. Ugh. Even after all these months it still kills me to watch my child throw a fit. I know she is being a little naughty, but she just wants me. She wants to be held and coddled and have her hair stroked until her eyelids are too heavy to hold up any longer. But, you know what, she needs to go to bed. And, knowing her, I knew that after she got tired of hanging from the doorknob (no, I mean, literally this kid had two feet on the door and held her bodyweight up by holding on to the doorknob only) she would succumb to her senses and find her way back to bed.

Sure enough. Minutes later, still in a fit of rage and exhaustion, she pried herself off the door, tip-toed just out of view of the monitor for a moment, and then calmly climbed back into bed...Cinderella in tow. Yes, her latest obsession, reading Cinderella each night before bed. It really is super sweet. In fact, it's my old edition of the book from my childhood, so I am flooded with memories each time I read it to her (well, each time until maybe the twelfth time for the night...whew).

She didn't even try to read it. She just cuddled up with her sweet storybook, hit her glowworm one more time, and settled down as if nothing had ever happened. Comfort. Comfort in Cinderella.

Some people might look at this scenario and think that after having cried out to the one source she truly wanted comfort from (me) she finally settled for something "less"...that since mommy didn't come running, she looked to herself for answers and thought of an idea that would work in a gip. But, that's not the whole story. See, earlier in the day I experienced a similar series of events. You got it: nap time. But, I kept telling Matilda that if she wanted to, she could bring Cinderella to bed with her. She could read it in bed since I had to go put the baby down for her nap as well. I wanted to set her up to be prepared...not abandon her and leave her hanging with no where to turn.

Now, you start to see the analogy...

In that moment when I saw her on the monitor as she snuggled up with her little book and found total comfort...it hit me: Where do I find comfort? I would like to say that ultimately I do turn to Christ for answers. I pray to a God who can give me the peace that surpasses all understanding. I cry out to my ultimate source.

But, what about when it feels like He's not there? How do I feed myself in times of starvation- when it appears that my cries go unheard? He has not abandoned me. He has not left. (He's not even watching from a video monitor 15 feet away.) And He hasn't left me unprepared with no where to find guidance.

I'll be real honest here. I am not always motivated to read the Bible. I grew up in a Christian home where the Word was read often and unashamedly. It has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. But, there are still days I hear a passage or read a verse and it might as well be in a foreign language. There are times I will open up to a book and just flat out think "WHY is this in the Bible?" There are a lot of days when I will hear someone quote Oprah or I will see another tidbit on pinterest and think "Now that applies to my life" when I can go months without feeling that sensation after reading the Bible.

But, that's the tricky (and super awesome) thing about God. His Word seeps into you. It nourishes you from the inside. It comforts you in times of trouble. And when you can't remember "how that verse went?" or you are sitting in church feeling bad you have no idea "where Hosea is?" or you start to blush when you quote something in front of your friends and then can't remember "what's the reference?" and you wonder why you ever brought up the fact that you were a Biblical Studies minor in college....welllll, that's where the Holy Spirit comes in...and a whole bunch of grace showers over you and you feel a little healthy thing called conviction and desire to want to know Him more and do better and be better. And you take comfort in the fact that God knows your needs even before you have the struggle.

Where am I finding my comfort? What am I feeding my soul?

We all remember the trend of Chicken Soup for the Soul and how you probably read it in your grandma's bathroom or someone got it for you as a graduation gift at some point. I remember thinking "Chicken Soup? That'll leave me hungry again in twenty minutes!"

Indeed. Nice little tidbits - stories, anecdotes, maybe a little devotional that encouraged you and filled you up with enough joy for the day to treat your neighbor nicely. You can still find Chicken Soup everywhere you look today - you can follow Oprah on twitter, get an app that will give you uplifting quotes, read your friends' status updates (especially that one that constantly posts quotes from what you can only assume is an actual edition of Chicken Soup gathering dust in her grandma's bathroom)...and it's fine, it's all nice and good to get a little injection of joy... But, it's not going to feed you for long.

Let's face it: Oprah is broth. Those little quotes we want to cross-stitch on pillows we see everywhere are nothing but sad little chunks of soggy vegetables that only taste delicious if we haven't eaten in days. And who wants to starve themselves just so you can slurp up salty leftovers when you have the full menu right at your fingertips.

Here I am, Lord, give me meat and potatoes.

I want to turn to God in times of crisis. I want to desire His Word when I think I need it the least. I want to be filled up on the good days so I have plenty in my belly when the hard times hit. I want to find comfort in the only sustenance that will last me this side of heaven. I want to curl up and fall fast asleep with a full belly, yet hungry for more.

I know I can't depend on my feelings of motivation to keep me in His Word. I know that feelings change and I'm a silly human who gets selfish and busy and will totally ignore the pop-up reminders to myself to get in the Word (hey, you do what you need to do). But, I don't want to forget the source. I don't want to get wrapped up in Facebook or Pinterest so long that I don't stop and read THE WORD OF GOD...I mean, right? How silly are we that we can get giddy over finding a new way to braid hair on the internet and yet I roll my eyes that half of the book of Numbers was ever even written (I mean, He wasn't kidding when He named it Numbers).

The time has come to be honest, put down the iPhone, and just start reading. When I was like 12 or 13, I will never ever forget that my dad was trying to get me to read the Bible. I felt lost and discouraged and I think my parents didn't have any words left to give me. I kept giving my dad excuses about where to start or what book didn't make sense, etc. Finally, he turned to me and said "Just read it. Just. Read. It."

It doesn't matter where you start. You are hungry. And if you're not hungry now, you will be soon enough. Maybe Psalms is a nice appetizer. Or Luke, a reasonable entree. Skip straight to Phillipians for dessert for all I care. We all take our greatest comfort from the most unlikely of foods. Just don't skimp on the portions.

Bon appetit.

Playground Goggles

"Swide, mom-mom? Pwease?"

When your toddler stares at you with those little Bambi eyes and pleads with you to take her to the park to go down the slide, well, it is pretty darn hard to resist. As my husband reminds me - this season of life is short-lived, when the answer to her desire might be so simple and within our grasp (though perhaps just out of range for our energy level at the moment).

Every time we go to the park, I think "We should totally come to the park more often!" and then, every time we leave the park and she throws herself on the ground in a rage of despair thinking she will never return again, I think "We're never coming back to the park!" Whew.

But, the other day, she got me at just the right time. Both girls had taken their naps (you know, the usual 30 minute-er) and were ready to either destroy the living room (again) or take out their aggression on the playground. So, to the park we went!

Just two words: Wanna play?

And the afternoon was turned into an adventure.

We are super blessed to live across the street from a park, but oftentimes we are deterred from going there simply because the kids that play there are too old or rough and might potentially knock over a toddler who's bound and determined to go down the tunnel slide eight thousand times in one afternoon. So, we totally lucked out this particular day when we arrived and only saw two other boys who were completely disinterested in us. Yay!

As Matilda made her rounds (rope ladder, slide, stairs, slide, ladder, slide, stairs, tunnel, slide...) I observed the other two boys on the playground. While my attention was primarily on ensuring Matilda's every-3-minute-rescue-from-certain-death attack of the playground equipment, I couldn't help but catch myself listening to these other two little fellows.

They were as different as different could be. While they were both about the same age (maybe 6) one was rough and rowdy - he had blonde, spiky hair and blue jeans; and, the other was proper and polite - he had squirrelly dark hair and wore a navy prep school uniform, cardigan and all. The rowdy blonde kid was hopping all around the equipment, testing the limitations of every rope or slide, all the while inviting the shy boy to join him. While the quiet fellow would timidly follow along, he awkwardly mimicked the same moves in a much less suave fashion.

I couldn't help but think that each boy fit a very obvious stereotype we see as adults. It was almost as if I was witnessing a flashback sequence from Saved by the Bell where Screech and Zack Morris meet for the first time. I'm telling you, it was so strange. I just kept thinking - "If you two were ten years older, you wouldn't be caught dead hanging out together!"

Now, maybe this all sounds super judgmental and superficial. I know I'm canning these poor kids into a stereotype that they certainly could outgrow or not even be close too becoming - but, it was so striking in the moment that it couldn't be ignored. In a world where bullying is making the evening news, these are the kinds of stereotypes the children of today are experiencing. And here they are, two future oddballs, the jock and the nerd...absolutely having a blast on the playground.

Better yet - these new little buddies had JUST met. I overheard the rowdy boy's dad say that they were just visiting from out of town, that they'd never been to this park before - so, these two had no reason to want to necessarily play together. No reason, except the only reason you need when you are six: to play.

These two opposites possessed all they needed to have a wonderful afternoon: joy! They didn't care what time it was, who was watching, what so-n-so had just posted on Facebook, or even that dinner time was just around the corner. They just wanted to PLAY! And the fact that there was another kid there - any kid at all - was such a triumphant bonus in each of their proverbial books, that it didn't matter if he was different or half-alien or growing a tail - anybody can become a buddy when you just want to play.

They both had their playground goggles on. Totally blind to the future potential that this other person might not like them. Completely unaware of their background or differences or home situation. Having no idea what they believe in or how expensive their shoes may be. Absolutely not an inkling in their head of how the rest of the day might pan out beyond the next couple minutes of focusing this ridiculous task of pretending this slide is a surfboard over an ocean full of zombie sharks. No guard up. No preconceived notions. No caution or judgment. No doubt that a good time won't be had by all. Just two words: Wanna play? And the afternoon was turned into an adventure.

Somewhere around age 10 or 12 I think I lost my playground goggles. Probably on the bus to school one day when I decided to not sit next to the smelly girl with the dirty sneakers. Or I may have left them in the locker room at recess after I got told I couldn't be a pretend cheerleader with two other "prettier" girls. Or maybe I broke them on purpose the day I made a joke in the lunchroom that got everyone laughing, but left one girl crying and alone.

Growing up is hard stuff. Nobody does it "right". And every day we have the choice as adults to make a conscious effort to step in the direction of something that used to come to us totally unconsciously, something that used to be second nature, something that used to be as easy as smiling: making friends.

These boys were so carefree and funny. Their joy was only interrupted by the time constraints their parents reminded them of. And, when they had to depart, and go their separate ways, they each took with them little memories of a happy afternoon.

That day, so did I. And, along with the happiness, a new pair of goggles to remind me how to look at the world. A new perspective to give others the benefit of the doubt. A new lesson in remaining transparent. A new insight on loving through the simplest and smallest of actions.

Thanks, boys. I sure hope you never lose your goggles.

Hunger Games

Baby food. (What, not the "hunger games" you had in mind?) Okay, so maybe we aren't publicly displaying a contest of the wills for survival of the fittest...but, there are definitely times I feel like we are fighting to the death to get a spoonful of the latest pureed delicacy down the gullet of my sweet, ornery baby girl.

Ugh. Baby food. This is the absolute worst stage of eating during the first year. (And you thought breastfeeding was hard?) Maybe there's not an easy stage of eating at all the first 12 months or so...but, I'd argue that at least breastfeeding offers the "supplies" at hand (literally) and can be summoned anytime, anywhere, if need be. Certainly it has its own challenges, but at least for myself, once we got the hang of it, nursing my baby became just another obstacle for my hands to overcome while multitasking thirteen other chores at once. (Or didn't you know you could nurse, text, put on mascara and fix lunch all at the same time prior to having a baby?)

But once they hit 6-ish months, babies exit the "exclusively breastfed" club and journey towards the table...one small bib for babies, one giant headache for parentkind. There are now plenty of books out there about what to first feed your babies, how to make baby food, when and where to introduce them to this or that. So much information, in fact, that is seems overwhelming and somehow - even though this is my second baby - I always seem to find myself staring at her, screaming with hunger, and thinking "What do you need????"

I can get so wrapped up in the "How many ounces?" or the "Is this organic?" or "Has it been 3-5 days since you last tried a new food and did not have an unusual or abnormal reaction to it?" (whew) that I forget to just hug on her and take my time...and maybe even skip a meal to just nurse her again until she is calmed down enough to actually eat from a spoon (and not just sword fight with it, flinging green bean mush all over my newly vacuumed rug).

We started with the rice gruel (er, I mean cereal). After two weeks of using the stupid plastic spoon like a crankshaft prying open her little vice of a mouth, I finally snuck in some applesauce and then bananas. She would purse her lips in such utter disgust, you'd think I needed a three-digit code to bust into that vault! Days went on and still she would leave each feeding more covered in the food than nourished by it.

Finally, finally, by trial and error one day, I stumbled upon the secret that unlocked the vault. The little princess desired her food warmed up. Are ya kidding me? Seriously? I'm afraid it is so. And it's not like I was feeding it to her cold in the first place! But, ridiculous and particular as it may sound - Daphne knew what she wanted and she wanted it HOT.

Ludicrous? Maybe so, but it worked. And now, even halfway through a little bowl of carrots and corn, if it gets too cool for her she will purse those precious little lips tighter and tighter until it is warmed up again. Good. Grief.

Daphne, you win. There are some battles I am willing to...microwave. I know it is so silly. But, after one goes to the trouble of blending and pureeing, of pouring into trays and freezing, of thawing and serving...all the while ensuring the responsibility and care for two little humans...well, by golly if I won't go ahead and nuke your gruel-du-jour and make sure you get your belly full. So there. I surrender.

As my toddler Matilda says, "Whatta messsss".

Indeed.

Daphne, you might get me to bend over backwards to get you to eat; but, remember that I'm still going to snuggle you close when you nurse. I'm still going to kiss your cheeks even when they are stained with purple prunes. I'm still going to remind you that I'm in charge by wiping your chunky little fingers after you've smeared them with sweet potatoes (and then, most likely, rubbed your eyes in weary confusion). And I'm still going to take sweet pictures of you while you are covered in peas to look back on this time fondly whether I'm beyond frustrated at the moment or not.

So...maybe this is a win/win after all.

Instagram Ever After

*Thankful Friday is now THANKFUL THURSDAY! A shift in my writing schedule and a bit more alliteration...what more could you ask for?

Having two daughters, one is quickly forced to decide which camp to join: those who embrace princesses; or, those who do not. It's true. You can either look Cinderella, Ariel, Belle, Tiana, Snow White, Aurora, Rapunzel and Tinker Bell (who, really, let's be honest, is an "Honorable Mention" at best) in the eye and turn your back on all that is pink and glittery...or, you can choose to accept them with open arms...doe eyes and all.

Yes, I'm afraid the Pardy home has slowly but surely come to be taken over by all that is frilly and fair. Sure, it started off innocently enough...Matilda got sick at the same time that Beauty and the Beast came on the Disney Channel that night. Tangled just happened to be on sale around her birthday. But, now, well...tutus have started to outnumber crayons in our house. Tiaras are starting to look "normal" with pajamas. And I'll admit I was a little excited myself when our neighbors let us borrow their copy of Cinderella. (She really is lovely).

Ah, fairytales. That's right, I'm thankful for fairytales!

When I was growing up, I was all about it. I loved everything girly, princessy, showy, romantic, pink, glittery - you name it. I loved it. I could not get enough. I had the Barbie dreamhouse and car and everything. I watched The Little Mermaid until I knew it by heart. I dreamt of my Prince Charming and planned my wedding and named our babies and absolutely, completely, never worried about wrinkles or mortgages or being disappointed. I was pretty sure I would grow up to look just like Malibu Barbie, knew I would marry a Prince Eric, and certain that I would have children more adorable than any animation could attempt (hey, two outta three ain't bad?).

We young and crazy Instagramming parents want

to filter our reality through our nostalgia.

Then, of course, I grew up and got a dose of "reality". I was told somewhere along the way that I should lower my expectations and gauge my optimism. I was reminded that marriage was "work" and life was full of tough choices (and it wasn't choosing between my voice or my legs, a la Ariel style). That if I didn't hunker down and put my nose to the grindstone, that if I didn't stick with something I didn't like, that if I didn't feel the friction against the life that I really wanted then I was expecting too much and setting myself up for heartache. I could have it all, just not all at once. I could achieve great things, just not yet maybe. "See the forest for the trees," they might say, while handing me another self-help book on how to deal with depression. Yikes.

Women in my peer group have been greatly forewarned about exposing their daughters to fairytales. We've been told how Barbie is a horrible example of self-image and that Prince Charming is unattainable. We've been plagued with the idea that filling our child's head with images and dreams of the perfect life will only set her up for constant disappointment and heartache... So, why do I still get giddy at the thought of seeing Cinderella again? Why do I giggle at Matilda in a tutu and tiara? And why does she innately just love love love it so much?

We love fairytales. Just admit it. And if you can't, then I'm about to burst your hipster-bubble. Instagram is the new Cinderella. And we L-O-V-E it.

Pause.

For those few out there (Hi, Mom!) who might not be familiar with Instagram or apps like it, here ya go: it's an app that let's us smartphone-savvy-young-hipster-type-kids take our little phone pics and then filter them to look slick and cool. Usually with an "oh, that looks just like when your father took that picture of you and our now-dead-dog Coco in the backyard with the old Polaroid" effect on it. Something old is new again. It also makes non-photographer-types, like myself, feel like we can post a photo on Facebook that is worthy of acknowledgement. Also- pretty much any pic you see on this blog has been Instagrammed. So there, now you know.

UnPause.

Instagram is a total illusion. It can turn a simple trip to Starbucks with a screaming toddler look like the coolest, most chill, sweetest little afternoon outing known to man. It can make someone's weekend away with kids that never slept appear to be the brochure-like escapade you've been wishing for. We're all just a couple Instagrammed photos away from wanting someone else's life. Someone else's fairytale.

We browse through Facebook or Twitter, letting our eye catch on the latest Nashville'd or Earlybird'd or (my personal favorite) Hefe'd photo and want to see what that person has been up to - and how can we be more like them? It stirs in us a motivation, a creative knack, perhaps, at times, the occasional longing for more. But, not unreasonably. No, no. Before you start getting the notion that I'm down on Instagram - remember...I'm all for princesses!

Embrace the illusion, people. The world is bad enough.

We young and crazy Instagramming parents want to filter our reality through our nostalgia. I want my daughter to keep her expectations high! I want her to wait for her Prince Charming!

In a world full of Lindsay Lohans, Kim Kardashians, and an actual human being who goes by the singular name "Snookie"...I think we could use a bit of raising the bar around here. In a world where genocide, nuclear war, and who is winning The Voice are all on the same news broadcast (seriously?) I think we can let down our guard when it comes to allowing our little girls to be (I'll say it!) little girls! Yay!

Sure, there will come a time (hopefully gradually) when the truth of the world around us will be exposed and my perpetually cheerful child will start to see the cracks in her once-ideal view of the world. I'm sure somewhere along the way she will begin to realize that a tutu does, in fact, not go with every outfit. I'm certain that one day she will not be swayed into using the potty based on the character printed on her underwear. And I'm unfortunately confident that she will figure out the difference between cartoon-perfect endings and the fact that most likely several of her future friends will come from broken homes.

But, I'm in no rush to get to "reality". I'm just hoping to help her change it a little bit before she gets there.