I guess I could’ve been upset when our ‘Star Wars’ themed Halloween turned into a ‘Star Wars Meets the Disney Princesses’ Halloween. After all, we did plan this idea months ago. Hannah Grace was excited to dress up like the beautiful Princess Leia, and Chloe couldn’t wait to don her ‘Toyota’ costume (otherwise known as ‘Yoda’ to everyone over the age of two). Caleb already had his Luke Skywalker costume, Daddy was living out his dream as Darth Vader, and, since Natalie Portman and I could almost be twins, I thought Queen Amilama-dim-dom suited me just fine.
Hannah Grace was the first to give up. She wanted to be a superhero instead, which was fine with me since super Aunt Lisa bought them dress-up costumes for when they came over to visit. Chloe quickly followed the lead of her sister, and the ‘Star Wars’ theme changed into a ‘Superheroes’ theme–it all still worked.
Until, of course, four days before Halloween when Hannah Grace assumed the role she was born to play as ‘Fancy Nancy’ for Book Character Day at preschool. The girls were adorable, so I really didn’t care that our theme was unraveling before my eyes.
And speaking of Fancy Nancy, I really didn’t care when one little Nancy refused to smile during her parade.
Because, after all, some things are important, and some things are not. Halloween costumes are not important, even if it doesn’t make sense for one’s daughters to ditch the thought-out costumes, the multiple-thought out costumes, for their everyday, ripped, dress-up clothes. Princess dresses without the proper crowns or shoes or wigs–an arts-and-craftsy mother’s nightmare.
But luckily this mother doesn’t care.
Luckily, this mother didn’t care the night before when her husband started carving a pumpkin at 8:30, and the kids had school the next day (okay, I cared a little).
Because, luckily, this mama’s learning that sometimes (many times) life doesn’t go as planned. Sometimes weekends end up a little more hectic than planned, and the kids are up a little bit later than I’d like. Sometimes kids change their mind about Halloween costumes one hour before we leave for the Fall Festival. Sometimes teenagers forget how to read when they come upon an unattended Halloween bag that says, “Take 1.”
Sometimes kids go to school with different colored socks or hair sticking up in the back. Sometimes Mommy is a little too tired to make the healthier homemade pizza crust and buys a packaged one instead.
Sometimes, I have to pick my battles. And Halloween isn’t one of them.
Sometimes, five happy faces is more important.
And if anyone disagrees with me, I really don’t care.
How did you or your family dress up for Halloween? Are you able to say “I don’t care” to things that really don’t matter?
I slept through my alarm every day last week. A couple of times, I didn’t even hear my alarm until it had been going off for at least a half an hour. I was immediately frightened by the realization–I had become my husband.
In the midst of the exhaustion and frazzled days of the last two weeks, I look fondly on the kindness God showed me. I had already had the conversation with my husband–I’ve taken on too much; I need to figure out what I’m going to let go–when I saw a trend I didn’t like. Each night I hit the sack a little later trying to finish that ‘just one more’ task, and each morning I woke with the need for an IV drip of coffee–and I’m not even a coffee drinker. I hadn’t spent any time in serious prayer or reading my Bible because I kept waking up late, and I was yearning for that time to focus my mind on the spiritual and not just the earthly tasks.
It all started innocently, with the best of intentions. I so looked forward to Chloe starting preschool, giving me two days a week with a few hours child-free. I made plans to volunteer in the kids’ schools, something that proved difficult previously with a baby in tow; to work out more consistently, to improve my writing with regular practice; to keep a cleaner house. As I looked at my cluttered countertops, a blog with the last entry almost a week ago, and a gym bag that hasn’t left it’s spot in a few days, I found out that by pursuing one of those items on the list, the rest quickly deteriorated.
I was so excited to co-chair the missions committee at Caleb’s school, but as 10:00 rolled around each night, it was just one more thing I hadn’t finished. I remember telling Matt, “The other chair seems to have taken over, but, honestly, that’s okay with me right now.” He laughed, and I laughed at the words coming out of my mouth. My had I changed if I was okay relinquishing control!
And that is how God showed His kindness. As I was coming to my own realization as to what I could handle, the co-chair of the missions organization called me: I don’t want you to think I’ve taken over; I just remember how hard it was for me when I had little kids. Mine are older now, and it’s really not a problem to get some of these things done.
The timing of her phone call, not even 12 hours after Matt and I spoke, was confirmation for me. I unburdened my heart, telling this lady how much I want to help, but, at the same time, I appreciate her understanding. I do need to watch to what I commit and maybe let her take a greater amount of the tasks for now. She laughed a knowing laugh and reminded me that my ministry right now, especially during this season of life, is my family. And she went on to warn that, in her own life, she saw Satan use busyness, busyness in good things, to distract her from better things.
I’m pretty sure I’ve written about this topic before. I want my family to be my priority, my ministry, yet I find that line can get fuzzy. After all, I volunteer in the kids’ schools for them, I volunteer at church for God and as an example to my children. I’m the secretary of our homeowner’s association for…well…that’s not a good example. And writing is for me, and working out is for me, and quiet time in the morning is for me–and I find it easier to push aside those ‘me’ activities instead of those for others. However, I’m also learning that if I don’t find those moments for me, most importantly those moments between God and me, I won’t have anything to give to them.
I’m not complaining about being busy. I’m blessed to feel busy doing things I love. But I also know that just because something is good doesn’t mean it’s good for me now, especially if I’ve used up all my margin to do those good things.
One of the hardest struggles for me as a wife and a mother has been to figure out this whole margin thing, to figure out my priorities and how those priorities translate. I want my children to know I love them and the Lord and that I want to serve the Lord with my life. And it’s going to take me a while, but I think God may be showing me that one of the best ways to start serving Him is to play a game of ‘Toy Story Connect 4″ with the kids, get in bed early, read a book, and then wake up rested.
There are too many beautiful moments, fleeting moments, and I don’t want to need caffeine in order to enjoy them.
Do you struggle with busyness and saying ‘no’ to good things? How do you achieve the proper balance in your life?
I was disappointed. I had looked forward to going on this field trip with him, and he acted like he wished I hadn’t come. Of course, I knew that wasn’t true. Caleb was excited any time I came to his school, but one would have never known it from the distance he put between us at the museum.
The museum atmosphere was a little crazy–a whole town complete with a police car and fire truck, a hair salon and bank, the essential grocery store and hospital, every exhibit ‘hands-on’ and ready for sixty-four kindergarteners to blow through like a tornado. Caleb’s teacher asked if I would let Brandon join our group of two, and, of course, I said ‘yes.’ Brandon was sweet and listened when I asked the boys to stay together; Caleb, however, had other plans.
My anxiety level began to rise as Caleb would run to exhibit after exhibit without his friend or me by his side. I spent the majority of my time, not enjoying the exhibits, but trying to figure out if I, in fact, had Caleb and Brandon with me, a challenging feat when all thirty boys are dressed with the same uniform and short hairdo.
I was aggravated. I knew Caleb wanted to play with his best friend, but his teacher asked me to watch Brandon, too. I didn’t understand what was so hard about us all staying together, and I was getting tired of trying to force the cohesion.
And then I hit my limit for the day. Like a group of ducklings with their mama duck, the kids formed a line behind their teacher in preparation for going to lunch. Caleb had thought he started the line, but apparently so did another kid. As the front of the line moved ahead of Caleb, tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks.
I sighed loudly while giving an obligatory side-hug. I could not believe he was going to start crying because he wasn’t the line leader. Caleb was going to need to toughen up–it doesn’t get much better than kindergarten.
But then I heard the words clearly in my mind:
He’s exactly like you.
And I immediately understood. Not only is Caleb only five, an important fact that I kept forgetting, but he’s got a sensitive heart just like his mama. He’s loyal to his friends, and that day he just wanted to find his buddy. His feelings bruise easily, and to a kindergartener, losing the title of ‘line leader’ is devastating.
I get that. I remember countless times of feeling wounded for this or that, a careless word or thoughtless inaction. I remember trying to blink back tears when I was embarrassed or hurt. And if I’m to be truthful, it’s easy to remember–I don’t have to look farther than last week.
In fact, I was over-sensitive the same day as Caleb. Yes, he should’ve listened better and stayed close to Brandon and me, but, honestly, I was upset because I was hurt. I was hurt that my son didn’t want me close like some of the other kids wanted their parents; I was hurt because my son didn’t obey. And I was critical of Caleb’s reaction in line because, often, we are most critical of those flaws we see in ourselves.
But, Caleb, having a sensitive spirit is also your asset. Your genuine concern and love for others makes my heart smile. So if once in a while the tears spill and our feelings hurt, it’s worth it.
Yesterday, Caleb made handwritten cards with original drawings for each of his classmates just because he wanted to. I picked up one card that read, ‘You are my best friend.’
“Riley, really?” I responded, a little surprised since Caleb hadn’t really mentioned Riley before.
And without missing a beat, he cleared up my confusion.
“Well, I think he wouldn’t like it if I wrote ‘You’re not my best friend.’
I often wondered when my children would first recognize differences in race and prayed that it wouldn’t look like the time my son asked loudly,”Why is she so wide?” as an overweight woman walked by. I silently willed that that poor woman developed sudden and temporary deafness, as there was no recovering gracefully from that blunder.
My freshman year in college, Bertice Berry came to my school and gave a wonderfully inspiring speech and made me want to change the world with a positive attitude that I’ve since had trouble keeping. I don’t remember many details of her lecture, but my mind often goes back to one of her stories as a guide for my parenting journey. One time in the grocery store, her nephew pointed to a woman clothed in traditional Indian dress and asked, “Why does she look like that?” Rather than hush him and push his finger down, walking away embarrassed, she used the opportunity to teach.”Isn’t she beautiful? Look at all the colors in her dress,” and she continued to teach this child how lovely this woman’s differences were.
The other night, I got the chance to instill those beliefs in my daughter Hannah Grace. She was lying in bed, and we had just finished prayers when she looked at me and said, “Grammy is different. And Papa Joe is different.”
I looked at her with that blank look I can give when I have no idea what someone is talking about.
“And I’m different, and Caleb is different, and Chloe is different, and you’re different, and Daddy is different.”
Once I realized that she wasn’t commenting on my parents’ personalities, I agreed with her. “Yes, God made us all different. He made us each unique.”
Hannah Grace continued: “Carmen at church has brown skin, and Brandon’s skin is black. They are different, too.”
“Isn’t God amazing?” I asked. “He made us all different, and He even made our skin different. Aren’t all the different colors beautiful?”
Hannah Grace nodded her head and smiled her sweet little smile and went to bed after a goodnight kiss.
The next day we had a chance to continue our conversation.
I came in the kitchen and stopped in my tracks: “Hannah Grace! What in the world?!” I had never witnessed such a display before.
Hannah Grace casually turned around and stuck out one leg completely colored with brown magic marker. She then showed me her other very-Caucasian-looking white leg. “See? God gave me one of each,” she stated matter-of-factly.
As is the case many times in my life as a mom, I had no idea how to respond. Honestly, I can’t remember exactly what I did or what I said, but I think it was something to the effect of “Hannah Grace, your skin is beautiful just the way it is” and “don’t color on your body with marker.” But I do know I let a smile peek through as I looked at my multi-colored daughter.
Hannah Grace, you have always had this amazing ability to find beauty in things that I wouldn’t normally give a second glance. I’ve saved some of your preschool coloring sheets because I was amazed at how you combined colors. Where I would’ve colored the giraffe orange, you added pink and blues in an incredible way. And Hannah Grace, you have shown me that you also see this beauty in people. Don’t ever lose that quality–that quality is what makes you truly gorgeous.
Sometimes it’s just too much–my heart feels like it could explode. I wake up and decide to be thankful because, yes, some days it is a decision. But once I make that decision, it becomes easier and easier to fulfill.
The little girl who answers everything in complete sentences…Yes, Rebecca is my friend in preschool,
the little girl who has a fashion sense all her own, reminiscent of Punky Brewster,
the little boy who looks so darned cute in his policeman uniform that cost 50 cents,
the husband who made a Thursday night a true date night at home, perfect in every way,
the quick-witted sister who kept me laughing all morning,
and the father and mother who gave me life and have shown me how to live it.
They make up all of the little blessings in my day. And when I add them up, I see there’s nothing little about it.
I’m doing my own version of the Gypsy Mama’s ‘Five Minute Friday.’ To be exact, today was a ‘four minute and twenty three second’ Friday. I hope you all have a great weekend counting your own blessings! Feel free to encourage us with some of them below.
I’m 32 years old, but sometimes I share the thoughts of that 15 year old girl that I once was. Even though I’ve gained years and wisdom and maturity, there are times when my logic engages in tough battle with my insecurities. There are days when I look in the mirror and scrutinize the reflection, days when I study my legs and my stomach and offer a harsh critique. There are days when I forget from where my worth comes.
This weekend I listened to our pastor deliver a convincing sermon arguing that we’ve let culture shape our views in regard to fashion instead of our Christian values helping to shape culture. None of the ideas were new to me–our culture screams loud and clear that the perfect woman’s body screams ‘sex,’ and no woman can actually reach the ideal that they’ve set; no matter how a woman dresses, men have to take hold of their thoughts and are responsible for where their mind goes; and we parents have to communicate to our daughters that they carry far more beauty than what the world would try to tell them and that their worth comes from their Creator, not the label on their clothing.
I have heard these teachings before, but at the end of the sermon, I had tears in my eyes. Near the beginning of the sermon, our pastor played a clip of a 15 year old girl who looked closer to 25 explaining why she dressed as she did. She wanted boys to look at her, to desire her, because it was then that she felt she was worth something. She flaunted her body because she tied her value as a person to her physical appeal, and the reaction from boys validated these feelings.
Fifteen was a long time ago for me, but I remember. I never flaunted my body or dressed seductively–I knew in mind that acting that way was wrong and that any boy who wanted me solely for the way I looked was not a boy that I wanted for a boyfriend–but I still wanted that validation. I wanted to turn boys’ heads when I walked by; I wanted them to want me. And when that didn’t happen, I doubted that I had any beauty.
And, unfortunately, sometimes I still do.
More often than not, I feel good about myself. I have a husband whom I love and loves me, children who bring a smile to my face, and I don’t desire anything more. Yet, there are those days that sneak up on me, days when I hate my reflection, days when I doubt that anyone other than my husband could find me attractive.
A few months ago, my son asked me why I didn’t wear a shirt that showed my stomach when I worked out at the gym. Initially, I was taken aback that my five year old noticed the trend of skimpy work-out clothes. However, I explained to him that I wanted to dress modestly, so I wasn’t going to wear shirts that showed my stomach (and I really didn’t want to show my stomach, either).
And I meant what I said–I do want to dress modestly–but sometimes when I’m working out I wonder if I could cause a head or two to turn. It’s not that I’m interested in anyone other than my husband, but I have moments like that 15 year old girl. I have moments when I’ve measured my worth by the heads that I’ve turned instead of by the One who gave me my worth.
I am in control of my thoughts, and I can’t blame anyone for them but me, yet the culture of which I am a part doesn’t do much to chase away these lies, either.
The other day my daughter tried on a superhero costume. After many days of my girls dressing up with their brother and their cousin in his costumes, my sister decided to buy some female superhero costumes to join the mix. The girls’ hero was Diana, also known as Wonder Woman, so my sister excitedly presented this costume to Hannah Grace. After putting on boots that were a little too high and a skirt that was a little too short, Hannah Grace looked at her appearance and exclaimed, “My daddy would freak out!” My sister agreed and returned the costume for a more modest Captain-America’s-daughter-costume.
When my sister told me this story, I had to wonder how is it that my four year old has more sense of what is appropriate for a child than those who manufactured the costume? And why do we as parents perpetuate the idea that our daughters’ value lies in the sexiness of their bodies by the clothes that we buy for them?
I know some might think that Matt and I are too strict when it comes to our daughters. We’re not fans of dressing our little girls in two-piece bathing suits nor painting their fingernails painted bright pink. Some of the outfits or accessories that we say ‘no’ to aren’t bad–they’re just not for little girls. We want our daughters to hold on to their innocence. We want them to look like little girls, not teenagers, because some day they will be teenagers. And when that day comes, we want them to be content with how they are, not striving to look ten years older. We want them to feel beautiful because God made them beautiful, and His beauty does not come in a box of hair dye or a tight shirt.
Last Sunday I had tears in my eyes at the end of the sermon because my pastor was talking to me. I know the feeling of that teenage girl wanting to look older, wanting to attract young men by looks alone. I’ve know the feeling of that 32 year old woman who wonders if she could attract anyone. I’ve known the feeling of tying up my worth in the latest fashion trends and the firmness of my muscles.
And I know that I don’t want my daughters to know that feeling. I want them to believe the words we speak into them, that they are beautiful and kind and truly a gift. And I know that if they are to believe they are worth something, their mother needs to believe that she is worth something, too.
Linking up late with Michelle for ‘Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday.” These personal posts can take me awhile….
Have you ever fallen into the trap of tying your worth to your physical appearance alone? When you do find yourself placing more emphasis on the physical, how do you speak truth into yourself?
I’m participating in the Gypsy Mama’s Five Minute Friday, where we write freely for five minutes, not editing our thoughts, but, instead, seeing where they take us.
GO:
I remember when I was pregnant, I thought there was nothing more amazing and miraculous than the development of a baby. I’d watch every pregnancy show, and I loved the scientific ones showing the growth from embryo to fetus to a newborn baby being held for the first time by his mama.
I wanted to do everything right. I read every handout my doctor gave me, every article from the online magazines, attended every birthing class and paid attention as if I were earning a grade. I wanted my baby to develop correctly in the womb, and I wanted to ensure I gave him the best start as he entered the world.
And then when that little bundle of joy entered the world, I read every parenting article, memorized the milestones for each age, knew how much he weighed at three months and then six and then nine…
…but as my baby boy grew into a little boy, and as we added a girl and then another–very quickly, I might add–I started to notice something else miraculous. These little people were growing, and while I have helped guide them and protect them and nurture them, I also have to admit that a lot of their growing has nothing to do with me. And it’s amazing.
It’s amazing to watch my daughter combine colors on a piece of paper in the most imaginative* and beautiful ways. It’s amazing to watch my son create a letter for his teacher and sound out words on his own, without enlisting my help, and it’s amazing to watch my two-year-old girl categorize her Memory cards just because she wanted to.
Their growth is beautiful, and it is their own. But even more amazing is my growth because, while I thought I would be their teacher and guide their way, I’ve realized that I’ve had my own learning to do, as well. I thank them, for I’m the one who needed to do some growing.
STOP
*marks where I actually was at five minutes. I took an extra minute to finish, and I reworded my final sentence because it sounded awful. I’m really not trying to be a cheater….
I’m participating in The Gypsy Mama’s 5 Minute Friday where we paint pictures with words for 5 minutes without editing–just let the words flow.
Go:
When I saw the topic this morning I felt stumped. I’m not sure why–I have plenty in my life which produces joy–but I wasn’t sure how to write about the joy I feel at certain moments. Perhaps, because if I’m writing honestly, I don’t always feel that joy that I should have. So I pondered the meaning of joy this morning as I got ready for the day. I looked up definitions, hoping that I would see a big difference between ‘joy’ and ‘happiness,’ but our English dictionaries all produce similar definitions.
However, as I brushed my teeth and straightened my hair, I pictured my friends. Friends who had lost babies. Friends who had lost husbands. Friends who had lost jobs. And I pictured my son in the backseat of the van when he told me we should turn off the news–we didn’t need to listen to three different reports of people getting shot.
And in that moment of picturing, I knew that this world was too hard–it could crush the spirit–apart from God. Finding joy isn’t about finding happiness in every moment of this fallen world. Finding joy is experiencing contentment and remembering the grace that God freely gives.
Because apart from that grace, I would see too many bleak days outside my window, but instead, I can throw my hands up in surrender to Him. I can yell, “Okay! This is the lot you gave me in life!” and know that He will hold my hand as I walk it. And while holding His hand and experiencing His grace, I can whisper it is well with my soul, even when the circumstances around my life are not.
Stop:
Okay, I can’t lie, especially when writing about God. I, again, took more than five minutes. I swear, I must have the slowest thinking brain of all you bloggers out there. Oh, well. Forgive me. And to be honest–I’ll probably break the rules again (but I still didn’t edit). How would you define ‘joy’?
As I tied my shoe laces Saturday morning, I felt such pride in myself. It was 7:30 a.m., and here I was getting ready for a run while the rest of my town was sleeping. I grabbed a banana and my water bottle and headed to the car. Today was the day–four miles–and I was going to get them done while the air was cool and crisp, while my neighbors snuggled under their warm blankets.
But as I pulled into the packed parking lot of the park, I realized I wasn’t nearly as awesome as I thought. Evidently, a lot of people exercise early on Saturday morning. Nevertheless, I got out of the car ready to start my goal, albeit feeling slightly less important.
About a month ago, I had decided I wanted to train for a half marathon. I had run one about six years before, before I had kids, before I had become, apparently, out of shape. The training so far wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Running long distances has never been easy for me, but the first time I trained, I was able to increase my mileage each week. Now–well, let’s just say that if those heart sensors on treadmills had an alarm that goes off when one’s heart is about to explode, the paramedics would be ready and waiting most days of my training.
Prior to a race where Matt and I pretended to be runners only to almost die
This particular Saturday was no different. As my feet hit the pavement, my mind was thankful for the cool morning air and a change in scenery from the gym, but my body didn’t care; it wanted to go to bed. I knew from past experience that I take a few minutes to get going, to get a good pace and rhythm, but after five minutes, I was already struggling. My legs didn’t want to move, and I had to pee. Why, no matter how many times that I pee before starting, do I still have to pee two minutes into a run (I would guess childbirth has something to do with that answer. You men have it so good)?
It’s way too early to quit, I told myself. So I moved along and decided by a mile in, I’d find my groove. But after running one mile, I was still running at the pace of toddler learning to walk. I tried to stay positive and kept going. I smiled as a little chipmunk scurried in front of my path. I reflected on the wonder of God as a beam of light rays pushed through the tree branches ahead of me. I found a moment of joy.
And then I watched the 70-year-old man pass me on the left while I was contemplating if my own lungs would collapse.
I had run almost two miles, and I was still struggling. The little inclines were killing me. I was huffing and puffing. My legs felt tired, and my breathing hadn’t adjusted to a comfortable rhythm. I never found my groove.
I might have to stop. I didn’t want to have to holler after that 70- year-old that I was dying and needed his help to get me to my car so that I could go to Starbucks. I was ready to quit.
But I couldn’t.
My plan said I was supposed to run four miles that day, and if I didn’t run four, then the rest of the weeks of training would be that much harder.
So I kept going, shuffling my feet one in front of the other, hoping I didn’t see anyone I knew. But then something amazing happened.
Shortly after two miles, I noticed I could breathe. All of sudden, my body began to run on its own instead of me forcing it to move. I was now running at the pace of a four-year-old walking. I had found my groove. For the next two miles, I ran. I even passed some people. On a long, flat stretch, I picked up the pace again, and for a few moments, I slightly enjoyed myself.
When I saw the small, wooden sign marking my goal, I pushed myself and yearned for that finish. And when I finished, I felt good. My face was beat red, my stomach hurt, and I wanted to throw up–but I felt good. I could finally pee. I had finished. I had finished.
I wonder how many times we quit something one mile too soon.
While I was running, I felt like for the first time I could truly understand what it means to run with perseverance the race marked out for us, 2 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith (Hebrews 12: 1-2). Sometimes marriage is not easy. Raising kids is not easy. Having a positive attitude at work is not easy. Sometimes, it’s easier to quit.
But if we would’ve held on for one more mile, would we have finally found our groove? Or would God have sent a little chipmunk or light rays through the branches of a tree to cause us to smile for a moment, distracting us from the discomfort of not being able to breathe easily, giving us just enough of a boost to continue a little further?
I’m convinced that my life is very much like running four miles. For some, they seem to run with ease, passing me on the left while I’m huffing and puffing and wondering if this is the end for me. But there are always those moments, always those moments scattered throughout my run to bring a smile to my face. And once in a while, I even fall into a groove, and when I do, I’m always glad that I didn’t fall down on the ground and ask the 70-year-old man to take me to Starbucks instead.
Two days ago, I watched my two-year-old daughter play with her best friend. I’ve never seen two children so small actually play with one another and not just alongside one another. They talked in their baby voices and laughed and chased each other, and they gave me that boost I needed to run uphill that day. So when I was digging through my son’s poop later that day looking for a Lego, I just thought of those sweet, little girls and realized now was not the time to throw in the towel–even though I still hadn’t found that stupid Lego and will have to dig again later this week.
When I pictured myself all grown up, I imagined a beautiful wife (somehow age would completely transform my looks) who was loving and kind. My husband and I would have passionate sex all the time, the excuse of tiredness never creeping in our bed, and when we had a disagreement, we would fight fair.
I saw a mother who laughed and played and performed puppet shows and dress-up frequently. My children displayed evidence of their mother’s discipline, all having exceptional manners and self-control. And when they went astray, my temper did not, and I never yelled or spanked out of anger.
And one day I woke up in real life.
I woke up without makeup many days. Sometimes sleep really did sound better than sex. I didn’t always fight fair and carried more grudges than grace. I yelled at my children, my children who were far crazier than the children in my vision, and I found that I carried many of those traits that in others I hate.
Luckily, God never had to wake up. He knows what real life looks like and was prepared a little better than I.
Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday. What surprised you most about your real life?
Jennifer Vignola Davis 