Motherhood/Vulnerability, Part 2

(Continued from my last post).

Today, someone whom I trust and love said things to me that I received as judgment and criticism.  We have since totally reconciled, and it turns out that I misunderstood much of what she said and took it the wrong way (shocker!) because of my own insecurities.  But I've realized a lot through the experience.

After our initial conversation, I was devastated.  I felt completely misunderstood.  The conversation was about Douglas among other things.  Douglas is a kind, loving gem of a boy who is creative and insightful and inquisitive.  He also has boundless energy.  And his energy is often expressed through hitting at this point in his 3-year-old life.  He's happy, he hits.  He's excited, he hits.  He's frustrated or mad, he hits.  It's actually pretty remarkable to watch.  Remarkable in the "I wanna pound my head against a wall, this is so mind-numbingly frustrating" kind of way.  It's not all the time - he does find appropriate ways to talk about his emotions a lot of the time, but it's consistent enough to be an issue.  We work on it constantly.  CONSTANTLY.

The teacher at mom's day out and I talked about it because it's become an issue with him and another little boy.  I left feeling alone and insecure.  I know the mom of the kid who this seems to happen with the most at school.  I feel insecure about what she must think of me.  Of Douglas.  I worry that she thinks I'm a bad mom.  That I might actually be one.  I worry that the teacher or this mom or this kid won't see Douglas for who he really is.  That they'll judge him on the surface and not look deep enough to see his uniquely, preciously tender heart and loving, kind spirit.  I worry that their judgment, the world's judgment, will crush my sweet baby boy.

Then today this phone call happened with this person in my life.  A person who I feel should know how hard I'm trying to fix this issue.  Who sees me constantly trying to find a way to break through to him, to somehow help his 3-year-old mind to grasp what I'm telling him and to stop expressing himself in physical ways like that, for the love of God.  And the things she said made me angry.  And so incredibly sad.  I felt judged.  I cried for a long time.  I drove the kids around in the car listening to the same song over and over again from Rent.  "Another Day".  This is my go-to song when I'm angry or upset.  Poor kids.  Luckily they like the parts of the song that I fast forward to and belt at the top of my lungs until my voice gets tired and won't scream-sing anymore.   At the end of these sessions, I like when I hear Douglas' little voice in the back seat singing with the music, "No day but today."

I did something that Brene Brown says she does when she feels attacked - I acknowledged the feeling by saying to myself "pain, pain, pain, pain."  She says it helps to bring the logical, thinking part of the brain to the table instead of just letting the fight or flight part of the brain have a party alone.  I noticed how exposed I felt.  How raw and vulnerable and hurt and sad and misunderstood.  I felt myself harden off against my friend, against the world.  I realized then that I was reacting to feeling attacked in a vulnerable state.  Every day as a mom involves intense vulnerability.  So anytime someone tells us (or even when we just think they're telling us) that we're not doing a good job, it feels like we were attacked without our armor on, naked and exposed.  The intensity of my reaction revealed to me how much this whole situation with Douglas was impacting me.  How hard it was for me that people in general might be judging me or him and that I couldn't do anything to fix it or change it.   

Micah cares so much less about what people think of him than I do.  This makes him a much more secure person, of course.  I told him tonight how misunderstood I feel, how misunderstood I think Douglas is.  How I'm afraid the world will only see one tiny part of him because it's more glaring and in-your-face (literally, with the knuckles of a fist) than all of his other qualities are - all the ones that actually matter.  Micah said, "Who CARES what people think of us as parents!?  All that matters is that we're doing our best to love them and to know and love the Father." He pointed out to me that if it's not this, it's going to be something else, so I might as well learn now that our kids and their actions are not a reflection on me as a person.  That my identity isn't wrapped up in who they are or what choices they make.

Photo by Ashley Derr

Because later our kid might be the one who strikes out every time he's up at bat or the one who talks incessantly in class and gets in trouble.  Or the one who's shy and doesn't make friends easily.  Or who has autism.  Or who gets bullied every day at recess.  Or the one who uses words to make others cry.  Or the one who will wear nothing but black for years at a time.  We can't control our kids.  We can't control how the world will judge us for our kids' behavior.  All we can do is our best every day to actually see them, because the world probably won't.  All we can do is love them and help them to know with every cell of their being that nothing they EVER do could change how much we love them or how much God loves them.  No matter what the broken world tells them. 

“You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.”
― Brené Brown 

I have this thing about being misunderstood. I always have.  I don't care what people think of me for the most part, as long as they get the story right.  If I feel like they actually understand me and what I was doing or trying to do or who I am and they don't like me for it, then I know there's nothing I can do about that and I can move on.  I mean, it's not ideal, but whatevs.  But if I feel like they don't know me, like they're seeing it all wrong, misrepresenting me, I am devastated.  And angry.  I feel like I can't stop until I've set the record straight.  I hate few things more than feeling misunderstood, and judged based upon that misunderstanding.

Tonight, as I was thinking all of this over, this little voice in my head said, "hmm...I wonder Who else was misunderstood."  The One who did nothing but love and give of himself, the One whose entire purpose was to free us from ourselves and our own death and darkness.  And yet who we still killed.  Humiliated and murdered.  No one has ever been more misunderstood, and yet he wasted no time trying to set the record straight. After writing this whole post, Micah and I read this Advent Companion book we're reading that's a companion to the Catholic Magnificat.  I open it up and the reading for today is entitled "You Can't Please Everybody."  Hmm.   The scripture it's based on, the one that all Catholics in the world read today says this, in part: "For John came neither eating nor drinking and they said, 'He is possessed by a demon.' The Son of Man came eating and drinking and they said, 'Look, he is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.'" (Matthew 11:16-19)

I can't parent Douglas or Timon based upon what others will think.  And with all my heart, I never want to teach them that what others think of them is important.  I want them to learn from me and us that the world will judge as it will, based upon whatever snippets of information or mis-information they have.  But all we can do is our best.  All we can do is play our part, our role - the role that we were created to play.  All we can do is be fully ourselves, with all our quirks and flaws and wounds - and our beauty and gifts and uniqueness.  Who cares if the world tells me I'm a bad mom if my kid hits other people?  Who cares if the world tells him he's a bad kid if he is impulsive or super energetic?  All that matters is that we're trying our damndest to be the best version of ourselves, to love each other in the ways that we are uniquely gifted to.  I want our kids to know that what matters is who they really are, not who others think or say they are.  And that they are fiercely and ceaselessly loved by God the Father.  For all of who they are.  Even the parts the world says are ugly.  For all of who they are.

 “Because true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.”

 ― Brené Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead

 

There's no hope of Douglas or Timon ever learning these truths if I live my life constantly stuck in my own feelings of inadequacy and fear of what others think of me or our kids.  The stakes are high because these precious kids are learning about life from us.  They are looking to me and Micah to tell them if they are ok.  If they have a place in this world.  If they are enough.  And I don't want my answer to be, "Yes, of course you're enough" while my actions say "Yeah, but I sure wish you were easier for the world to approve of because I care so much about approval that I'm insecure as hell around all the other moms."  I never want my motivation to have anything to do with other people's opinions - of our kids or of us.  Let's face it, each of our kids is going to do things that we wish they didn't or that aren't accepted by the world around them.  Do we want them to feel our shame, or our love?

“Perfectionism is self destructive simply because there's no such thing as perfect. Perfection is an unattainable goal.” 

― Brené Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are 

Brene says that “Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage."  Motherhood takes a ridiculous amount of courage.  We should all cut ourselves some slack.  Stop worrying about what other people think.  Stop being critical of ourselves.  "If we can't stand up to the never good enough and who do you think you are? we can't move forward."

 

“Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It's about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest. The choice to let our true selves be seen.”

― Brené Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection

Motherhood/Vulnerability, Part 1

* All of the amazing pics in this post are taken by my super-talented sister-in-law, Ashley Derr.  

One aspect of motherhood that I never anticipated is the general feeling of inadequacy that I would experience.  I wonder if there's a mom alive who feels like she's kicking ass at motherhood.  If there is, I haven't met her yet.  Every single mom I know feels like she's just not cutting it.  Like the stakes are very high and she doesn't have what it takes to do a great job.  Like she's failing in ways big and small - pretty much all the time.  Like every other mom out there might just be doing a WAY better job than her.  We look at each others' Christmas cards and say, "Oh, wow, she must totally have it together.  I, on the other hand, am a hot, hot mess."  What we fail to recognize is that she was inevitably about to poke her own eyes out immediately before that adorable and picture-perfect photo was taken.  We underestimate our own capabilities and overestimate everyone else's.

And in our own fear of inadequacy rests a sizable dose of judgment toward other moms.  I don't even think we know we're doing it most of the time.  I wonder what would happen if instead of judging each other, we started looking for the good things that every mom we encounter is doing.  If, when we spent time together, instead of judging each other to make ourselves feel better, we just ignored all of that crap and really looked.  Saw the ways that the other person uniquely and beautifully loves her children.  And then if we told her what we saw.  I wonder what it would be like if we told one another what a great job each of us is doing.  In our own unique ways.  Using our gifts, the special qualities that only we have, to love and bless our children.  Loving them in ways that only we are equipped to love.

Micah and I were talking tonight, me hurt and wounded from something that happened today with someone close to me, and he said this: "You're an amazing mom.  You know you're an amazing mom.  Our kids are kind and gentle-spirited and loving.  And they don't get that from me.  They get that from you."  I cried.  I thanked him for saying those things.  Because even though I know somewhere deep, deep down that he's right, that place in me is covered up by so many lies and insecurities and self-criticisms that I never let myself live in the freedom of the truth of those words.

Brene Brown in her incredible, so-freaking-amazing book Daring Greatly defines vulnerability as "Uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure."  I realized today that motherhood and vulnerability go together.  They are inextricably linked.  To be a mom is to be vulnerable.  Constantly.  People ceaselessly judge how good or bad a job we are doing at raising our kids.  And by people I mean everyone.  Strangers on the street, checkers at Walmart, friends, family members.  All of them.  And we are constantly uncertain.  We have no idea what we're doing.  How could we?  Raising a child is way too big.  No parent EVER in the history of the world has been certain all the time.  Or even most of the time.  And it's risky as hell.  We do our best.  We give our kids everything we can.  Use every last tool in our rinky-dink tool box.

But there are always holes in what we have to offer.  We are human and therefore far, far, far from perfect.  And ultimately all we can do is our best and then send them out into the world and hope to God that they survive.  And thrive.  And find joy and peace and love.  And the world might not like them.  At all.  The world might be cruel to them.  Or try to break their spirit.  It might even succeed.  The world might tell them they're a waste of space.  Not good enough.  In fact, the world will almost definitely tell them that.  And then the world will look at us and point a finger and say that we are the reason that they are screwing up.  This, my friends, is risky business.  Risk, uncertainty, emotional exposure.  The definition of parenthood, the definition of vulnerability.  Same, same.  And as Brene's years of research on vulnerability shows, “Staying vulnerable is a risk we have to take if we want to experience connection.”

Martyr Mommy

So.  Hi there.  I'm alive.  And well, in fact.  The truth is, I just haven't felt like writing lately.  And when I say lately, I mean for five months, as it turns out.  Imagine my surprise to discover that!  I'm excruciatingly careful not to pressure myself about writing on this blog.  The last time I wrote for any reason other than for fun was when I got paid to write a few articles for a local magazine, and it just sucked the joy right out of writing for some reason.  So anytime I noticed myself thinking, "Oh, I haven't blogged in a while.  I should maybe do that," I promptly ran the other direction.

The past few days, I've felt a blog post brewing.  And last night I started typing.  This morning, I woke up at around 6 am and couldn't sleep because I was writing it in my head.  At 6 am.  On a Saturday.  Reluctant to slide out of bed on one of two mornings a week that I get to sleep in with Micah, I knew I wouldn't sleep if I stayed.  And the twinkly lights of the tree on a dark morning and peppermint coffee were calling my name LOUDLY.

So here I am.  What an amazing way to start the day.  I have my holiday pjs on - red satin ones that remind me of my mom when I was growing up because she used to wear ones just like them.  Beautiful but cozy and warm.  And I've got my favorite blanket that totally looks like santa's red and white coat thrown over my legs.  It's perfect, I'm telling you.

I want to talk about motherhood - for this post and probably one or two more following.  But I don't want to worry the whole time that you're reading it through a lens of "Ginger's falling apart, I need to worry about her since she's been MIA for 5 mos and only comes back to write about motherhood and martyrdom."  I'm doing great.  Timon started sleeping through the night around a year finally, and all kinds of brain cells and endorphins started regenerating at that point. 

Motherhood Part I

One of the things I have become acutely aware of since becoming a mom is that there is a pervasive lie out there that as moms we are selfish if we take care of ourselves.  That somehow we don't deserve - well, anything really.  And that we are bad moms and selfish little vixens if we want to do things for ourselves.  Go away on a girls' weekend.  Go out with girls.  Work outside the home.  Get away from our kids for the love of God.  And, granted, I am living in Kansas.  And I am surrounded by a group of friends who are mostly stay-at-home-moms.  So I know those two things mean that it's probably more of a pervasive attitude in my circle than in some others.  As a stay-at-home-mom, I can only speak from my own experience.  So you working-outside-the-house moms out there, I hope you're catchin' what I'm throwin' even though it looks different in your world than it does in mine.

In Martyr Mommy Land, we joke about how many days it's been since we've showered.  Or about our half-chipped, 6-month-old pedicure.  We wear our "sacrifices" like a badge of honor.  And it's normal to be too exhausted or busy to keep up with yourself in the ways you used to - for a while.  But it's not healthy to make that, or things like it, the norm or an identity.  Because when the kids get a little older, the "not taking a shower" badge gets replaced by the "home schooling even though we hate it" badge or the "cook dinner every night even when I want to punch myself in the face" badge.  There's always some way to make this sacrifice into a currency.  And to get more and more depleted as the years wear on.

For whatever reason, I'm not as afflicted by this as some others are (read into that what you will). :)  I still have those voices in my head, but I'm pretty dang good at taking care of myself when I need to.  It's not because I'm strong and work hard at it.  It's a survival skill I developed somewhere along the way.  I remember in highschool telling my mom I needed a "mental health day."  Amazingly, she sometimes agreed to let me have one.  I love that about her.  She didn't know it then, but she was allowing me to listen to and develop that part in myself that knew it needed something.  That inner voice that set off an alarm when I needed nurturing and a little TLC.   So when I'm in conversations at a party where this self-minimalizing attitude is rearing its ugly head, I'll say some version of - "Hey, you know what?  You should get away.  You need to get away.  There's nothing about that that makes you a bad mom or makes you selfish.  It's not selfish to take care of yourself.  It's not selfish to take care of yourself!!!"

You know what the response always is?  "That's true.  I can't very well love and care for everyone else if I'm run down and falling apart."  This is what we do.  We justify getting time to ourselves or taking care of ourselves by saying that it's all in the name of taking care of others.  It's a problem that we think we have to justify taking care of ourselves in the first place.  I think it's very easy as moms to forget that we have to allow ourselves to be filled up first before we can overflow for others.  That a broken, cracked cup just leaks water all over the damn place.  It doesn't serve anyone, especially the cup itself, to let the cup get all cracked and beat up.  But I think it goes one step further than this even.  Not only should we allow ourselves to be filled up, to receive the blessings and goodness and love of the Father so that we, in that fullness, can love others - I also think we should allow ourselves to receive all those things just because.  Because we are beautifully and wonderfully made.  Because we are deserving of love and affection (from ourselves and others) as much as our children or our loved ones are.  Because we are amazing and lovely and valuable in our own right.  Not only for what we offer the rest of the world.  But just because we are. 

I was talking to a girlfriend the other day about her stopping nursing her baby.  It was a painful and difficult decision for many reasons, many of which had to do with shame and guilt and the sense of inadequacy - what would people think?  Is she selfish to make a choice that helps herself?  Shouldn't she be endlessly, tirelessly, nauseatingly doing things that help others, never herself?  (As if it wasn't enough that she had just pushed him forth into the world through her vagina!!)  From where I was sitting, it was clear that the deeper healing here, the most important thing, was that she was learning to take care of herself, to nurture herself.  That she was learning that it was ok to choose not to nurse simply because she didn't want to nurse.  Gasp.  It was beautiful to watch her struggling through this so bravely.  To see her listening to her voice, validating herself by saying, "You know what?  I hear you.  I hear that you hate this and you want to do what's best for your child, but you're miserable.  We are going to stop now.  You are loved and valued and you don't have to do this.  Your baby gets so much of you.  He doesn't have to get all of you all the time.  Thank you for telling me what you need."  We are all worthy of love and nurturing.

Micah and I took the boys shopping yesterday for an angel tree gift.  Once that was accomplished, we wanted to walk them around the festive mall for a bit.  I wanted a cute new outfit for a Christmas party, so I semi-timidly asked Micah what he thought about us looking for said outfit while we perused the mall.  I felt bad hijacking our Angel Tree Extravaganza (even though we had already finished that part) and wondered if he'd think I was selfish to make it about me at the mall.  He didn't.  He (after briefly rolling his eyes - he hates shopping in all forms) totally jumped on board.  He pushed our double stroller around the mall and was 100% engaged.  He stood outside dressing rooms and gave spot-on, insightful opinions about my festive outfit choices.  I felt so incredibly loved and valued.  As I lay in bed this morning, it dawned on me: what an amazing example things like that are for our kids.  They may not get it yet (although Douglas does on some level) but there they are, seeing a man really loving and caring for a woman.  There they are seeing their daddy a) listening to the needs and desires of their mom b) completely engaging in the activity she wants to do c) showing her that she deserves love and care in these ways.  That part deep within me that sometimes believes the lie that I shouldn't take time for myself or that this shouldn't be about me or my needs or wants felt so touched by that experience.  I will not soon forget the mental picture of me coming out of the fitting room with my fancy holiday shorts and blouse on, and cowboy boots because that's what I'd worn to the mall, and showing my three fellas to see what they (read: Micah) thought.  Douglas did throw in a "that's beautiful!" once or twice.  It completely caught me off guard how valued and special it made me feel that picking out my holiday outfit was a whole family affair.  It made me present to the truth that I am worth it.  

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that this culture has a completely skewed view of women.  The biggest part of the true feminine is the ability to receive.  Look at Mary, the most perfect example of the feminine.  Sometimes we focus so much on her sacrifice - her willingness to accept this child into herself even though it meant she would be judged fiercely by others, even though it would jeopardize her relationships and her life, even though she would have to suffer excruciating agony as she let go of her son and watched him die a torturous death.  Mary's sacrifices are countless and hugely powerful.  But let's not forget that one of the most powerful things Mary shows us is the feminine ability to receive.  As women, we need to let ourselves receive, not just give.  We are made to do both.

Receive love this Christmas season.  Receive joy and fun and nurturing.  If you are someone who struggles to receive the blessings you are meant to receive, open yourself up to them.  Receive the pedicure.  Receive the freedom to stop nursing if that's what your inner voice is saying.  Receive the freedom to slap some peanut butter on a stale piece of bread and offer it to your kids for dinner.  Two nights in a row.  Receive the joy of a long, hot bath with a bajillion candles and music and bubbles overflowing.  It's all receiving.  I'm not saying it should be all about us.  You also get to receive the fun and beauty of watching your kids as they discover the joys of Christmas - as you help (and sacrifice) to create the magic of that time for your family.  It's all part of the same thing.  Giving, receiving.  It's all wrapped up in one big ball of joy.  My point is this: let's not glorify the one and completely forget the other.  As women and as moms, sometimes I think it's easy to get waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too far on the side of glorifying giving and demonizing receiving and to make a full-on identity out of it.  Martyr Mommy.  Yucko.  We are all made to give and to receive love.  Which one is harder for you?  Whichever one it is, consider using this holiday season to learn about that one - allow yourself to embrace it more fully.
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I'm going to post this one with no more editing, no fun pictures.  Because the house is awake now and it's time to start our fun Saturday - and I'm afraid if I wait until I get it perfect or put all the perfect pictures in where they belong, I may never do it.   

Furry Frenemies

Every night at the dinner table Douglas used to say, "Soo, how was my day?"

Taking a cue from him, I'm going to just help myself to telling you about my day.  We had a mole in our house today.  A mole!  Who has moles in their house?!

Douglas was playing in the living room this morning and got up on the couch while calmly telling me something about a thing running under the couch.  It took me a minute to even realize what he was talking about, at which point I went in, sat down on the step to the living room, and proceeded to talk to him about spiders and how they're our friends and that we don't have to be afraid of them.  When he was still not budging, I even threw in the whole "They make webs that catch mosquitoes.  And mosquitoes bite, so spiders actually help us!"

He tells me the thing went under the couch so I lay down on the floor and look (because I think I'm looking for a SPIDER) and see nothing (thank you, sweet baby Jesus).  While I'm still in the middle of my best Mom speech about being brave and that he doesn't have to be afraid, I hear a crinkling sound a few feet to my left and I know it's the wipes case that sits in the diaper basket.  I jump up and stand there in stunned silence trying to decide whether I'm hearing things or not.  Could Douglas have actually seen a mouse?!  We have never, in seven years (knock on wood), had mice in this house.  I ask him what color it was and he says black.  I ask if it had fur and he says yes.

Holy hell.

At that very moment, a little rodent scurries right freaking in FRONT of me, over the towel that I had dropped on the floor in my initial moment of panic.  HE RAN OVER MY KITCHEN TOWEL!

I would like to say that I was calm and did a good job not freaking out since my 2-year-old son was staring at me, afraid, but I cannot say that.  Or anything even close to that.

Instead, I cupped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.  My eyes were wide in terror.  It didn't matter that this rodent was way smaller than the palm of my hand.  When things like this happen to me, the hair on the back of my neck literally stands up.  I can literally feel my skin crawling.  I fully grasp the reality that mice are not dangerous and that some people actually like them and think they're cute - that many people wouldn't freak out at the sight of a small rodent in their living room.  But I was definitely not made that way - I'm the kind who freaks out.  I know most of you are laughing at me right now, and I'm ok with that.

So the bravest thing I could conjure up was to cup my hand over my mouth.  I knew Douglas was watching.  I had the presence of mind to at least hear the internal warning, "Be careful with what you say and do!  Your son is watching you.  He's nervous and he's watching you to find out if he should be downright terrified."  But I couldn't stop myself.  So Douglas started crying and saying, "Mommy, don't do that!" while he put his hand to his mouth like I did to show me what "that" was that he wanted me to stop doing.  I paused for a moment, knowing I had to run in there with the mouse and grab my son from the couch and carry him to the kitchen, even if it meant risking that creepy thing scurrying across the tops of my bare feet. 

I looked in horror at the living room and saw everything that was on the floor for him to scurry over.  My favorite blanket.  My slippers.  Thomas the Train set.  A million toys.  My kitchen towel.  "Damn, I wish I had cleaned up last night!!"

For the next hour, I frantically cleaned the kitchen to make our house as unappealing to the mouse as  possible.  Timon was luckily asleep upstairs.  Douglas sat on the counter in the safe zone and kept a lookout for me.  I told him to watch the step from the kitchen to the living room and tell me if the mouse climbed the step.

I called Micah on the verge of tears.  His assistant answered.  I said that I needed her to tell him to come home right away - that we had a mouse in the house.   She laughed.  I was SO not joking.  I said with great intensity (while trying not to cry), "My kid is crying and this thing is running over all of our stuff.  So I need you to interrupt his meeting right now."  Micah told me to just leave the house and that he would call someone to deal with it.  In the process of packing up and cleaning the kitchen before we left, I saw the house guest scurrying all over the living room - all. over.  It was impossible to miss him.  I wasn't even trying to find him and I would see him because he was circling the room.  Behind and under the tool bench, under the pack and play, skirting along the edge of the freaking TRAIN TRACK, behind the chair, then again at the entryway to the living room where he would start all over again. 

We left the house and I called my mom.  She explained to me that mice are skittish and are pretty much never out and about during the day.  They are usually hiding and only come out when people aren't around.  This was no ordinary mouse.  I said I thought it was a baby because its tail was short, not really developed.  She said it sounded like it was blind and was just trying to find a way out.  I had at one point witnessed it sortof bumping into the leg of our chair.  We decided it had birth defects and was blind.  Poor little guy.  I still wanted it to get the heck out of our house, though.  I also decided there was perhaps a nest in the chimney and this one had fallen - you know, from the blindness and all.  The door to the fireplace was open last night, so he must have gotten in that way.  I was sure there were probably several siblings right behind him. 

Micah, my knight in shining armor, came home a couple hours later (while I was still out of the house) and escorted the intruder outside.  I haven't asked how.  I don't want to know.  But he did somehow get it outside.  He informed me that it was probably a mole because it was so dark and had that weird tail.

In search of reassurance, I called my father-in-law, Doug.  I told him that I think of him as some kind of animal whisperer who somehow just knows things about vermin and that I needed his help.  I told him the situation.  He asked if it had a long tail - no.  He asked if it had a pointy nose - yes.  A mole.  Definitely a mole.  He said they are kindof blind (I knew it!), so he was crawling on our stuff on accident as he followed his nose trying to get out.  Then, God bless him, Doug told me all I needed to know about moles in order for me to move on with my life.  Moles eat grubs and some other insect.  There is no food source inside for him.  He got in completely on accident and wanted to find a way out.  There is practically no chance of another one getting back in the house.  No, there's no way they are nesting in the chimney (turns out they burrow under ground outside).  His friends are not going to follow him inside.  The door was left open a lot during our recent (and interminable - but that's a whole other story that I won't share because it's annoying) window project, so the confused blind mole ended up inside and couldn't find his way out.  He said to just wash whatever he was on (just in case) and look for any "fecal matter" to make sure the kids don't get to it.

 Not only is Doug a Papap who goes for a dip in the pool, clothes and all, with his grandson - and a Papap who pretends to be in a boat where there are big waves (the blankets were making waves, I think), but he is ALSO a Papap with a black belt in Creepy Creature Solutions. 

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Now I didn't have to be (as) afraid of this happening again or watching every moment for a little furry beast to scurry over my feet.  I came home, put the kids down for naps, and went to town cleaning up.  I vacuumed for almost an hour.  Seriously.  First the Oreck.  Then the handheld for the carpet edges.  I found poop after poop in our living room, two of which indicated that he was having the runs, probably from eating God knows what off our living room floor.

I picked up every toy on the floor with a rag and threw them into a bowl.  I threw anything cloth that was on the floor into the washer.  And then I maniacally cleaned every single toy that the mole could have come in contact with.  Many of which had no business getting wet.  Like the cardboard blocks.  No matter.  Mole germs were not going to get my kids sick - not on my watch!  Hopefully Douglas will be able to see the big picture when some of his toys no longer work quite the same.

Luckily, we seem to have effectively de-programmed Douglas' fear response to moles and furry things.  You know, the response that I created in the first place?  I told him all the things that Papap had told me, and I told him that his Daddy had helped the mole to get outside so he could go back to his mommy and daddy and to his home - outside.  I also told him that he had been a big helper by telling me about the mole in the first place and that if he hadn't told me, Daddy wouldn't have been able to help him.  He woke up from nap time and, the moment he got down the stairs, said "We had The Fuzz in our living room today!  Great JOB, Daddy!  You're a good helper!"  The Fuzz.  Classic.  Where does he come up with these things?

That "good helper" Douglas complimented also left me a surprise on the counter in the kitchen after he evicted the mole.  It was a brown paper bag that said "Mice Eraser" - inside it was a ginormous bottle of tequila.  I really like that man. 

Notice Timon in the background turned all the way around in his highchair,

Tonight at the dinner table, Douglas let out a big sigh and rested his head in his hands.  I asked if he was tired and he said, "I'm just pretty tired after dinner.  I'm tired from The Fuzz."

Giving and Receiving - My (Coffee) Cup Overfloweth

Remember this post from last year about letting go of the things we're afraid to let go of, the things we're hoarding?  About trusting that God will provide what we need when we need it?

If you have a minute, re-read that post.  Because the plot has thickened.

In that post I said "More space means more love and blessings and light can enter in."  Well, hello love and blessings and light!  Welcome.


It's been seven months since I stashed my beloved stack of random store credit and gift cards in a Curious George card and mailed them off to Glennon at Momastery with a slightly hesitant farewell.  It felt good to let them go.  I knew it was what I needed to do - 100%.  And it feels good to do what you know you need to do.

Yesterday, I saw a card sitting out on the counter that Micah had brought in from the mail.  My name was written in messy shorthand on the envelope.  The return address started with GMelt.  I knew instantly who it was from.  It was from my now-pretty-much-famous BFF who I've never met, Glennon.

The seal on the envelope had come undone, but the contents were still inside.  When I opened the card, out fell a stack of gift cards.  For a split second, I thought somehow they had been returned to me by the mail system - then I remembered that this envelope and card were addressed to me.

The note said this:

Sweetie, 

Something told me to hold on to these for awhile and then send them back to you.  Thank you for letting them go.

Love,
Glennon

I cried reading this out loud to Micah.  I didn't know what I was crying about exactly.

These are the things that I did know:
- Most of my cards were there in that stack, minus a few that had found new homes.

- There was a Christmas Starbucks card there that I hadn't sent to her.  An extra bonus.  I love Starbucks and I love extra bonuses.

- Glennon's blog went viral several months ago, and ever since then she has been pretty much a celebrity.  She's signed on with a big-time publisher, is writing a book, still writing the blog, and battling chronic Lyme's disease.  So

a) I just got mail from a celebrity.  I told Micah "You're not seeming to grasp the hugeness of this!  This is like my BFF Jen Aniston sending me a card!"

And

b) This woman who, God love her, is all over the place ANYWAY (probably now even more with her suddenly crazier life), somehow was still open enough to the Spirit to sense that she was supposed to hold on to these cards (which doesn't surprise me - she's a master at being open to the Spirit) and didn't lose them and remembered to send them to me 7 months later!!!  This is a woman who can't even remember what car she owns!  Her desk is probably piled a mile high with crap.  Seriously.  And somehow these cards didn't get lost in the clutter.  This makes me feel even more loved because I know that it's a total miracle that those cards found their way back to me.

I kept reading Glennon's card over and over again.  This is SO not what I expected. I did not expect God to tell her to send these cards back to me.  I thought the whole idea was to let them go, which in my mind meant that I'd never see them again.  But I guess the part that matters is the letting go, not the end result.

Throughout the day, this crazy turn of events kept sinking in more and more.  I thought while digging in the garden about how my biggest hangup with giving things away or letting go in general is that I'm afraid I'll need it later and God won't provide.  I'm afraid God won't take care of me.

And the Father knows this.  So he asked me to let something go.  I heard him, and I let go.  And then, when the time was right, he sent about $200 worth of cards back to me, with a Starbucks card that said to me, "I see you.  I know you.  I know not only your needs but also the things that you just plain like.  I love you.  I want to give to you abundantly just as you want to give abundantly to your own children.  Even more so.  I've got this.  Keep letting go.  I have ever so much more for you."

When we hold on to things and protect ourselves as if it's really up to us to keep things going, we cut ourselves off from the ability to receive the blessings and fullness that are meant to be ours.

I wonder if it will ever stop amazing and surprising me how creative God is.  I sure hope not.

Here's the thing, though.  A lot of times we have to change our perspective in order to see the hugeness of the blessing.  It's not usually as clear as "Hey, you gave these cards away, now I'm going to give most of them back to you with an extra Starbucks bonus on top."  I think usually the abundance we receive looks very different than we would expect.  But if we're open to it, we will eventually see that it's absolutely, perfectly, more than we ever could have hoped for.  As I mulled all of this over, I thought of a photo from one of Glennon's recent posts, called "You Might Want to Turn Your Head".  Perspective.  Sometimes it takes a shift in perspective to really see what's going on.

I wonder how many other things in life I'm holding on to that God is asking me to let go of.  Stuff, relationships, wounds and baggage, expectations, reputations, safety nets.  I wonder what love and blessings and light he has for me, just waiting to be mine once I let go of the other stuff, make more space so that he can give me more than I ever could have hoped for or imagined.

I'll keep wondering about all of this while I sip my Decaf Tall Soy Misto.  <contented sigh>

A Morning with Douglas

Our kids amaze me all the time.  I love continually catching more and more glimpses of who they are underneath all that baby skin.

The other day, Douglas sat in the bathroom.  He's still in the process of learning this whole scene.  When he's going to be there for a bit, we read one of two books with him.  Usually his choice is the truck book.  Each page has a picture on it and says what kind of truck or tractor it is.  One page has an airport fire truck.  The next page is an ambulance.  We make the fun siren noises and everything - good times.

Douglas knows that ambulances help people because one time (and one time is all it takes for him to remember something for forever and ever because his mind is a freaking steel trap, I tell you) we were driving and had to pull over for the noisy ambulance to go by.  I told him that someone was hurt and needed help getting to the hospital where a doctor could help them and that this ambulance was taking them there.  Next time we turned onto that street (one that we don't drive on all that often), in the exact same spot that we had pulled over previously, he says, "someone needs help."  It took me a minute to realize what he was talking about.  Blew my mind.

Multi-tasking.  Notice the sippy cup under his arm.

So fast forward to today.  He was on the ambulance page and said, "Someone needs help" and I said yes and explained again what ambulances do and how they help people.  He said, "Someone's hurt."  And then, while patting his chest with his hand gently, he said, "Makes me sad" with a look of such compassion and concern that I just had to cry about it.  I said, with tear-filled eyes, "Buddy, that's so kind of you.  We send people lots of love from our hearts anytime they are hurt or need help, don't we?  And we pray that Jesus will take care of them and that they won't feel afraid."

There was a 2-3 second pause. 

And then he looked down at the toilet and said, "That's my brown poopy."  Indeed.  Thank you for pointing that out. 

I LOVE the way kids' minds work.  They are whole people - integrated.  The deep, emotional, stuff of life stuff intermingles seamlessly with the day-to-day basics like brown poop and whose it is.  I love this.  I think this is the way it should be.  There are two realities - the one we see and the deeper one we can't see - both going on at the same time, both intermingling, weaving their way in and through each other constantly.  Kids are somehow able to stay fully present to them both.  It doesn't even occur to them to live as if the two are disconnected. 

 

Guacamole Man

Desired Things

I know I've been inconsistent on this here blog of mine these past few months.  You can't say that I didn't warn you, though!  Mommy brain does crazy things to my writing life when I have a newborn.  It's literally like I have fewer intelligent thoughts for about 8 months.  Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the fog lifts and I have something to say again.

This is not that day, friends.  Sorry to say it.  But I do feel that day coming.  Timon is 7 months old now, and he's settling in to life on this earth, which means he can put himself to sleep instead of needing me to rock him and bounce him and shhh him until I want to slam my head into a wall repeatedly.  This new development of his has been a total game-changer for me.  I LOVE IT!!!  I'm so much more myself - I haven't even driven aimlessly around town with the kids to avoid having to actually parent them in way over a month!  Woohoo!  I'm more myself...but still the mom-of-a-little-baby version, not the fully rested, sit at a computer and be contemplative kind...yet. 

Today I'm going to share with you someone ELSE'S contemplative writing.  It took my breath away.

This poem was written in 1927 by Max Ehrmann.  It is called Desiderata, which means "desired things" in Latin.  It was quoted on Momastery, and when I read it I first thought that it must have been written recently because it's so relevant.  But then I wondered if maybe it was very old but remained relevent because it was timeless like so many pieces of inspired literature.  I googled it and learned that it was written 85 years ago.  It reminds me of something a grandfather would write for his grandchildren, passing on the wisdom he's gained through experience on this earth.  Maybe it was.  Ehrmann was 54 when he wrote it.  

"Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.  Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.  Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.  Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.  Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.  Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.  Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.  And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.  Strive to be happy."

Have a lovely day.  It is still a beautiful world and you have a right to be here.

Different. And The Same. - Part 2

The research on children and race that I want to tell you about crossed my path twice in the past four years.  Same research, same authors, two totally different people sharing it with me over the span of four years - once as an article in a magazine that my dad emailed to me, once in a book that a friend recommended to me.  Both times were long before we even considered trans-racial adoption.  Clearly it wanted to find its way to me.

The authors are Ashley Merryman and Po Bronson who have written extensively for Newsweek and many other publications.  The book that the two wrote is called Nurture Shock (amazing book that I highly recommend).  According to the authors, in the book they "argue that many modern strategies for nurturing children are backfiring—because key twists in the science have been overlooked. Small corrections in our thinking today could alter the character of society long term, one future citizen at a time."  Good stuff.

Here's the basic premise of the article on race that found me twice.  Kids see color - just like they see gender and weight.  They are never color blind.  They are never color blind.  This goes against our natural assumption that says that they are color blind unless the world teaches them to notice racial differences.  Kids already notice the differences.  It's up to us to give them the tools to view those differences in a positive way - tools that teach them to live with empathy and compassion for all people, including those who are different from themselves, and not only to tolerate differences, but to see them as beautiful and essential.

Our unwillingness to talk to kids about race inadvertently gives them the message that race is something unacceptable to talk about.  Instead of allowing it to be an open discussion, we shut it down and keep silent and let the world inform their views on race instead of us doing so.  The article says that in a study of 17,000 families, 75% of the white families never, or almost never, talked about race with their kids. Seventy-five percent!

Kids Are Not Color-blind
Check this out.  This totally blew my mind.

It takes remarkably little for children to develop in-group preferences. (A researcher named) Rebecca Bigler ran an experiment in three preschool classrooms, where 4- and 5-year-olds were lined up and given T shirts. Half the kids were randomly given blue T shirts, half red. The children wore the shirts for three weeks. During that time, the teachers never mentioned their colors and never grouped the kids by shirt color.

The kids didn't segregate in their behavior. They played with each other freely at recess. But when asked which color team was better to belong to, or which team might win a race, they chose their own color. They believed they were smarter than the other color. "The Reds never showed hatred for Blues," Bigler observed. "It was more like, 'Blues are fine, but not as good as us.' " When Reds were asked how many Reds were nice, they'd answer, "All of us." Asked how many Blues were nice, they'd answer, "Some." Some of the Blues were mean, and some were dumb—but not the Reds.

Bigler says it's important to start talking to our kids about race by the time they're 3 years old, saying that "children naturally try to categorize everything, and the attribute they rely on is that which is the most clearly visible. We might imagine we're creating color-blind environments for children, but differences in skin color or hair or weight are like differences in gender—they're plainly visible. Even if no teacher or parent mentions race, kids will use skin color on their own, the same way they use T-shirt colors."

Douglas, two-and-a-half, put his arm up to mine the other day and said, "matches."  He already notices that his skin color matches mine.

Parents need to talk to their kids about race. 

The article also talks about the fact that people tend to be very comfortable talking to their kids about gender equality and that this should be a model for how we talk to them about race. "The same way we remind our daughters, 'Mommies can be doctors just like daddies,' we ought to be telling all children that doctors can be any skin color. It's not complicated what to say. It's only a matter of how often we reinforce it."

One study mentioned in the article by a researcher named Birgitte Vittrup showed that it was very difficult - painful even - for many parents to talk openly about race to their kids.  They just couldn't bring themselves to do it.  It was so engrained in their minds that it's a "taboo" topic that, even when prompted to do so for the purpose of a research study, they just couldn't.  "Of all those Vittrup told to talk openly about interracial friendship, only six families managed to actually do so."

But.  But.

"For all six (who did talk to their kids about race), their children dramatically improved their racial attitudes in a single week. Talking about race was clearly key."

This drawing by Pencil Artist Dave McCamon called “Just Like Me” was given to me by Micah's parents. We hung it up in the boys' room. Two eyes, one mouth, two ears - Different, AND the same.

These conversations need to be explicit.

"To be effective, researchers have found, conversations about race have to be explicit, in unmistakable terms that children understand. A friend of mine repeatedly told her 5-year-old son, "Remember, everybody's equal." She thought she was getting the message across. Finally, after seven months of this, her boy asked, "Mommy, what's 'equal' mean?"

Bigler ran a study in which children read brief biographies of famous African-Americans. For instance, in a biography of Jackie Robinson, they read that he was the first African-American in the major leagues. But only half read about how he'd previously been relegated to the Negro Leagues, and how he suffered taunts from white fans. Those facts—in five brief sentences were omitted in the version given to the other children.

After the two-week history class, the children were surveyed on their racial attitudes. White children who got the full story about historical discrimination had significantly better attitudes toward blacks than those who got the neutered version. Explicitness works. "It also made them feel some guilt," Bigler adds. "It knocked down their glorified view of white people." They couldn't justify in-group superiority."

I oftentimes wonder exactly what I should be telling the kids.  How to be explicit enough.  The important thing is just to start somewhere - in time you will get more comfortable with talking to your kids about it.  Don't let your fear of saying "the wrong thing" keep you from saying the truth.

There are myriad ways to talk about this explicitly with kids.  One simple way that I've used is to tell them that God made people with all different colors of skin.  That he loves all of us the same, no matter what skin color we have or where we came from.  And that our family loves people with all different skin colors and from all different places, too.  That we're so happy that God made such a beautiful world filled with people of every different color and size and shape.

When kids unknowingly say uncomfortable or embarrassing things about race, it's usually our instinct to shush them.  Sarah could have easily, easily shushed Emmi when she asked why Timon has brown skin.  But because she knows that I believe that it's not only ok, but vital to talk about this stuff, she held back - thankfully - and allowed a positive, open conversation to take place.

Kids learn very early in life to categorize and sort - whether it be based on gender, race, size, t-shirt color, etc.  At a certain age they will naturally leave people out based on physical differences.  That is a normal part of development.  It is up to us as their parents and role models to teach them to be inclusive.  That it is wrong and unkind to choose against being friends with people who look different. 

Let's not choose the easy road of silence.  Let's not let the world teach our kids about race.  Because I'm pretty sure the world will leave out some really important parts.  Like how wonderful it is that we don't all look the same or have the same cultural background - how boring it would be if we did.  And how unique and beautiful each person is.  Like Timon with his oober curly, dark hair and his huge, round, sparkly brown eyes.  And Douglas with his blonde hair with loose, wild curls and his winking blue eyes.

You may believe many positive things about people of all races and about diversity, and you may just assume that your kids know that you feel this way.  But they don't.  If you never talk about it, many of them will assume that you feel negatively about it - that's what the research shows.  How will your kids know how you feel if you don't tell them?!  We can't leave it up to them to guess.  It's up to us to say it out loud.  It's up to us to teach them.
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a list of ideas of children's books that can jump start some of these conversations about race, check out this blog post.  I also really like "Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes."  It's not super explicit, but it could be a great conversation starter.

Also, I'm sure some of you are unsure about what you think of all of this - I'd encourage you to read the article .  It's really interesting stuff, and it covers a lot of ground.

Different. And The Same. - Part 1

I was at the YMCA the other day with my sister and a friend and our crazy little munchkins.  4-(almost 5)-year-old Emmi said to me, totally out of the blue, "Miss Ginger, how come Timon has brown skin?"  I was caught off guard but felt excited to have the first of countless conversations about skin color and our family with curious little kids.  I said, "I know!  Pretty crazy, huh?  God makes people with all different colors of skin!  He loves it!  He loves all the beautiful colors!  He makes some people with cream colored skin and some with light brown and some with dark brown or tan...all kinds of colors!  Isn't that so cool?!"

She stared at me for a split second and said, with the certainty and precociousness that is always present in her voice, (even when she's not certain at all) - "Well, white babies come from tummies.  But brown babies don't come from tummies."  This was not at all what I was expecting.  I said, "Actually, all babies come from tummies.  Timon grew in another lady's tummy.  Her name's Miss Nicole, and she has brown skin, too - just like his!"  Her mom, Sarah, jumped in at this point and said, "but Ginger gets to be Timon's Mommy."  Emmi, now a little confused, asked why.  Sarah told her that it was because God had a very special plan for our family.

And that was that.

Sarah is a friend of mine.  She is kind and thoughtful and sensitive, so she has asked many questions along the way about how I recommend that she talk to her girls about adoption.  She wanted them to understand it, and she (like most of us) had no idea how to explain such a complicated thing to them.  She knew that they would of course be confused when one day I suddenly had a baby without ever having a big belly.  I told her that we talk about it in terms of whose tummy the kids grew in.  We tell Douglas that he grew in Miss April's belly and that he was adopted.  We keep it pretty simple for now.

I was thrilled about this conversation with Emmi.  It was the first one like it, and it was fun to practice. That's the nice thing about having older kids around - they start asking questions way before Timon is aware of what we're talking about, so it gives me time to practice and fine-tune how I want to communicate this very important message to the people around us.

If someone were listening to this 4-year-old saying that white babies come from tummies but brown babies don't, they might have been offended by what she said.  But really it is a remarkable example of how a child's brain works.  She knew that Timon had brown skin.  She knew that he hadn't grown in my tummy - her mom had confirmed that.  So, the only natural inference to be made if you are a 4-year-old is that brown babies don't grow in bellies.  Simple!

Here's the thing.  Emmi is confident and precocious enough to ask when she is curious about something.  This is a part of her personality that, no doubt, leaves Sarah feeling a little embarrassed at times, but it is a wonderful trait in a lot of ways.  She said what other kids are thinking but are afraid to say.  This enabled me, an adult who cares about her, to understand her more and to inform her perception with truth and love.

My nephew Brendan is the same age and is a totally different personality.  Brendan was there that day and heard his good friend Emmi talking with me about all of this.  He's a perfectionist who doesn't want to disappoint or upset people.  And he's very emotionally tuned in to others - if someone in the room is sad or angry or fearful, he senses it.  So he would probably never have said those things that Emmi so brazenly said that day.  Maybe he would have asked, timidly, in the safety of his own home.  Probably not.  I capitalized on this opportunity and said to him later, "I'm so happy that Emmi asked me those questions today about Timon's brown skin.  She was brave to do that, wasn't she?  If you ever want to ask me any questions about Timon or about his skin or adoption, I want you to, ok?  Do you know that?"  He smiled and nodded his head.   

The point is, all kids are wondering these things - whether they ask us about them or not. 

You may not believe me.  Heck, I wouldn't have believed me a year ago.  In my next post, I'll share the information and research that crossed my path (twice) that completely changed my perspective on talking to kids about race - and my perspective on the idea of color blindness.

The Up Side

The good news is that I don't feel completely worked over by our children every day.  There are so many wonderful, beautiful, hilarious, super-fun minutes and hours and days.

Douglas is learning more and more about emotions, which I find fascinating and beautiful.  For a couple weeks, he kept saying, "Douglas fraid" about new people or things.  Recently, when he got into trouble, he bowed his head down in shame.  I said "Buddy, you don't need to be ashamed, you just need to look in my eyes and say that you're sorry.  You made a mistake.  It's ok."  He looked at me and said "shy."  Oh...I see.  You're shy?  The guy who likes to quote the line from Elf where Will Ferrell stands there singing loudly in a store...Douglas' version is "STORE!  SINGING!"  Yeah, super shy.  One of my favorites that he's learning to express is frustrated.  That one really cracks me up.  "Douglas frustrated" or, now that he's starting to use full sentences - "I very frustrated".  He'll see a random picture of a person or an illustration on a logo or sign and say "man sad?" if he thinks they don't look happy enough.  It melts my heart when he looks at me and says, "Mommy happy?"  Yes, buddy...I'm so very happy.

He also has a very strong sense of standing up for himself - something I think we will eventually be grateful for.  For now, it's a mixture of hilarious and super annoying.  The other night, Micah had a touch of frustration in his voice when he told Douglas to get in his chair for the third time.  Douglas said, "Don't yell at me!!"  If you try to nudge him gently in the right direction in a public place to say, "ok, buddy, time to walk this way", you are met with the very lovely "don't push me!" - which of course draws all kinds of judgmental stares.

He keeps surprising us with his funny, quirky little comments.  "Oh, I see."  "That's plenty."  "Hmm, let's see."  "Alrighty then."  "No way, Jose."  He obviously mimicks us and our sayings a lot, which is a little scary...but very hilarious.

There are moments when I am struck by how very blessed we are.  One of these moments came on this cool night when Douglas was "helping" Micah with the leaves in the back yard.  Watching them was mesmerizing.

Life is good.  Hard as the dickens sometimes - but good.

Timon is finding his voice more and more (it's a loud voice).  He rolls over and squeals with delight and talks to the ceiling or to his toys.  He has a precious, chubby face and loves loves loves to be around people.  He's discovered that those two hands that kept knocking him in the face and getting tangled in his hair are, in fact, his hands and can be used for things like holding toys or reaching up for Daddy or grabbing Grammy's face and pulling her close enough to get his entire mouth around her cheek for a kiss.  He has huge, adorable eyes that look like puppy dog eyes when he's sleepy and are full of light and joy when he's excited.  The older he gets, the more giggly he gets.  All signs seem to point to him being a very spirited, lively little fellow filled with gusto and joy and laughter.  And a temper to match.

The good news is, there is a Talk that I know very well that goes something like this - "passion is your gift, but there is a flip side to it that you have to reign in a bit (aka. the side that makes you yell at people)".  I know this Talk because my mom started giving it to me right around the time that I was old enough to speak.  So.  At least I'm prepared.  Sort of.

Douglas and Timon are starting to really become buddies.  It's so amazing.  When Timon's fussy, he calms right down if Douglas goes over and starts talking to him or just stands by him.  He loves looking at his big brother.  The other night, I was holding Timon at the dinner table.  He was sitting on my leg facing Douglas.  Timon gave him a big smile, as per usual, and Douglas cracked up.  Then Timon started laughing.  Then they broke out in a full-blown giggle sesh.  Nothing was said.  They just looked in each other's eyes and laughed harder than I've ever heard either of them laugh.  This went on for a couple minutes while Micah and I just smiled at each other and watched.  It reminded me of those times when you're slap happy and can't stop laughing.  When's the last time you laughed that hard?  Kids have so much to teach us.  Watching my two sons learn to really love and like each other and become friends is a more thrilling and joyful experience than I ever could have hoped for or imagined.  They are so lucky to have each other.  I am so grateful that they do.

Goodbye, January - Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

January's over!  Good riddaaaaaance!!!!!

I struggle with feeling down in the dumps pretty much every single January.  The post-holiday letdown combined with frigid temperatures and generally bleak weather pretty much do me in.  I thought this year would be different because my post-holiday blues didn't start the moment I rolled out of bed on December 26th like they usually do.  I was all high and mighty, thinking my advent calendar experience helped me to enjoy the season SO much, be SO present that I wouldn't even be plagued by the usual letdown.

Well.  January took my high and mighty and gave it a beat down.

Having two kids is hard.  Have I said that before?

And, by the way, every time I say this, I have this nagging little voice in the back of my head that says, "You think two is hard!?  Try 3.  Or 4.  Or 5.  Or..."  All I can say is, "Hey voice.  Whatevs!  That doesn't do me any good today!"

I am realizing more and more that sometimes I have a really hard time sitting in pain and not panicking about the fact that the pain is there.  This doesn't always happen to me - I wasn't like this with fertility struggles or during the adoption processes - all very painful and difficult in ways.  But somehow, in cases like this where there is an enormous commitment and a major life change involved (and loss of sleep), I just freaking panic.

"It shouldn't feel this way.  It shouldn't be this hard. What is wrong?  I'm not cut out for this.  I must not be cut out for this.  I can't handle two kids.  What are we going to do?  How can we fix this, change it somehow?  IT SHOULDN'T BE THIS HARD!!!!!!!!!!!!"

To this, my amazing and insightful husband who knows me so very well, says, "Why wouldn't it be hard?  This is a huge adjustment.  Timon has been a really hard baby.  You're exhausted.  You haven't slept well in 5 months.  You've been super sick for two weeks.  Douglas is in a hard stage.  You're still adjusting to two kids.  Of course you're freaking out and of course things are super hard right now.  It's just a season."

To this, I say, "wow...that actually feels really good to hear.  Maybe I can stop bawling long enough to wipe the snot off of my face with something other than my sleeve.  Maybe it really is ok to just feel this way.  To feel freaked out and anxious and stressed and, some days, depressed and bored and like every day is Groundhog Day.  Maybe I can just feel those feelings and stop there instead of using them to launch a full blown attack against who I am as a person - assuming that those feelings somehow mean that I'm inadequate, not up to the task, incapable of doing this well.  Like God somehow made a gigantic mistake in giving me two children and asking me to help raise them.  Maybe it's ok to just feel like crap sometimes and not read anything more into it.  Life is just hard sometimes.  This is a hard season.  I am really tired.  End of story."

It's amazing how the initial feelings themselves aren't the really terrifying part.  It's my reaction to those feelings - my feelings about the feelings - that make me think my world is somehow ending.  And I do that extra-special thing where I assume that how I feel today is how I'll feel for FOR-EV-ER - so, you know, that helps a lot, too.

I am blessed to have several friends who have said some version of "yeah - I've been there.  It's total crap.  It's so freaking hard.  1 to 2 kids is the hardest adjustment of all.  You just have to survive it - get through it.  I promise you it gets better.  And if you need some meds to keep you afloat 'til then, then by God get you some meds, girlfriend."  I love these beautiful women.

I do know that it's not really ideal to try to just survive things.  Ideal would be staying present in the moment rather than just getting through it.  Finding peace in the midst.  But sometimes, some moments, some days, ideal is not possible.  And in those cases, I say hat's off to me for getting through.

 Photo taken by my very talented sister-in-law, Ashley

Some days I feel like everything is going to be ok and I'm going to get through this and everything's going to be fine.  Other days, I strap my kids into their car seats and drive aimlessly around town to avoid the weighty reality that I have two very high maintenance kids right now and I don't know what to do with them or how to keep us all from losing our freaking minds!

So here's what I'm doing.  I am reaching out for all the help I can get my little hands on.  We decided to have a babysitter come once a week during the day.  We hired a cleaning service.  My sister has made us dinners several times.  My mom has jumped in her car twice this past month after desperate phone calls from me that involved more tears and snot and "I can't do this anymore!"s.  She comes and gives me breaks that I desperately need - one day I went to a movie by myself and ate popcorn and drank a ginormous soda - it was magical.  She cooks healthy meals and loves on our kids and wakes up with Timon in the night so that I can get some sleep.

It makes me and Micah really sad sometimes not having any grandparents in town.  I am so very thankful for my mom's willingness to get in her car and come up to help during this crazy time, and for my dad who supports her doing that for me. 

Side note about my mom: I always secretly thought she had ADD because the fact that two of us kids have it means it's very likely that we inherited it from somewhere.  I realized last time she was here that, if she does have it, she has more long-term hyper focus moments (and days) than any ADD person I know.  She comes knowing that things are a bit of a mess around here, so she goes into hyperspeed.  I woke up one morning to find that she had done laundry, swept, and done dishes along with about ten other tasks that take me all day to get done - or sometimes DAYS.  I looked at Dougie and said, "Wow.  Grammy's kickin' A and takin' names!"  He stared blankly at me.  Her ability to hyper-focus and get things done is not what I'm most grateful for, though.  I am grateful for her willingness to show up and love the kids and me and Micah and give of her time and her energy for no other reason than because she loves us.  She gets very little in return other than several sleepless nights and, most times, a slew of germs and sicknesses to take back home with her.  Total win-win for her.  Obviously.

I have never been happier to see January 31st come and go.  We've been super lucky to have an unseasonably warm January, but there's still something about that month that just gets under my skin.  So.  February 1 came with rays of sunshine and 60 degrees.  I love you, February.  May you bring me sleep and patience and fairy dust that makes me nice and friendly to everyone.  Or, alternatively, fairy dust that I can sprinkle over my children to make them forget the times I screamed at them.

Although, truth be told, I agree with one of my friends who said that kids learn so much more from us making mistakes and humbling ourselves and asking their forgiveness than they would if we never made mistakes and were Mary-Freakin'-Poppins.  All that would teach them is that they need to try to be perfect - and who wants that for their kids?! 

Alright.  Teach kids that they don't need to try to be perfect by making lots of mistakes of my own.  CHECK.  Double check.

Cold and Sinus Adventures

I have a vicious sinus cold, compliments of Douglas, compliments of Mom's Day Out germs.  I took meds the last two nights to help me sleep because the night before that, I literally laid awake in bed all night silently reciting some version of the Niquil jingle -  "The sneezy, stuffy head, fever, headache, so you can rest medicine" - and thinking "why, WHY don't I keep Niquil on HAND in this house!?"  I'm not joking.  This is what I did all night.  I couldn't get the dang thing out of my head. 

I don't take medicine a ton because I somehow believe what I've read in natural medicine books that taking meds actually slows your body's healing because it dries out your nasal passages etc, etc.  And God knows, I don't want to be sick a day longer than I have to.  The fact that I rarely take meds combined with the fact that my body seems to be the most sensitive-to-drugs body on the entire planet means that, when I do take them, I'm usually in for quite a ride.

This morning, I dreamed that I was staying with a friend of a friend just outside of a beautiful city in Europe.  How I got there is a mystery because it started with a tragic love story where two lovers (neither of which were me, mind you) were forbidden to see each other by their families.  They saw each other again anyway, and just as they were trying to decide to do, in the center of town where they were standing, a bus pulled up that was one of those cheesy "travel Europe" buses.  They decided to jump on.  I remember in my dream thinking, "how are they going to pay for this?  How are they going to afford their lives in Europe?" 

Well, apparently I hopped on the tour bus, too, because suddenly I was Europe. 

I was staying at a friend of a friend's castle with my sister and brother-in-law.  Yes - castle.  So we're standing on top of this castle, on the roof as it were, and looking out over the beautiful landscape and city skyline.  Then somehow I was swept off the roof by a flying carpet.  And this was great fun until the wind picked up and took me way out away from the roof.  I yelled back to my sister that I didn't have my wallet or money or the address of where we were staying...our castle, you know.  I suddenly realized, while zooming around super high in the sky on a magic carpet, that I didn't have the means or the information to get me back to where we were staying or to the people I was with.  Thanks to some helpful winds and some mad carpet-flying skills, I managed to land back on the castle roof safe and sound.  Phew.

Imagine my surprise when I was awoken from my carpet-flying dream to a screaming baby in need of a bottle. 

Wow.  Helllllooooo cold medicine.  Nice to see you.

I decided that maybe this dream was trying to tell me that I'm worrying too much about logistical things in life (like how the lovers will pay for their runaway lifestyles and how I'll find my way back to the castle...while I'm flying on a magic carpet!!  Hello, missing the forest for the tree!).  Maybe I'm supposed to let go more and just receive what is happening in my life.  Sounds like a lesson I'm always in need of learning.  I do believe that life is always trying to point us back to Truth, so I guess cold medicine would count, too.  Just maybe.

I hope you have a stellar weekend.  The magic-carpet-flying kind.

I Hate You, Meat!

Well, it's official.  Meat is my arch nemesis.  I seriously want to punch it in the face.

My Naturopathic Doctor told me in May that when women come to him with any hormonal imbalances, his first step is typically to recommend that they go vegetarian for six months and see what happens.  Since I was already not eating dairy or eggs (because my body doesn't like them - eggs make me want to punch a wall and dairy makes my digestive system lash out irrationally), this meant that I became a vegan - except that I can eat seafood.  Vegan means no animal products - no dairy, eggs, meat, seafood.

So I jumped full-on into vegan life, and I totally noticed changes.  Many signs of hormonal imbalances went away.

Wellll...then came the holidays.  And I got a little too loosy goosy about it all.  And by a little, I really mean a lot.  It's much easier to go full-on vegetarian and just never have meat.  When you give in a time or two, it just makes it that much easier to keep giving in and eventually end up eating meat way too often.  The thing is, being a vegetarian can be a pain in the butt.  It's not ridiculously hard, but it does require discipline (in my case, because I love me some bacon - always have.  Maybe I need to find a YouTube video about how bacon is made...I think that would probably do the trick.)  And it can require planning at times, which can be obnoxious.  Going to a summer bbq as a vegan means you have to bring your own food - hello, grilled portabello mushrooms (they're actually very good)!  I was getting the hang of it, for sure, but it was just so easy to choose meat out at restaurants over the holidays instead of yet another salad without meat.

Last month I couldn't tell a huge difference when my period came (don't worry, any men out there, this is not going to get graphic).  I had only fallen off the wagon for about a week at that point, so my body wasn't freaking out yet.

I was curious to see what would happen this cycle since it had been a full month of meatiness.  I really did it up.  I didn't eat meat every day or anything, but many days I did.  I'm kindof bad at moderation sometimes.  I ate bacon, both pork and turkey versions (and when I eat bacon, I eat bacon.  Like five pieces).  Sausage.  Turkey.  More turkey.  I think there was some ham in there - yes, yes there was.  And even a few little party sausages for good measure - hey, they were in my Mom's amazing "Mexican Wastebasket Soup" that I love.  OH, and these amazing tasting - wait for it - venison and jalapeno bites wrapped in bacon and smoked (my brother makes them and they're bomb!).  Yeah.  Meat wrapped in meat.

Suffice it to say, this little 6-week detour DIDN'T GO WELL!  My period this cycle has been atrocious.  The most painful cramps I've had in over a year.  Horrible PMS mood swings.  Low back cramps that I had completely forgotten even existed.  I used to get them every month, but haven't in forever.  I feel like a truck ran me over and then realized it forgot something and backed up.  Slowly.  This is not a good thing when you have two little kids, both of whom happen to also be in bad moods for their own very special reasons.

I have a bad memory, and I don't always do what I know is best for my body (although I do work hard to at least try), so maybe this post will serve as a reminder to me to STAY AWAY FROM MEAT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

The reason I'm telling you this is two-fold.  One, I'm pissed and PMSing, so I wanted to yell and vent.  Two, if any of you ladies out there feel like your hormones are a little whacky, you might want to try going vegetarian for a while to see what happens.  If you're going to do it, you have to really do it - I mean, don't just eat rice cakes and cereal all day like I did my first few weeks as a vegan.  That won't really give you much of anything (obviously).  Eat tons of fruits and vegetables.  Take a B-12 supplement and a multi-vitamin  and research it enough to make sure you're covered on your nutrients.  This site has helpful information on key nutrients for vegans or vegetarians to be aware of.

The other day, I was talking to the manager at one of the health food stores I frequent.  I was telling her about how meat just really messes with me hormonally.  She said that in her 30's, she started going into very early pre-menopause and was having lots of hot flashes.  She started buying and eating only organic meat, dairy, and eggs.  Her hot flashes went away completely within a couple months.  Recently (years later), she got laid off from her previous job at a health food store, so she couldn't afford organic anymore.  Within a month, her hot flashes were back.  They're gone again now that she's back to eating organic.  Her hormonal imbalances were directly related to the hormones in non-organic meat, dairy, and eggs.

Before the past few days, I was planning to do another experiment soon, once I balance back out with my vegan diet.  I was going to eat meat 1-2 times/week for a month- ONLY ORGANIC - and see what happened...see if my hormonal balance stayed intact.  Now that I'm a hot mess, I'm thinking I'll wait a little while before throwing another experiment into the mix.  But if you're someone who doesn't want to try going vegetarian but does want to experiment with this, then take a few months and choose organic meat, dairy, and eggs.  Those three categories are huge sources of hormones.

You hear stories of this or that organic company who is cutting corners and still marketing their product as organic even when technically it's not.  This is the exception, not the rule.  There are many companies out there that are totally legit.  And I think it's silly to hear those stories and think, "well, then I'll just never buy organic."  Conventional dairy and meat and eggs are huge sources of unhealthy hormones and antibiotics as well as all kinds of other nasty additives.  I really believe we would all greatly benefit from choosing organic in these areas if we can afford it.  The store manager's story is not an isolated one - there are countless others just like it.

All I'm sayin' is this.  I HATE MEAT!  I mean, I love meat, but I HATE it!  My body, for now, hates it.  And maybe it just hates conventional, hormone-laced meat.  I guess I'll find that out another month.  But if my body hates it THIS much, I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only one...maybe some of you readers' little bodies hate it, too.  Let me know if you think that's you.  We can be vegan buddies - or vegetarian buddies.  I'll send you my recipe for Vegan Energy Bars - sounds disgusting, tastes amazing.  I will not, however, send you the recipe for bacon-wrapped venison wads.  You're welcome.