Tag: motherhood

Living with Purpose

Balancing Ideals and Reality

Blooming and Becoming

The new year is well underway and as we approach the end of the beginning of 2019, I can’t
help but reflect on my resolutions that I so astutely declared to myself (and all of you) at the
beginning of the month.

Have I kept my pledge to be intentional? Have I done all the practical things that seemed so obvious and oh so easy as I sat and typed them just a mere three weeks ago?

The honest answer… some yes. Some no. That’s just life I guess.

I continue to search for the balance between the idealistic and realistic aspects of my life and the truth is, I usually end up somewhere in the middle. I daydream of perfectly executed plans, well trained children and a happy husband. But most days I am lucky if I check just one thing off my list.

Ideals must be rooted in reality.

Otherwise, they just become “rules” we set for ourselves only to be disappointed when we cannot or do not reach them. I must choose the ideals that really matter to me and ruthlessly focus on those alone. And yet, I must be careful to not let the striving toward the ideal thwart me in the present. A delicate balance that often makes me feel like a toddler drinking from a tea cup…a little proud and a lot shaky.

I feel called in this season of my life, to do exactly as I am doing: press in, learn, grow, and sow. And in that I feel fulfilled. But there is always this lingering sense of the unknown hanging in the distance. Some days it is in the peripheral, almost non-existent. Other days, the uncertainty hangs over me like a damp towel—nudging me to do something different but not really giving me enough reason to take action.

How long will this season or this particular calling last? Will I have more babies, extending this season of motherhood just that much further? Does God have different plans for me in the future?

Regardless of the answers to those questions though, I’ve got two young boys here—right now. Children that, I believe, I have been called to train up in the way they should go. (Proverbs 22:6).

I have a husband here—right now, that I have been called to respect and honor (Ephesians 5:33).

I have parents, friends and family here—right now that I am called to connect with, to build up, and to cherish (1 Thessalonians 5:11).

And I’ve got a me here—right now, a body, mind and soul that I am called to take care of (1 Corinthians 3:16, Romans 12:2, 1 Timothy 4:8)

I believe, this is the race that God has called me to run—right now.

And I will focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I will press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize. (Philippians 3:13 emphasis added)

So all the plans, all the resolutions, all the attempts at being intentional are merely a training schedule. A road map if you will, to keep me on course for the race that has been set before me in this season.

So here I go… Ready. Set. Run.

2019—Here I come.

Living with Purpose

A mothers day tribute

Blooming and Becoming

It was the fall of ‘91, or somewhere thereabouts. I was 4 and my brother 8. She was nearing her 33rd birthday. Just one year older than I am now. It was the year she began her associates degree at the local community college. She was working down the road and raising us.

I vaguely remember the old electric typewriter and various “heavy” books strewn around the trailer that we lived in at the time. Because at five years old, the only thing you know about college is that it’s where your mom sometimes goes at night. And the books are heavy.

It was the summer of ‘93. I was 6, my brother 10 and she 35 (give or take). It was the year she graduated from the community college. I vaguely remember a party in the front lawn. It was hot and I remember all the adults commenting about it, in the way only adults can. To me, summer was summer. Macrame folding chairs, picnic tables and my cousin with her “hippie friends”, dot my memories of that day. Which is saying a lot, because I really only have a few graspable memories from my early childhood.

I weave the dotted memories with the stories I’ve been told to create a decoupage of my past, creating an image in my mind of what it must have been like. Except, I don’t have many stories about this particular season of my mother’s life. She has never been one to talk much about herself. She is and always has been the keeper of everyone else.

I can clearly remember my grandmother being at the front yard celebration that day. I remember her blazer with the raised shoulder pads and I can still smell the Mary Kay on her face. She was the one who explained to my why I wasn’t attending the graduation ceremony— I would have more fun running around the park with the neighbors. She assured me with a kiss that they would be back shortly. That I remember as clear as the sky was that day.

But for the life of me I can’t remember my grandfather being there. Was he there to see his youngest child get a degree? Was he as proud as I imagine him to have been? He must have been there because he didn’t pass until September 11 of that year. A date that took my mom only a few moments to reply with. But of the year in which she started school she could not recall.

She’s just that way, never making much of what she does, what she has accomplished. So I will make much of it for her.

You see, in the midst of this scene is a single mother schlepping her children to and from baseball and ballet. A single woman who worked full time, with two young kids. She was navigating the college scene and the dating arena. She was unclogging toilets and unfreezing pipes. She was making dinner and making grades. All the while, I can scarcely remember a night that she didn’t tuck me in. In the midst of it all, she created a legacy of a bedtime blessing— a quick chat, a hug and a kiss, and just one more glass of water—that lasted through my teen and young adult years. Like I said, the keeper of everyone else.

It was the winter of ‘94 and she had just landed an office job. Good hours, decent benefits and a consistent pay. That was nearly 25 years ago.

As a young child I couldn’t possibly understand or even know what it all meant—her choice to go back to school, her commitment to finish, her newly landed job. But I knew how it felt.

I knew how it felt the day when I paid a quarter for my school lunch. I can still see myself at the end of the cafeteria line. Keenly aware at the time of everyone around me. Nervous pride in my heart and a smile that I could not contain. It didn’t occur to me, or even really matter, that 25 cents was still significantly subsidized. All I knew is that we were not in the same place we were the day before.

I know now that the pride I had in my heart that day was not so much about the money but about her. She had moved us up. One rung on this ladder we call life. She was trudging ahead.

The years passed. The shifts and the pay changed. But the job remained the same. The grind. Day in and day out for 25 years. Something virtually unheard of in my generation.

There have been deaths and births, weddings and divorces, graduations and job losses, sickness and health. Amidst it all for 25 years she has made a daily fifty minute commute into the city. She has lived a certain life there, that I know not much about. All the while being the glue to our lives outside that cubicle.

And now that chapter is ending. The hard work has paid off. Now she gets to live but one life. No longer is there the work week and the weekend. Now it’s just life.

Here’s to you mom.

You were the age I am now when you started your career journey. I can only hope that in 30 years, when I am the age you are now, I will have as much love to look back on and as much life to be proud of.

May you live that life. You’ve earned it.

Living with Purpose

Over Committed

Blooming and Becoming

“Let’s get together soon.  We really want to have you over to the new place for dinner,” said in all sincerity, but I can’t help but feel the gut wrenching guilt that creeps to the back of my throat almost as soon as the words exit my mouth.

The truth is, I can barely get dinner on the table for my own family let alone plan and prepare a meal for yours. Not to mention the cleaning of the house– or rather hiding of the toys and swiping every surface known to man with a baby wipe.

There’s fruit flies coming up from the depths of my garbage disposal and every time I look down I see a family of them floating in my drink.  My warm drink that is, because our ice maker is broken… “Yea sure, come on over!”

I have no more energy for the customary “new home” talk.  The kind of conversations where you excitedly talk about all the things you love and all the things you’re going to change.  The days of joyously debating wall colors over a drink with a girlfriend are over for me.  The last of that happened a week ago with my last house guest and while the dreaming was wonderful, reality has now set in. And it feels daunting.  One more task on the never ending to-do list that is my life lately.

I can barely think strait after a whirlwind summer and my ears are pounding with what a few days ago I thought was the beginnings of an ear infection.  But now after ear candling, may have just been a bad case of enough ear wax to put a Yankee candle to shame.  Yet again, maybe it is an ear infection?

Two days ago, my iPhone went for 60 mph ride on interstate 240 and although I am extremely grateful to my husband for dodging traffic to rescue it, I would be remiss if I didn’t inform you that I am now arranging a flight home for a funeral through a thousand little cracks in my shattered screen.  Did I mention it’s my third funeral in seven months?

How did life get this busy?  When did I become a  grown up? 

It feels like I’m in this perpetual state of over promising and under delivering.  Telling friends and family that I will be there and then never showing up.  Sometimes physically and sometimes mentally.  I’ve had to bow out of more commitments this summer than any other time in recent memory.  I’ve enthusiastically agreed with my whole heart and then two weeks later realized, “it just ain’t gonna happen.” More than once. And to all those on the receiving end, I’m truly sorry.

I have this image in my head of who I want to be.  The woman I want people to say I am.  But I feel like I’m always walking up the down escalator.  Intending to reach my destination but never quite making it. 

I have an offer on the table for a part-time writing gig, but can’t ever seem to find the time to sit down and write.  (You know who you are… and I’m sorry I still haven’t called you back!)

I have a voicemail waiting with a request to volunteer and hundred other good ideas to make that organization great, but I can’t seem to find the energy to return the call. 

I have a handful of voices in my head telling me what I should do with my time.  Comments from friends or negative internal dialogue that implies what no one wants to say out loud…You’re a stay-at-home mom, so you must have an endless abundance of spare time, right?

But here and now, is where it stops.  

No more over committing.  Period.  No more empty promises.  This is not some mental parade march to encourage myself to “get back at it” and start showing up for people.  In fact, it might be just the opposite.  I think it’s time I just stop.  Stop trying so hard to do what I perceive everyone thinks I should be doing–which is anything besides simply “staying at home.”

I choose this life.  I actively, every day, choose this life.  These kids, this husband and this home.

And in this season, I need to choose to pour into those things before I pour into you.  Whoever or whatever “you” might be at any given time. 

There are a million things I could do, but only a few that I will do.  In this time of being a stay-at-home mom.  I will stay at home.  I will mom. 

In this season of being a homemaker, I will make a home.

And someday when I’m ready, you’ll be sitting at my table right there alongside of me doing this thing we call life.

Living with Purpose

Mother’s Day Tribute

Blooming and Becoming

Another Mother’s Day here and gone. 

Like many of you, I rejoiced in my motherhood.  I breathed in deeply the scent of each of my boys.  That familiar scent of cheerios mixed with sweat and a little of something sticky that is ever unidentifiable. We spent the day playing in the sun and basking in God and man’s creation at the Biltmore, an Asheville icon.  It was my first time and it did not disappoint. 

Yet with all of the splendor and the beauty of my day as I soaked up the love of my children and my husband who were in my company, my heart was yet tinged with disappointment for those who weren’t. 

Like a cloud playing peek-a-boo with the sun, not diminishing the warmth and beauty while it was out but sometimes covering it. Bringing a shade and coolness to my heart, with each turn it took.  And then in an instant one of my boys would smile or the sweet scent of blooming jasmine would rise near me and the sun would return to my soul.  

And so it went as the day continued, the sun and shade playing peek-a-boo in my heart.  

For, as I gave all of my present self to the moments of motherhood yesterday, I was keenly aware that there was a piece of myself not present and not able to give. 

For I too have a mother. 

And she is far away.

And I feel it.  The weight of the distance.

And perhaps it is days and moments like these that I miss her most. When the rest of the world seems to be  recognizing and celebrating one another–together, I am reminded that two phone calls to my mom will just have to do. When innocent and unrelated comments made by others who are rejoicing in the presence of their loved ones sting my heart, guilt quickly makes that wound swell. 

For I am the one that left, not her. 

She’s never left my “side” and she never will.  She has ever been my mother, supporting each decision no matter the cost to her.  I suspect her decisions to support me over the years have been as tough for her as they have been for me to make.  That’s the thing about tough decisions– they’re not easy.  And passing time does not make them any easier. 

I look around to the many young mothers I know and I see many, most actually within my sphere, who are far away from their own mothers.  For reasons perhaps as varied as the individuals themselves, they’ve started lives in a new place. Carving out a new path in their family history.  Facing motherhood without the regular presence and wisdom of their own mothers. I wonder how many of them struggled yesterday as I did? 

Perhaps the complexity of leaving home cannot really be understood until you’ve experienced it, on either side of the fence.  And I imagine that one day, I will be sitting in my mother’s shoes.  With children grown and far away.  I can only hope to handle it with as much tender love, grace and support as she has.  

Happy (belated) Mother’s Day Momma.

Living with Purpose

Lack of Sleep

Blooming and Becoming

Sleep and the lack thereof

I rolled out of bed at 5:40 (because if I have any hope of peeing without audience or gulping a cup of coffee in silence, it has to be done at 5:40am).  I quickly contemplated what I would wear for the day.  After a quick mental run down of our days plans, I half-slurred to myself, sweatpants. Which seems to be par for the course lately.

This particular morning, deep sleep had eluded me nearly all night.  I foolishly went to bed too late for someone of my age and circumstance.  11:40pm, I think it was when last I looked at the clock.  I’d like to say that I was up spending much needed quality time with my husband or that I was fueling my soul with the Word.  Or at the very least taking in some restorative “me time”.   But fact of the matter is, I was wasting precious moments.  I traded precious sleep for just one more scroll down the Facebook feed.  And while, I guess you could say it was “me time”, it was anything but restorative.  Or smart.  I’ve read enough to know that screen time is a “no-no” right before bed.  And I know myself enough to be aware that I probably should avoid it anytime after about 8pm.  I read somewhere once that those sweet and precious hours from about 7pm-11pm are the most trafficked and most addictive hours to be sucked into the internet world. I know this.  Yet I still found myself fascinated by everyone else’s world while contentedly ignoring my own.

Until about 12 am that is.  20 short minutes after surrendering my phone to the charger and laying down my head, I was jolted awake by shrieks from the (not-quite) baby.  At 16 months I think it’s fair to say he is a full-blown toddler.  Yet still a baby.  My baby.  

I lie there a moment while my body catches up with my brain.  Trying to muster the energy to heave my over-weight and over-burdened body out of the bed.  The mental debate begins, If I wait just a minute longer maybe he’ll ‘self-soothe’ and fall back asleep.  But then 1 minute turns to 5 and I am dangerously close to dozing back to sleep.  Yes for those of you wondering, when you have been awoken with screams nearly every night for last 16 months– it is entirely possible to doze off in the midst of your child’s screams.  Even now, in hindsight, the mental debate looms, knocking on my heart’s door…I should have just let myself go back to sleep, maybe he would have exhausted himself and we both would have gotten some sleep. 

But I know better.  I know that for the last 496 days (give or take) my sweet son has out screamed my own resolve to ignore those screams. 

Nevertheless, I heave my feet to the floor and with a huff just loud enough to let my husband know that yet again I am tending to the baby, I head to his room.  I know what he is seeking.  It is that thing I worked hard to break him of at around 10 months and then gave into again shortly after because of a tumultuous vacation that strained our entire families sleep cycles. 

A bottle. At 16 months, he is long past needing a nighttime bottle.  But oh does he want it.

I know I will give in. I know I will give it to him. And I immediately feel torn.  Like trying to avoid a bad habit but knowing you’ve not the strength to do so.  I console myself by saying, at least it’s no longer formula, just warm milk.  But the guilt hits before my feet hit the floor.  Am I doing the right thing?  Or am I taking the easy way out?  Is there ever an “easy way” when you have a difficult tempered child.  Because let me tell you, this screaming does not resign itself to only the wee hours of the night.  Perhaps that is why I often give in and give up in the darkness of his room, because I have dealt with screaming and hitting and thrashing ALL DAY.  All while trying to properly train a 3 1/2 year old, besides. 

This is all new territory for me.   And I don’t know what I am doing.

My first-born was and is an entirely different temperament.  They all are, I guess.  At least that’s what I am told.  And while he was physically active and exhausting, the mental and emotional strain was not nearly at this intensity.  But don’t compare them, you must not compare them.  The mental dialogue continues.

So it was on this particular night and most other nights dotted  throughout the last 64 weeks.  Sleepless nights that have turned into weeks, that have turned into months that have become well past a year. So after soothing the baby and yes giving him a bottle, I returned to bed.  Half asleep and wholly deflated. 

Just as I had come to peace with my decision and surrendered to the “survival mode” that is currently my life, a half hearted comment from my husband ignited my brain once again.  “You would have never done this for our first-born,” he said. 

Wham. That hits me with nearly as much force as the baby’s screams. He’s right.  And just like that I am awake again.

Was I a better mother then or now?  Was I doing the right thing then or now? Am I giving in to a baby’s demands or giving up on preconceived ideas of how I should handle that baby.   Why do I seem to be okay with the latter but not the former?  And so the mental interrogation continues.

When it feels like I have no answers and I don’t know what to do, I’ve learned to surrender to the One who does.  Here’s the thing about Jesus, he often told people what to do, but not necessarily how to do it.  I believe, to leave room for his Holy Spirit to lead and guide and take care of the “how”.  So all I can do now is, “Trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not on my own understanding; in all my ways submit to him, and he will make my paths straight.” P (Proverbs 3:5-6)…and hopefully my nights quiet.