How Not to Hate Parenting

Cinderella and the prince get married, and they live happily ever after. Sigh. Cinderella may not fit into our culture’s modern way of thinking, but she does get one thing right: She gets happiness. Meanwhile, the rest of us swim upstream in our constant pursuit of an ideal that seems fleeting.

Maybe that’s the problem; we’re chasing an ideal that is fleeting, an ideal that’s made for the fairytales. We’ve yet to realize that real life isn’t about happiness but, instead, endurance.

I recently read an article in New York magazine by Jennifer Senior titled “All Joy and No Fun: Why Parents Hate Parenting.” While the very end of the article mentions the idea that having children brings purpose and lasting value to one’s life, the first five pages highlight many of the different reasons parents in numerous studies cite themselves as unhappy. To say the article wasn’t the most uplifting piece I had read during the day would be an understatement, but as I processed through what I read, I couldn’t help but ask, “So what?”

Is the idea that parents are unhappy and that their unhappiness increases with the more children that they have that shocking? Perhaps finding oneself unhappy isn’t necessarily bad but just a phase associated with anything that has value and takes hard work.

When I think of marriage, I think of the idea that Hollywood perpetuates–marriage is about passion and falling in love with that one person who is destined to make the other person happy, and the details as to what happens after the wedding are rarely shown. Then I think about reality–marriage can have passion, but more days are filled with the choice to love, as the in-love feelings can be fleeting. Marriage is hard work, and unfortunately, many marriages end because people state they are no longer happy, no longer in love. And that’s the problem with basing a relationship on a feeling–we’ll find disappointment when the feelings fade as they tend to do.

So when I read that parents with children are unhappy, I wasn’t that surprised. Maybe people look to babies the way they look to finding their soulmate–as a person to add happiness and beautiful feelings to their lives. But in reality, adding a baby adds a lot of hard work, and the feelings of happiness aren’t always there. I was mulling over this idea after my daughter had dumped an entire bottle of sesame seeds on the carpet, and my vacuum proceeded to push them around rather them suck them up. Yes, I knew the feeling of unhappiness that tends to accompany parenthood.

And while my unhappiness at that moment was brought on by a specific event, I could identify with a longer lasting feeling of discontent. I thought about this past year, and I analyzed my own happiness quotient. One year ago, I had my third child in three years, and on numerous occasions I had told my own husband, “I’m just not happy.” Blame it on hormones, adjusting to life with three children all under three feet tall, lack of sleep, infrequent moments of solitude, or a combination of the above, I wrestled daily with my own cloud of depression.

However, at no point did I think that I hated parenting. I knew I was having a tough time, and I had to ride out the wave of unhappiness knowing more peaceful feelings would come. Perhaps one of the reasons this article left a bad taste in my mouth was this underlying theme that unhappiness is unacceptable when unhappiness is just normal.

And yet, while in one breath I could say that unhappiness is normal and not groundbreaking news, in the other I was shocked at the statistics. Why did so many parents find themselves unhappy, especially when they had more children? The article unpacks many reasons, and each could justify another article alone, but two stood out to me.

Parents are tired. The article seems to focus on families with both parents working, and these parents have to deal with the stress of work all day to then run each child to piano practice and baseball only to deal with disrespect when they get home. I couldn’t help but think, for what are the majority of us working?

Are we working solely to meet our bills or because we simply love working, or are we working to give our kids the ‘better’ life, the life of soccer practice and cell phones and college tuition and weddings? Thinking about the cost of raising a child is overwhelming, but perhaps we could give our children more by giving them less. If the harried pace of life is causing more moments of unhappiness with our children than happiness, perhaps the 60+ hour work week for both parents needs to be evaluated.

Do our children really need cell phones and new cars when they turn 16? Do we really need to have our kids in a sport by the time they turn 3? Is it our responsibility to put our children through college? My husband and I are wrestling through these questions ourselves, but I would venture to say that if working to provide for these extra things is robbing a family of joy, then they aren’t necessary. Instead of the parents having to shoulder all of the responsibility for the extras, teach children the value of saving.

And teach children the meaning of family. One of the other reasons cited in this article as to why parents find parenting so disappointing is that after all the time they put into their jobs and their kids, they still have a mound of chores to do–the work is never done. Perhaps the work is never done because we’ve allowed more of the work to be ours than necessary.

My parents are wonderful parents, and they taught me all the things parents should teach their children. They were physically present at every gymnastics meet and school function, and they were emotionally present during every talk we needed to have. However, the one idea that they did not promote was that I was a part of the family unit, and my contributions to the family were necessary.

I was a good kid; I made straight A’s and was a nationally competitive gymnast. I never went through the teenage rebellion that many do, and I had a good group of friends. My mom didn’t want to add more to my plate because I was working hard at school and gymnastics. However, as I have since told my mom, by not requiring me to shoulder more responsibility in the home, I was allowed to remain selfish. I loved my family, but I did not see myself as a contributing member–my parents were there to contribute to me. My parents and I agree now; I should’ve been made to do more as a child.

Now that I am a mother, I see how much work my parents did to provide for my sister and me on top of the daily chores they did around the home. After reading this article, I see that they were not alone, but I have made a decision that my children will not grow up with the selfish mentality that I had. They will contribute to this family in meaningful ways, and my hope is that they will grow into better adults, as a result.

Unhappiness is a part of parenting as much as it is any part of life, but as is the case with anything, we are in control of our emotions. We can choose to allow our feelings to rob us of the joy of parenthood, or we can look at the deeper issues. Children don’t bring unhappiness–we allow ourselves to create it.

While each family is different with its own dynamics, it is the parents’ responsibility to sit down and analyze how the family unit is working. Perhaps the parents need to work less while the children work more. Perhaps, as I discovered during my own fight with unhappiness, the issue is one of needing space. Perhaps the issue is more complicated. One thing is clear–the majority of us can continue to find unhappiness in parenting, or we can make the choice to take control of our lives and emotions and find contentment.

We only get to live this life once. We can wait for a happily ever after that won’t ever come, or we can take control of our family and those choices that are ours to make. After all, we are the adults; let’s show our children how real life works.

Catching the Laughter

Sometimes I wish for them to grow up, to age one more year and gain a little more sense, a little more independence.

And other times, I watch as a sudden spirit of carefree blows in and tickles their toes, pushing them off their bottoms,

creating a primal urge to shed clothes, innocence throwing off underpants in exchange for hats.

And I laugh, I soak in the moment, holding it to my chest, locking it in my memory forever,

knowing that in the blink of an eye they will be grown,

longing to catch and relish in more moments while they’re little.

For this Focus on it Friday, I am thankful for a moment of uncontrollable laughter when I watched the joy of innocence. For what are you thankful this week?

In All Things

I love it when a sermon confirms that I’m right. A pastor spilling bits of God’s truth to the congregation, I scoop up those precious morsels that I’ve uttered before, admiring the way they shine under the stage lights. There’s nothing better than to nod my head in agreement without feeling the twinge of conviction that can so often come in the lonely chairs of a church.

This past Sunday, pastor Jason Britt preached on God’s omnipresence, God’s ability to be everywhere at every moment. He challenged that if we really believed in God’s omnipresence, our daily lives would look different. We would speak to our loved ones differently, conduct business more honestly, allow our hearts to break for others’ suffering more openly. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I thought of different moments when God was watching me from within the same room. God’s omnipresence meant conviction.

But then the pastor moved on to his next point, and I could breathe easier again. As he spoke that God’s omnipresence can also bring comfort, he made a distinction that caused me to lean forward in my seat: God’s presence in every situation does not mean that everything always works out. There is a difference between ‘everything is okay’ and ‘God is here.’ Yes! I scooped up the pastor’s last sentence. That was exactly the point I had tried to make a couple of years ago!

Two years ago I was overcome with worry. I was a stay-at-home mom facing the need to look for a job. The job for which my husband transferred and moved our family didn’t turn out to be the best fit, and he began the search down a new career path. To complicate matters, the house from which we moved had still not sold, and our renters vacated the premises. We had two mortgages and no jobs.

I remember praying and the situation not changing. I would convey my fears to others, but sometimes instead of feeling encouraged, I would feel frustrated. These well-meaning individuals would tell me, “God will provide,” implying that God was holding next month’s mortgage payments in His hands, just waiting to hand them over. One person asked, “Don’t you have faith?!”

I was angry. Yes, I had faith! But I also knew that God’s provision did not necessarily translate into money. God could provide peace or His Word or meet our basic needs through our extended family, but there was no guarantee that He was going to provide jobs so that our homes didn’t end in foreclosure.

Look in the Bible–Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery. He ended up in prison for years! Paul had stones hurled at him on more than one occasion, and he was left for dead many times. I believed that God was there during all those moments, but those lives were definitely not okay.

This sermon was vindication for me and all those feelings I held two years ago. I had no guarantee that everything would be okay and knowing that fact did not make me a bad Christian. Obviously, I was an insightful Christian since the pastor was speaking what I already knew.

And as I listened to the rest of the sermon, God tapped on my shoulder.

In all things God works for the good of those who love him who have been called according to his purpose.

I knew the verse. I clung to Romans 8:28 many times during our mess, but it didn’t bring me comfort. I was focused on the years Joseph spent in prison, not the glory to God he brought as a result. I didn’t see that he saved Egypt from famine or was reunited with his family–only that he was 30 when it all happened after being sold into slavery as a boy. I was focused on the beatings Paul received, not the spread of the Gospel across the world. I didn’t see that he sang praises to God while sitting imprisoned–only that he had shackles around his wrists and ankles.

Two years ago, I was hung up on the balance between God’s will and freewill. I knew bad things happened to good people, and I couldn’t find comfort in God’s promises. But sitting in that seat in church, holding that nugget of truth that I knew so well, I saw something different as I looked it over. Everything isn’t always okay, but God is always there. And if God is always there, He is continually taking the broken pieces of our mess and, as the true master craftsman, making them part of something beautiful.

Two years ago, I was right. Everything isn’t okay, and it isn’t necessarily helpful to tell someone that it will be. However, two years ago, I was also wrong. I couldn’t find peace in the midst of turmoil knowing that God would use this heartache for His purpose.

As I sat in that church chair, I experienced God’s omnipresence as I felt His conviction and comfort simultaneously. And I was thankful for the hand of God who used a sermon to confirm how I had been wrong.

*Post edited at 9:36 am on 7/14. Anyone who read the post prior to this time, please know that the pastor used the term omnipresence and not omnipotence. The error was solely mine in editing and thus proof that I should not write early in the morning.

His Child

“Mom! Hannah Grace had a big fall! She’s needs to go to the hospital!” my ever-dramatic four-year-old informed me.

I was less than six feet away from my kids, doing the dishes while they ate their dinner. Matt was still not home from work. I wanted to get the kitchen as clean as possible before he got home so that we could relax and enjoy our Friday night. I somehow missed the fall, having bent down to put a plate in the dishwasher as Hannah Grace’s head hit the floor.

Of course, I heard her cry, immediately shot up, and ran to her and asked the question which prompted Caleb’s reply.

“Oh, Caleb, she doesn’t need to go to the hospital,” I said while checking her head for bumps. “Don’t try to scare her.”

Hannah Grace was still crying, so I asked her where it hurt.

“My heaaaddd!” she pathetically drew out the word.

I was hoping for a more specific answer. “I know your head. Point to where it hurts.”

I felt the upper portion of her head where she was rubbing and pulled her in for a hug. I rubbed her head until she stopped crying, which didn’t take too long.

After a few tries, I gave up figuring out how she fell. All I could gather from both kids was that she was standing on the chair, leaning on the table, and somehow ended on the back of her head on the floor.

She was fine now, though, so I didn’t worry anymore. We had the talk (again) as to why she shouldn’t stand in her chair, and the kids finished their dinner. Then they went on their way to clean up the playroom while I finished cleaning the kitchen.

Ten minutes later Matt called: “I’m stopping at the store now to pick up the brownies, and then I’ll be on the way home.”

Good. Matt had made most of the drive in from work, and I was almost finished with the kitchen. I could start getting the kids ready for bed while I waited. We were going to have our weekly Friday date night which normally included a snack, an attempt at a movie, and someone falling asleep on the couch.

As I started sweeping, Hannah Grace was tip-toeing her way into the kitchen, singing a little song to herself.

“Have you finished cleaning up?” I asked. “Hurry up, babe. Mommy’s almost finished in here.”

I looked up from the pile I was sweeping as she twirled around and headed back toward the playroom.

“OMIGOSH!” I yelled. “What did you and Caleb get into?!” For a millisecond I was baffled at the reddish-purple substance matting Hannah Grace’s hair to the back of her head. For a millisecond.

And then fear set in.

“Hannah Grace, come here.” She had fallen on the back of her head, and now almost all the hair in the middle of her head was red and sticky.

I didn’t want to panic, and I didn’t want to scare her, and I really didn’t want to search through her hair to her scalp to find the injury that had caused this much blood. I started to move the hair away and didn’t see anything protruding from her scalp. I breathed a small sigh. I continued to search for the source and thought I found it, but she had too much matted hair. I decided I needed to put her in the tub so I could wash away the blood and see better.

I began dialing Matt. Straight to voicemail. I had just spoken with him! I tried again–maybe he was ignoring me because he was in the checkout line. I called again. And again. And again.

Now I had to think about the other two kids. I didn’t want Caleb to be scared or to scare Hannah Grace with his questions, and Chloe would just try to climb in the tub. I had to trust Caleb until Matt got home, which should be soon.

“Caleb, I need you to stay in the playroom with Chloe. Please watch her. I need to wash Hannah Grace’s hair.”

I can’t remember the questions he asked, but I know I emphasized how I really needed him to be a big helper then.

As I was moving Hannah Grace upstairs, Matt called.

“If I call four times in a row, it’s probably important!”

“I didn’t hear my phone. Well..what’s wrong?!” I had worried Matt with my ‘greeting’ and needed to fill him in on the details, which I did. I told him I was taking Hannah Grace upstairs, so when he got home, he needed to check on Caleb and Chloe.

“I’ll be home in ten minutes.” He sounded as scared as I felt.

While I moved with a purpose, telling myself to act calm, Hannah Grace continued on in La-La Land–not because of her injury but because she is a regular inhabitant of the place. I sat her in the tub and began rinsing her hair. We both watched as the clear water became pink and swirled around her feet. I looked at the back of her head. Yes, there it was.

No bigger than a half an inch long in the middle of her head sat the cut, open. Her scalp around the cut had swelled into a tender knot. Caleb was right–we would be making a trip to urgent care. Now seeing her injury clearly, I relaxed a little. I couldn’t believe a cut that small produced so much blood!

As I called my parents and set up the arrangements for Caleb and Chloe, I watched in amazement as Hannah Grace played in the tub, apparently not in pain and oblivious to the chaos I had felt for the past ten minutes.

“Hannah Grace, we’re going to need to go to the doctor. You have a boo-boo on your head that we need to get fixed,” I told her matter-of-factly.

“To get a band-aid because we used up all the band-aids?” She remembered earlier that day I reprimanded her and her brother for sneaking and using the rest of our box of band-aids.

“Well, no, we don’t have any more band-aids, but we need a doctor to check your boo-boo.”

As I pulled her out of the tub, swaddling her in the blue hooded towel, Matt made his way into the bathroom. I showed him the cut and was surprised to see the hair around the wound was already turning red again, slowly, but confirming my decision to head to urgent care.

We proceeded to get each of the kids dressed in their pajamas and put Caleb and Chloe in bed. Hannah Grace came downstairs with us as we ate a quick dinner and waited for my parents, and once they arrived, we headed on to urgent care.

We knew the drill–almost a year-and-a-half ago we were in the same place for the same reason after Caleb fell on the playground and cut his cheek. The nurse would look at Hannah Grace’s head, then get the doctor who would tell the nurse to numb the spot, and then we would wait in the waiting room for the anesthetic to take effect before proceeding with the stitches.

We went through the routine and waited. Hannah Grace was happy reading books and playing with toys as she awaited the nurse to call her name. When she heard, “Hannah?” she looked up at the nurse by the door and began to make her way, not waiting for Matt or me. She was a big girl, and she was ready to get her stitches so she could get a sticker–no one ever told her she would get a sticker, but that was the appropriate prize, she had decided, for her injury.

We had to take Hannah’s shirt off while waiting for the doctor because the nurse said they would clean her injury again, and she didn’t want to get Hannah Grace all wet. That was the first protest we heard from Hannah Grace all night: “I don’t want them to see my boobies.”

While she lay down on her stomach on the table, her little body covered, arms and legs tucked in the sheet like a burrito, I brushed her cheek with the back of my hand. She was my daughter, my precious baby. How I wanted to protect her!

The nurse informed me, “She has a good bruise around the injury, so she may say it hurts when the doctor starts pulling on the stitches. If she says that, it’s because of the bruise.” The nurse was assuring me that the anesthetic had done its job.

I started to pray but then pushed aside the prayer. I felt selfish praying for Hannah Grace to not feel pain when I knew there were children with serious injuries and illnesses. I know in my head that God cares about me and my concerns, but sometimes I have trouble believing that in my heart. I have been so blessed–why would He listen to my prayers when there are real troubles in the world?

And in that moment I felt a peace. As I looked at my daughter, whom I loved with all my heart, God told me, “She’s my daughter, too. I don’t want her to hurt, either.”

Hannah Grace started to move, and I knew she just wanted her right arm free so that she could hug her pink bear-blankie to her face. I asked if the nurse could free her arm, which she did, and Hannah Grace fought her eyes to stay open, tiredness washing over her as her bear touched her face.

While the doctor made each stitch, Hannah Grace and I made faces at each other, sticking out our tongues from side to side. Matt had his hands on her little body, ensuring she didn’t move, but she had no plans to. She was a big girl.

“It took four stitches,” the doctor told us. That was one more stitch than her brother received a year-and-a-half before.

We dressed Hannah Grace, hugging her and telling her how proud we were. She didn’t cry, didn’t move; she was perfect. God had answered my prayer.

And He answered hers, too. She didn’t get a sticker, but she got a green popsicle. She sucked on that popsicle most of the whole way home until it was gone, and then she fell asleep.

Living With Animals

I’ll do push-ups. I’ll do sit-ups. I’m not afraid of pain. I’ve done the natural childbirth thing, and I’ve scrubbed poop off of walls. I consider myself a fairly tough cookie. However, even I have my limits.

Eight years ago when my husband jumped up and down like a four-year-old while I was trying to take a shower in peace, he pleaded for me to call my student. I had made the mistake of mentioning earlier that morning that this particular student had a litter of puppies he was trying to give away. They were Jack Russell/Rat Terrier mixes and darned cute. And really, that’s about all there is to say as to how we got our dog Scout.

I didn’t do much (okay, any) research before getting our puppy, and I definitely wasn’t prepared for training her. However, for as unqualified as an instructor as I was, I was even less prepared for how Scout would bring Animal Planet to my planet . And thanks to Scout, I learned exactly where I reach my toughness limit.

I can sweep a mammoth spider out the door without killing it, and I can quietly crouch and hide waiting for a baby chipmunk to follow the path of nuts back to his wild kingdom. But if Scout brings a dead field mouse into my home, I will become the most useless human being in existence. I will cry, ashamed at my failed efforts and inability to move this mouse four feet out the door. Each time I feel the body bend underneath the dustpan or rubber gloves I use, my fear will paralyze my limbs and my good sense. I will allow it to sit on the same spot of carpet all day until my husband gets home.

If Scout has a fight with a snake on our back patio before the horrified eyes of my three children and myself, I will not be able to close the blinds in time or control the giant shiver running down my spine. I will stand in disgust as she shakes her head, flinging that snake back and forth, up and down until the snake finally snaps into two pieces. And I will leave it on the patio and ban the rest of us from outside until my husband gets home.

And if Scout picks a fight with a family of birds while the kids and I are playing an innocent game of baseball, I will yell at her from a distance, wanting her to stop but afraid to have a cameo role on this particular episode on Animal Planet. I will stand in horror as I hear the family of birds yelling at Scout to leave their brother alone, and I will never forget the sound a bird makes when it tries to scream, caught in the jaws of the ferocious canine. We will make our journey to pay homage to this fallen creature and listen to the warning cries of its family telling others to stay away, and then we will walk back to our baseball game. And the bird will lay on the same spot of grass where its blood was spilled until my husband gets home.

I don’t know why I cannot dispose of dead animals, but I cannot. My shame as a mother is as great as Scout’s pride as she brings her kill to my feet, her face stretched in her happy doggy smile. And so, this week I am thankful for a husband who doesn’t ask questions or chastise his wife for her failure. Instead, he finds the bird lying in the grass that was waiting for him to come home so it can rest in peace.

This week I am also thankful for a water leak that was the county’s fault, and therefore not our responsibility, a state tax refund that finally appeared, and a good Samaritan who helped my husband when his jack broke changing his blown-out tire on the side of the road. Join the conversation–for what are you thankful this week?

Losing Jesus

Many times in my Christian walk, I feel caught in the middle. I’m not conservative enough for some, yet for others, I’m too rigid. On one view, my opinions might match up completely with the fundamentalist Christian, while on another, I might relate to that of a person with a more liberal interpretation of Scripture. I don’t feel completely home in either camp, and most of the time, I don’t want to.

Last week I was a spectator to the blog world’s ping pong match between those who feel Scripture has a clear mandate for mothers to stay home with their children and those who do not. Some stay-at-home moms wrote posts exhorting other moms to stay home as God’s will, while other women argued back that God’s will for some mothers might be to work outside the home. I read some of these posts and left feeling…well…uncomfortable.

Once again, I was caught in the middle. I stay home with my children, but I honestly didn’t even know there was a verse from Scripture to defend that decision, had I wanted to use one. I felt like a child watching her parents fight, confused by the argument and not wanting to take sides because she loves both of her parents.

For days I thought about what I had read. I thought about the blogs passionately defending the idea that a mother’s place is at home with her children, wanting to lead all mothers to that same conclusion, and I thought about those equally as passionate refuting that idea, that while staying home with one’s children is fine, so is working. Both sides of the argument had their own verses from Scripture. I thought about those who left comments on different blogs saying they were so hurt by the discussion, the implication that they were sinners, and had decided to never read that particular blog again. And I thought to myself, “How does this happen? Why has this topic blown up into such a heated debate between Christians?”

Because both sides know that they’re right. Whether they’ve decided that God is clear in His mandate or that there is no mandate, both sides feel in their hearts that they are right. When people truly believe they know the truth, they are going to want to share, not to leave others in the dark. And when their values have been attacked, especially a value they have prayerfully received, they are going to defend it.

I don’t know how it is possible for two people who are honestly seeking God’s will, looking for guidance from the Holy Spirit to interpret Scripture, to come to vastly different conclusions. I don’t know how, but I know it happens on almost every topic in Christianity. From politics to homosexuality to alcohol to the movies we watch, there are people on complete opposite sides of the spectrum defending their views as God’s views.

And the arguments are personal because, after all, if you were honestly seeking God’s will to an issue, and He told you His will, what does that mean if someone else says that God told him something different? Did you hear God wrong, or did he?

Perhaps the problem with all these debates is that they’re missing the point. While each discussion may have started with Jesus as the focus and with pure intentions, the further and further into the debates we get, the more and more Jesus gets pushed to the side. No longer are our eyes on our Creator and His will but on defending our own personal agendas. There is a fine line between causing a person to think, to stretch his or her faith, and causing dissension in the church. And sometimes I don’t think we know the difference.

While we are defending our views on why we should vote for this candidate for president, there are people living under the control of corrupt governments, unable to get clean drinking water. While we debate whether or not Christians can be pro-choice, there’s a frightened pregnant teenager at our local high school who doesn’t know where to turn. And while we debate whether or not moms should stay at home, there are millions of orphans in the world who need a family. Instead of watching us debate, the world should see us act.

I don’t know why I can believe something so strongly, see something so clearly in Scripture, yet have my neighbor not see what I see. I don’t know how someone can make me feel guilty for a view I have when I sought the Lord first. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have to know. My faith is based on Jesus, and I shouldn’t understand everything, otherwise I don’t need faith.

Our world needs Jesus, not our opinions. They need us to be His hands and feet, to take His love to those who need it most. And while we should seek God’s will and learn and debate and feel solid in our convictions, we can’t confuse our convictions with the face of Jesus. The issues we debate are important but not at the expense of Him in whose name we debate.

A Tilt of the Head

Last night as I was driving home from a shopping adventure, I peered into the back of the van to see if the kids had fallen asleep, yet. Based on the meltdowns and general unreasonableness, I knew what time it was without seeing a clock and that my kids were through for the day. Sure enough, the kids who had exhibited devilish behavior fifteen minutes prior were now sporting angelic expressions as they breathed in and out, falling deeper and deeper into sleep.

The three of them couldn’t look any more like brother and sister, and I chuckled upon noticing that they all had tilted their heads to the left, no matter their position in the van. I then wondered if Matt slept that way and tried to pull up a picture in my mind of him sleeping in the car. There weren’t many (thank goodness) since he’s normally driving when we’re together. I was pretty sure I naturally tilted my head to the right and wondered if genetics played a role in which way felt more comfortable. After all, all three of them were sleeping the same way, but they didn’t seem to get that preference from me.

And I smiled. This past week my marriage consumed my thoughts–what it means to work together, putting aside our own preferences for the good of each other and our family, finding comfort in the discomfort of life. When I saw those three babies sleeping, I knew they each carried part of me and part of Matt–by the miracle of God, they were from our making. They each would have some of our flaws, I hope, more of our strengths, but within those precious, unique individuals was part of a man and woman who committed to love each other and them for the rest of their lives.

And that love that brought forth this union is beautiful, no matter how ugly life gets.

Each Friday I will write a post reflecting on something specific from the week for which I am grateful. Won’t you join me? Write a comment about something this week for which you are thankful, or provide a link to a post of your own. Let’s end our week together giving thanks.

Peace in Purpose

Crunching numbers that won’t bend. A laptop closes. Quiet tears of frustration on one side, a sigh of resignation on the other. Two bodies lay in a divided space, still and tired.

Throughout the next day, thoughts of each other pass back and forth, amidst dishes and meetings, children and proposals. Two parties carrying their own loads and their common burden, struggling to place it at His feet. And yet, a calm comes.

Pushing back thoughts of the night before, restless fingertips pluck the sheets on one side, a gentle arm reaches on the other. Two bodies embrace in a small space, warm and at peace.

Another crawls atop, coughing and sipping water from his cup, squirming his way into the middle. The two sets of fingertips stretch to touch over the divide. In the morning, tired eyes open, a smile forms. A fourth has included herself in the pretzel of arms and legs.

And another day begins, the burden a little lighter, under the weight of large blessings.

Ten Signs the End of the World is Near

10. When doing laundry, I won’t have to distinguish between four different piles of my husband’s clothes on the floor (Are these pants to wear again? Was this shirt ever put away? Is this just the spot where he got undressed?).

9. My son will eat a vegetable.

8. We will add to our emergency savings fund two months in a row instead of depleting it.

7. We will go longer than a month and a half without bringing one of the kids to the doctor.

6. I will go away from the kids for more than four hours and not have a baby and/or appendix removed.

5. We will attempt to sell a house, and it will sell in a reasonable amount of time.

4. I will get my hair trimmed while it still resembles the previous haircut.

3. We will have a child who does not try to climb out of her crib prior to 18-months of age, thus resulting in no need for a toddler bed before she is emotionally ready for a toddler bed, nor giving up naps and bedtime due to the freedom no child that small should have.

2. Our son will not give his sister her yearly haircut, always on the right side of her head, thus sparing her from the half-mullet look she has sported for the majority of her almost three years of life.

1. A trumpet will sound, and Jesus will descend from heaven on the clouds.

This list is what my mind does while putting away laundry! For more top ten fun, visit ohamanda.com .

Finding a Moment of Thanks

As I woke up this morning, I immediately was thankful for a new day. To say that almost all of the 24 hours of yesterday was horrible would not be that much of an exaggeration. Even after the day should’ve been over, Hannah Grace repeatedly came downstairs while Matt and I tried our best to unwind; she didn’t go to bed until 11. Chloe cried on and off all night until Matt gave up and brought her in bed with us. She became our first child to roll out of our bed and onto the floor, giving me a mild heart attack in the middle of the night.

As I struggle through exhaustion this morning, I look back on yesterday and still do not know what I should’ve done differently. The two oldest were blatantly defiant all day. They didn’t merely find trouble numerous times; they repeatedly sought it out, doing the same wrong things over and over.

By 6:00, I was done. I was hot, and after hearing ‘no’ and that my children no longer loved me numerous times during the course of the day, I was physically and emotionally tired. It was 86 degrees in our house, thanks to the energy-saving plan I chose to participate in during what will surely go down as the hottest summer on record, and Caleb was sitting on the step, refusing to go up to his room as I had asked. I had no more energy and no more ideas–I had already taken away every privilege I could remember–and Matt wasn’t going to get home for another hour-and-a-half. I felt like I was going to lose control in any moment, and I didn’t want to.

In the middle of the floor where I was sitting on my knees, I grabbed my face and squeezed my eyes shuts. I started to pray a desperate prayer: God help me. Show me what to do! I don’t know what to do! I sat silent with eyes still closed waiting to hear an answer. I heard nothing.

And when I looked up and saw my son still sitting on that step, laughing with his sisters, the rage boiled within me. “Go upstairs NOW!” I yelled louder and longer than even I knew I was capable.

Chloe cried, Caleb looked at me in shock, but Hannah Grace’s reaction I will never forget.

She smiled, not a mocking smile, but a genuine smile. And in the softest voice, she spoke the kindest words I have ever heard:

“Mama, I like you. I like you, Mama.”

Somehow, this little girl no longer seemed like a little girl, almost three. She sounded like a wise teacher, a teacher who knew exactly what her student needed to hear.

She walked over to where I was sitting and put one hand in mine, the most gentle touch I have ever felt. “I love you, Mama,” she said, emphasizing her choice of word, and then she kissed me on my lips while wrapping her arms around my neck.

The other children noticed and began to follow her lead. Chloe toddled over and opened her mouth. She kissed me, leaving a trail of wet all over my mouth, totally disgusting and totally wonderful. She wrapped her baby arms around me, surprising me by the actual hug she was giving. Then Caleb got off the stairs. He came, adding his embrace to that of his two sisters. I could hardly balance, three children hanging on me at the same time. As Caleb pulled away, he, too, kissed me on the lips.

Chloe toddled back to the steps, Caleb following behind her, but Hannah Grace remained. Taking her soft hands, she gently slid them down my cheeks and said, “I love you, Mama. I really love you.” She continued to repeat her words, cupping my face, as if trying to ensure I believed her.

A few, short minutes later, I was still waiting for God to tell me what to do, as the disobedience continued. The night ahead was long, and I didn’t get the rest I needed. However, in that brief moment on the floor, God answered my prayer, differently than I had hoped, but in the way He knew I needed. My spirit was lifted as I had never experienced before, and for that, I am thankful.

Starting today, I’d like to use Fridays as a way to reflect on the week and find at least one specific thing for which I can be thankful. I’d love for you to join me, as well! You can list your thanks in the comment section or provide a link for your own post. We’ve all had different kinds of weeks, some wonderful, some stressful, but let’s all choose to end them the same–thankful.