Walking in Little Shoes

I took a deep breath as I entered Chloe’s room, laying out her pajamas for the night. The day was almost over, and as trying as it had been, I hadn’t blown it with the kids. That fact gave me just enough strength to deal with whatever they would throw my way before they fell asleep.

However, as I walked into Caleb’s room and expressed my frustration that he still hadn’t picked up his socks off the floor, he responded with a question that caused me to take another look at the day:

“How many times do you think you’re going to be mean to me today?”

I stood bewildered for a minute and proceeded to ask Caleb what he meant.

“You yelled at me a lot today, so I wanted to know how many times you’re going to be mean?”

After I contemplated where he got such a grasp on sarcasm, I explained to him that he had been very disobedient today and that I did have to scold him a lot, but I hadn’t lost my temper with him.

Or had I? Now his comment had me doubting myself.

That comment and the comment his sister made earlier when she stated with disgust, “You just ruined my life.”

So during a day when I was praising myself for keeping my cool, I still had managed to ruin the life of a three-year-old and caused a four-year-old to think his mother was incredibly mean.

Sheesh.

I decided to take a minute to look at the day from my kids’ perspective. When I told Caleb that he hadn’t acted right today, he pointed out that he did do many of the things I had asked and only disobeyed a little. While he had spent much of the day defying me, he was right–he did help a few times, too. He got on his coat and shoes when we were trying to leave, and he put Chloe’s boot on, too. He cleared the table of his dishes at every meal, and he helped set the table for dinner. When I looked through Caleb’s eyes, I saw many tasks that were completed and a mother who was still harping about those from earlier in the day.

I had a slightly harder time looking through Hannah Grace’s eyes; it was probably all those bright colors and butterflies that got in the way. In any event, when I tried, I saw a mommy whose heart I could melt if I just caressed her cheeks while saying,”I’m sorry, Mommy. I won’t poke your bottom tomorrow.” And in her eyes, that apology erased all of the defiant behavior from the day.

Of course, if my kids stood in my shoes, they would have seen time after time after time children sneaking cookies and TV; ignoring requests to clean up; and that strange incident of running circles through the kitchen, poking my heiny every time they passed me while I was talking on the phone to Hannah Grace’s preschool teacher…just to name a few frustrations from the day.

Where they saw fun, I saw defiance. Where I saw defiance, they saw examples of obedience.

And I saw that while I was right, so were they.

Yes, my children need to obey, but I also need to see all that they do that is worthy of praise. I need to step inside their little shoes and take a look at me. Who do they see? A mother full of love, or a mother harboring disappointment?

Perhaps that paradigm shift will make the difference.

And if not, I’ll just embrace the title of ‘the meanie who ruins little kids’ lives.’

Turn My Heart

Prior to Christmas, I began reading through the book of Luke. I didn’t even make it past the first chapter when my eyes read over a verse that pierced my heart and has since convicted me daily:

“And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord” (Luke 1:17).

The angel Gabriel is prophesying to Zechariah about the son whom he will father, yet when I read those words, every time I re-read them, I hear him speaking to me.

“to turn the hearts of the parents to their children”

I live my life for my children, and I sacrifice, but I also gripe daily, yearning for some time to hide away in a corner and read a book. Yearning for the day when I don’t immediately go from their prolonged bedtime to mine. Yearning for an hour to clean the bathrooms and then wondering what the heck is wrong with me that my dream is to clean bathrooms?

Where is my heart turned? Toward them or me?

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In case you missed it, this week’s journey is on peace. Come link up on Friday with your own post on this theme.

Why I Was Late

Since having children, I have had a tendency to show up five minutes late everywhere, and this year I decided, no more! I will not be that person! However, I am still that person but not for a lack of trying. And for all of those mothers who are on time everywhere and don’t understand mothers like me–I don’t know what to say. I can only throw my hands up in the air and question, “Maybe tomorrow?”. However, perhaps if I explain a morning like yesterday’s, I’ll receive a little grace from those who want to condemn me and my lateness.

6:00: Alarm goes off. I hit snooze (Okay, that may have been my first mistake, but give me a break! I still got up at 6:10–it’s pitch black outside!).

6:10: Go to the bathroom, wash my face, put in contacts

6:15: Pray, read my Bible

6:45: Begin working on my blog

7:10: Caleb and Chloe simultaneously wake up. (Darn. I had one more paragraph to write. I was going to stop at 7:15, anyway. Now two kids are up before I’m dressed. I am sunk).

7:12: Instruct Caleb to get dressed. Go to wake up Hannah Grace

7:15: Change Chloe’s diaper, get her dressed. See Caleb doing karate in the hallway, ask him if he’s dressed. Haven’t seen Hannah Grace emerge, know she must be lying on her floor doing nothing.

7:20: Redirect Caleb. Go in Hannah Grace’s room to tell her again it’s time to put on the clothes we picked out the night before. (See? Organization!).

7:25: Give Chloe some books to read. Begin getting dressed myself. Caleb runs in my room, informing me he’s dressed. Redirect Caleb to make his bed.

7:30: Stop getting myself ready when I realize the baby is no longer reading in her room. Walk past Hannah Grace’s room where she is still lying on her floor half naked. Redirect her

7:32: Make it downstairs to where Chloe has pushed a chair to the counter and is trying to get a banana. Notice all the aluminum foil she unrolled and the dog food she has spilled all over the floor

7:35: Go back upstairs with unhappy baby. Go past Hannah Grace’s room where she is still half naked, lying on her floor. Redirect Hannah Grace

7:38: Attempt to get ready again.

7:40: Stop getting dressed to yell at Caleb who has found his Daddy’s screwdriver (the tool, not his morning beverage). Ask Caleb if he made his bed. He says, “yes” and has, in fact, made his bed. Check on Hannah Grace who is still half naked on her floor. Redirect her.

7:45: Attempt to get ready again.

7:50: Put Caleb in time out for tackling one of his sisters.

7:55: Finish getting ready, check on Hannah Grace who is still half-naked, lying on her floor. Inform Hannah Grace that we are about to go downstairs and that naked people do not eat at my table. No shoes, no shirt, no service. Again point out the clothes that we picked out the night before. (At this point I debate if I should just dress her myself. I decide, ‘no,’ she’s just being defiant and wants me to dress her, and I will stick to my ‘No naked breakfast’ policy)

8:00: Fix Caleb and Chloe’s hair and am ready to do Hannah Grace’s but notice she is still lying on the floor half-naked. Remind her again of the breakfast policy. Go to my own room to quickly make bed, grab water and cell phone off nightstand.

8:15: Hannah Grace notices the three of us are going downstairs to eat, so she begins to get dressed. Tell Caleb to get on shoes located in the shoe basket next to the door (More proof that I’m not completely disorganized).

8:20: Serve everyone breakfast, pass out vitamins.

8:23: Grab Chloe’s shoes to put on while she’s in the high chair. Notice the socks that I put on her are no longer on her feet. Remember seeing Hannah Grace taking off Chloe’s socks during one of the visits to her room when she was lying half-naked on her floor. Go find Chloe’s socks.

8:25: Put on Chloe’s shoes. Begin to clean up aluminum foil and dog food mess Chloe made previously.

8:30: Give the five-minute warning announcing that breakfast is over soon. Gather toothbrushes and toothpaste.

8:35: Announce breakfast is over, and tell kids to put their bowls in the sink. Get bookbags and jackets off of hooks hanging by the door. (I’m really impressing myself with all of this organization)

8:37: Notice that no one has stopped eating; fall into panic mode. Announce loudly that all bowls need to go in the sink

8:38: Caleb takes a last drink of milk and spills half of it down his shirt. Hannah Grace grabs her bowl off of the table and spills all of her remaining milk on the floor. Think to myself that whoever came up with the saying “There’s no use crying over spilt milk” didn’t clean up spilt milk every day.

8:40: Caleb, Hannah Grace, and I clean up spilt milk.

8:45: Everyone brushes teeth. I grab Chloe and tell everyone to grab jackets and backpacks and head to the car. Then I notice two children who don’t have on shoes. (Didn’t we already put on shoes?)

8:50: Kids put on their shoes

8:55: Once again, tell kids to grab jackets and backpacks and head out door with strict orders to go straight to car seats and buckle up.

8:55 and 30 seconds: Hannah Grace stops and says, “Oh, look! Leaves!” and begins to waste time admiring the leaves on the ground.

8:58: Finish buckling Chloe who has decided she no longer likes being confined by a car seat. She perfects the ‘stiff-as-a-board’ body position. Get ready to pull out of driveway. Look in rearview mirror and see unbuckled daughter in the back seat.

9:00: Begin buckling oldest daughter in the back who then has tantrum because she wants to buckle herself (except she didn’t from 8:55-9:00).

9:03: Leave for preschool (Carpool runs from 9:00–9:10)

9:09: Arrive at carpool. Kiss children goodbye with clenched jaw and open door for teacher to get them. Teacher notifies me we are missing a backpack.

9:10: My brain explodes, and then I head home to get a certain little girl’s backpack.

To Speak Blessings

Many times, I’ll hear a sermon at church on Sunday, and by Friday I have forgotten the topic. Other times, however, the message won’t leave me, and weeks later I am still pondering its significance in my life.

A few weeks ago, my pastor preached on the events in Genesis 27. Jacob deceives his father, Isaac, into giving him the blessing that was actually reserved for his brother Esau, the firstborn. When Isaac discovers his mistake, he trembles, and Esau cries out like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum, “Bless me—me too, my father!” (Genesis 27:34).

I’ve always found this passage peculiar. Isaac doesn’t actually give anything that exchanges hands with Jacob, and God, knowing everything, knows that Isaac had never intended, in fact, to bless Jacob. Why couldn’t Isaac simply fess up, “My bad, Esau. I thought Jacob was you. Here you go,” and bless him instead?

My pastor provided the answer that has wrestled with me for weeks: The ancient people believed that what they said mattered. When a person asked for God’s blessing, he couldn’t simply undo those words; the words carried meaning and power and were not spoken lightly. And this truth is no different for our generation, either.

Two thoughts continue to race in my mind. First, I’ve continued to think about my pastor’s sermon, the power of a blessing. As a Christian, I believe in God’s supernatural ability to take my words, the blessings I would speak on my children, and make them true. I believe in the power of touch, the power of taking my children by the hand as I speak words of confidence in what they will do and God’s presence in their life. And I believe when they hear these words, something will change inside of them, as well.

Second, I began to think about another lesson that wasn’t in my pastor’s sermon. If my words really matter, if I can speak blessings on my children that God brings to fruition, wouldn’t the opposite hold true? All those careless words, the negative thoughts that enter my mind and leave my mouth, do they hold power as well?

Since becoming a parent, I’ve tried to give extra hugs and kisses to my children, knowing that showing physical affection isn’t the first way that I show my love. I tend to be better at praising my children for their kind hearts, for their good character, for a task successfully completed.

However, after this sermon, I began to listen to my other words. What words am I using when I discipline? In an attempt to correct my children, am I actually heaping curses on their shoulders? Are my children inwardly crying out, “Bless me–me too, Mommy!” when my words sear their soft skin? Not only do my praises matter, but so do my criticisms.

I want my children to remember a mother who blessed them with her actions and her words. I want my children to remember my words for their ability to inspire creativity, to bring joy, to cause laughter. And I want to remember how much my children matter to me so I will choose wisely those words I want to matter to them.

Grocery Bags and Construction Paper

When Caleb was seven months old, I didn’t take him to the pumpkin patch to snap some Halloween pictures. At the time, I didn’t realize that I had violated some law for what mothers are supposed to do with their children, but I was informed of that fact after Halloween had come and gone without a cute pumpkin picture of my son. Nowhere in my house is there a separate section for arts and crafts supplies complete with a stash of those googly eyes and various buttons necessary to create animals and insects for any occasion. And my daughters will never have matching frilly hair bows with darling pillowcase dresses unless someone gives them such a present.

When it comes to creativity, arts and crafts, anticipating projects for the upcoming holiday season, or anything along those lines, I have failed. It’s not so much that I’m against projects; it’s simply that my mind would never even think to do some of the artsy projects other parents undertake. And I had started to get a little insecure about my inability to ‘create’ with my children.

The other day I was at the store when I noticed a huge display of plastic pumpkin pails intended for children to store their Halloween candy. I grabbed three remembering how I didn’t remember the last two years when the kids had to throw their candy from the Fall Festival in the bottom of our stroller. Suddenly, out of the blue, my mind had an ingenious idea–we’ll make our own bags! Okay, I’ll be honest; I didn’t get this idea in a quest for creativity. I simply didn’t want to spend money on three pails and then find a place to keep those bulky pumpkins after Halloween was over.

That afternoon, I set out two little grocery bags for Caleb and Hannah Grace, and I drew a pumpkin for each of them on a piece of orange construction paper. They were so excited and focused as they sat at the kitchen table ready to begin their project. The kids colored and cut and then glued their pumpkins on the bags, and as I watched and helped them work, I felt a little ashamed. Maybe if my mind worked this way, if I thought about crafts to do ahead of time, I could give them something better. I pushed away the thought as we put the finishing touches on the bags.

While I picked up scraps of paper from the floor, the kids admired their work until Caleb suddenly spoke:

“Thank you, Mommy,” he said.

On his own, without any encouragement from me, he offered his thanks. And I knew from the sound of his voice that he wasn’t merely thanking me for the bag–he was thanking me for thirty minutes we spent together creating–creating pumpkin bags and a memory that will last longer.

Caleb then made his way across the kitchen to where I was crouched on the floor and put his arms around me. “I love you,” he gently spoke, and my heart melted. Any insecurities I was feeling were immediately washed away.

Caleb didn’t care that our craft didn’t involve fabric and a hot glue gun–he doesn’t want any of those frills–he just wants me.

I had to write about this moment because I know how easily I will forget; I will forget that my children don’t need paper mache and glitter. They need something more precious–me, my attention–and they will take all they can get of it, even if my attention comes bearing paper grocery bags.

For what can you be thankful on this ‘Focus On It Friday’?

Raising the Bar

I’ve always loved literature, reading stories that are completely unlike my life and living vicariously through the characters on the pages, getting the chance to understand why people make the choices they do even though they might not make the choices I’d make. Because of that love for stories that imitate life, even if it’s not my own life that is being imitated, I’ve had a fairly reasonable tolerance for reading or seeing topics on a movie screen that push the envelope. However, last week I was reminded of where I draw my line.

Last week GQ published a photo shoot with three of the stars from the hit show Glee. The young man and women in that photo shoot posed rather suggestively, sexualizing the high schools characters whom they portray. And while I found the pictures distasteful, I reminded myself that this man and these women were grown, not the teenagers that they portray on TV, and that GQ is a magazine for men.

I read some blogs that had posts on this topic and the comments that followed, and I found myself drawing my line, my standard for what is acceptable and what is not. I can’t say that I completely disagreed with those who didn’t find a problem with the photos, or at least with those who had participated in the photo shoot. Where I did find myself in sharp contrast with some of these individuals was in their rationale as to why these photos didn’t bother them.

Over and over again I read that we shouldn’t act so naively–there is nothing suggested in those photos that kids aren’t already doing in high school and that teenagers haven’t been doing for years. And while this point may be true, I had to ask myself whether or not these photos were an example of art imitating life or life imitating art.

No, I do not believe that teenagers who see these photos will be suddenly convinced to have sex, but I do believe that as a society we have lost faith in our children. We have lowered the standard so far that our children are meeting our set expectations.

Rather than accepting the constant bombardment of sexualized messages on TV, in the clothing choices for our children, through advertisements, and elsewhere, we can tell our children a different message. Even if we didn’t follow through with our own advice as a teenager, we can speak from experience. Isn’t that what being a parent is about, guiding our children and helping them avoid the mistakes we made?

We can tell our children that they should treasure their bodies, that they are not merely sexual creatures who operate solely on instinct. They were given emotions and a moral compass to guide them, and they shouldn’t discount those parts of their beings. We can tell our children, even if we didn’t practice sexual purity, that they can, they are able, and we have confidence in them. We believe that they are above the images thrown at them daily and that they will be the generation who says, “Enough. We’re tired of how society and the media treat sex as something that doesn’t matter.”

I remember a couple of years ago, I picked up a TIME magazine off the table in the doctor’s office. I was intrigued by an article on purity balls and the debate surrounding them having not been all that familiar with the concept. While there were a plethora of critiques against these father/daughter dances where daughters pledge to guard their virginity until they marry, the author of the article asked one question that has remained with me for the last two years: “Parents won’t necessarily say this out loud, but isn’t it better to set the bar high and miss than not even try?” (Gibbs, 17 July 2008).

Raising the bar isn’t about denying our children information regarding sex or pressuring them to keep a standard that we have set for them. Instead, it’s about giving our children value, showing them that even if the world doesn’t value their whole person, we do, and they don’t have to fit the pattern of the world. Raising the bar is about fighting for their purity and not accepting a decline in morals in our society simply because ‘everybody does it.’

We owe it to our children to have a better answer for why sex is everywhere in our society, why sex sells. Rather than blaming them, we should admit that we didn’t fight against it. But they can with their decisions. We’re raising the bar for them, and if they don’t reach it, we will still love them. But if they do reach the bar, or if they come closer, waiting to have sex a little longer than if perhaps we never set that standard, think how their life could be different!

Our children wouldn’t have to live with regret or the emotional scars that come with many of those early sexual experiences. They wouldn’t lament what they had lost, but instead, they could treasure what they had gained–self-respect.

Raising the bar for our children might not change the world–cheap, sexual images may continue to bombard us–but it might change one life. I’d rather raise the bar and my children fail than insult the capable people that they are by setting the standard too low. They are worth the high expectations, as are all children. Let’s set the bar high, and give them the opportunity to surprise us.

The TIME article I read was actually a print version, but the following link can take you to the on-line article for Gibbs, Nancy. “The Pursuit of Teen Girl Purity.” TIME. 17 July 2008.

Juggling Coffee Cups

The other night as I was unloading the dishwasher, my little helper toddled over to offer her assistance. I have never felt so much stress putting away plates. Chloe’s hands were attracted like magnets to anything sharp and anything breakable. I hurriedly grabbed all of the knives out of the dishwasher and began putting them away, but as I was trying to complete that task, Chloe was reaching for glasses. As I shoved the knives in the knife block, I quickly reached back to grab the glass from her hand. Now that the knives were put away, I scrambled to get all the plates, glasses, and coffee cups before Chloe’s slippery fingers could touch them.

She didn’t understand the concept of the hand-off. Chloe would grab one item, hand it to me, and let go before my fingers had actually grasped it. Lids to pots dropped to the floor, the loud clamoring sound filling the house. Forks and spoons joined them. I did my best to balance the dishes she gave, to juggle what was going in the cabinet and what I was receiving from Chloe’s hands, but inevitably something would fall. My hope was that nothing would break.

Lately, my days feel like this dishwasher incident. As I try to do one thing, I have someone adding to my hands that already feel full. I rush to the cabinet in the hopes of putting away one object so that I can take on another. I know my hands can’t hold everything. I know I’m not an expert juggler. And every day, my prayer is that when something falls from my hands, it will be the lid from the pot and not the coffee cup.

Last Sunday, Matt and I met a nice woman at Publix. She and I were discussing the different kinds of sugar in the baking aisle when Chloe let us all know the extent of her hunger. As I tried to pacify Chloe, holding her in my arms while the other two sat on the bench of the largest, most awkward shopping cart in the world, I overheard Matt telling the woman the ages of our children. The woman locked eyes with me again and told me, “I feel you. I had three children in four years. I know.” But then she went on. “Enjoy this time. Because then they will be teenagers and want nothing to do with you, and before you know it, they will be grown up and out of the house!”

I have been given this advice before, and honestly, I grow weary of it. I’ve developed a term for it–“The Grandparent Syndrome.” The people who seem adamant that I enjoy this time are almost always grandparents or people who wish they were grandparents. Their children are grown, and they look fondly on the years when they had little ones giving them hugs and kisses, telling them that Mommy and Daddy are their best friends. They remember children swinging on swings and sliding down slides and pictures hung on the refrigerator with stick figures and the letter ‘e’ turned backwards. And sometimes, they are looking through rose-colored glasses.

I don’t like being told to enjoy this time because I don’t want to feel guilty when I’m not. Honestly, many days are not enjoyable. Even though they say they do, I’m not sure these well-meaning individuals remember exactly how tired they felt every day.

I think they’ve forgotten wondering how poop got on the door jam in the bathroom and the frustration at not having any more hiding places short of the roof for sweets. They’ve forgotten what it feels like to have the one time of the day at six a.m. which was their time interrupted over and over again and wishing that six a.m didn’t have to be their alone time to begin with! They’ve forgotten what it feels like to juggle coffee cups, shattering some to the floor on days when they lost their temper with a three-year-old or days when they were too exhausted to play.

They only remember the cute faces looking back at them from the preschool pictures they have tucked away in family photo albums, and they miss those chubby arms that used to reach around them and squeeze. They see their beautiful grandchildren and giggle and bake cookies and miss the time they spent with their own children. Except every day wasn’t cookies and giggles.

As if to combat the well-meaning words that sometimes sting, other parents who are not that far removed from my situation have their own words to offer: “It gets easier, I promise.” I cannot tell you how many parents of three close together in age, parents I have never met, will lock eyes with me in the park and tell me these words. They remember the juggling act, and they want to bring hope. And they do. Through their words they are telling me that it’s okay to feel tired and frustrated because there is light at the end of the tunnel.

I’m not against enjoying this time. In fact, I started writing my ‘Focus On It Friday’ posts because I wanted to make sure that no matter how rotten of a week I had, I always remember something for which I can give thanks. I blog because I want to remember the beautiful moments with my family, the invaluable lessons that they teach me. But I also want to remember the struggles and the harsh growing pains I experienced as I took the journey as a parent.

Not every day is enjoyable. Some days, even some seasons, just suck, and being able to admit that fact is freeing to me. My goal as a mother is to treasure the good moments in every season, not longing for the future, and not holding on to the past. I want to make the best of the present, and during the times when the juggling act gets more challenging than I can handle, I want to become an expert at using the broom.

Because whether I’m enjoying the day or not, I have three little ones who need a mother for guidance and learn from how I handle the broken dishes. And whether I’m enjoying the day or not, I know how blessed I am to be able to take the next breath and unload a full dishwasher.

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?

Tips from the Pros

The other day I was caught off guard by a message I had received on Facebook: Jennifer–I’m needing advice on discipline with the kids… what tactics do you use with yours? The message went on to detail specific situations with which this particular mom was struggling.

My initial thought to this request was disbelief. Why in the world would anyone ask me for advice on discipline? Clearly this person hadn’t read my blog detailing my many failings!

I was also surprised because we haven’t seen each other in years as we’re in different states. In fact, I’ve never met this mom’s children, but we know each other from a brief time in a small group that Matt and I led. We don’t have the depth of friendship that I would need before I could ask someone for help and admit I’m struggling.

Even if I had that depth of friendship with another mom, I still might not ask for advice. I carry parenting so close to my heart. It is the one area of my life where I feel most vulnerable, carry the weight of my failings most days, yet want to succeed more than anything. After receiving this message, I found it curious that pride and shame at my shortcomings kept me from doing the one thing that could help me succeed with my children–talking to those currently in the trenches.

Sure, I pray every day for wisdom; I talk to my mom, but rarely do I open up and admit to another mom that I don’t know how to handle a certain problem with my children. I’m afraid of judgment, afraid that even though I am friends with someone, the thought will enter her mind that I must not have control of my children. I’m afraid that my children’s antics will become the topic of dinner conversation between my friend and her spouse that night.

And I’m afraid that this rationale is rather silly. Chances are that if I opened up, so would my friend. She would probably admit that she struggles, too, perhaps not with the same issue but in another area of parenting. Instead of carrying our burdens alone, we could help each other with the load. But first we need to share.

I was inspired by this mom’s openness, and as I wrote a response to her, I decided that I, too, would ask for help from the experts–moms, dads, grandparents, aunts or uncles–because there is no shame in it. In fact, if there is one person whom I don’t trust, it is the person who conveys the idea that he or she doesn’t struggle. I have to wonder what that person is hiding….

…so today I challenge you to come out of hiding. In the comments below, ask the experts! What’s one area of parenting where you need a tip? And since you’re also an expert, what’s one tip that you can offer other parents or caregivers of kids? Let’s help each other today and admit that none of us has it all together. And while we know that statement to be true, we also know that each of us has a lot to offer!

I’ll start: For parents with children that outnumber your own arms, how do make sure that one of them doesn’t pull away from you in a store or any other public place?

My one tip is to make sure you are dressed and ready before your kids wake up. The days when I accomplish this little task go so much smoother than days that start off with kiddos getting into mischief because I wasn’t fully ready to supervise.

Four Hours to Clarity

Sometimes a girl has to drive four hours away to gain clarity about the realities under her nose….

As we sat every night sipping hot tea with honey and nibbling delicate cookies, our conversation fell right in step with where it had left off a year or so ago. I found comfort in my friend’s presence, in her home that I had never seen. I found comfort when I discovered she had three places in her kitchen reserved for chocolate–a section in the refrigerator, a corner of the pantry, and a space in one of the cabinets–and that the young teenaged girl who always supplied the treats for our weekend spend-the-night parties had not changed when she grew up.

And as we talked and reminisced about high school and friends whose paths we had not crossed in years, amidst the medicine cups and tubes that served as a reminder for my visit, I realized that I had my true friend for whom I was yearning. She just lived four hours away.

As I played with her little boy, I saw my son and my daughters in his face. In his laugh that filled his body with delight, and in his moments of defiance, I saw that while each child is a unique gift from God, each is also the same. I found comfort as a mother in these moments of watching him. I found comfort when I observed my friend hug her son tenderly and patiently guide him down the path of obedience, this young teenaged girl now grown up with her own child.

And as I watched and observed I realized things that I needed to do differently with my own children and things that could stay the same. I could see them and their little hearts clearly now that I was four hours away.

I hugged my friend tightly with bitter-sweet emotion the night before I left, not wanting to leave behind our chats over tea, but anxious to embrace three little people and their daddy. I loaded the car the next morning and began my drive down the interstate–four hours down a stretch of highway that looked a little clearer on the journey home.