To Keep From Losing it Sometimes.....

As I looked up to see my eldest' head tipped back, drinking the maple syrup from his plate like a man wandering for days in the desert, only to at last discover the one and only glass of ice cold refreshing water, I thought, this is going to be a treasure of a day.  I think all mamas know exactly what I'm talking about...a day so beautiful in mommyhood (that's motherhood for those of us knee deep in diapers and tantrums still) that your "little blessings," are now promoted to "treasures".  It's just going to be that kind of day.  I can tell it's extra special partly because it's only Tuesday and it's already been a full week of treasuring. 

To those unfamiliar with the terminology, I will address particular situations where one such term is not only used, but necessitated.  OK...I'm standing in the grocery line and as beads of sweat marshmallow size sweat pours down my face, I fumble through my purse to find my wallet, intermittently throwing one child or the other a snack, just ANY snack, to stave off the coming fireworks.  I know it's there, I just had it.  Oh. my. word. Where the heck it is?  As I'm starting to slightly panic, Korah here's a graham cracker, the precursor to my weekly nervous breakdown at the grocery store, Eli please sit down, do not climb out of the cart, I notice a line is starting to build behind me.  Oh Lord please help me.  Eli sit down now.  No you can't  open the applesauce right now.  And DO NOT touch your sister.  After what feels like hours, I find my wallet and it's at this point as I'm already holding up an entire store and my youngest is now breaking down from hunger, thirst, exhaustion, or because it's a Tuesday, I realize my son is dumping all the tomatoes and any rollable produce out of the cart, clearly an experimentation in gravity vs. velocity.  My son is such a little scientist, how sweet, what a little genius.  I am going to cultivate that inner scientist.....right into the car where I can strap his little tail to the seat and get the heck out of here!  It's at this point, smiling, down on all fours at the end of the check out lane, picking up tomatoes and kiwi, that I look lovingly and fondly at my little ones for all to see, and say, "What a blessing? Right? I love these little people and they are such sweet little blessings I get to have.  Now please sit down little blessing, and stop throwing the food out of the cart like you are being raised by a pack of wolves.  And no, you cannot pee pee in the bushes right now, it will have to wait."  For me, that is a blessing moment.

A treasure moment is finding yourself on the third floor of what you thought was a used book store,(bad idea anyway) but soon discovered it is more of a used book stand, highlighting as an upscale ladies' boutique with expensive, fancy items at little hand level, no elevator, pouring rain, infant baby bjorned to your chest and  a potty training two year old who after running around in a mad dash to look at everything, little rat paws swiping this way and that, stops suddenly with a look of desperation, grabbing his bottom.  He is pooping.  Oh crap, he is pooping.  he is going to poop right here and I have nothing and no way of getting them and the stroller down the stairs in time to use the frog potty in the car.  And poop he does.  BAAAAAAD.  And because with most things in life I have always been a "go big or go home," kind of girl, he is in straight underwear from day one.  No pull ups.  Sooooooo, as I stand hunched over my child in the pouring rain with my baby dangling/wedging between my chest and the child I am trying to clean, only to realize I have no back up clothing and will be throwing this pair of underwear away, I think of my little treasures. 

And that is what today looks like it might be promising to be-a treasured day.  A day where I will refer to my children as little treasures, for fear of all out losing it.  It will be a grace-filled day for a graceless and tired mama.  Just keeping on keeping on. Keeping on with my treasures.

Michael Flatley's Love Child

I'm dancing a jig right now, wearing green, drinking Guinness, and rooting for Notre Dame.  I really and truly do love ALL things Irish.  This passionate and senseless devotion is rooted in absolutely nothing.  I am not Irish.  I don't have any allegiance to anything Irish- school, sport, or person.  And yet I will get in a knife fight to the death, in a dark alley, defending any of my fair-skinned comrades.  Maybe it all goes back to Lucky Charms.  I'm really not sure.  All I can say is I AM LORD OF THE  DANCE. 

All kidding aside, I am semi-dead-serious.  I eat, sleep, and breathe the Dance.  Michael Flatley is my hero and I want him to carry my love child.  Presently, if not for the restraining order, that would be one of the first things checked off on my bucket list:  17.  Have Michael Flatley's love child.  Once upon a time, in my younger years, I think I was actually scouted for a role in Lord of the Dance.  I don't want to brag, and I am not sure it was a leading role or anything, but it was kind of a big deal.  And to be clear, I am not entirely sure I WAS scouted, but you could imagine if I was right?  And by all that I mean that I was not scouted and all, but, did in fact attend a production of Riverdance and wore my own Rachel brand of riverdance shoes with my formal attire.  You just never know when you might find yourself sitting watching, clapping, singing, crying (yes I said singing,) along to Micheal's beautiful display of musical, dancing prowess (I thought the crying might have escaped you, but yes, I said crying,) when lo, and behold, SNIPED, you have been ambushed.  There is a scout in the audience and he or she is looking for new, raw, young, REAL talent to join the troupe.  And because of that incredibly unlikely and obviously not possible, yet all too real scenario, I did indeed sit amongst the commoners attending the show, only to be caught at a moment's notice dancing my heart out there in my seat, my feet but a mere appendage with a mind and rhythm all their own. 

Whether it's been preparing for my debut, or simply exhibitioning my skills as a riverdancer in small productions in my apartment or in the hallway of an adjoining dorm, possibly jigging it up with all my heart 100% sober through an Irish pub (purely hypothetical) I have always felt and lived the music.  I think I am Irish.  I wish I was Irish.  Maybe I am Irish.  All I know is I vehemently support and cheer for Notre Dame and I know nothing about them.  I actually drove to the campus one time on a spur of the moment several hour road trip with my BFF who shall remain nameless because I don't want Susan's name dragged through the mud...she is about to get married and she has a lot going on, the least of which is defending her choices to drive 6 hours to an Irish college campus, just to look at it and walk through the chapel because of my love for the Irish. 

Green is my favorite color.  I used to draw freckles all over my face and wish for red hair.  I love Lucky Charms.  I think there really is gold at the end of the rainbow and that leprechauns are not only real, but representative of my homeland.  One day I will return to the motherland, and by that, I mean I am actually a native of Michigan and not only wasn't born in Ireland, but have never been even close to visiting, yet one day I WILL return.  You do the math on that.  I don't know what else to say so I'm peacing out because I am annoying myself.  Please disregard all of the above. 

Speaking the Truth in Love

I have had a couple different opportunities recently to either sweetly smile with a listening ear to a friend, seemingly in agreement, or to speak the truth in love, though difficult to hear.  Both situations were incredibly difficult to navigate through, regardless of the approach I chose to take, making it all the more necessary for me to use raw, unabashed, real-friend honesty.  Each was and is a friend going through a heartache in life I have never experienced myself and yet, hurt with/for, cried for, and yearned for them, so badly wanting their hurts healed and prayers answered. 

I call them opportunities, although at the time they happen, they feel more like an elephant sitting on your chest, weighing you down, making it nearly impossible to breathe, giving you heart palpitations, clammy palms, and sweaty armpits.  It sometimes is such a difficult task to say something to a friend that might sting a little or that they may not want to hear, simply because it is the truth and the right thing to do.  However,  that is precisely what they are:  opportunities.  And that is exactly what we are to do:  speak the truth IN LOVE.  For some only God knows reason, (and I am deadly serious because only HE knows the reason HE burdened gifted me with the uncanny knack for speaking the truth in tough situations)I am continually placed in situations where it would be oh so easy to let some things slide, rather than speak up, and yet HE continues to sit on my chest pushing the air out, until I give in and speak(and yes Lord, I just insinuated you were the elephant I was talking about earlier, but I meant it in the most flattering way..jk...but seriously...I am serious though God, you DO sometimes feel like an elephant sitting on my chest...but also I am kidding a little...but you did make me in your image as a jokester, a truthful jokester at that, so yes, I AM kidding, but yes I AM telling the truth, jk...but seriously, I AM.) even when it feels so uncomfortable and hard to do so. 

I have never just jumped for joy at the chance to say something contrary or confrontational (although I like to kid around with friends and family and instigate for sure)a hard pill to swallow, and yet time after time God places me in these situations.  And How? you might ask, do I know I'm not just perpetuating the cycle myself by say, instigating with said friends and family?  And I will tell you How.  How I know this, is because my entire life thus far, at the ripe age of 31, I repeatedly get phone calls from different friends or family members, confessing, confiding, or asking for counsel.  Each person always wants to know, "What do you think?" or "What am I supposed to do?"  There you have it folks, no easier way to corner a girl that has permanently taken truth serum, than to not give her a way out by asking her a point blank question.  Thank you Lord for that.  Both the truth serum and the cornering I mean.  I guess the point of all this is this:  it's hard, hard, hard as crap sometimes to speak the truth of Christ and HIS principles to a world that doesn't believe HE is the answer or that HIS principles apply to them, and many times, a million times harder to speak that same truth to your fellow believer who supposedly does believe.  And YET....we need to do just that.  There are times for everything..times for quietly listening because maybe it's not her time yet to hear and God hasn't told you to do so, times for nodding in agreement, and times for speaking up.  Whatever the time it is for you right now, if you are about to get your phone call, will you give in to the elephant sitting on your chest and do what HE asks?

My Meeting with Harlequin

I write this, one full glass of red wine under my belt, ensuring me both a headache in the morning and nonsense here on the page.  When I was a wee young lass of a mere 9 or 10, I remember stumbling upon my Grandma Hawley's collection of books.  At the time, having no frame of reference for this sort of thing, I didn't know to classify what my sweet, pure grandmother had on her shelves, into trash for the soul, literary porn for women.  I only knew I was unsure of what hair products the wild-haired Fabio look alike used to get that feathered look on the cover, and why the girl seemed to always have her shirt barely covering her nipples, when my mom had always told me strangers were not allowed to see my swimsuit parts.  I however, was a precocious tyke and read anything and everything I could get my little grade school paws on, including grandma's Harlequin romance novels.  This was my first introduction to sex.

I remember reading those novels, not fully grasping everything that was going on, but knowing enough to hide it from my grandma that I was reading them.  I would lock myself in her bedroom where we usually watched cartoons on her t.v, and sneak reading one after the other, always putting them back faster than you could say jumpin' johnny jack rabbit,(WHATTTTT?!) whenever I was done or when she approached the bedroom.  It's interesting that even when you don't fully understand what's going on, something in you usually senses what is right or wrong.  I couldn't have verbalized it at that point, but despite the way the words stirred me, or maybe because of, I felt like it needed to be kept hidden.  I remember those words in those books painting pictures for me, growing my imagination.  It aroused something in me reading about things I didn't yet know, but somehow knew I longed for, even at a very young age.  Those were the first sexual seeds planted, and so began the war in my young mind with which every person struggles. 

It was as though I had been given admittance into a club I wasn't old enough to enter, but the bouncer had looked the other way because I was cute, only to realize when I entered I could watch everyone order drinks, and yet couldn't order anything myself without a proper ID.  I shouldn't have been there.  I shouldn't have been allowed in that club, the club where I could look, watch others get drinks, and still be part of an environment I could never fully be a part of because I just wasn't old enough.  (poor analogy, but what can I say, it's late and again, I'm running on a little sleep and a little wine)  I think back to those times in my grandma's room and usually laugh about it when I tell the husband, about how I smuggled Harlequin reading regularly.  It all seems so absurd and smutty and like nothing I would ever read in present day, merely a funny story to never tell my children :) haha, it is actually opposite day, I will definitely tell them something like that someday......And yet, I can't help but feel like that was the first time sex was twisted and tainted for me from the way it was intended.  If I were to really dig deep and attempt to catalogue every minute event or word said by some smart bleeeep kid at recess, I'm sure I could come up with much earlier seeds sown.  We all could.  Our world revolves around sex--it's just so perverted and distorted from the original design. 

Conflicted in Charlotte

This is one of those days I just MUST write.  No known reason, no known direction, just words a flowing.  I have been feeling a restlessness lately, deep down in my soul.  It's a restlessness stirring up discontent inside me.  It keeps poking and jabbing, wiggling it's way right smack into the middle of my mind, until all I can think about are all the things with which I am dissatisfied.  The interesting thing is, none of the "things" I'm angsty over are material or physical things.  It's not that I necessarily want more money, a bigger or different house, a more tone body,(the list could go on I'm sure)but instead, have a quiet heaviness over intangibles.

 I'm so conflicted over facebook, this blog, phones, social media in general.  Actually, those are symptoms of the real problem, catalysts even that seem to stir the pot in my soul.  I feel like I'm being sucked into the portal, drinking the koolaid, so to speak.  Before we know it, everything and everyone is accessible, nothing is sacred, everyone tries the game of one-upmanship, bigger and better, best and perfect foot forward, I want it NOW and with a snap of the fingers, or click of the mouse.  I know I am just rambling now, but I have had such a heavy heart about all this and the direction our society, or bringing it even closer to home, my family is headed.  I don't want to be on a computer, talking on a phone, texting, or watching T.V all my life.  And I CERTAINLY don't want my children living a stagnant life like that.  I want to read, play soccer, run, sew, play games with my children, laugh with my husband,cook, be fully present all the time, in a way that is becoming increasingly difficult in this world.  With the increase and advancement of technology comes a huge price to pay I believe.  I am struggling to balance it, sure I am by no means what most would refer to as really into social media, technologically savvy, or even really up to date on it all, and yet maybe too much for my own liking. 

Ahhh, even this blog one minute I love writing it, the next minute I feel self-awareness knocking at my back door, asking if PRIDE is there to come out and play.  One minute I think maybe, just MAYBE one little thing you write that the Lord has/is dealing with you in or bringing you through, will encourage just ONE person who might read your story.  Then the next minute,  I am being plagued by my conscience asking me if I really am writing because I love writing and would love to encourage others, OR is it because you want attention, want to be known, want to have others think you're really neat, really cool, really vulnerable, oh "she's really real."  When I think about it that way, the latter, it makes me want to puke, to weed out all that crap, all the selfish motivation, all the pride in anything.  I don't want to have pride in anything, but Jesus.  Let me boast only in Him, to make much of Him.  And yet today I just feel icky and want to scrap the whole thing, wondering if that really is my singular motivation.  I want to write, write, write and not tell a single soul.  I want to chuck my computer through the window and never go on facebook again and have everyone telling me how perfect their lives our while I feel such disgust for the very thing that also keeps me connected to so many friends.  About twice a week, I start to deactivate my fb account because I just feel like it's too much of a cloud of comparison that makes you feel like your life might not measure up, and then decide that I can't because it's my point of contact with soooooo many people from different seasons and actual states in my life.  So, for this moment I guess the benefits outweigh the negatives for me, but it truly is moment to moment and pushing me to renegotiate some things in my life.  I'm not even sure all this made sense or what, if any, conclusions I have come to, but I do know this is the Holy Spirit's prompting once again, because anytime I feel this heavy about something, this uncomfortable, dragging my feet a bit, it turns out to be Him sharpening and weeding me some more. 

Mommy and Me

OK, so I am a liar.  Big. Fat. Liar.  So much for my blogging once a week.  I am barely doing the once a month thing.  Now that we all know not to trust me, let's not let that become a wedge between us, harboring bitterness, festering like a wound, until it  finally explodes one day on the old lady at the grocery store, who casually mentioned there wasn't a good selection of produce, clearly alluding to the fact I have not been attending to exploiting myself via the interweb as of late. 

With that out of the way, life is such a funny thing. It has such a funny way of sneaking up on you.
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out.
Helping you out.

Hmmm, that sounded like a song?  Where was I...life really is such a funny thing.  A beautiful, ugly, wonderful, harsh, adventurous, and hard thing.  And God is constantly, in His ever-loving, gentle, and sometimes not so gentle way, teaching me and refining me in areas.  These are at times areas I am directly aware of already, at times areas I am vaguely aware of, but may not want to face up to at the moment, and still other times I just plain don't even realize they exist until the Holy Spirit oh so patiently points them out to me.....over and over and over.  Alas, twas the case with this particular issue.

As some are aware, I haven't had the best relationship with my mother for a variety of reasons.  Growing up with a mother that was an undiagnosed and unmedicated bi-polar until the age of 15, made for some excruciating memories.  These were memories not talked about within our family circle, nor really even alluded to until several years ago.  On the one hand I feel like they are vague and nonexistent to my mother, while perhaps on the other, magnified or exaggerated for my siblings and me, although I wouldn't know because we have never talked about them or her in that way.  Due to this, unbeknownst to me, (and sometimes beknownst :) ) I have had some bitterness and resentment built up toward her, and truthfully did neither fully care, nor fully recognize it.  I have always admired and noticed when other girls have really great relationships with their mothers, but honestly didn't even desire for myself because 1.  I didn't think I needed or wanted it since I was not used to it, and 2. I did not think it was attainable,(a lot happens in my subconscious apparently)and took for granted as an unspoken truth that the relationship I have had with my mom, was, is, and always will be the same.  A static relationship with no real depth. 

However, enter the Lord Almighty and His sweet, sweet, nudging and prodding Spirit.  Over the course of the last couple months I have been slowly feeling the Lord layer by layer, pulling at and tugging away, the veil over my eyes.  He has been sweetly singing in my ear lullabies of love, life giving words, breaking the bondage of lies the enemy has deceitfully whispered for years, until I no longer distinguished them as such, and bestowing graciously in me an alien desire and appreciation for my mother.  He has been planting seeds of restoration in my heart through His word, sweet people He has placed in my life, and  my truth-speaking husband.  It is all such a work in progress, but if these are to be the words forever cemented in my mind's eye, these words I write here to both remember and regret, then I want to accurately chart the voyage He is taking me.  I want to be honest in all things, both my successes, ever giving Him the glory, as well as my failures, being able to look back at one more notch on my life staff and say, "For He is good."

I am Superwoman, hear me RRRRRWWWR.

      Welp, since the couple or so years ago that I started this shiznit, I've managed to average 5 or so posts a year.  The few people who would have read this in the first place, probably no longer even remember I'm, "in the business," as they say.  Who says that? you ask.  To be honest, no one does, but I thought it sounded like maybe I was famous or something.  Anywho.  In an effort to bulk up that average, I'm attempting to do an entry every week...or at least once a month, whichever tickles my fancy at the time. 

 Ahhh yes, on to today's "meat and potatoes," as they say.  Who says that?  (Must we do this again?)  Whilst wallowing in a fair amount of self pity last night, contemplating how absolutely poor of a housekeeper I am, (and no, not an actual housekeeper as in a maid, or one who gets paid to clean, but more like the KEEPER of the house) upon looking at my suitcase lying on our bedroom floor, still not unpacked from over a month ago, piled next to 3 weeks worth of yet to be folded clean clothes that have taken up permanent residence at the foot of the bed, I decided I was a minor failure.  My eyes started scanning the bathroom floor trying to remember when or IF I had ever even cleaned it since we moved in last June.  Let's be honest, you would remember if you had cleaned it, so NO, I had not...EVER.  Sure, I've wiped up hair that I am constantly shedding and swept and what not and what have you.  It's all been just a cursory look and sweep though. 

     Then, from the dirty floor, onto my failure at getting my child to eat the right foods: How did that marshmallow cereal even get in my cart, I mean come on, I usually buy organic whole wheat rolled oats with no sugar, vegan and gluten free, so how did that happen into my cart right next to the...who put those COOKIES there?!  Sure, we'd all love to buy everything organic, vegan, gluten schmuten free blah blah blah, but sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do, and eatin' right ain't easy or cheap lady..are you gonna come over and force feed my child every single day?!  I mean I'm all for starving your children if they won't eat what you put in front of them, but every person has their limits and sometimes it's just not a battle I'm willing to face at the moment, so let's just ring up the dang Lucky Charms and get SOMETHING in his tummy! Stop judging me!!!

      Onto too many logged hours of television lately. Can Nick Jr. REALLY be considered a babysitter?  I mean was it OK to sit back and let Dora and Diego teach and instruct my child while I got some stuff done...or didn't?   Purely a hypothetical scenario since pre-children I was a perfect mother and swore my children would NEVER do such a thing.  However, this side of children, I find Dora and Diego to almost be part of the family. 

     I began counting down the ways I was inadequate.  I mean come on, we all want our children to be the healthiest, happiest, kindest, best people we know.  We want better, no the BEST, versions of ourselves to extend to them, molding and shaping them into superheros that are kind to those left on the outskirts of life, loving to the unlovable and unreachable, brilliant little lights this world can't snuff out.  And yet, some days, maybe even MOST, you just want to fail them as little as possible.  That's not a morbid or morose way of looking at parenting, it's just the way it is, (unless I am alone here, in which case this is getting very awkward) the way life is when you have such a weighty responsibility coupled with an overshadowing love that can never be set down.  Each day is full of both major and minor victories and failures.  Small victories like getting your child to eat 3 peas may make you feel like Superwoman, while you may feel an overwhelming guilt for not letting him outside to play for 3 days in a row.

     Flying high from the inventory of my failures last night, that were negated by my successful Awesome Mom trip to the doctor, and handling both kids like a champ, I thought no better way to feel like a successful parent then to take a two yr. old and a 6 month old into a health and beauty store.  In we went to Ulta, obviously lovingly welcomed by the associate, as my 2 yr old paraded next to the stroller with my adorable, darling little girl, screaming her head off.  She NEVER does this, and yet she did.  Every time I say that, there will be 3 more times she tantrums in public, so I should stop saying she never does.  Leisurely, I BEELINED straight to the nail polish I was looking for.  We were there to make time, get in and get out my friend.  And of course, as was his custom, Eli was sending up all kinds of Hail Mary's, just grasping at anything and everything his little rat paws could get his hands on as we sped down the aisles to the polish.  I'm bobbin' and weavin', draggin' him along as he desperately attempts to wreak absolute havoc upon this South Charlotte store.  OH HELLS no, is what Brenda the associate was thinking as she eyed our little entourage.  At this point in the face of victory over failure, I ask UNhelpy helper for assistance so I can save us all and get the heck out of there.  Alas, twas not to be.  Brenda wouldn't know Lincoln Park After Dark from A Good ManDarin is Hard to Find, so I was on my own.

     I'm now sweating.  Korah is crying, nay, screaming, nay wailing.  Eli is well, Eli.  He is grabbing all the polish at waist to head level and just going for it.  I'm starting to have a panic attack.  Brenda is doing what she does best, not helping.  It's either laugh or cry or sweat.  I sweat.  I sweat buckets.  Then I snap.  I'm so snappy.  I need to get out of there.  NOW.  Oh Lord we are at the register, just get us out of here.  She is ringing us up.  Eli is ever so helpful pushing his wailing sibling into the rack to keep her quiet.  That WOULD be helpful if not for the slamming stuff into it and knocking stuff off.  I'm grabbing, dragging, and shoving now.  I don't know if I even brought the polish home, but dang it I paid for it!!!  And I did it.  I am out of that store and my armpits and forehead can settle down, along with my stress migraine.  We are in the car.  And I feel seriously successful at this moment.  Despite all the looks and obvious disapproval, I feel successful.  It's like I just went to battle and I came out alive.  All three of us are in the car, some with rug burns from being dragged across the carpet, some with pit stains, and some with spit-up all down her shirt from convulsing in public for so long, but we are there nevertheless.  I turn the radio up loud and belt out our favorite car ride song Your Love is Better Than Life ...

PS...We also love a little song we like to dance to called Dynamite, This is the Day the Lord has Made)

Manly Men

     So, today whilst doing really important things such as checking my facebook, obsessing over my obsession with One Tree Hill, and making lists so I can check things off, I suddenly tuned back into reality.  Ummm, and I mean the reality where I was the one "responsible" adult around the house who was supposed to be aware of people under 3 ft. and what they were doing and putting in their mouths.  My more dependable other half was gone helping friends move furniture and I was left to my own devices at home alone.


     The moment I tuned back in and realized I was not a 21 yr. old college student sitting in her dorm room eating pizza while watching marathons of Friends, not a care in the world, was when I heard a strange noise....a noise like a cap being taken off something and a slight suction sound.  As I was snapping back into focus, my subconscious kicked in, reminding that I had been hearing that sound the last 20 or so minutes on a fairly routine basis as my 2 yr. old had trotted back and forth from our bathroom.  It suddenly became apparent to me there were several exciting things he could be doing in the bathroom while I tended to my Peyton and Lucas dilemma.

      Curious to know the culprit calling his little white- haired self into the bathroom over and over again, I got up to investigate.  This is the moment I noticed my son had a strong inclination to good hygiene.  Pride overcame me as I watched what he was grabbing for in the drawer.  My son, my manly little boy, wisdom beyond his years...I was so proud.  Oh that is soooo cute. He had probably seen his daddy or me for that matter, putting it on.   He is growing up so fast.  I mean look at all they pick up and learn from just observing and listening. All these thoughts raced through my head in the millisecond it took me to realize he was not wearing the deodorant the way most do, the way one should.  As he grabbed my husband's deodorant, quickly taking off the lid (enter suction sound) he deftly with the ease and carelessness of one who knows what he is doing.... proceeded to lather up his lips.  I watched as he smeared it around and around as you would wear your chapstick.  He then turned the dial back down, replaced the lid very efficiently, set it back in said drawer, and shut it.  And with that, he was out of the bathroom and back to playing.  Nothing to see here folks....show's over, all in a day's work.


     Immediately and involuntarily, my mind started doing overtime.  Unbeknownst to me, it started cataloguing submerged memories from not only the previous 20 minutes, but the previous week, as it started occurring to me my sweet 2 yr. old had been smelling fairly manly all week.  I began backtracking subconsciously, only to find myself back to Tuesday when we had gone to Target and I had thought he really smelled like his father.  My how grown up you are, I remembered thinking as I put him in the shopping cart catching a whiff of something like aftershave, or as in this case apparently, men's deodorant, moonlighting as chapstick.  Sure enough, deep in my nostalgia of yesterweek, in comes my manly little man to grab his umpteenth coat of "chapstick," for the day.  Instead of perhaps calling poison control, or at least checking to see if any had been ingested, as one might,  I continued to watch once more.  He uses a very serious amount of lip protection I tell ya.  I was dying with laughter and scooped up my manly man and kissed him on his sweat -protected, moisturized, cologne-smelling mouth. 


     And for all those wondering, I did allow him to put his chapstick on his armpits.
 

Redeeming Korah

Blah, blah, blah, the last time I wrote ages ago, I blathered on honestly and openly about my feelings on my ultrasound. It was the discovery that I would be thrown to the wolves as a mother of a new baby girl, yada yada yada. And while all those feelings were very real at the time, I am, we are, constantly working out our salvation with fear and trembling...constantly allowing Jesus to redeem and renew our minds, growing on this journey He has set us on(as if He needs me to ALLOW Him haha). And with that constant redemption, renewal, and growth, I feel compelled to finally put pen to paper today, or as the case may be, finger to keyboard.

I recently, in fact so recent I still smell like jet fuel, returned from visiting my family in Michigan. And let me be the first to tell you about a voyage to my homeland.....it IS a voyage, a trek, a pilgrimage not for the faint of heart or weak in spirit. You must have nerves of steel and a stress level unreachable because whilst with my familia, you will be culture shocked, maxed out, bewildered, aghast, find yourself thinking you are in an alternate or parallel universe in which up is actually down and all things you once knew are completely backwards. You will be thinking you will wake up soon to find you are dreaming and still snuggled cozily in your bed......but YOU WILL BE WRONG.

I can't quite paint an accurate picture for the reader without detailing many a scenario that would either humiliate family members or mark me as a traitor due to familial lines being breached. I will however say, that while some of you might think you have an idea, you most likely don't. These are the things talk show episodes are made of, things you thought you only found in say, an episode of My Name is Earl, (which I've seen only clips of, but I believe it sets the stage for the sort of culture shock I am referring to) or perhaps a Jerry Springer catastrophe. So, I can't quite explain it or tell you everything without losing credibility as a human in order to gain validity as a writer. Alas, the former wins and you will just have to trust me on this.....most of you have never been around people like my family. Suffice it to say, (thank you Carey for the laugh on that word) a reality show could easily be based on my family that although there would certainly be some laughs, by no means would be a comedy.

My point to all this while difficult to find, is actually about my sweet baby girl....you know the one I last wrote about with angst and grief like some poor teenage girl who'd just had her heart ripped out by her one true love who up and decided Jennifer Dream Girl was actually where he'd find his high school happiness...Anywho grief, pure, unadulterated shoulder shaking, heart-wrenching, gut twisting grief. Hence the title of this post. I feel the need for redemption for my sweet one. Her mother let her down, although sincere and honest to the point of obscene, she let her down and I now intend to woman up and confess how absolutely off base I was. The good Lord with His absolutely perfect track record once again is showing me on this early road of girldom how wonderful a sweet little peanut can be. I am so in love with my Korah. I see such a pure Godly joy and sweetness in her little personality; it shines so brightly on her wide grinning little face, sometimes my breath catches. She is such sweetness personified that I have forgotten all my anguish and fears over mothering a little girl. I want to love, keep close, and speak truth over my little lady all the days of my life. I want her to grow in the ways and love of the Lord, pursuing Christ and His righteousness with all her heart. I see already at only 5 months what a little light she is and can't help but wonder what mountains her faith will move. She is a girl after her Father's heart and we speak this over her daily. Our prayer with each of our kids has been that they will have wisdom beyond their years, come to know the Lord at an early age, follow hard after Him, and that they would have the heart of the Father...their hearts breaking at what His breaks, and a righteous indignation at what His hates, loving in all things.

This renewal of my mind is from God Himself. I brought up the part about my family because I believe the recent trip and interaction was a part of the catalyst to my writing today, not the whole, but a part. The other part was my bible study gals last week, you know who you are. If you were tracking with me on my reference to my previous post literally months ago, you know my upbringing and my mother have/are playing a huge role in my previous feelings concerning 50% of the population, that is the female, more specifically, raising one. And while I don't exactly have the relationship with my mother or even desire it really, that many girls have, I now see that it can BE; it IS possible. And I intend to have just that with my daughter. I am shouting from the rooftops that I HAVE A DAUGHTER!! How exciting and how blessed am I!! Lord help me to cultivate the kind of relationship with each of my children, with my Korah specifically, that reflects your relationship with us. Help me to come beside her as her mother in a way I never experienced myself. I want to be a delight to my children.

I am redeeming Korah, both from my previous words and from the stigma some would attach to her name. In the Bible, we hear about Korah and his revolt against Moses, his wickedness toward the Lord, and ultimately, how he was swallowed up by the earth. I know the story. You don't have to look at me like you have a secret I don't know all you sword drill winners. I know you know your Bible, but 1. a lot of people don't so they will never know, and 2. I don't care smartypants. However, we also hear of the Sons of Korah in Psalm. I recently read about God being a God of second chances and how for whatever reason, when you read in Numbers about this whole debacle, you will notice Korah's children were not named in those swallowed up by the earth the way the two other men in the revolt's family were. While I'm not sure why they may have been spared, or even if the Psalm reference is to the same Korah for sure, it is neat to think of Korah's children, despite that kind of legacy he left them, going on to love and serve the Lord. And right or wrong, I like to think of it that way, drawing a parallel between my generation of family--my daughter and me, redefining what that mother/daughter relationship looks like this side of redemption, this side of something I never knew, but am being given a second chance to know. I love my daughter. I praise the Lord for her and ask for wisdom in guiding her in what it means to be a Godly woman in a world that screams against it. Lord, help me tread lightly and carefully this delicate line of parenting.