So Nothing Is Wasted

Wednesday night I pulled clean sheets out of the dryer only to put them back in the wash on Thursday morning, two out of my three kids having wet their beds sometime during the night. And as I sat on the floor in Chloe’s room, unrolling the t-shirts she had made into ‘hot dogs’ (I have no idea, but it’s one of Hannah Grace’s and her favorite pastimes) I acknowledged how much of each day is spent redoing tasks I had just completed. Many days I have complained to Matt that I feel like my efforts are for nothing, wasted since it is inevitable that the day I mop, one of the kids will immediately spill a glass of milk, smush a strawberry, or pee all over the kitchen floor (we have issues with pee in this family). And often, I have looked to the day when I can engage in more meaningful activities.

But as I sat on the floor turning hot dogs into t-shirts again on this particular morning, I did so without the normal level of frustration that I’m apt to feel. Instead, I recognized a thought not original to me: Cleaning up hotdogs and pee is my ministry.

I’m not sure anyone has ever written that thought precisely as I just wrote it, but I’ve encountered the sentiment many times. How I handle all the gross and mundane tasks, the chores that I do and then redo, is not wasted effort. Raising my children, complete with the tasks that accompany this role, is my meaningful activity.

I get frustrated when the activities director at the nursing home says I can volunteer, but my children are too young; I long for the day when I can travel with my church group to Mozambique to help build wells; and I sigh deeply when the baby who wouldn’t go to sleep last night wakes up early when I’m trying to write. But I have forgotten one important fact: Volunteering, building wells, and my blog are not my job.

But they are.

God gave me my passion to serve and to write, so I’m not dismissing my desires. When I can, I should pursue these passions, but I should not allow myself to fall into the trap of thinking that building wells is a more important job than washing wet sheets. I have to admit that even as I write those words they sit a bit funny. For too long I’ve allowed myself to gloss over the positive impact I can make on my children, that just as clean water brings life to a community my efforts at home bring life to my family.

When I make my children clean up the spilled milk on the newly mopped floor, they learn responsibility and the importance of caring for those possessions with which we have been blessed. When my children see me make a meal for a neighbor, they witness compassion and will hopefully embody a spirit who looks outside themselves to the needs of others. And when I fail them and don’t demonstrate love as I should, they understand that even family will disappoint, but there is One who will never fail.

The challenge for me is to recognize my every day as a chance to make a difference, not just those days that I have deemed more important. This challenge remains for everyone. Whether stuck in a crappy job or lamenting the one we recently lost, we each have a purpose. We can look to ‘better’ days when we fulfill all our dreams and desires, or we can embrace the life in front of us now.

I plan to do a better job of embracing my children and all the crap that I have to do over and over. Because, truly, my actions will speak louder than my words. One day my children will look back, and I hope they remember a mother who found honor and privilege in her ministry as their mother. And when they look back at their times of making hot dogs and peeing on the floor, I hope they remember how weird they truly were and what a saint I was for dealing with them.

Sweating and Swimming: Repost

As a mother of three kids very close together in age, I’m constantly facing the internal struggle of whether or not to leave the house with my children. I want them to enjoy their childhood and experience story time at the library, free summer movies, and play dates, but I also don’t want to kill them.

So as I left the house today with lunches made, towels and sunscreen packed, three children dressed in swimsuits, I also left with a mild sense of dread, for based on past experience, this day at my friend’s pool would be anything but relaxing. For me, that is.

Getting there is half the battle, and boy that battle was a tough one today! For children who were excited about swimming, they sure didn’t get ready with much enthusiasm. And Chloe–does her body have a little sensor that indicates when her mommy has just put a new (cloth) diaper on her, allowing her to release the effects of her iron medicine plus prune juice? The bathing suit that took ten minutes to get on the wiggly baby now had to come off. Ten more minutes to wipe a squirmy heiny and put a bathing suit back on, and we were on our way (again).

Once we arrived, the other half of the battle could begin. Before I had even finished setting out the kids’ lunch on their towels, Caleb and Hannah Grace had each taken a turn pulling the valve from the lemonade pitcher, releasing a wonderful mess all over the table and floor of the screened-in porch. I was so happy I got to clean up those messes twice, and apparently, so was Chloe. While I was cleaning, she was eating everyone else’s lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches, whole grapes–everything this mommy had restricted from this one-year-old she put in her mouth. Of course the cut grapes and cracker pieces I set out for her remained untouched.

The pool is a wonderful, refreshing idea for combatting this horrid Georgia heat, yet the pool only works if one gets in it. Hannah Grace won’t get in the pool, Caleb won’t get out of it, and Chloe won’t stay put. She wants in the pool, and less than 30 seconds later she wants out. I felt like a jack-in-the-box climbing in and out and in and out, chasing after the baby one minute, and yelling at Hannah Grace the next to leave the lemonade alone. It’s near impossible to watch three children when they’re all in different places. And when it’s 96 degrees outside and probably that percentage humidity, if I’m not soaking in a pool, I want to be inside–not chasing after children!

And so, I’d like to apologize to the group of mothers who sat beneath the umbrella, enjoying their lunch and adult conversation, jumping in the pool to cool themselves, and then resuming social time: I would’ve loved to socialize, as well. In fact, I am a pretty pleasant person, but seeing as my baby won’t stay in a float for two minutes before climbing out, my middle child wants to be pushed on the swing–the only child, by the way, who wants to swing instead of swim–and my oldest child insists on spraying every kid in the face with the water gun but then cries when anyone sprays him back (sorry about that, too), I think embracing my role as antisocial, crazy mother is best.

And while I’m apologizing, I’d also like to apologize to any mothers of only girls. My son doesn’t understand the concept of dropping his pants out-of-view before peeing behind the shed. We are working on modesty in my home, but that lesson hasn’t stuck, yet. I am pleased that at least Hannah Grace did not take her bathing suit off this time as she did at a previous swimming engagement.

And to the woman who brought the 100-calorie snack bag–no, you didn’t finish your snack, but my children did. While I was putting Hannah Grace in time-out for taking your food, Caleb came out of the pool and ate the rest. Think of it this way–now you only had a 50-calorie snack.

So to my dear friend, I always appreciate your invitations to come swim, but I don’t think I can bring my children when there is a large group. That, and the fact that I don’t think you’re going to invite us again since my daughter peed on your carpet.

This picture's not from the pool, but I'm sure you understand why.

As we get ready to head out of town with my family for a few days, I thought this post from last year would serve to remind me that the craziness always leads to a funny story! I hope your summer is filling up with memories that you will treasure, if not now, at least in a year! What’s a memory that you have that, at the time, brought you frustration but now brings you laughter?

Payback

They thwarted my plans. I wanted us to get ready quickly and head out the door, but they wanted to play beauty shop. I’m always amazed at how quickly their little attention spans can get diverted, like a dog on a walk seeing a squirrel. I thought the instructions were clear enough–Go upstairs, and put on your shoes–but I realize now that I should have taped red arrows on the carpet leading up the stairs, into their bedrooms, and stopping at their closets.

But I didn’t. Instead, I buckled their sister in her car seat, and when I came back in the house to find that they were still upstairs, I knew the quest to find shoes had turned into another adventure.

I walked into my bathroom, and there Caleb was applying eyeshadow to his sister’s face, reminiscent of Tammy Faye. I ushered them downstairs, keeping my cool, and sent Caleb to the van where his sister was waiting.

And that’s how I found myself alone with Hannah Grace in the kitchen.

I had wet a paper towel and was doing my best to gently remove the pastel colors from her eyelids and cheeks, explaining to her again that little girls shouldn’t wear make-up. Hannah Grace countered with the natural follow-up question:

“When I grow up, will you be dead?”

I sighed as I swept the paper towel across her forehead. This was not the first time she had asked this question.

“I hope not, Hannah Grace. Only God knows when we’re going to die.”

And then she looked up at me and smiled her smile that makes her eyes twinkle.

“When I grow up, then I’ll take care of you!” she laughed.

I paused for a moment.

I thought of my thwarted plans and realized one day, in fact, it might be my turn to thwart plans. Yes, one day Hannah Grace would have to wipe off a too heavily applied rouge from my cheeks.

She would care for me, and it would be my turn to drive her crazy.

A slight smile formed on my lips as I finished cleaning up Hannah Grace. One day it would be my turn to pee on her kitchen floor. And that thought brought me great comfort.

Taking Out the Trash Is More Important Than You Think

It was Wednesday morning, and the four of us were in the midst of our lazy, summer wake-up routine. I was casually helping the youngest get dressed for the day when I heard the groan of a large truck trying to find the energy to accelerate down the street. It took me a moment to realize that that sound belonged to the garbage truck, and I ran to my son’s window to see if Matt had taken down the trash cans.

No.

I rushed down the stairs, slipped on some flip-flops and headed out the back door toward the pails parked by the fence. I pushed open the gate and drug the full recycling container down to the front just in time to see the truck turning out of my neighborhood. I wasn’t sure if that was the garbage truck or recycling truck, though, so I sprinted back up the driveway and repeated the same routine with the full trash can.

And then I ran inside. I knew better.

I was gone for at least five minutes, and five minutes was plenty of time for the gates of hell to swing wide open.

I sprinted up the stairs, for I heard quiet, a sound I’ve grown to fear. Panicked, I made my way down the angular hallway to the very last room upstairs–our bathroom. Sitting on the floor in a pillow of eyeshadow and powder dust was my daughter, daintily painting her face with the mascara wand she was rhythmically dipping in my bottle of foundation.

Scooping her and the make-up up in giant swoop, I took to cleaning her face and hands. I plugged in the vacuum and sucked up the evidence of how she spent her last five minutes and then headed downstairs to search for the other two. After all, it had now been ten minutes since we had had meaningful interaction.

Downstairs Chloe and I went to find Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum scaling the shelves of the pantry. Every box of cereal was opened, paper cups lined up and half full with the contents of the boxes. Chocolate smiles gave away that they had dessert first. After a quick reprimand, I ordered the kids to their chairs for breakfast, not sure if the oldest two have any room left for this meal, and I strapped Chloe in her booster seat, thankful that at least she can’t get down and wreak any more havoc at the moment.

Or so I thought.

Distracted by the first three episodes of the morning, I didn’t think through what I needed to do before strapping Chloe into her seat. As I poured the milk into the cereal bowl, the jarring sounds of I go pee-pee! echoed throughout the house.

Unstrapped the two-year-old tornado, reminded her the warning works better if she tells me before she pees all over the floor, took off the soaked underpants, and handed her paper towels to help clean up the mess.

It was closer to brunch than breakfast, and I was chomping on Zoloft like they’re Skittles in between each bite of organic cereal. You know, the healthy choice to start off my day right.

And through each bite of cereal, I began to think What could I have done better?

But of course, the answer is nothing. But I could think of something that my husband should’ve done before he left for work.

No, taking out the trash isn’t a life or death issue, but it is a mental health issue. Husbands, remember that fact.

Disclaimer: For the record, none of the events following the make-up ordeal actually happened on that day, but they totally could’ve–we just had a good day. I am writing from experience, so, husbands, heed my words!

Contrary to Popular Belief

Today I’m linking up with The Gypsy Mama for her ‘Five Minute Friday’–a chance to write for five minutes without editing or changing around my words. I’ll just write, and you should, too! Come play along!

The topic: Every day

GO:

Doctors will tell you that kids need a schedule. I know all about schedules–they’re how I survive. I cleaned better when I had a schedule, and I get more accomplished when every slot in my schedule is filled with a task or meeting that needs to be completed. But the last few weeks, I’ve proven the doctors wrong.

Contrary to popular belief, kids do not need a schedule, at least my kids.

Every day since summer started, I’ve heard a little boy crack open his door and sneak downstairs to catch a few minutes of Jake and the Never Land Pirates. Every day I’ve hit snooze on my alarm, got to reading my Bible a little later, writing blog posts and sometimes not finishing in one sitting, and so I’ve let my little man sneak down those stairs while I scurry to throw on a pair of shorts.

Every day we’ve eaten breakfast at an hour that would better serve brunch. Every day three little kids round the table in mis-matched outfits or wrinkled pajamas from the night before.

Every day we’ve thrown our schedule out the window. Shall we go to the gym? Sure! or maybe not today.

Every day is a surprise; every day is full of laughter; and these every days are perfect.

And I say schedules are very overrated.

STOP:

I could’ve kept going with that one! What about you? Do you typically operate better with a schedule as I, or are you a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of person? Have you ever found freedom or enjoyment in trying to operate the opposite of how you’re hard-wired?

While She Lay Asleep

I washed my face and splashed the water over my eyes, hoping to rinse away the sleep that still lingered. Matt was gone, and the rest of the week on my own began. I stared in the mirror wondering what would await me this time, and I searched in my eyes for the determination to face it. And in my moment of apprehension and negativity, I heard footsteps in the hall. I sighed to myself as those footsteps traveled to my own room, a small body rustling the sheets on my bed.

But then I opened the bathroom door and looked.

I remembered the words of another mother. I always look at them while they’re sleeping.

And so I did. I stared at the round face and porcelain skin. I took in the long eyelashes and pouty lips. And my eyes ran over each disheveled strand of hair atop her head.

While she lay asleep next to me, I went through my prayers, prayers for strength, prayers for wisdom, prayers of gratitude, and prayers of urgency. I want to enjoy them.

I looked over at the sweet face next to me, and I stared. She’s just a little girl. They’re just little children. And I reminded myself of their innocence with pictures of full hugs and kisses while another part of me thought of what they are capable. They have a sense of right and wrong. They know when they are defiant, and they know how to obey. I thought of the responsibility that I have and must teach. And my mind wrestled to reconcile the conflicting thoughts running through my mind.

But for a moment I just stared.

There was still time before she would awake, time before I needed to know the answers.

If I Had a Therapist, I’d Drive Her Crazy

I don’t have a therapist, but I’ve contemplated getting one many times. If it weren’t already obvious, I use my blog as a way to process through my feelings, and many times it works (and it’s free). But sometimes I have to wonder if I might not need professional help….

I can’t read status updates on Facebook. Specifically, I can’t read status updates about mothers enjoying being mothers–they make me feel guilty. Whenever I read, “I just love being a momma!” or “Making cookies with my sweet babies!” my stomach balls up in a series of knots.

It’s not that I don’t love my children or thank God for them every day–it’s just that my status updates would read a little differently:

“Tried to make cookies with my babies. Broke up one fight over whose turn it was to pour in the sugar, moved little hands three times that kept trying to crack extra eggs in the bowl, and realized I was short a 3/4 cup of chocolate chips because my kids apparently snuck them during the week.”

“Why don’t my kids take naps!!!”

“Had to grab Chloe off the top of the refrigerator again.”

Our days tend to feel a little chaotic, no matter my best attempts to structure them. Somehow the simplest plans to read a book or go outside and play can derail into a drama that has me on my knees shaking my fists heavenwards crying, “Why, God, why?!”

So when I read status updates that remind me that school is almost over for the year, status updates that exclaim “I’m so excited to have my three kiddos home with me 24/7 for the next 3 months!” I feel guilty. Guilty and terrified.

It’s not that I’m not used to having my kids home with me–preschool only keeps two of them for three hours a few times a week–but that little break with just one child is well…a little more manageable.

I think about our Georgia summers with the blazing sun and 100% humidity, that miserable heat that keeps everyone indoors, and I get nervous. Sure, I will take the kids to the pool, but I also remember our pool time last year that had me sweating more than swimming while I did my best to keep three kids in the pool at the same time . We will visit the library, but I have flashbacks to the time my son thought playing hide and seek through the aisles was fun while I was trying to get everyone out the door. And I think of a couple weeks ago when the hair massacre occurred leaving my daughter with beautiful strawberry-blonde locks looking like Hayley Mills in “The Parent Trap.“

Blue streak in hair not permanent--just some finger paint

I think about my budget that includes ‘art cabinet with a lock and key’ since putting things up high doesn’t work. I look at the dutch door that has swung from each child’s room in an attempt to keep them in…

…while they keep trying to get out.

I think about our every days, and I get nervous. And when I get nervous, I feel guilty. And so I write a blog post while biting my nails in the hope that I’ll laugh and feel a little better.

And if not, I might give that therapist a call (or at least stay off Facebook).

Does the impending summer vacation have you nervous or excited? What cheap activities do have planned to keep your little ones out of trouble?

Ten Things My Daughter Says

For the second night in a row, my husband and I are up at 11 p.m. and cannot go to bed. Last night, we were held captive by the power of Easter candy sugar highs on our son and daughter, obviously tired but unable to fall asleep. Tonight, we are subject to the tears of our little girl brought on by a lost binky. And since that daughter is rolling all over my lap, unable to sleep without her precious pacifier but fully capable of spewing out sentences that her not quite two-year-old self can already say, I decided to write this post in her honor : Ten Things My Daughter Says

10. Mommy, where’s my bing-kee? (Oh, how I wish I knew)

9. I want ‘andy. (candy)

8. I want choc-it (chocolate–are you noticing a pattern?)

7. Mommy, Hammah Gyace is spit-in on me! (Hannah Grace is spitting on me)

6. Mommy, Ha-yub is hittin’ me! ( I was so relieved to learn that she could tattle on both her sister and brother, Caleb)

5. I do it! (Of course you do. How silly of me to think you needed help)

4. Mommy, hep me, peas. (help me, please. And dear Lord, help me, please, too)

3. I need to go potty (any time she wants to get down from her highchair, stroller, or out of bed)

2. Two minutes. (Her request for her mommy or daddy to stay in her room for just two more minutes at bedtime)

1. Hammah Gyace–look ah me! What happen? (to her three-year-old sister having a tantrum)

Clearly we have a very bright, independent, and, perhaps, bossy little girl. Now if she would just stop talking, I’d love to go to sleep. Linking up with Oh Amanda for her Top Ten Tuesday.

When I Don’t Know W.W.J.D.

Two days ago, I had a blasphemous thought: Would Jesus have remained sinless if he had had to parent my kids? And while I know that that thought shouldn’t have crossed my mind, it did. And, truthfully, on this particular night, I was convinced that even Jesus would’ve lost his cool when He saw his little kids lying amidst papers and toys strewn across the playroom floor after two weeks of ordering them to clean up. I was convinced that the sounds of whining and crying from his oldest and the touch of toddlers clinging to His leg while having tantrums would’ve had Him calling one of the disciples to come babysit so He could head to Starbucks, hiding from the sight of any people three feet tall and under.

After a miserable previous week, I had started this week off fresh. With a new idea tucked away in my brain, I loaded up the girls and headed to Target for some incentive stickers. And even though the Disney princess stickers cost $6 when a pack of butterfly and flower stickers cost half that amount for twice the number, I went through the check-out line with the princesses and a pack of Star Wars stickers for Caleb. After all, for the incentive to work, the kids had to be excited about their prize. I was sure they would pick up their toys for a sticker.

So when we reached the end of the week with two barren charts except for a few stickers awarded ( one sticker stolen, not earned) merely for the kids to realize that they could, in fact, earn stickers, I threw up my hands in desperation. And as I hung my head in defeat and contemplated if Jesus would, in fact, sin, I also thought about a question that I was first asked my senior year in high school.

My mom had come home from the Christian book store one day with a handful of bracelets.

“What are these?” I asked.

I looked over the letters ‘W.W.J.D’ embroidered on the cloth.

“It stands for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ and when someone asks you what it means, you’re supposed to give them the bracelet.

I remember giving some to my boyfriend and hearing his experience having given his away to a girl in his math class:

“She told me it was really hard to smoke wearing that bracelet!”

In high school, when I asked the question ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ I knew the answer. He wouldn’t want me to rebel against my parents by smoking. He wouldn’t want me to cheat on tests or make fun of the awkward boy in my math class. He would want me to try my hardest, act respectfully to my teachers, love my neighbors.

But the other day, as I stood in my kitchen and asked myself that question again, I answered honestly I don’t know.

I thought about the life of Jesus, and since he was not a human parent to any children, I could only look to how he treated those he encountered.

I considered the option of teaching my children in parables:

There once was a mother Wolf spider. She had three children who crawled around under her legs and wouldn’t grow up fast enough. So she ate them.

I wasn’t sure that parables would be the most effective method for my young audience.

And I wasn’t sure what method to use instead. I didn’t know if Jesus would praise the ‘Naughty Step’ or give a swift spanking. I wasn’t sure if He would hand out stars on chore charts or box up toys that had littered the floor one day too many. I wasn’t sure of much other than that He would love.

He would teach them in a way that they would know their sins without feeling the weight of condemnation, being clothed in forgiveness instead.

And they would know love.

And it is this love that would compel them to obedience, to following the One who called.

I find the job of ‘mother’ extremely frustrating sometimes. I have more questions than answers, and I feel the weight of my responsibility to these three precious lives. And most mornings, I wake up not knowing how to discipline a child who isn’t motivated by punishment or reward.

But I can start with love.

And while I don’t know how to do it as perfectly as Jesus, I do have that motherly instinct. And I know the love Jesus has bestowed on me.

So I start there. With love. Some days it’s all I have.

Have you ever pictured Jesus as a parent to your children? How do you think He would respond? Join in the conversation below, or add your own post describing a spiritual journey you are currently taking.

And for those wanting to embark on a different kind of journey, Nikki invited me to share my thoughts on potty-training. I find the timing of these two posts ironic, the one where I say I don’t know how to parent and the next where I give out advice! I’d love for you to check out her site and add any other tips on potty-training that you can offer.

http://www.simply-linked.com/listwidget.aspx?l=b9a1ed8e-958e-47e2-839b-429509d6a8af

What I Lack

I lack sleep, little girls staying up three hours past their bedtimes trying on leotards and baby oil, waking up twice in the middle of the night crying for lost binkies.

I lack space, never having a moment sans children, even my own bed not serving as a refuge against little bodies climbing in and taking over.

I lack patience, sometimes not finding the calm within me to deal with disrespect or disobedience, my last nerve chewed on and spit out by 7:00 p.m.

I lack ideas, not knowing the next fool-proof technique to get little kids to pick up their toys, having exhausted all the creative options I could find.

But, sometimes, I take a minute to look around at the round faces breathing heavy, listen to the raspy snores escaping tiny mouths, feel the thick bedding wrapping a cocoon of warmth around healthy bodies, and I realize

I lack nothing.

Participating today in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What do you lack? And come back tomorrow to share your own Journey!