mamacita

The hospital hall looked long and daunting and I stepped into a bathroom to wait out the contraction. Because by this point walking and talking through them was out of the questions. I didn’t bother to change out of my pajamas because I was certain, despite the steady and consistent pain coming every few minutes. That this was a false alarm. The nurses were going to send me right back home. Clearly, I didn’t know a single thing. About labor or being a mom.

Eventually I made it to triage and realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. I was dilated and this kid was ready to make an appearance. A few short hours, and an epidural later, I was at a 10. But she told me not to push. That the baby was not in the right place or location or something like that. All I know is that it hurt like hell and that I had thrown up for the first four months of my pregnancy. I was down to about one pair of pants and two shirts I was comfortable in and I could not sleep for more than 45 minutes without getting up to pee.  I was ready to not be pregnant and the meet this baby who I imagined would come out looking exactly like my husband and I couldn’t wait to hold.

You do not tell a girl in this position to “hold tight” unless you give her epidural a refill.

I had read the books. I had backed my bags complete with a fuzzy socks and a mix cd.

My husband and I had discussed that he would stay away from the business end of things, but around 5 am after hours of hard labor and one sided epidurals and uncomfortable rearranging that still had not led my son to move down properly – when the nurse told him to grab a leg and count. He did. And gave me to go ahead. Pregnancy and especially delivery are an exercise in stripping the mother of all dignity and privacy, because after leaving the hospital you will not get to go to the bathroom alone for approximately 3-5 years.

 I had gone to the birthing class and recalled something about finding a focal point in the room and breathing. But those things didn’t help. I pushed and pushed. My friends waiting in the hall took bets with the nurses on time of arrival. They lost and eventually, the next doctor came in for the morning shift and told everyone to prep me for surgery.

Things moved quickly after that and it gets a little blurry, until I remember the doctor pushing and pulling and tugging and this pink rugged thing being pulled out of me.
There was a pause. Longer than I wanted but I’m sure it was just a few seconds and then a much expected wail.

 They cleaned him up and stitched my abdomen back up and the nurses manhandled him, like he was a rugged tough animal who had been around for awhile, rather than just an 8 lb boy only a few minutes old.  I waited on whatever painkillers they would give me, he waited for someone to explain why they hell he was no longer in the safe comforts of my womb. He came out with hair that was almost black, dark skin and pale blue eyes. This was not the blond haired child we were expecting. This was not the birth we had planned. And that has to be part of the beauty of motherhood and life. It never goes as planned.

 And everytime the nurses came in, they were so incredibly rough with this little tiny man that me and my husband had made. The hit him hard on the back to loosen up the fluid still in his lungs and flung him around like a bag of flour. The first time I had to dress him or change a diaper – I remember being so fearful that his little arms or legs would snap. That I was going to break him.  This fear didn’t leave me until carrying him down the stairs from his one year check up.  Thinking the nurse should have given me a sticker and a dum dum. Because I had somehow kept this kid alive for an entire year.

Nurses know way more than new moms.

They know that babies are tough. And strong. And that they can handle a strong pat on the back to burb them and being a little firm grip during a diaper change.
And still, to this day, I sometimes need a little reminding that my kids are stronger than I give them credit for. Strong enough apparently, that they actually let us take him home.

 He ate and pooped and slept in short spurts and cried. On repeat. Just like that for days. Months even.

And I mostly did exactly the same thing. Camped out on my couch, while watching bad TV or reading books. I was niave and new at this, so I thought that my life wasn’t going to change so much. I hosted a small dinner party less than a week from bringing him home from the hospital. I dressed him in onsies and lugged him on coffee dates and to restaurants and my arm muscles grew from lugging that infant carrier around all summer.
And I wasn’t sure what motherhood was all about. It had to be more than sore nipples and bad daytime TV and even worse TV in the middle of the night.

And he grew. Quickly. Eating faster than I could keep up with. It seemed like everytime I did laundry I had new clothes to pack and give away that no longer fit. The newborn Pampers seemed so tiny and I wondered how long I could get away with wearing pants with an elastic waistline. My heart swelled when he squeezed my little finger, when his mouth made that little O that only babies make and even more when I got more than 2 hours of sleep in a row. And I loved him more than I knew possible.

But I was also so incredibly tired.
Because growing your heart apparently takes an awful lot out of a girl.

My life did change more than I had prepared for of course. I could not keep up with it all, and around the four month mark when my hormones plummeted and my hair started falling out in fistfuls. I gave in.

I slept more. I went out less. And I decided maybe I should join a gym.

Then next time I became a mother was completely different. The pregnancy harder. I threw up for six months instead of only four and had a myriad of other unfun symptoms including the most disqusting set of varicose viens that everytime I consider wearing shorts I think I should probably do everyone a favor and cover them up. (that and what mother of two has the energy to shave their legs). The delivery, this time a scheduled c-section I thought would be so much easier. But an excess of scar tissue, lots of bleeding and an overnight nurse who didn’t quite set up my catheter correctly did not leaving me feeling any better than the last time. This time, I didn’t shutter too much when the nurses beat on her back or jerked her around. And again, she came out looking nothing like we expected. Her brother had a thick full head of dark hair and long eyelashes and dark olive skin. Tess was completely bald, had ivory skin and came out letting everyone know exactly what she wanted and when. Even the experienced nurses weren’t sure what to do with her.

This time, I packed less for the hospital and had less of a plan. But I still thought it would be so much easier the second time around. Because I knew what to do.
Wrong.
The first year of her life, my daughter taught me nothing else, other than how little sleep I could live on, how to make the pediatrician fit you in even if they are full and that people, even when they have almost exactly the same DNA couldn’t be more different.

 I’ve read before that the days and long but the years are short. And today, while my daughter calls me “mamacita” because she is learning to speak some "spinich" at school and offers to set the table by sticking an opened stick of butter right smack in the middle of the table and nothing else. It has been a fantastic, but long day and I want to pour myself one more glass of wine. And break off another hunk of crusty bread and wipe it right across the butter she laid out.

 And maybe that is what motherhood is about.

Seeing strength in these little tiny fragile things that you have been entrusted to keep alive. If they are stronger than they look, than so am I. Even tired with very little sleep after a night of ear infections or bad dreams or last minute school projects.

That the plan is good, but be ready to watch it slip away. Along with your skinny jeans and birth plans and papers that will never get all the way graded. The days will unfold exactly as they should and it is best to find a reason to laugh and dance in the living room anyways. And that on those long days, I remind myself to look at the doorframe, where the sharpie markers inch their way higher and higher. The carseats and onsies are long gone and one day very very soon I  will have to start shopping at god-forbid Justice. Because my kids grow and learn all the time. I can't stop it or slow it down and as bittersweet as it is, I really don't want to. They no longer smell like lavender baby lotion or even apple juice and graham crackers – but usually my boy smells like sweat from baseball practice and my daughter smells like whatever perfume or chocolote she snuck. It is us grownups that sometimes forget to grow and learn. We don't do it automatically anymore but is still I believe how we are made. To constantly be growing and learning and pursuing. And my kids remind me to do this too, everytime  I put away pair of shoes that no longer fit or hear my son spell a word that I don't know how to spell myself. There are no marks on the doorframe to measure what has grown the most in our home, even more than the piles of laundry. This mamacita’s heart.

happy plates and kangaroos

My daughter occasionally tells me that she made a happy plate. Which I predict is a phrase she learned at school to encourage them to eat everything that they are given.
Which I'm also guessing is something that doesn't happen very often unless they serve up regular doses of Oreos, chicken nuggets, French fries, and crazy bread. Because that is pretty much what my daughter considers a balanced meal.

My son will eat anything except chocolate. I thought this was due to my fantastic parenting and mature and adventerous palate. Then I had another kid and she blew that theory completely out of the water. Despite the fact that she would be happy to live on a diet of cheetos and fruit snacks, I refuse to really make meals a battle. I'm no short order cook, but if she'd rather eat a corn dog than the pad thai the rest of us are partaking...what is an extra 30 seconds in the microwave. My kids are tiny and I want them to grow, but I know better than to force them to clean their plates. That mentality and the huge portion sizes at Pappasitos are why none of you should want to see me in a bathing suit.

Last week, we skipped church and we took our kids to the zoo. It was a perfect day. Not too hot and the threat of rain kept the big crowds away. We had our run of the place and saw plenty of animals up close. When we got to the Australian exhibit, the zookeeper was out giving a little talk. My kids were right up front and I hung in the back but caught one thing she said.
That kangaroos can't hop backwards. It is impossible for them. Their tail gets in the way. If they want to go back --they have to stop completely. Hop awkwardly around in several little side jumps and then go back. It is a slow awkward process and you rarely see kangaroos do it. They'd much rather just keep going forward. I remember thinking that was profound and that I should come back to that later.

The very next day, I backed my new car into a telephone pole. It was undrivable and I have spent the last few days in a rental.
Because maybe, I am much better at going forwards than backwards.

This week, I figured we better go to Sunday school since we played hooky last week. The actual lesson was taken from an old episode of Mayberry that we watched.  I spent most of the show trying to prove to my husband that Barney Fife was the same guy as Mr. Farley on Three's  Company (a show I'd rather watch over the Andy Griffith show anyday)...that I missed some of the premise. But I know the overall theme was about living in the present. Not getting caught up in the past. And being happy with the things right in front of you.

Moving forwards instead of backwards.
and being content with what we are given.
A lesson, apparently that the kangaroos already have down. Then the teacher said something that made me think of Tess and her happy plate.

"He was happy with the plate that he was given"
Even if it isn't chicken nuggets.
And that is the challenge for us all.

on the catwalk

I am afraid of heights. I close my eyes on roller coasters. I spend most of my time on a ski lift trying to decide If I fell off if I would survive. I choose an aisle seat on an airplane over a window one - even if it means that my big toe will get run over by the beverage cart or I will get woken up every time my seatmate needs to potty. The London Eye made me want to hypervenelate...and didn't feel the need to linger too long on the observation decks of the Sears tower, the Space Needle or the Empire States Building. The Capilon Suspension bridge in Vancuver almost made me throw up. It didn't help that my husband and brother tried to make it sway and bounce as I attempted to make it across while not soiling myself. In the rain.

When I was 11 my parents sent me to camp. Sleep away classic summer camp for most of July. I loved it so much that I went back almost every summer until I was 21 and still keep up with some of the people I met there. I vividly remember pulling in that first Sunday with my footlocker in the back of my dad's suburban. We parked at the guest center and someone pointed us to the dormatories. They said that they were just  across the catwalk.

This catwalk was no fashion runway. But a very long faded red bridge that spanned at least the length of two football fields with the main road running underneath it. It was wide enough for girls to walk 3-4 across linking arms and high enough that at least a few times each summer to see people repelling right off the middle. The part you walked on however was not solid, but more of series of grates with lots of tiny holes so that you could see everything beneath you. My stomach dropped. And my dad, who I must have inherited this fear from, hopped right back in the car and suggested that we drive across.

After all those summers I am not sure, he ever walked across it.

I on the other hand learned to conquer many high places in that zipcode. There was the ropes course that ended with you climbing up a telphone pole and jumping off in hopes of catching a trapeeze dangling several feet in front of you.  A giant slide that you hauled a heavy wooden sled up and went flying down into the Guadalupe on. And later on nights off, after a little liquid encouragement, a real bridge on FM 1340 that people would dare you to jump off into the frigid river that was high enough that your bathing suit, upon force of impact, would literally cut you in places that you. did. not. want. the. camp. nurse. to apply ointment. And church service on a ledge so high that you could see the birds all flying beneath you and wonder if you couldn't breath because the air was so much thinner up that high or that you were just out of breath from the long ass hike up the hill.
I may have been afraid. but. I jumped and missed, I dropped that damn sled on my toe, I made it up the hill in my sunday whites week after week and I learned that nothing sobers you up faster than having your bathing suit slice your crack as you hit the river in the middle of the night.

The catwalk was taller than all those things. And my first trip across was made quick and fast, not looking or trying to look afraid. But anxious to get some hard solid concrete beneath my feet. It had to be conquered at least a dozen times a day because the dining hall, the tennis courts, the swimming pool,  any building with ariconditioning or a TV and the boys camp were all on the other side.
The paint was always chipping and to this day I can still tell you exactly which panels were loose. Because if you jumped on them, the whole bridge felt like it was ratlling. At some point in time we all carved our names into the middle, as well as spelled out messages in the rocks below and in the middle of the night you could usually find someone there sucking quickly on a cigarette hoping not to get caught. And at the end of our term we'd all lay across it, getting grid marks pressed into our arms, legs and even our faces as we waited to see our family cars make the climb up the big hill.

This was not a place that fear lived. We had to leave it at home. With our make up and boyfriends or lack of boyfriends and the latest YM magazine. So every morning after flag we skipped or ran or banged loudly across that red bridge. Often with our arms linked. Everyone's favorite trick, was to walk very quickly (you weren't allowed to run, and most people who did ended up looking like someone attacked their legs with a cheese grater) while looking down. If you walked  fast enough the little criss cross panels holding you up blurred and disappeared and it looked and almost felt like you were walking on air. It was scary and thrilling until you eventually ran into the person in front of you. Scared or not, when else do you get the chance to walk on air. So daily --- you would see guests or girls, faces down, speed walking across that bridge. Because really, for just a few moments, they were flying.

I haven't set foot on that bridge in well over a decade, but I imagine that the 3rd panel from the middle still rattles. That the paint is still chipped and that there are all new sets of initials carved in the bench and on the rails. And that it would still scare me a little to walk across it.

And I often walk through hard things in my life just like I walked across the bridge that first time.that walking across it quickly and with my eyes closed is no way to live for very long. And sometimes life calls for just getting through it. (like the line at the DMV). But it is not a good way to live for very long. With your eyes closed.
I'm sure I'd try the walking on air trick and linger in the middle to read what people wrote in the rocks.
But, these days, I see the value in walking a little slower. In looking down. Not so much at the cars beneath me, but so I could notice of all the things holding me up.

second grade setup

I have some great and amazing friends. Ones that will bring me a meal when I'm sick, flea bomb my house, split their fries with me or listen to me not make any kind of sense for long stretches at a time and laugh at my jokes. Even when they aren't all that funny.
But sometimes I still long for something a little bit closer. In proximity and intensity.
A best friend. Even though I am probably already blessed beyond measure in that department.
I know that I am too old for this, but I long for a BFF just like I did back in the 2nd grade. When everyone else showed up to school on Fridays with a sleeping bag and a note to go home with a friend.

I can not stress enough, how great my friends are. How I've found a solid group of 4-5 girls that I can ask the hard questions to -- like what to do about my kid's rash, if my outfit looks ridiculous or what kind of wine to buy. And as a grown up, well...i just don't have the kind of time that I did when I was younger. And I do really miss my clear neon light up phone that I spent half my waking time on. Now, I do not need to waste hours discussing who is hotter Brandon or Dylan. But sometimes I'd still like someone to run a race with. Eat lunch with. Or discuss who is hotter Ryan Gosling or Bradley Cooper.

Let's not even mention that my husband is amazing. He likes to watch Anthony Bordain with me, pushes me to run faster and try harder and doesn't flip out when I spend our grocery money on Mumford and Sons tickets. He is a great friend, even if he doesn't want to hear about my uterus or get a pedicure.

And people at work can make me laugh until my stomach hurts. Share their diet cokes when I am crashing and send emails from my computer (as me) asking for advice about my rash...and cover my classes in a pinch.

I have people. Great people. Amazing people.
I shouldn't be, but sometimes, I am still really lonely.
And I wish making friends, and keeping them and sorting it all out was as easy as it was in 2nd grade. When eventually, I ran into the other new girl on the playground with a chili bowl hair cut and ended and suddenly I had sleepovers and half a heart necklace of my own.

So, when I am tucking my son in at night recently...and he sighs and tells me he doesn't have any friends at school. My heart breaks.
And then a few days later, in the pick up line at school -- he tells me he wishes he had people to play with at recess. Instead of walking around by himself.
I felt that ache in my chest again and it didn't go away when even after I bought both of us a snow cone on the way home.

My son has people. Just like me. Our cul-de-sac is the place to be until the sun goes down. Last night there were at least 7 boys out there on bikes, scooters and go carts. Playing, giggling and skinning knees. There are bases taped to the street for impromptu games of kickball. And I do not go easy on any one under the age of 5. He plays baseball and soccer and seems to be the one at practice easily cutting up with the other kids. We go to church and he makes friends with even the high school age helpers. And my friends of course, have kids that he can't wait to play with.
but. he is still lonely. He isn't picked for a group on a field trip and I am determined. I will get over my fear of all things PTA and help a boy out.

He mentions a boy in his class, and I remember getting an email from his mom about volunteering at a class party. (she wanted me to help with the craft table, which should be obvious to anyone at this point that clearly this mom does not know me.)

After a few conversations with my friends about the best way to handle this, I type a cute little email asking a complete stranger if her son might want to come hang out with my own super cute smart sweet and funny son. I refuse to use the word play date and suggest that maybe....since she doesn't know me AT ALL...that she might want to meet us at a park or something along those lines. I try not to sound too desperate, even though I totally am and I hit send. A little nervous like i just asked someone out.

A few hours later she wrote back. That her son would love to come play and that he REALLY likes going to people's houses....so why don't I just take them home from school one day. I was so enthused about telling my son that he had a friend FROM school is coming over.....that I try to overlook the fact that I will have to clean my house and car out. To impress an 8 year old.

Wanting this to be a success for my son, I spend some time cleaning up the house the day before. I text his mom to confirm and am extra nice and put my son's booster seat in the back so that this kid can't make fun of him for still having one. Then his mom texts me to tell me that her husband will be picking him up. And I immediately stop cleaning. Because dad's don't tend to notice that kind of thing.

The next day as my son walks to the car, with his friend at his side -- he is beaming. I am also smiling, not at my BFF match making success, but because I catch a glimpse inside the minivan next to me. and it is messy. like my car normally is. And this mom doesn't have crazy eyes. or pajama pants on. or a cigarette dangling from her bottom lip. She looks just like me. with a really messy car. and i suddenly wonder how awkward it would be if I asked for her # for my own little play date. My bubble is very quickly busted. Long before we can buckle our seat belts....which I have to ask this new kid to do 5-6 times before he finally complies. I haven't even put away my pick up tag (these pick up lines are very serious and orderly business and you only have to run into one car in front of you to get a reputation) before this kid is bossing not only me but also my son around. Suddenly, it is all going south. I listen to my son ...trying so hard to impress ...let this eight year old boss him around.

I do not text or play my music loud on the way home. I make sure the music doesn't have bad words. because company calls for your best behavior. Unless you are the other kid in my back seat. I hand over some cash to my son and send them into QT for snacks. This other kid, takes the 5 and tells my son he can have the 1$....and so I decide that I better go inside. They get slushes and snacks. I talk potential BFF out of a king size candy bar after much whining and complaining -- and he still tries to keep my change. He then takes one bite out of his normal size candy bar (all while i am praying that his parents arent the type that only allow apples for snacks) only to spit it out and say that he doesn't like it after all.

I tried to stay out of the conversation, but in a lull I started asking questions.
I couldn't believe it, but my father's go to question fell out of my mouth and I asked what his dad did. I'm not sure he understood the question, because he said that in the morning his dad sometimes takes a nap. So I tried again and asked if his mom worked. Again, he replied...."yes, she works out sometimes. But she does her push ups funny. On her knees." So I tried a new question. What do you like to do? Do you play any sports. He responded "On Monday I play Wii, on Tuesday I play my DS"....and it continued with a mapped out plan for each piece of gaming equipment. I started to tune him out around Thursday....to which he asked me if I was even listening.

Then we picked up little sister. Within seconds, he declared that she was annoying.
And I occasionally have that thought my self. But. He doesn't share half her DNA so he does not get that luxury. And he didn't think it but said it outloud. to her.
Which is a big mistake buddy. Because if anyone can hold their own in my house it is Tess.

The rest of the way home, I prayed that Tess wouldn't hurt him and I thought to myself that never again will I meddle in my kid's social lives and that maybe making friends no matter what the age is never easy no matter how much I like to idealize it. I was really appreciating my own friends. And especially thankful for their kids who do not steal my change and boss me around. I was lost in my thoughts and mostly tuned the conversation in the back seat out, except when I heard an unfamiliar voice tell me that he often gets carsick. And then I prayed that he would not puke in my new(ish) car and wondered if he did if I could call his parents to pick him up early.


playdate update: After a rocky ride home the new couple disappeared into my son's room for several hours and played happily. No video games. No fighting. No throwing up in the car. And Tess didn't even have to take anyone out. My son is on social cloud nine, so maybe I was a little quick to judge....although I did have to pry the rest of my change out of his hand as he walked out the door to go home.

more or less

We live in a culture that is always telling us that the answer to everything is more.

Get more.
Do more.
Pray more.
Give more.
Make more.
Work out more.
Volunteer more.
Buy more.
Work more.
It is no wonder we are all walking around feeling like we are never enough, trying so hard to be more.
Or maybe that is just me. But I doubt it.

Or we hear the exact opposite. Less is more.
Every January 1st I pledge to Eat less. Spend less. Procrastinate less. Yell less. Drink less.
And I rarely live up to those promises.

I am no good at being more. Or doing less.

But what if the answer, the new goal, was to just try to be enough.

To see ourselves as enough.
Each other as enough.
Our bank accounts and closets and all the things we seem to collect more of. As enough.
Our God as big enough for all the things we lay before him and eventually pick back up because maybe we don’t really trust him. Or maybe we aren’t really sure that he is paying attention. Or sometimes occasionally doubt his goodness or that he will take care of it. So instead, we chose to keep worrying about that for a little bit longer. Because what we are really doubting is that he cares enough to handle it. Because he is busy being God and doing important stuff to deal with little old us. And when I say us, I mean me.

And if we all got content and happy with our enough-ness, would people stop making new year’s resolutions? Would we stop striving and pursuing and setting goals and just relax into the couch watching another episode of Law and Order because we have done enough.

I doubt it.

You see what keeps me on that couch isn’t because of who I think I am. It is usually who I think I am not.

Because enough would mean…
We felt worthy enough to see ourselves as more.
Brave enough to try something new.
Strong enough to keep going even when it gets hard.
And I could go on…

I’m starting to think that I should stop trying so hard to be more. Or less. and instead try to rest in being enough.

Recently I heard someone tell the story of the prodigal son. And it is a story I have heard a million times and there are times in my life where I have related to both brothers.
But this time I learned something new. It was a sermon on envy, and that this particular story is one about enough.About getting rid of this idea of scarcity. That there isn’t enough. That we don’t have enough or do enough, but most of all that God isn’t big enough. (Luke 15: 11-32)

At the end of the story, the fatted calf has been killed. The part is in full swing and the older brother is pissed. He refuses to join in. His father leaves the celebration and finds him. The son gives him a piece of his mind asking why he, the good son, never got so much as a goat.

His dad assures him with this, ´“‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”
In other words, there is enough.
For you and your brother.

Occasionally we don’t get what we want or things don’t turn out how we’d like and we think that maybe there isn’t enough. That God’s love is limited and we are missing part of it. Because someone else is getting the party. Or the blessing. Or the attention.

But our father’s heart is full. And enough.
The love never runs out.
The forgiveness never ends.
If there is enough for the wild prodigal and the self righteous older brother…
If Christ can make enough out of a few fishes and loaves of bread, or enough wine from a few jars of water and enough grace from a cross...
Then surely there is enough for me.
And maybe. I am enough too.
More. or. less.

not like the others....

Last week was spring break which meant I spent the entire week with my own kids, rather than 180 of someone else’s.

And I adore spring break even though it is mostly just a tease for summer.
Because in Texas you can get a sunburn and if you drive far enough south even see a few bluebonnets.

It is a week of not setting the alarm clock, messes and crowded places with lots of other kids.  Where I am always reminded that I am not exactly like the other moms. And I don’t say that in a I am better than you kind of way. Because I’m sure, in many ways these "others" would totally outscore me on a mom test. And I don’t even say it to knock myself. I just say it because it’s true and there is nothing like a crowd to help remind me.

Tonight I bought my son who wasn’t tall enough to drive the real gokarts a few rounds in the batting cage as consolation. (don’t worry, I had him wear a helmet). And I got a few stares. Not because he was an all star (although he did manage to make contact on more balls than I did) – but because I sat outside taking pictures as giant hurdling spheres came at him. And I cheered him on.

You see, I’m pretty sure I missed the handbook that says not to let kids do things like that. To keep them safe. I do make him sit in a booster (most of the time) and we do own a bike helmet (although we rarely actually wear it). We eat plenty of veggies, but my kids also get a side of occasional diet coke or god forbid fruit snacks with corn syrup in them. And if someone doesn’t watch me I can will eat an entire bag of  cheetah puffs. On the way home from the batting cages I was checking facebook (the hubs was driving – I do have a few standards) and someone had reposted the Jen Hatmaker article on raising brave kids. And I read it again feeling slightly better about the odd looks at stares I had been getting all week. Because most of the time, I’m afraid I’m the one doing it wrong. And the ones who remembered to pack the snacks and bandaids are the ones who got and memorized the secret how to be a perfect mom manual. But for a brief moment in the car, I was sure that there is no manual.

That we are all doing it sometimes wrong and sometimes right and are in the exact same bumper boat.

So here are a few things that get me the look. It doesn’t help that my almost 8 year old is so small that I get hand-me-downs from my friends with kids in preschool.

I am the mom that makes their kid knees knocking, totally begging not to -- get on the roller coaster (and he loved it). But I want him to try things even if he is scared.

 I am the mom that lets her kid do his own project. And trust me at open house, nothing could be more obvious than the ones the moms did instead. This did end badly with our valentines box that was supposed to be a giant squid (not my idea – we covered that already remember) but looked more like a red penis glued to a kleenex box that he didn’t even bother to cover with construction paper (ok, so I might have yelled at my husband for letting him take that one to school without some intervention) but I’m sure that the teachers all got a good laugh out of it.

My son has had his head stapled and his chin glued shut.  Because people fall down. And more often than not they can be put back together.

When it is nice outside my kids have scrapes and bruises and grocery store feet and I am not above calling a trip to the swimming pool a bath.

 I don’t make them eat something green every meal. But one of my kids can put away some serious broccoli and/or seaweed salad (the other wouldn’t even touch ice cream it it was green). Sometimes we all have cake for breakfast. Bill Cosby would be proud.

 My kids often pick out their own clothes. They are not good at it. Sometimes when I pick my kids up from school they look a little bit homeless. Which is ok, because I really really like homeless people.

Whenever possible, I try not to speak for them. This is sometimes tough on a waiter but works out fantastically for anyone trying to sell me something on the phone.

 

I love my kids just as much as the mom who wraps her child in knee and elbow pads – I just want them to know how it feels to have the wind blow through their hair. I don’t even want to think about anything bad ever happening to them.

But it might.
Actually, it is pretty certain. (and all of us who have lived more than 5 minutes can verify that).

 “And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you. “ 1 Peter 5:10

It doesn’t say if you suffer. Like, if your mom forgets the sunblock or lets you watch too many cartoons or buys something that isn’t organic or even if you do the mother of all sins and forget to sign your kids reading log.

It says AFTER you suffer.

My son is teensy and my daughter has the most tender of little hearts and very little hair. And when I hear someone make fun of my kids, or push them around on the field I want to throat punch them. It takes some serious restraint not to. And some of those 2^nd graders are in the same weight class as me. Which I think makes it ok right? And don’t even get me started on dance moms. My heart literally breaks when they strike out. Or they don’t get invited to a party.
I ache when they ache.  

I can’t fix every problem, although I can probably remember to sign that damn folder more often. But it isn’t my job to fix it or prevent it or beat anyone up. God promises to restore, confirm, strengthen and establish even though I sometimes question his definition of  after “a little while”.

I want brave kids more than safe kids.

I sometimes let them get loud so that they will learn to recognize their own voices (and I don’t mean the one asking me to get them another drink of water or read them another story).
I want my kids to have a few scars. And they are not natural risk takers, sometimes they need a little push or encouragement.  A little room to hang out the sunroof. (don’t worry – not while I’m driving!)
I let them make mistakes, and only sometimes is it because I am not paying attention. But mostly because now while they are small their mistakes are small.
My daughter is cold because she refused to bring her jacket like I suggested.  Or pouting on the playground because she wore her cowboy boots and can’t keep up with her brother. Her boots might be made for walking, but they weren’t made for running or climbing trees. (yes, I even let my kids climb trees, I’ll even give them a boost).

So, if you see my wacky family at the park. Don’t judge my parenting skills based on my kid’s mismatched socks. 

We still do homework.  We pray.   We wear seatbelts.  We try not to say bad words or unkind things.  We brush our teeth (but please don’t ask if we floss). We say we are sorry.

But.

We also try new things. Even things we are scared of.

Dance in the living room or the middle of the grocery store. We might live a little recklessly. And I hope that they will learn to love recklessly too.
We fail. And struggle. And we screw up and scrape our knees plenty.
I’m willing to bet only really boring people have scar-free knees.

My 4 and 7 year olds have done all kinds of crazy things even though they are both relatively timid and afraid to try new things. They’ve been on water slides and horseback riding and on boats and go karts and white water rafting and danced in front of pretty big crowds. I don’t always force them. I’ve allowed them room to say no before.  But more often than not I push them to do it anyways and cheer them on. Because I’m a whole lot older and I have found that most of the rewarding things in my life have been done with knees knocking and a little bit of fear.

muffins

Tess can sniff out a baking mix from a mile a away. On my last trip to the store I picked up a packet of banana nut muffin mix. She had it waiting for me before I could even set my keys down. I sliced up a few bananas while she put paper liners in the muffin pan. She insisted on adding sprinkles and I said why not. We whisked and poured and put them in the oven.

I barely got the oven door closed when Tess asked if her brownies were ready yet.
Her brother piped up from doing his homework, never missing an opportunity to correct her.
"Tess, they are muffins. Not brownies."
Tess, " but I want brownies...."
Me, "sorry, girl we just made banana muffins. With sprinkles. You like muffins; they will be yummy."
Tess, realizing she wasnt going to win this one. " Well, can we just call them brownies?"
Me: "Sure. You can call them whatever you want. But they are still going to taste like muffins."

I laugh at my daughter's stubborn insistence. Even when she is completely wrong, because I think it is kind of cute when my 4 year old who can't read tells me that I spelled a friend's name wrong. Or tries to convince me that twelve-teen is in fact a number. Or that Justin Beiber is singing about her and that her pink boots do in fact match her red dress. She does not listen to reason. And most of these things are harmless so eventually I say whatever, wear your red boots and no one really needs to know how to spell anymore anyways (thank you spell check).

　
Today, however after 10-12 minutes at 350 degrees, she learned that no matter what you call them, muffins are never going to taste quite as good as brownies. She took one bite and threw the rest in the trash.
You can call something whatever you want, but it is what it is.

I may not be four, but I am occasionally just as guilty of that crazy logic.
Calling things something else, because it is more appealing than the truth.
I call my mess -"shabby chic"
My procrastinating - prioritizing.
Checking facebook for the upteenth time - relaxing.
My gossip gets called concern.
Another drink - taking the edge off.
Another helping - just being polite - or not being wasteful.
I call things i want - things i need.
I call my lazy -tired.
My anxious worry - planning ahead.
Picking a fight I call communicating.
And all kinds of other little lies that are so easy to tell myself.
More often than not I am all too happy to believe them.
But like that muffin, that was not anywhere close to a brownie....
not so easy to swallow.