Birthday Eve

            

            May 12, 2014…. There I was, 216 months pregnant. Big and hormonal, sweaty and not giving any craps about anything, holding one baby on my hip and another in my gut, looking like the red-neck woman’s pregnant best friend. Even my toddler couldn’t believe I was still pregnant. He was supposed to have been here days ago, months really, if you take into account the size of my watermelon-esque mid-section. He wasn’t supposed to wait this long, get this big! How in the world is this even going to happen tomorrow? I mean, he has to be the size of an NFL linebacker by now. And, I don’t know much about labor and all, but I’m pretty sure linebackers don’t come out all that gracefully.

            I’m 100% terrified, to be honest. I’m one half terrified of him coming out, and the other half terrified that he’ll stay in…. Scratch that. Maybe it’s more like 40/60. Either way, there’s some serious fear going on. I keep crying. And then I puke a little. And then I double over for 45 -90 seconds, and then I cry some more. I haven’t slept in days. Literally. I mean, I have not slept. Here’s hoping the fourth night’s a charm? Although, I don’t see that happening with all cramping and puking and contracting and crying going on.

            But the doctor said we’re headed towards a c-section if this baby refuses to come on his own. For some reason, he just won’t drop. She’s worried about the cord. I’m worried about the cord. But the only thing I know to do is to walk. Well, waddle. I’m going to waddle a trench down my driveway if it’s the last thing I do. And since I think I’m dying, it very well may be the last thing I do.

            Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Quick pee break while near the house.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Another pee break. Rest ankles for a minute while I contract.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Pee. I almost made it to the toilet, too. Wipe every sweaty inch of my body with a paper towel.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle half-way up the drive. Collapse in the drive. Contract for a minute. Roll around for a while because I’ve fallen and cannot get up. Cry. Decide I will deliver the baby at home, in the drive. Decide I don’t want the neighbors to see my vagina. Roll some more. A gust of wind and fairies help me up. Waddle up the drive. (Pee….dang. Not even close.) Decide to stay indoors where it’s safe.

            It was finally time to sleep. I was amazed that my husband could snore so loudly on a night like tonight. Didn’t he know that I was expecting any second? Wasn’t he worried at all? I laid awake, gripping my stop watch, fearing that if I let the contractions get too close together, we’d never make it to Pittsburgh in time. What if something went wrong on the drive down? Oh, no…. (this is where things started getting gross, so I’ll spare you the details, but apparently a woman’s body “rids itself of all things when baby is on his way”). I finished ridding and then took a shower to rid myself of the ridding remnants. And there was husband, still sawing logs with his chainsaw snout. But 3:30 a.m. was go time, and go we did.

            May 13, 2014…..I continued to rid myself the entire way to the hospital and throughout the endless hours of labor that followed. Since I had already been in labor for the three previous days, complete with regular contractions and all, I was basically a pro. I did my breaths, I spread my legs for every Tom, Dick, and Harry wearing a doctor’s coat, and I prayed for him to drop. But that’s when his heartbeat went away. And everything seemed to fade a bit. The pain grew small and the doctor’s grew quieter as the heartbeat in my ears thudded louder and louder.

            “I need you to flip, now,” said the nurse to a woman who hasn’t been able to roll over independently for at least two months. My husband, my nurse, and my momentous girth got me flipped in a colossal team effort. An effort we exerted every 15 minutes or so, each time we lost the heartbeat. We did this for hours. I couldn’t see straight anymore. Baby wouldn’t drop anymore. And the doctor’s couldn’t wait anymore. It was time.

            Thirty-minutes later, despite my horrible experience in the OR (something I don’t even want to allow myself to re-tell, just in case there are any pregnant mamas-to-be out there), he was here. Wyatt Patrick Costa had finally arrived. The poor little man had been twisted inside of me to the point that his head was stuck and unable to move down. I would still be pregnant to this day had my doctor not made that hard call for me.

            He was so big….so long! He looked like he needed a good steak. But since all I had to offer was milk, he settled for a liquid diet.

            I was so sick afterwards that I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t experience his skin on mine or take in his tiny little features or plant kisses on his long fingers. I’ve always felt sad - cheated that I missed out on the best moment of my life.

            But today, on the eve of my son’s first birthday, I realize that I didn’t miss out on the best moment of my life. Because every day with him is my new best moment. I constantly caress his soft skin as he’s cuddled up against my chest. And I admire those big, beautiful, brown eyes and memorize the heartwarming tone of his laughter day in and day out. And I have planted no less than a million kisses on those long fingers, tiny toes, and every other kissable inch of his perfect little frame. His conception was a miracle, his delivery was a miracle, and his smile reminds me that today is a miracle.

            I love you, Wyatt, with all my heart. Thank you for giving me a new best moment each and every day.

           

Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout The Birds And The Bees

     "Mommy, what is sex?"

     I don't know about you, but when I envisioned this question making it's way to our house, I didn't anticipate the words Mommy and sex to be in the same question! Seven years old has to be too early for this, right? Although, it's not like I live with my head in the sand. I knew the time was drawing near when someone in my house would pop the inevitable sex question.... I had just hoped it would be once they were done with bed wetting and all.
     But ready or not, the question was out there with nary a warning or hint of its coming. There I stood, innocently pushing the baby in his swing - Taylor on the swing next to us and Cameron playing in the dirt at our feet. And there it was. "Mommy, what is sex?" Taylor's Minnie Mouse voice echoed out. I think that even the baby choked on his thumb at that moment. Cameron's head popped up and he immediately stood to attention, quickly forgetting whatever muddy contraption he'd been constructing just moments before.
     I gasped out a few Ums and Hmmms and Wells.... enough to write a book on How NOT to answer the sex question to your children. Finally, I created a sentence.

     "So, where did you hear that word, Taylor?"
     "All the kids at school say it."
     Stupid public school with its stupid sex-talking first graders....
     "And..... um, what do they kids at school say about it?"
     "They say that people do sex all the time."
     Phew.... if she's still calling it "doing sex", she can't know that much, right?
     "And what else do they say about it?"
     "Um.... they say that you have to take your clothes off."
     Sweet Jesus.
   
     This is where Cameron, in all of his third grade knowledge, piped in.

     "Nah-uh, Taylor. You don't have to take all your clothes off, just your pants."
     Taylor looked at him with annoyance and back to me, the Queen of great answers.
     "Mom, you don't really have to take your pants off to do sex, do you?"
     Ok. Moment of truth. Tell my young children the anatomically-correct version of sex or.... make up a crazy story about people doing sex with their pants on and babies magically appearing in cribs 9 months later.
     "So here's the thing.... people.... adults.... when they're married.... they want to have babies, you see? And when they want to have babies, they do a thing called sex."
   
     I looked at them to see if this was enough to answer their questions, to see if I really had to go on or not. They stared back at me with confused eyes, eager for clarification.
     Rats.
   
     "Um, ok. And when the mom and dad have sex, that's how the mom gets pregnant and can have a baby. Do you get it?"
     "Mom," Taylor interjected. "Do they take their pants off?"
     Good grief.
     "Yes. They do take their pants off."
     "But not their underwear, right, Mom?" Cameron added with utter certainty that he was correct.
     "Actually, they do have to take their underwear off.... it's just how it has to work."
     Both kids stared at me with mouths hanging open, disgust creeping into their eyes.
     "But Mom.... you had a baby," Taylor said in shock.
     Oh no. Ooohhhh no.
     She literally whispered the next question, I kid you not.
     "Mom, did you take your underwear off with Daddy???"
   
     I could see now that our relationship was forever going to be changed. No matter which way I played this, she was right. I DID have a baby. Her beloved Daddy and I had done sex... pantless... in the very house where she rests her head at night. And every single time our bedroom door will close from this point forward, she will assume we are doing sex all over again.
     I started to feel very warm. And uncomfortable. Warm and uncomfortable.
   
     "Um, that's how it works. If you want to have a baby, you have to take your underwear off. I don't make the rules, it's just how it has to happen."
     "Do you have to take your shirts off, too?" I felt like Cameron was staring at me like I was no longer the Mother he'd grown to know and love.
     "Well.... sometimes. You don't have to, but sometimes people do take their shirts off."
   
     Taylor literally laughed out loud. She offered no explanation, just cracked up for a good 30 seconds.

     "What's so funny?" Cameron asked.
     Choking back hysterics, Taylor responded, "I was just thinking how funny Mom would look with a shirt on but no pants!"
     Cameron joined the laughter instantly.
     Hey, now! Am I seriously getting body-shamed by my 7- and 9-year-olds??
     "Guys, come on. Be serious here, would ya?"
   
     They took a moment to compose themselves while I continued to push Wyatt in his swing. I watched him with envy as he enjoyed the spring breeze without a care in the world - no one demanding answers from him or picturing him half-naked. He's a lucky little guy.

     "Is sex the same thing as humping?" Cameron asked.
     Oh my GOSH, it's hot out here! What are we doing, breaking the heat record for the month of May already??
     "Uh, yeah.... same basic concept. But please never say that word again. Ever. It's inappropriate and... just.... don't."
     "Do you get a baby every time you do sex?" Taylor questioned.
     "No. Then we would be China."
     "Then why do people do sex, since they won't always get a baby?"
     I can't even do this....
     "Um.... practice. They practice making babies."
     "Does it feel good?"
     And it just got 10% hotter. She is just on a roll today, isn't she?!? Deep breath, Mama, deep  breath.
     "Sometimes...."
     "Does it feel like when you have to sneeze and it finally comes out? Because that feels good, but when I can't sneeze, it doesn't feel good and I hate that."
     "YES! That's exactly right! Good way to think about it."
     Yes. I did allow my child to compare sex to sneezing.... I had had enough truth-telling for one day!
     
     A silence settled over us. My panic started to subside, the May weather seemed to take on a more refreshing temperature, and I no longer felt the need to pop a Xanax.

     "So, will I do sex someday, Mommy?"
     OH MY GOSH! HEART ATTACK!!! Someone please call for a medic.... I thought we were dooonnne!
     "One day you will get married and you and your husband will want to have babies.... then and only then will you.... do sex. OK??"
     Taylor looked at me with big eyes. I think she realized she'd hit a nerve. So she nodded her agreement and then went back to swinging.
     Cameron, who had remained silent (probably fearful of giving more wrong answers) ended the conversation with this beautiful gem....

     "Mom, I don't want to have kids when I grow up. So that means I don't have to do sex, right?"
     "Cameron, that's exactly right."
     He beamed happily at the praise.
     "Good... because I look really stupid without my pants on."

     Bless these children..... Bless them.

Bricks Of Love

     As an adoptive parent, I have to ask.... Is it OK to make my child wear a t-shirt that says, "I'm adopted. My parents apologize for your inconvenience"? If so, I will order them like underwear - one for every day of the week.
     I needed a shirt today as I looked at my ringing telephone. I always dread seeing the school's phone number on my caller ID. It's with hesitant breath that I ask the all-too familiar questions: "what did he do this time", "who do we need to apologize to now", and "do we need to have a conference". We've written all the "I'm sorry"s there are to write. There is not enough lead in all the world to fill the pencils to write on the pages the amount of sorry's that have needed to be said. We are, in fact, sorry'ed out.

     I'm sorry that he doesn't follow the rules.
     I'm sorry that he acts impulsively, despite the medicine, despite the therapy.
     I'm sorry that he lies to your face.
     I'm sorry that he manipulates.
     I'm sorry that he bullies your children.
     I'm sorry that he threatens to harm your students.
     I'm sorry that he pulls hair and pinches arms and trips passers-by for no apparent reason.
     I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, I'm sorry.

     This is why I wish I had a shirt for him to wear. It would save me so many words and spare me so many disgusted looks. You know the looks. I know the looks. We've all given them to the parents of the screaming Walmart children and to the ones running amok through the library.  The looks that say, Why can't you control your child? What are you doing wrong?

     P.S. I ask myself those same questions every day.  And I have no answers.

     I'm truly sorry for his behaviors, but I didn't create this. His genes are chocked full of dysfunction and his past overflowing with abuse. In the 6 short years that he lived B.A. (Before Adoption), he witnessed more violence than most of us ever see in our entire lives. Not only did he experience Failure To Thrive due to gross neglect as an infant, he was shuffled from home to home and told repeatedly that he was not wanted. And when he wasn't being told outright that he was unwanted and unloved, he was shown through the actions of those who couldn't be bothered to care for him or train him. You don't have to be a genius to realize that you're not worth much to someone who can't even take a few moments to show you how to bathe or brush your teeth or how to count or say the ABCs.

     And anyone who is willing to use a belt on a kid's legs should be shot. Plain and simple.

     So when my kid shows happiness at your sadness, I'm sorry. And when he sends your child home from school in tears, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I know how terribly you must feel, because I feel it each and every day that I see that dreaded number on my phone. I want to hold your child and tell him/her that he doesn't mean it.... even though I fear that he might. I want to say that he'll never do it again.... even though I'm fairly certain that he will. And then I want to hold my child (after I scream and consequence and make him write the I'm Sorry's for the millionth time) and tell him that there's a better way.... even though it seems to do no good.
     Parents, teachers, peers - I need you to understand my child. But I don't need you to excuse his behavior. He was dealt a crappy hand for 6 years, but he cannot and will not become a victim of these circumstances. I don't need you to affirm him - he has parents for this. I don't need you to fix him - he has a therapist for that. Understand him, yes, and then hold him accountable for his actions. The last thing I want is to create a child/teen/adult that has grown to learn that he can play the "Adoption Card" with a few tears in order to avoid getting a detention or suspension or community service.
     But I don't want to break his spirit.... Listen. You have my permission to break whatever you need to break in order to show him that bad behavior will not be tolerated. Sometimes a will or a spirit need to be broken in order for a new one, an improved one, to be re-built.
     And re-build we will. Bricks of tears and prayers and love, mortar of therapy and meds, brick-layers of parents, grandparents, teachers, and forgiving classmates. And each time he self-destructs and crashes our efforts, we will build again. And when he finds himself in trouble for his actions and things look their worst, we will build again. And when I screw up as a parent and lash out because I just can't figure out what to do with him next, we will build again. We will keep building until the structure stands.
     In the meantime, accept our sincerest apologies and our grateful thank yous. We are trying. (T-shirts will be available shortly.)

What I Wouldn't Give

What I wouldn't give.....

     How often do you find yourself saying those exact words, followed by some far-fetched dream or wish that, if answered, would literally make your life?
     I say these words often. Some call this discontentment. I call this sanity. I am sorry, but doing dishes and wiping butts all day just isn't glamorous enough for this lady! I mean, honestly, as much as I love taking care of my super-old house and running my kids to their appointments and nagging everyone in my life to death about everything, I allow myself to have dreams of What I Wouldn't Gives. And sometimes those dreams get me through the monotonous days of motherhood. Here's a list of my Top 20. Shall we see how many we have in common?

What I wouldn't give.....

1) To be thin. (Ding Ding!! Thank you, and goodnight.) There's obviously no one else who has ever uttered these words. Never after Thanksgiving. Never in the changing room as you stared down that swim suit on it's itty bitty hanger. Never as you held your breath while standing on the scale, hoping that the air in your lungs would somehow help you float and give you a smaller number.

2) To be able to read an entire book in a week. I used to love to read. The sad thing is, I probably still do. But I'll never be certain of this, because I live with small people. They are the holders of the time cards. They are the keepers of the books. And there is literally no time to test this theory.

3) To shower. I mean really shower. Shave, exfoliate, deep condition, soak, face mask. The Works. At this point, I'd settle for a quick Febreeze and a head-band.

4) To not be tired. Seriously. There are so many hours in a day and yet they seem to slip through my fumbling fingers week after week after week. I don't know where these hours go, especially the ones that happen while I'm "sleeping".... but I think the Sand Man and Father Time are in cahoots on this one.

5) To go on vacation. Who's with me? (I'm taking legitimate offers, here!) I will fly first class, business class, coach, or with the luggage.... I'll go by plane, train, car, or camel.... just get me to the beach, please!

6) To not have chin hairs. (Oooo, it's getting real up in here.) Yes. I'm starting my own beard collection. To date, my beard hairs come in black, red, blonde, and gray. Congratulations to me. I'm considering pulling a Hilary Duff and dying them aqua or lavender, help me and my beard fit in with today's youth. But the best part is, I can pluck until the cows come home and STILL get into my car, look in the flip mirror, and see at least 20 more little rascals that were waiting until they were in natural sunlight to show their ugly little faces. Next step? Hedge trimmers. Final step? Circus.

7) To have 7 brand new seasons of the Gilmore Girls. When I'm knee deep in piles of laundry, I fantasize about Luke and Lorelai pro-creating, Rory finding the man of her dreams, and Sookie having 30 more kids. I long for quick-witted, small-town characters to sweep me into their world, far away from my piles of socks and underwear. Someone get on that, would ya? Thanks.

8) To have a normal poop life. Yes. You read that correctly. After years of IBS, I would give anything to poop like a girl instead of like a trucker who's just eaten at Muffy's Burrito Stand.

9) To be allergy-free. Sneezy, Runny, Itchy, Coughy, Rashy, Wheezy, and Plugged. I am the new and worse-for-wear 7 Dwarfs, all rolled into one. Bring on the hay fever and pollen, Mother Nature! Come get me, dust mites and mold! Allergy shots to the rescue!

10) To be able to teleport myself away from my children when they fight. As fun as it is to hear the whining and the crying and the screaming, I think I'd rather just leave. Immediately. Until they're 20 and living independently.

11) To eat ice cream at the end of every meal. I don't think this is all that unreasonable. Especially if I could have my first wish come true in conjunction with this one. I would eat far less ice cream if I knew that I would get it again in a few short hours. In fact, this would probably help me lose weight, right?

12) To have someone clean my house. Now, I like cleaning. This is not the problem. I simply no longer have time for such nonsense as dusting, let alone washing base boards and moving the fridge to scrub the spilled orange juice. I want someone to wipe out my cupboards and flip my mattress and to wash the outsides of my windows -- to do the kind of cleaning that would make Monica Gellar proud.

13) To hire a personal shopper. I would love, love, love someone to take my measurements and magically know what would look amazing on me. This person could spend my pretend money going to any store she wanted and get me full outfits that are functional yet trendy, slimming yet breathable. And this person would become my best friend and I would share my mealtime ice cream with her.

14) To be a real writer. Like, a for real- I get paid for it- someone wants to publish me sort of writer. That way I could do what I love and be able to support my family all at the same time. (And this, folks, is the stuff that dreams are made of.)

15) To move to the beach. This would take care of my need for a vacation and many of my allergy-dwarf selves! Give me a shack, a shed, or a tent.... as long as I have warm breezes and constant sunshine, I'm a happy camper!!

16) To not be pooped on ever again. Today, my pastor and I went to meet with another pastor at his church. The baby came with us. He seemed to be playing nicely with his car, until I saw what looked like orange cement splashing onto the carpet around him. It took me a moment to realize that the ceiling wasn't leaking pureed carrots. My baby was crapping so ferociously that it was shooting out the top of his diaper, torpedo style, and then landing in heaps around him. I used all the wipes. I used all the spare clothes. I used all the plastic baggies. And it was not enough. There was a 6-foot radius of poop and no amount of scrubbing was getting that stuff out of the carpet, my clothes, or his hair. Yes. I would give anything to not have to do this ever again.

17) To go to the movies. Similar to my desire to read a book, there's just no time to go to the movies. Or money. Money and time.... maybe this list would be shorter if those were my only two items?

18) To have all of my family and friends live close to me. Sadly, many of the people that I love the most live all over the country. And there are times that I just want them (need them) to pack their things and move to my small little town and be near me. It's not like it's that hard to call a realtor, right?

19) To have more fun with my husband. (Get your minds out of the gutter, people!) When we weren't ships passing in the night, we used to laugh. There was time to unwind to the point that you could notice the funny things instead of bustling past them to get to the next chore or appointment. It was uninhibited, flirty, carefree laughter. What I wouldn't give.

20) To be a perfect parent raising perfect children. I want so badly to do everything right. However, this literally never happens. I do an awful lot of yelling and I make threats that I don't follow through with (mainly because they're outrageous and ridiculous threats in the first place, i.e. "I will quite literally BUY a bulldozer so that I can dig a hole deep enough to put all the crap you've hidden under your bed in.... and then I will bury it and build a 6-foot monument of my face to place on top of the pile to forever remind you that it's best to clean your room the first 30 times I say it!!!"). And I often focus on the little things, easily forgetting the big picture moments. But since my children are maniacal, dirty, pooping, weirdos (whom I love with every fiber of my being), our imperfections are often the highlights of our neighbor's dinner parties.... especially when they look out their dining room windows to see a muttering woman digging holes in the back yard with a large shovel (because obviously I could never afford a bulldozer).

     Those are my Top 20 What I Wouldn't Gives. What are some of yours?

Jelly Beans And The Cross

     The Easter season is upon us, and whereas I normally don't dedicate posts to current events or specific holidays (I like to be one-note like that), I found that this particular holiday has collided quite dramatically with my Mommyhood experience. Perhaps some of you out there will even be able to relate.

     When Cameron and Taylor came to live with us (we just celebrated out 3-year mark last week, can you believe it?), they knew very little about God, Jesus, church, or even what a Bible is. Needless to say, Sundays were just another day to sleep in, Christmas was about Santa, and Easter was about the cavity-inducing Easter Bunny. It's been a slow process, but my family and I have done our best to incorporate the meaning of Christ not just into our holidays, but into our daily lives.

     Despite our best efforts, we often find that the children have developed some sort of holiday-related amnesia causing them to lose sight of the reasons we celebrate religious holidays throughout the year. This week it became very clear that my children as still suffering from this tragic disease.

     On Monday, Taylor and Cameron were both sitting at the kitchen table. Taylor was coloring and Cameron was criticizing her coloring. I told him to find a better hobby, but he seemed to be enjoying his current activity a bit too much. Taylor looked up from the page she was on and said to me, "Mom? I'm trying to make an Easter drawing and I can't think of anything to put on the page.."

     "Well, what do you have already?" I answered.

     "I drew a bunny and some eggs and a lot of candy, but I just can't think of anything else to draw...."

     "Those things are great, Tay, but why don't you draw a cross and a picture of Jesus?"

     She wrinkled her nose at me and shrugged her shoulders. "Why would I draw those things?"

     My mind flashed back to the previous year when I took the children to a Good Friday dramatization of Jesus' trial and crucifixion. Both kids had been moved to tears and Taylor especially found the event to be very personal. She spent months talking about what she had seen and would often express gratitude to God for sending Jesus to die for our sins. 

     So, I tried to prompt the conversation a bit more. "Taylor, do you remember why we celebrate Easter?"

     "Yeah, because of the Easter Bunny."

     For the record, I am not slamming the rabbit in any way, but he/she has literally never been part of our Easter celebration! I decided to push a little farther.

     "Taylor, what's the real reason that we celebrate Easter? It's the day that Jesus..... what?"

     "Was born?"

     "No, that's Christmas. It's the day that Jesus rose from the dead. Remember? He died on Good Friday for our sins and then He rose from the dead on Easter Sunday. We celebrate salvation this holiday, not just the excitement of baskets and candy."

     She all of a sudden looked very concerned. "Oh yeah. I forgot. I hate this holiday."

     Cameron took this moment to chime in. "Yeah, I hate it, too.... except for the egg hunt."

     Thoughts began smacking me in the brain at full speed. I'm a terrible mother for not reminding my children of the true meaning of Easter all year long. My kids just said they hate Easter, what the heck do I do now? Who HATES Easter?? Me and this bunny are gonna have some words....

     "Ok, guys. Seriously. I have to know. Why do you both hate Easter??"

     Taylor was the one to respond. "Mom, it's just too sad. I don't like to think about Jesus dying all the time. Especially because it's my fault that he had to die anyway. I just want to think about the happy bunny instead."

     An all-too-familiar ping went off in my heart just then. Because how often do we do the same thing? When something painful occurs in life, isn't it just easier to ignore it and focus on a fluffy, shallow, insignificant replacement instead? Why watch a documentary on martyrdom when you can rent a Will Ferrell movie? Why work on self-improvement when you can ignore your flaws and go play? Why remember Christ's sacrifice for your sins and your need for a Savior when you can eat candy and pretend that his death didn't happen?

     Don't get me wrong.... I love Will Ferrell. And playing. And jelly beans, for crying out loud! I believe that God gave us so many ways to enjoy life that he wants us to laugh and have fun and not walk around carrying our own crosses, per say, day in and day out. But there is such truth in facing the reality that we are sinful. Even at an early age, recognizing that we have not, will not, and CANNOT save ourselves is so powerful. We don't celebrate Easter to be sad about Christ's death or the fact that He came to such a painful end on this earth because of our wrong-doings....

     We celebrate Easter to remember that our salvation wasn't cheap, it wasn't easy. Our salvation was bought with blood and tears and most importantly, with love. To leave out the tragedy of Christ's death is to ignore the beauty of His resurrection and the amazing grace that he washed us with.

     In my own life, I sometimes like to look for the Easter Bunny. There are moments when there is just too much sadness. Too much pain. It's nice to be distracted by the less significant things of life. But in the end, I only know joy because I have allowed myself to face the pain. Without acknowledging the lows of this life, I would never fully appreciate the blessings and the love and the precious things that have been given to an undeserving Me.

     It's a fine line to walk. But I do hope that as you spend this holiday season with your children, that you don't try to water-down or sugar-coat the Gospel for them. Use wisdom, of course! (The last thing I want are angry posts of children with nightmares or developing PTSD due to my recommendations!!) However, remind your little ones that we are all the reason that Christ died. That we are all the reason that He rose. And that we can offer this precious story of redemptive love to all those that we meet.

     And give them jelly beans. Lots and lots of jelly beans.

Sing On

     In the book of Genesis, chapter 1, the Bible says that God created the Heavens and the Earth and that the Earth was covered with seas and oceans and that theses seas and oceans were formed by the collection of tears harvested by all the babies that were still to come. The tears of needed naptimes, the tears of naptimes being fought. The tears of hunger, and the tears of still being hungry due to having thrown your grapes on the floor for the 12th time in 2 minutes. The tears of needing a clean diaper,and the tears of that new diaper being put on. The tears of missing Mommy and then, upon getting Mommy, realizing that it was, in fact, Daddy who was the one being missed, adding to the seas and oceans of tears that were spoken of in The Beginning. **
     Today, and the entire last week, my child has been adding to the seas and oceans with flood-worthy tears. We are ALL losing our minds. Captain Cranky-Pants is unleashing his emotional fury during homework time and meal time and bed time and all the times in between, making it impossible to focus on another task and creating a great deal of tension as we attempt to talk over the wailing.
     Honest Moment approaching: Yes. I have screamed this week. Into my pillow, out of my pillow, and directly at my baby. Shut up! Just..... oh my gosh, SHUT UP!!! Thankfully, my little man thinks this is hysterical and doesn't seem to be scarred too deeply by my momentary disdain. Nevertheless, my screaming because of his screaming leaves me feeling deflated and weak and tearful myself.
     On the flip side, I have found that singing through his tears puts me and my other children in a much more pleasant state of mind. Not that it changes the screaming being done by the wee one (of course not), but it does improve my own demeanor considerably. For example, this morning, Wyatt took the opportunity to ferociously wail and attempt to climb my legs the entire time I was getting ready for our afternoon of running errands. After jabbing myself in the eye with my mascara wand and burning myself with the curling iron, I kinda wanted to exile him to his crib (and then exile his crib to Antarctica!). Instead, I chose to sing a song, more for myself than for him, in an attempt to fend off the crazed panic that was threatening to overtake me. To the tune of Row, Row, Row Your Boat, I sang:
     Drive, Drive, Drive your car, to the grocery store. Buy some ice cream, eat it all, and then go back for more.
     I sang it at least 10 times before I supplemented a few variations of what I would buy at the store, adding some musical runs and vibrato to the mix, and trying my vocal chords at Twinkle Twinkle. Keep in mind, the baby was still screaming, but I was not. The singing did nothing to change my circumstance but did everything to change my ability to deal with it.
     A similar occurrence happened yesterday on our way to swim lessons. Wyatt was exhausted and ready for a short nap, but he just did not want to give it up and rest in the car. My normally travel-happy camper had a whiney case of the "Hold Me's" and was unwilling to sleep until he got his cuddles in. The kids were in the back and grumbling with one another, not that I could hear the specifics over the crying baby. I was almost to my breaking point and ready to holler when I chose to turn on the radio to K-Love. Fighting the tears that threatened to spill down my own cheeks, I let the music wash over me. My voice sang even when my heart didn't want to as I began to focus my attention less on what was going on behind me and more on what was going on inside of me. At some point during our journey, the baby gave in to rest and the bigger kids had traded in their bickering for unison as they sang along with the tunes echoing through the van.
     This reminded me of an actual Scripture verse in Psalms 59. Verses 16 and 17 read like this:
     But I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble. O my Strength, I sing praise to you; you, O God, are my fortress, my loving God.
     Singing through the tears has been a tried and true theme throughout centuries of crying babies, lost jobs, devastating diagnoses, and failed relationships. There are definitive moments in life that scream for our attention and wail to be picked up. They tug and pull and distract and cause us to stab ourselves in the eye with a proverbial mascara wand.
     Sometimes, these moments warrant our attention. And sometimes these moments are nothing more than weighted neck-ties trying to pull us down into a sea of tears as we fight and scream and forget that we have a Strength and a Fortress that has called us to sing through our current circumstance.
     There is a popular phrase among Christians that says, "If He brings you to it, He'll bring you through it". Another Honest Moment approaching: I'm just not a huge fan of that phrase. Now, before you scream blasphemy and call for a lynching, let's remember that this common phrase is found no where in the actual Bible (nor is it in the good book of Mommy's Losing Her Mind). In fact, I believe that God brings us to situations, not for us to sit there white-knuckling our faith with clenched teeth and closed eyes, wishing and praying and hoping for the moment to come when God will rush in and chase away the clouds, restoring our previously sunny life.
     I believe that God calls us to a much more active role in times of tears. Just as the slaves chose to write songs to tell their stories and lift their spirits in the midst of great suffering, God also calls us to sing through the tears. Each battle is an opportunity to tell your story through song. Each tear is filled with words and feelings and melodies just waiting to be unleashed. God brings us to these moments not to passively wait for a savior to come but, instead, to sing your heart out in the midst of it all. Maybe God isn't looking for us to beg and plead for a change in our circumstances as much as He's challenging us to find a way to praise Him for the opportunity to tell our story in the middle of the circumstance.
     When Wyatt cries incessantly, I sing nonsensical songs to silly tunes. He continues to cry, but my mood improves exponentially. I am able to smile while I pull my hair out, in a sense! When Cameron and Taylor are flipping their lids at one another and battling their own demons that they came to us with, I can put on K-Love. They may continue to squawk, but a silent story is being told as they see me praising through it instead of screaming the infamous Shut up!!! at them. And when another Mama comes to me in tears because she's lost a child and is facing heartache of the worst kind, I can sing along with her a mournful, holy roar of solidarity because I, too, have felt that very heartache.
     Our stories are in our songs and our songs are in the tears. It is your song that will be the story to heal hearts and elicit praise in the middle of it all. Even if the tears continue and the circumstances don't change, Sing On, Sisters.



**The book of Genesis, paraphrased in the book of Mommy's Losing Her Mind

Scrub-A-Tub-Dub

     Earlier this week I posted a very, very serious question regarding bathtubs. I wanted answers. Legitimate answers from honest moms willing to make me feel less guilty about my own flaws. The question was this: Exactly how long is it socially and hygenically acceptable to go without scrubbing your bathtub?
     I was secretly hoping and praying with fervent pleas that at least 100 ladies would tell me that it was OK to never wash my tub. Ever. These ladies would become my people and I would become theirs. We would be one against the world of anal-retentive tub-scrubbers we've heard tell of. And following up those faithful hundred, maybe there would be a handful (a large handful) of people who would've told me that yearly tub-scrubs would suffice. Those people would receive an affectionate Christmas card from me and my ladies, along with a condolence card to help them through their Dark Day of scrubbing. And then there would hopefully be even another handful (small.... Very small) of women willing to put me in my place and tell me that I have to clean at least twice yearly.
     People, I wasn't thrilled with the response. SOMEONE made me realize that I am failing and that it can no longer be ignored. I am a dirty, dirty woman and probably destined to an eternity cleaning Heaven's bathtubs. But then I realized something.... I think that, A) my ladies have yet to find the courage to out themselves as unclean, or B) it's because I didn't set the stage adequately enough in my original Facebook post. So allow me to digress....
     I originally failed to mention that I have chronic back pain (whine) and that I have a 10-month-old baby who lets me accomplish literally NOTHING during my day (sob). But most importantly, cleaning the bathtub is the worst. The absolute pits! It's stupid and gross and I'll hate it always and forever. After all, if it were just my germs, I probably wouldn't even bother washing it ever... until I saw mold. Then maybe I'd put on my big girl panties and bite the bullet... but only for mold. As for soap scum, I find this oxymoron to be utterly ridiculous. Soap's job is literally to wash away scum. So the utter idea that the two could marry and form an evil film around my shower is nonsense. I choose to ignore said film and pretend that it's just a line of memories from dirty days gone by.
     As for the rest of my family:
     My husband and all his manly dirtiness bathes in our downstairs shower. All wood chips, mud, and fireplace smoke have been banned from the rest of the house entirely, so the amount of grime build-up for our family has been reduced by at least 50% right there.
     Then there is Cameron. Honestly, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even bathe. I mean, I send him up to the bathroom and all, and he comes back wet most of the time, but because he still has mud coating his skin, I don't think he actually does anything other than stand in the water. He may even just shove his head under the faucet for a few seconds before he resumes playing with his toy cars on the bathroom floor until the appropriate amount of shower time has passed.
     Taylor is the size of a watermelon. How much soap scum could possibly be created by a watermelon??
     And Isaac, well, his version of taking a bath includes swishing and flopping and shimmying all over the tub... kind of like a human sponge, some may say. So in essence, the very nature of him bathing is the equivalent of me using a midget-sized sponge covered in Johnson & Johnson all over my shower. That should at least buy me a month of tub scrubs right there!
     Wyatt pooped once in the bath. I blame all tub grime on his teeny-tiny bottom.
     And finally, there's myself. In the off-chance that I get the time to shower, I spend equal time washing myself and scrubbing questionable looking patches off the tiles. I use Cameron's wash cloth (because I know he isn't using it anyway). After all, the tub's already wet, there's soap suds floating around, and I can rinse off quickly when the scrubbing-exertion makes me sweaty.
     So now you have all the facts. And knowing these facts, I ask the question again. Just how long can I go without officially scrubbing my tub? Come on, ladies, I'm looking for my faithful hundred!! ;)