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.