Medicine Cocktails

In one of the small compartments tucked away in the corner of my brain, there is a memory that I can pull out and access clearly. In this memory, two little kids are coming down the stairs, laughing, each with a little medicine cup in hand, my son with a bottle of Motrin. A new bottle that is now more than half finished. My children had been doing shots with a liquid fever reducer. I remember the panic I felt as I dialed Poison Control and the relief when I learned they would not overdose.

In another compartment, there is a memory involving an antibiotic. I can see myself measuring out the dose on the counter for my baby and then taking the dose to that baby who was sitting in her high chair. When I come back to the counter 31.3 seconds later, the bottle of antibiotics is empty, and I rush to dial the pediatrician. I know that children can’t overdose on antibiotics, so I leave Poison Control alone this time, but I now need another prescription.

These are two memories tucked away, the most vivid of a few. Given my children’s propensity for sneaking medicine, one could imagine my surprise when I’ve had to enlist every creative means possible to get my daughter to take her antibiotic this week, the same daughter who did shots with Motrin and downed a bottle of Amoxicillin.

We tried the normal way–give her the cup and drink. She refused. I then tried putting the antibiotic in a medicine syringe. She continued to turn her head. I next resorted to force. Caleb held down her arms while I tried to shoot the medicine down the back of her throat–I needed someone to hold her head, too, unfortunately.

After Hannah Grace losing her dose of medicine and my sweatshirt gaining it, I called the nurse:

“Can I mix the medicine with anything?”

“Yes, chocolate syrup.”

Darn me and my healthy eating.

Since I didn’t have any chocolate syrup, I resorted to syrup of the maple variety. After all, in another compartment of my brain, I have a memory of Hannah Grace standing with the refrigerator open, chugging a bottle of 100% pure maple syrup. This should’ve been a piece of (pan)cake.

It wasn’t.

Another dose of medicine lost, a new meaning to knots in the hair gained. I tried to brush Hannah Grace’s hair, but the brush couldn’t even move through the combination of sticky syrup and gooey medicine. I pleaded. I threatened:

“If you don’t let me brush these knots out, I’m going to have to get your hair cut really short like a little boy!”

“I want to look like a little boy!”

I had forgotten that she does, in fact, want to look like a little boy.

I tried applesauce. It hurt her tongue. I tried chocolate pudding. She finger-painted with it (No joke. She seriously got a piece of construction paper and made handprints with her chocolate-medicine-pudding while I was cleaning the toilet).

And then I gave up.

Except, I couldn’t really. The strep throat germ had to be killed. I called the pharmacy and filled the second prescription that the nurse had called in earlier for me that day when things weren’t looking too hot. But we added watermelon flavor this time, per Hannah Grace’s request. And I headed to Publix at 7 p.m. with a baby in her pajamas, a little boy with his hands in his pockets, and a little girl with severe knots in her hair.

And I type in fear this morning.

There are no more medicine cocktails that I can create. She must drink the watermelon-flavored medicine, the $3 more expensive watermelon-flavored medicine, this child of mine who used to do shots with Motrin and drink Amoxicillin like it was sweet tea.

Maybe I should make a pitcher of tea, just in case….

The Cookie Test

Yesterday, I left church not dwelling on a specific scripture, but agonizing over whether or not my children had any shred of self-control. As a tie-in to his sermon on the faith of Abraham and the need for those with faith to wait, our pastor showed a video on “The Marshmallow Test.” In this experiment, children were brought into a room without distractions by themselves and given one marshmallow. They were told that if they resisted eating the marshmallow, at the end of fifteen minutes, they would get one more marshmallow.

In the original Stanford study from 1972, follow-up studies were performed on the children who participated, and the results showed that children who resisted eating that first marshmallow grew up to have happier, more successful lives.

Immediately, visions of my children hiding under the dining room table, scarfing down homemade cookies came to mind. I saw the lollipop stains I had to clean off the carpet as they tried to devour their Valentine’s candy under that same table without Mommy noticing. My heart was filled with dread as I came to the realization that my children were doomed to a life of failure. There was no way they would resist the marshmallow. So, naturally, I had to recreate the test to see just how bad a parent I really am.

Since I don’t have hidden cameras, I performed the test in my kitchen where I could watch my children, and I had them take the test together. And since I didn’t want to have to buy a bag of yucky marshmallows for this test, I bought a box of Back to Nature Classic Creme Cookies. I did my best to not converse or actively engage with them once I started the kitchen timer, and I did not encourage them to hold off on eating the cookie. I simply stated the rules at the beginning of the test: “You may eat your cookie now, but if you wait until the timer goes off, I’ll give you another cookie.”

Four seconds into the test, my three-year-old daughter looked at me with a resigned look on her face.

“I’m going to eat my cookie now.”

Clearly, the last four seconds were the longest of her life, and her bright blue eyes dulled a little, conveying the inward struggle she had to endure.

I didn’t dissuade her and was ready to accept the fact that she was doomed to a life of failure, that I had failed as a parent, when she said, “No, no, I’m going to wait.”

I took to cooking a quick dinner while the children waited in their chairs. As I spread the tortilla chips across the baking sheet for the nachos we were to have, I happened to look up as Hannah Grace was putting her cookie to her lips, quickly bringing the cookie back down. I wasn’t near the timer, but I think we were about a minute into the test.

Caleb, my almost five year old, found his Leapster video game to occupy his time, and I’m pretty sure playing video games is against the rules and would’ve invalidated the results. However, I quickly snatched the Leapster from him and instructed him that he had to stare at the cookie from his chair–without any games in hand.

I looked up again at four minutes into the test, and Hannah Grace, once again, had the cookie to her lips. A couple of minutes later, the cookie was gone.

“Hannah Grace, did you eat your cookie?”

“No, Caleb gave it to Chloe.”

“What?!”

“Caleb gave Chloe my cookie!”

I looked at Caleb with disbelief written across my face. Did he really ruin this test by giving Hannah Grace’s cookie to their baby sister?

“I accidentally gave Chloe Hannah’s cookie.”

“You gave Chloe the cookie?”

“Yes, I accidentally gave Chloe Hannah Grace’s cookie.”

Caleb actually had a slight look of remorse and embarrassment.

“How do you accidentally give someone a cookie?!!”

I quickly reached into the box and set another cookie in front of Hannah Grace. Yes, these results were definitely invalidated. However, a couple more minutes into the test, Hannah Grace had the cookie in front of her lips again. The end result would be the same.

I have to admit that I felt surprised and disappointed at the same time–surprised that both children made an effort to not touch the cookie but disappointed that Hannah Grace couldn’t hold out.

Or could she?

Finally, the timer went off, and I immediately walked to the table. Caleb’s cookie was perfectly intact. He exceeded my expectations, more than proved me wrong by not even showing the least bit of temptation from that cookie.

But then I was perplexed. As I looked at Hannah Grace’s cookie, expecting to find chunks missing from the round chocolate disks held together by creme goodness, I noticed a cookie broken in half, but not eaten.

But I saw her put the cookie to her mouth, and she had a chocolate rim around her lips!

“Hannah Grace, did you not eat the cookie?”

“No,” she said with a smile conveying the victory she thought she achieved.

“But you have chocolate on your face. I saw you put the cookie by your mouth….” I trailed off waiting for her explanation.

“I licked the cookie!”

And licked it she had. She must’ve licked the cookie with all the force her little tongue could muster, tasting every bit of that chocolate and creme that she could without technically eating the cookie.

I didn’t have it in me to disqualify her. After all, I didn’t give her any rules except to not eat the cookie, and a full cookie she had in front of her. Never mind the fact that the cookie was moist with saliva.

As I walked over to the counter where I had set the box of cookies, I pulled out the plastic tray and grabbed two more of the promised treat. I set one cookie before each child, giving them the grand total of two, and pondered what kept these children, prone to sneaking every sweet in the house, from eating the first cookie that I laid before them. All I could figure was that they believed the promise of one more cookie to follow, and that promise was enough.

“Abram believed the LORD, and he credited it to him as righteousness” (Genesis 15:6, New International Version, 2010).

I smiled as I looked at my two children, enjoying their cookies, chocolate crumbles around their lips, a trail on the table, and I let out a sigh knowing that they were not doomed to a life of failure and that I had managed to teach them some self-control. And I marveled at the lesson that they had helped bring home for me–that I, too, have a parent who will deliver on what He has promised. Temptation might encourage me to take a bite, but if only I can resist! Because, after all, everyone knows that two cookies are much better than one.

A combination of staying up too late watching a bad 83rd Oscars and having three children wake up a tad too early prevented me from linking up this post yesterday. So here it is! Just a day late…and for any of those following my weekly Journeys, this week I will ponder goodness. I would love for you to join me and link up your own post on Friday!

^“22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010).

The Journey to Iceland

“We’re going to see Iceland.”

I looked up from the mess I was clearing away at the table to see my daughter, dressed in a cowboy hat, coat, and little pink backpack filled to the brim.

“Iceland?” I questioned. I was certain I had never told my three-year-old about Iceland, as geography is not my thing, and I was curious as to where she learned of the place.

“Yes, Iceland. We need to go.”

I could hear my son in the playroom, clamoring to fill his own bag with necessities for the trip.

I was instantly concerned. When my son emerged, he was wearing a blue vest and a baseball cap. I wasn’t sure that they were dressed appropriately for the journey, and I feared that they would need more than the bags on their backs for this kind of adventure.

But they were ready to go, and my questions about the weather and where they would stay once they arrived did not deter them from taking that first step out the back door.

As I grabbed my camera and coat (wouldn’t you take a camera if you were heading to Iceland?), I couldn’t help but wonder where this journey would end and what I would find. I wanted to act in my kids’ play, but I needed to understand my character’s motivation first.

Unfortunately, it’s not unlike me to focus on the destination instead of the journey in more than just my children’s play. When I feel God’s leading, I want to know all of the details immediately before I begin. If I am going through a trial, I know God will use it for good, but I want to know what that ‘good’ is while I struggle. If God calls me to Iceland, I want to know how to pack.

During the Christmas season, it’s easy for me to sing about Emmanuel and nod my head and smile as I think of the baby in the manger. I can proclaim that God is with us as I recall the story of the virgin birth and a newborn whose arrival caused the heavens to break open in songs of praise while a group of shepherds shook in awe and fear.

I know Emmanuel, yet I forget what His name means. I forget that not only does God orchestrate the journey with an end that fits perfectly in the giant puzzle of the universe but that He also takes the trip with me, offering to carry my pink backpack when the load becomes too heavy or take my hands in His when I’ve forgotten my gloves.

Emmanuel. God With Us.

Even on trips to Iceland.

I watched as Hannah Grace led the way through the yard, determined that we make it to Iceland in time for dinner. We were to have Taco Bell. And suddenly, I heard an important piece of information:

“Hurry! Iceland is waiting for us, and he’s going to take us to Taco Bell.” He. Iceland is a person. The story began to make sense (well, sort of).

So we journeyed on to the place in our yard where a beautiful summer garden once bloomed, and we ate Taco Bell with Iceland. And I learned that I didn’t need to worry at all; we had exactly what we needed for the journey.

If you haven’t already, check out yesterday’s post to see what’s starting new this Friday!

I’d Never Do That

I remember sitting with my parents at their friend’s home, listening while this friend recounted an incident with his daughter. The Georgia heat was finally giving way to cooler breezes, and parents were trading shorts and t-shirts for jeans and light jackets for their children. However, this parent related the story of how his daughter, maybe eight or nine years old at the time, pitched a fit that she wanted to wear shorts to school. So he let her. “When she comes home freezing from school, she’ll realize that it’s too cold for shorts and wear pants tomorrow,” he explained.

He then went on to share the difference between his wife and himself. She would leave the house frazzled and frustrated as she tried to slide tights up the wiggling thighs of a two-year-old and deal with the strong will of the older daughter. “Who cares if they leave the house and don’t match? It’s not worth it!” he declared.

And I found my college-aged self feeling sorry for his wife. The judgment storm was swirling around in my mind as I thought of this mom trying to dress her children nicely while their dad chose to let them win. He’s the parent; if he says it’s too cold for shorts, shouldn’t that be the end of the it? Couldn’t his daughter get sick if he let her wear shorts to school and it really was cold outside? What’s wrong with a mom wanting to put her girls in pretty dresses?

And while I thought through this father’s logic, I didn’t feel comfortable with his parenting technique. When I became a mother someday, my children would learn to obey and do as I said simply because I said it. They wouldn’t be allowed to wear shorts if the weather were chilly–I would be the parent, not them! I’d never let them leave the house wearing an outfit that wasn’t appropriate for the weather.

It’s about ten years later. I now have three children. This past Sunday, the temperature reached 87 degrees, and I allowed my daughter to wear this outfit to church.

At least she ditched the tie-up black boots that she originally wanted to wear.

My daughter went to church, and she didn’t match. It was 87 degrees, and after church, she took off the sweater. I’m still her mother, and my daughter knows that she has to obey; I just choose to pick different battles.

It’s amazing how much we know about parenting before we become a parent, isn’t it? It’s equally amazing how much we know about parenting everyone else’s kids, too. The fact of the matter is that each child is different, and part of being a parent is figuring out which techniques work best for your individual children and which battles to enter.

The sweater battle wasn’t worth it. Even if I had to eat my words from ten years ago, I wasn’t going to go to church frustrated over a mismatched outfit. And I’ll never again judge another parent for letting his or her child wear shorts in the winter–I’d never do that.

What is something you’ve done as a parent that you said you’d never do?

The Tea Party

As a mother, I’ve managed to heap a lot of guilt onto my shoulders. I don’t take the kids to the pool by myself, and I don’t venture out to many activities with the three of them unless I have help. While I have gotten braver this summer and attempted more, sometimes I wonder if we should’ve put more space between the kids so that they could do some of the things that others get to do with their mommies.

But sometimes I just can’t be blamed for everything….

As I listened to my two littles one finalize preparations for their tea party, my heart swelled with pride. For one of the few moments in their short time as brother and sister, they were playing together and nicely. I watched as they used their imaginations and my daughter’s Disney tea set to create the perfect event for their friends.

“Ella’s coming, and so is Gel,” Hannah Grace told her brother excitedly.

“I’ve invited Jeff,” Caleb added.

I had never heard of these kids before and was impressed at the names they were giving their guests. They allowed me to sample some tea and a cookie (which was delicious), and then they continued playing as I moved into the kitchen to clean up our real mess from that morning.

The nice sounds from the foyer continued on for a few more minutes, when all of a sudden, angry conversation ensued. I rolled my eyes thinking, “What now?” Why was it impossible for my children to complete one activity together without fighting?

Caleb and Hannah Grace both stormed into the kitchen yelling.

“What?! What?!” I asked, confused by the sudden change of events.

Caleb’s face shone with anger, and Hannah Grace’s brow was furrowed.

With arms flailing in exasperation, Caleb yelled, “Nobody showed up for our tea party!!!”

Hannah Grace folded her arms across her chest and let out a big pout.

I stared at them for a moment, shocked that one of them hadn’t hit the other or stolen a cup of tea, and then I had to look away and smile.

I knew that as a parent I would mend many broken hearts. I knew that kids can be cruel, and there would be times when they would hurt my own children’s feelings. I just hadn’t known that those kids would be imaginary.

And if my kids’ imaginary friends won’t play with them, well, there’s not a whole lot this mommy can do.

The Date

She woke up and piddled around until she remembered the significance of today–it was her turn.

She quickly moved to her room and pulled down a favorite dress. Swiftly she fit her head through the opening and watched as the fabric dropped to her shins. A sense of pride filled her spirit as she slipped on the new shoes that made her feel beautiful, and she emerged from her room with excitement.

Flower barrettes adorned her silky strawberry-blonde hair, a necklace the top of her chest. She awaited anxiously for her date.

He knocked on the door, and she ran to answer, a giggle in her voice. Her smile spread wider as she held out her hands to take hold of her first flower, a flower whose brightness matched those of her eyes.

And I watched with joy as she set out for her date with Papa, knowing that this date would be the first of many in her lifetime, one of the few that I could so easily let her go.

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.

Sleep

“Daddy, the sun’s outside!!!” she hollered in excitement from the top of the stairs. “It’s morning!” Little feet began to scamper down the steps.

In fact, it was 7:40 p.m., and yes, outside was still light, but the sun was not shining. Hannah Grace was doing her best to avoid bedtime. Her brother and sister were already tucked away for the night, sleeping peacefully, but this little girl had no interest in sleep.

“I’m not tired!” she insisted, as I walked her back up the stairs her hand in mine. She probably wasn’t tired. She had snuck away with her sister’s pacifier into her own room at 11 a.m. that morning and proceeded to take a three hour nap. I thought about waking her up, but I knew she was exhausted, having still not recovered from her overnight visit a few days ago to her grandparents followed by dinner at her other grandparents the next night. She reminded me that night of why I no longer allow her to take naps.

I joined Matt again at the table, and we tried once more to enjoy our bowls of baked ziti. I pushed around my pasta and noticed my own tiredness creeping in. Perhaps I would go to bed early that night.

We talked a little bit about our days and what we wanted to accomplish with our evening. I was beginning to enjoy the quiet when we were interrupted once more.

“I see the MOON!!! It’s time to wake up!”

Clearly, if seeing the sun wouldn’t get her out of going to bed, then seeing the moon had to be the answer. Matt pushed back his chair as I let out a sigh. And so the bedtime game would continue.

I cleared the table while Matt stayed in Hannah Grace’s room, using his body to barricade the door. As I rinsed our bowls spotted with red sauce, I checked the time. 8:40 p.m. I pulled out the bottom tray in the dishwasher while doing a mental inventory of all the tasks I needed to complete before 24 and those I could accomplish while watching the show.

The truth is, I had no interest in the show anymore, but 24 had become somewhat of a tradition in our marriage. After our first Christmas as a married couple, watching the season one box set while spooning on the couch, we had continued to watch every season together. I wasn’t going to abandon the ritual with three hours left in the series.

The dishes rattled as I pushed in the tray and quickly moved to the laundry room. I just needed to throw the clothes in the dryer, take a quick shower, and then we could sit together and watch our show. I could upload pictures while 24 was on and write my blog. My mind was blank, but I knew I wanted to write; I hoped inspiration would hit once I started typing.

I finished the chores and swiftly went up the stairs, allowing a huge yawn to escape my mouth. I met Matt in the hallway.

“I don’t think she’s asleep,” he said, “but she’s quiet.”

“Okay, I’m just going to take a quick shower before 24.”

I started to walk away when,”Daddy, don’t leave. I’m not asleep, yet,” came from the two-year-old’s room. I kept walking, not wanting to get sucked into the bedtime drama before getting my shower. Thank goodness for DVRs–it was already 9:00.

Hannah Grace eventually went to sleep, and Matt and I eventually made it to the couch to watch TV. I, half-heartedly, listened to 24 while uploading pictures to Flickr so that I could order them from Snapfish. I really only wanted our most recent family picture from Easter to send to our sponsored child, but my gift card would cover a lot more prints.

“Okay,” I thought. “I’ll just order a few more prints and then call it a night after 24. I’m too tired to write.”

I didn’t want to leave a job half-finished, and I did need to print our daughter’s first birthday pictures–no, not Chloe’s. Hannah Grace’s–the daughter who turned one almost two years ago.

24 was over, and I only had $10 worth of prints uploaded. My gift card was for $20. I proceeded to spend another hour selecting each picture that would find a spot in my half-empty photo album, empty slots that begged to be filled with images of laughter and babies, birthdays and loved ones. I sipped the chai tea Matt had made for me, knowing it was decaf but wishing it would help pry my eyelids open.

Why did I insist on continuing? Couldn’t I go to bed and finish tomorrow?

“No!” I scolded myself. “That’s exactly why I don’t have any pictures of the kids in albums–it always gets pushed off until tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll still have chores, and I want to write. I can’t keep letting days go by without writing. And I can’t get any of this junk done during the day because the kids don’t nap. I don’t get free time. This is my free time. Midnight.”

I felt my blood pressure rising as I argued with myself, the good angel telling me to walk up the stairs to bed, the little demon pressing me to continue. After all, Matt had been trying to get the wireless printer to work for the last two hours, too. Neither one of us was ready to call it a night.

I finally made my last selection, confident that I was close enough to that $20 mark. Tax and shipping should get me there. I scratched off the back of the gift card, little silver flecks falling in my lap, revealing the coupon code. I carefully entered the numbers in the box and hit enter.

Snapfish did not recognize this coupon code.

Okay. I tried again, pushing each number key with my index finger, double-checking my entry as I went along.

Same error message.

I flipped my gift card over. Shutterfly. The gift card was for Shutterfly, not Snapfish.

At that moment, the fatigue knocked me down like a wave crashing to meet the shore. I had spent two hours, arguing with myself the whole time, in an attempt to accomplish this task. Just something. I wanted to accomplish one thing that wasn’t related to housework or kids, yet I had nothing to show for my effort.

I angrily packed up my laptop and woke up Matt. He had snoozed next to me on the couch, giving up on his own venture a few minutes before.

As I wearily walked up the stairs, I thought to myself, “Why do I do this? Why do I fight sleep? I’m no different than Hannah Grace….”

I, just like my daughter, had searched for every excuse to stay up when my body was begging sleep:

“The sun’s shining!” ” There are dirty dishes!”

“The moon’s out!” ” I must print some pictures!”

“I’m not tired!” “I’m so tired…but”

I fight sleep in a quest to feel productive, in a quest to elevate my worth. The more things I can check off my to-do list, the more examples I can cite for my excellence as a mother, as a wife.

I fight sleep so that the next day I can fight with my children and my husband, my body full of fatigue, my mind empty of patience. I fight sleep so that I can fight with God about the way I should act, about how hard my life is, about why I can’t concentrate when I pray…yawn…

I fight sleep…when really…I should just go to bed.

The Heart of the Matter

In honor of Mother’s Day, I am linking up with Lisa-Jo, a.k.a. the Gypsy Mama, to explore why moms matter. If you haven’t already, I highly encourage you to visit her website. Not only is Lisa-Jo an incredible writer, but she has wonderful insight into pursuing a relationship with God. You will be blessed by your encounter!

I know full and well the importance of Mom. When I taught high school, I watched teenaged girls crumble under the weight of their grief after the loss of their mothers, unable to focus on schoolwork, maybe just not caring. After all, how did Language Arts even compare to a day without their mothers? I remember a friend from college who went to the doctor every time he had the slightest cold; his mother had died from cancer when he was 13. And even after 16 years without my Nana, I see the longing in my own mom’s eyes when she talks of her mother.

Some friends share delightful stories of their mothers, while others are consumed with bitterness for the wounds their mothers created. No matter the story, all have a place in their hearts that wants to hold fond memories and affection for the women who bore them.

My youngest just turned one. Lately, I have spent a lot of time looking back over the past year, and I find many moments of ambivalence. In one moment I love deeply as my baby lay her head on my chest, the next I struggle to suppress the desire to yell at my children in frustration. In one moment, I thank God for the gift of my new daughter, the next I question why we ever thought having three kids in three years was a good idea. I look at my writings from the past year, many used as a method to unburden my soul and work through my own guilty feelings, equally as many filled with smiles as I laughed at the follies of myself and my children.

When I think about this past year, there is so much I want to do over. I don’t want my children to remember me losing control, not showing them tenderness and patience. I want the day I die to be filled with tears over losing the mother who created the delightful stories, not the mother who created the wounds that never healed. Yet every time I find myself dwelling too long in guilt and despair, the kindness of God softly nudges me like a cool breeze, prompting me to move away from that place that He did not create for me.

This week, I searched my mind for why moms matter, and writing from the perspective of a daughter, I could fill pages and pages of why my mom matters to me. However, I had a much harder time writing from the perspective of the one who matters. Why do I matter? And because I couldn’t answer without falling into that place of guilt, God spent time with me so that I could answer this question.

When God chose to save humanity, He did so through His Son, Jesus. Most of what we know about Jesus is from the start of His ministry when He was around the age of 30. God’s plan could have started with this God-Man sent from heaven at age 30, dropped in the middle of the desert, suddenly appearing before John the Baptist to get baptized. Yet we know Mary carried Jesus in her womb, conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit, fulfilling numerous prophesies about the Messiah.

I don’t pretend to know the mind of God,why He chose to send Jesus as a baby, but this week I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary. Whenever I think about Mary, I think about this woman God chose to carry His Son, calm and mild, the perfect mother. But she wasn’t perfect; she was just chosen.

I wondered if she ever cried herself to sleep at night, overwhelmed by the task put before her. Did she ever cry simply because she had a bad day with her children? Did she ever wish she spent a little more time hugging and kissing and less time allowing frustration to consume her?

I picture Mary going about her daily tasks while a young Jesus looked on. He saw a hard-working mother, a mother who loved her children and wanted to please God. He was a recipient of her affection.

And as all children do, Jesus carried a special place in His heart for His mother, so much so that some of His last words on the cross were for Mary, ensuring she was cared for after His death and Resurrection: “When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home'” (John 19: 26-27).

I have found comfort in the fact that Jesus belonged to a family. As God, He already knows everything, yet by coming to Earth and, in the great mystery of our faith, clothing Himself in humanity while not losing His divinity, He experienced the mother-son relationship. He witnessed and received the blessings of a good mother, all the while being the source from whom we receive blessings.

When I find myself discouraged and disheartened, I remember that He knows. I receive strength and comfort knowing that my Lord took on the role of a human, felt the emotions I feel, saw the struggle that mothers have, and tasted the joy–the joy that a mother brings to the heart of her child. That joy is where He wants me to focus.

I may not be perfect, but I, too, have been chosen. God chose me to be the mother of Caleb, Hannah Grace, and Chloe, a calling I do not take lightly. It is a calling I am worthy to take because I matter–I matter to God, and I matter to my children. And when it comes down to it, nothing else really matters.

Happy Mother’s Day. May God give you the strength to fulfill your calling with peace, joy, and laughter.

Sweaters and Rabbits

Today was a beautiful spring day. The sky was bright blue and cloudless, and the temperature was perfect. The kids had their good and bad moments today, but the time we spent outside playing baseball while admiring the flowers and little buds appearing in our vegetable garden helped those bad moments to fade…

…until bedtime. As the day came to a close, my level of fatigue rose, and my patience level dropped dramatically. Knowing that Matt wouldn’t be home to help with the bedtime routine made the day seem that much longer, added to the fact that the kids seem to unravel after 5:00 p.m. No one was listening, and I was tired of going up and down the stairs, corralling the kids back into their rooms. How I miss the safety gates that were screwed into the walls prior to putting the house on the market!

I felt helpless as I was nursing Chloe in her room, trying to settle her into bed. I knew every minute I spent in her room was one more minute that a sly child could sneak downstairs for Easter candy. There was one of me, and three of them–what could I do?

As I prayed with Caleb and Hannah Grace in their respective rooms tonight, I felt burdened and fought back tears. Why couldn’t I make my children obey? Why did I struggle–even my ‘fun’ clean-up games failed–repeatedly when others seemed to triumph?

Caleb finally calmed down and was reading on the floor in his room, so I propped myself against the wall across from Hannah Grace’s room. I knew she would try to escape many times. As she took a nap this afternoon, I didn’t expect her to actually fall asleep before 10:00. True to form, she made her appearance in the hallway a half-dozen times or so, and I, as patiently as I could, redirected her to bed.

The last few times she came out of her room, she requested that I go rest in my own bedroom. I assured her I would as soon as she stayed in her room. That answer did not satisfy her.

A few minutes later, this little two-year-old appeared in the door frame with a heavy, crocheted sweater buttoned up to her neck, her strawberry-blonde hair falling in her face.

“Mommy, you make my feelings,” she stated matter-of-factly.

I had no idea what she meant. Many times she had told me that I hurt her feelings, typically when she was in trouble, but she had never said this particular phrase before.

“Hannah Grace, I don’t know what that means,” I answered.

With a straight face, and without missing a beat, she replied, “I don’t like rabbits. Because you make my feelings; that’s why you need to go in your room.”

I immediately started to giggle. What in the world was she saying?! And at that moment, I realized she didn’t have a clue. Her brother and she were little and probably had as much an idea of why they did the things they did as I.

In that moment, through her cryptic message, I had a moment of clarity. The good of the day, the accomplishment of beds (finally) being made by all, sweet moments when the kids all played nicely together, baseball outside in the warm sun, was still there. And tomorrow would be another day full of more good, and probably a little bad, too, because, after all, there are three of them and one of me.

I pulled Hannah Grace to me, and we snuggled together down on the floor in the hallway. And as we lay quiet, together we drifted off to sleep.