Toddler Party Insanity

(Note: To all of you moms out there who can pull off toddler parties with style and panache and not end up on tranquilizer pills, I salute you. I am not worthy to ride in your mini-van. This post is for those of us who are still hoping to take a shower today, despite the fact that it's almost time for dinner.) 

(Note #2: This post was written last week, which means that the birthday has come and gone, but there are still cupcakes left if you want one.)

So, I'm a mom to a toddler who's turning the big 3 next weekend. He's aware of this fact because we've been telling him about it for a few weeks, trying to get him excited. I mean, it's a big deal. Three years of Sam, three years of being alive, three years of wearing diapers. (Seriously. That has to add up to like 908,000 diapers). It's been a good run of babyhood and toddlerhood. And I'm ready to celebrate. Maybe even party like it's 1999. Whatever that means.

I'm planning on taking cupcakes to his school next week for his little classmates to get hopped up on sugar and sing "Happy Birthday" in high-pitched voices while all kinds of pandemonium breaks out as the excitement of having something other than goldfish for snack takes hold. (If Sam's preschool teachers are reading this, I'd like to apologize in advance.)

I've ordered a Matchbox "Cliffhanger" Firestation from Target that Sam has specifically, and repeatedly, requested. Requests for specific toys is a new thing and it has me a teensy bit concerned that commercialism is about to become a thing. I'm trying hard to mute the commercials during The Backyardigans but the singing, dancing, stuffed animal houseshoes still look pretty awesome even without sound. What?

OK, so here's the deal about the party. It's not going to be a big deal. I mean, he's 3 for crying out loud. He doesn't know about all the insanity on Pinterest and how moms are crafting life-size images of their children with marshmallow cream and fondant. He also doesn't know that toddler moms everywhere are instagramming the hipster parties they've planned for their children in hopes that somebody in the reality television industry might possibly notice their creative genius and maybe even pick them up for a TLC show next fall called "Insane Toddler Parties" where children receive gold-plated Rolls Royce Big Wheels and eat caviar-laden cupcakes. I kid.

Probably somewhere in my heart of hearts, there's a little part of me that wishes I had the creative "skillz" of those Pinteresting moms who make cakes from scratch and craft intricate party decorations with moveable parts to hang from the ceiling.

I am not that mom. We'll be having family over and I'll make cupcakes and there'll be some presents to open. But, there won't be a theme. And there won't be a pinata full of candy. And, sadly, there won't be a thirty foot tall bounce house shaped like Lightning McQueen. So, in lieu of actually having an awesome toddler party, I thought I'd just post a few pictures of parties that other toddlers' moms hosted for you to enjoy. Here goes:

Numero Uno: Cowboy Party

I think little Enzo had a cowboy themed party. But, maybe it was just a cow theme, because I'm noticing a lot of cow print stuff here. Either way, I bet Enzo will never forget this party. At least not until next week.

Numero Dos: Mad Scientist Party

20 bucks says this kid grows up to be a nerd. Or maybe cure cancer. (That's the kind of far-reaching power these toddler parties can have).

Numero Tres: Sesame Street Party

Somebody baked some serious quantities of cake for this party. 

Numero Quatro: Fireman Party

This is what I would have done were I a better mother, I mean, if I had a nanny, a personal assistant, and a masseuse on call.

I think it's possible I may be harboring some residual guilt over not being the kind of mom who is awesome at kid parties, and maybe feeling a teensy bit jealous of moms who actually do this kind of stuff. I'll be adding this to my list of things to get therapy for. Not really. I just might need to eat one more peanut butter ball to make me feel better about my creative deficiencies. (Today's peanut butter ball count: three).

Regardless of all that...

Happiest of birthdays to our Sam.
You are loved more than you will ever know, buddy.

To All the Moms Hiding in the Pantry

Sadly, I don't have a pantry. If I did, I would totally hide there sometimes. And eat Nutella. Or a cupcake. Or maybe drink a glass of wine...at noon. (I kid, but don't think this hasn't crossed my mind). I have a number of ideas of how I would spend my time in this imagined pantry for the 1.4 minutes I would hide there while my child momentarily forgot about me (and then subsequently remembered that I'm the source of all juice and graham crackers in the universe and would begin to chant "Mommy, Juice!" until I surrendered).

I daydream about what it would be like to spend the day reading books and listening to music and writing letters and birdwatching (ok, not really). Just anything that involves being quiet. There's so little quiet anymore in my life and I think it's starting to wear me down. Sometimes I feel like I might possibly crack open if I don't have the teeniest bit of space to just be quiet in. No cartoons, no juice requests, no dishwashers running, no conversations on the phone (as if that ever happens), no microwave beeping, no toy firetrucks with sirens, no unintentionally set-off car alarms, etc.

The "Dora the Explorer" theme song is on repeat in my head when I lay down at night. I hear "Mommy!" at least 435 times a day. People keep gifting my child with toys that have have sound. Someone asks me 125 times a day for juice, crackers, a show, etc. I hear myself say "Don't do that...That's not yours...Please ask nicely...We do not hit...Pick up your blocks...Eat your supper...Get down from there...Watch where you're going...Do not put that in your mouth, etc." a hundred million times a day. I kind of want to be a monk who takes a vow of silence for a year.

The biblical mandate to "Be still and know that I am God" comes to mind sometimes and I hesitantly add that to my list of things "to do." It gets pushed to the bottom of said list, right after "organize file cabinet" and "pottytrain child." And so, obviously, it never happens.

I'm currently in something like survival mode, nervously reassuring myself that one day I'll get to be still and quiet and reflective. That day is not today. But, someday that will happen, right? Maybe when I'm fifty and "retired," if I haven't expired yet from all the surviving.

And so, I find a little bit of solace in chocolate sometimes. In the dining room. Out of toddler sight. For 1.4 minutes. I'm wondering if I called you right now if that's where you might be, too. (I see that hand. We should grab lunch, I mean, playdate.) Eating a candy bar in the laundry room. Or a bowl of ice cream in the pantry. Or maybe a spoonful of Nutella in the downstairs hall bathroom. (Note: If you're eating in the bathroom, you need a new hiding place.)

I'd like to know if some resourceful stay-at home mama out there has figured out the secret to finding some actual quiet space in the course of their day.

If so, send help. I mean, please share.

Pie Makes Things Better

(Programming Note: This post was written during the post-Thanksgiving weekend and the pictures of Sam are from a quick trip to the beach a few weeks ago. That is all.)

It's been two days since Thanksgiving happened and I'm still ridiculously full of pie. I should be outside running laps around the house, but instead I'm sitting in the den at my in-laws while my husband watches football (i.e. sleeps) and my little guy snoozes in the back bedroom.

(I'd just like to toss in a shout-out to my father-in-law who made chocolate pecan derby pie AND pumpkin pie with cloves this Thanksgiving. I ate approximately twenty-five pieces, which means I may need to borrow your treadmill, or rent out the Y for the next few months.)

Anyway, today included an inaugural visit to Trader Joe's with my mother-in-law, where I purchased practical, necessary things like dark chocolate, gummy bears, tortilla chips and more chocolate. I found out that I like Trader Joe's and might be willing to move to another state to live near one. This is probably not a legitimate reason to ask my husband to quit his job. And yet, the produce selection was heart palpitation-inducing and the cheese and salami section made me a bit giddy, so maybe. Anyway, this post wasn't supposed to turn into a love letter to Trader Joe's, so I'll move on.

We've been hanging out with the in-laws for the past few days and it's been a good time. I've also gained approximately 6.5 pounds, but that's information you really don't need. Being here after not visiting for a few months has made me hyper-aware of how fast the Samster is growing. Seeing him through grandparents' eyes has me suddenly more conscious of the fact that my little guy is a baby no longer. And this has me searching for the pause button and a large bar of chocolate.

I'd been somewhat aware that a growth spurt had taken place, because overnight his little belly was hanging out of his shirts and his toes were pushing at the end of his Converse. He's been saying things like, " I want to tell you something" and "Let me tell you a story" and "I not pooping right now. Are you pooping right now?" (Conversation perfect for dinner parties). He can say his full name. He can use my touch screen phone. He can "help" me cook. He helps pick out his clothes. He sings the ABC's and "Little Bunny Foo Foo" and "Jesus Loves Me." It's all so good. But, I'm starting to understand why parents say dumb stuff about kids growing up too fast and other ridiculously sentimental things that I'm saying with regularity these days.

 

The little years instigate such a dichotomy of emotions. In the midst of wanting to see your children accomplish the next developmental stage, to hear them talk, to walk, to make friends, there's also the sense that it's all going by too fast. And yet, I find myself foolishly wishing this season away sometimes. I dream about time to myself and time with friends and what it will be like when he's in school or able to keep himself busy without needing me every minute. I wonder what sort of complete thoughts I could have if I wasn't being asked for juice and graham crackers every four and a half minutes.

But, then I remember: I don't get this season back. I don't get to have him as a two year old again. Sure, that probably means I won't be using Magic Erasers on Sharpie wall murals at some point, but it also means that it won't be long before he actually doesn't want me to sing him to sleep or watch endless episodes of Curious George with him or help him find granddaddy long legs in the yard.

I realize that I'm talking about him like he's about to ask me for the keys to the car or grow a mustache. But, I think the baby stage might be officially over with this next birthday and I'm not sure I'm ready for it to be.

Sigh.

I think more pie may be necessary.

I Want A Tractor for Christmas

We went to a tractor parade, also known as The Cotton Gin Festival, a few weekends ago. I watched approximately one hundred and twenty-four shiny tractors roll down the middle of Main Street with happy farmers at the wheel, their families tucked in wooden wagons/trailers being pulled behind. We ate barbecue and funnel cakes and perused crafts made out of old Mason jars and heard gospel music and saw people playing banjos like their lives depended on it. It was quintessential Americana and I can't deny that I loved it a little bit.

I had Sam on my hip while the parade went by and I watched him as he watched those tractors with an "all my dreams are coming true" look on his face. Well, maybe that's overstating it, but he was kind of entranced. I'm pretty sure I witnessed his mind being blown by that motorcade of tractors puttering by for a half an hour. Seemingly, every farmer within fifty miles showed up to proudly ride his vintage tractor through town. They probably also came for the boiled peanuts and the handknit afghans.

Now, I kind of want a tractor. A big red one with a comfy seat and an umbrella cover to keep the sun off my delicate (read: pale), southern complexion.

I also want a lifetime supply of funnel cakes. Covered in powdered sugar, if you please.

And that was our uber southern Saturday.

Here's to tractor parades, buckets of sweet tea, Mason jar crafts, funnel cakes, and boiled peanuts.

Beat Back Suffering: Send a Shoebox

During my high-drama single days, I lived in Nashville, which was a landing spot for lots of young, single, newly graduated folks like myself. I spent four years there becoming an adult whilst wearing lots of denim and going to lots of concerts and flirting with lots of boys. But, I digress.

My Nashville years also included a church that met in an old middle school gym. Like most churches in Nashville, the music was insanely good and it wasn't unusual to have professional musicians and people who had record deals leading worship. My church also had a pastor named Carter who charismatically preached with passion and wisdom and whose sermons impacted my sometimes frivolous life during those rather formative early-adult years.

One sermon in particular still comes to mind every so often and lately I've been thinking about it again. Despite almost ten years having passed since I heard it, I can vividly remember one Sunday, during the sermon, when Carter dramatically swung an imaginary bat (or maybe it was an imaginary stick) and ardently charged us to "beat back suffering." I can't remember the sermon title or even the exact context for what he said, but I remember that something in my heart responded to that very literal image of beating back suffering.

I suppose the next question is obvious. How do I do that? Atleast, that's the question I'm asking myself right now.

Yesterday, I was reading the news online and made the mistake of clicking on an article about three children who had been incredibly neglected and abused somewhere in the Northeast. That story kept me up last night and I woke up this morning with a heavy heart thinking about those children who are all close in age to Sam. It makes me so mad I could spit thinking about the injustice done to little ones like those. It also makes me want to kick down doors, punch some people in the face and then rescue some babies.

Sometimes the weight of the suffering that I see happening around me or experience in my own life threatens to do me in. After the two miscarriages we had in the last year and half, there have been some moments when I've come close to folding under the heaviness of it all.

Today, I went to Kmart and bought a Sesame Street toothbrush, a Lightning McQueen tube of toothpaste, a box of Skittles, crayons and a coloring book and a few other random things that I'm really hoping a toddler will like when he opens it up on Christmas morning. I realized yesterday that the deadline for "Operation Shoebox" is coming up and so I'm planning on dropping my box off at a local church in hopes that it will find it's way into the hands of a child who I will never meet in a country I will probably never visit. It's not much, but for one child, it's something.

I realized this morning that I spend a whole lot of time thinking about myself and my family and what we need and what we want. Something about reading that story yesterday about those precious neglected children jolted me into remembering that I've been charged to "beat back suffering." I keep asking God why He isn't swooping in to rescue children like that or dropping supernatural boxes of food and toilet paper and clean socks on those people up in New Jersey who are homeless after Hurricane Sandy. But, I'm starting to wonder if, in fact, He's not doing those things because we're supposed to be. (Not that He can't do it without us, because He sure as heck can.) But, I think that my sitting around moaning about why God isn't fixing all the things that aren't right with the world isn't the answer.

I promise I'm not trying to put a guilt trip on you or anything or make you feel like suddenly I'm a social justice nut who's using my blog to judge you. I just had this epiphany that maybe it's time I picked up my proverbial stick and started beating back some suffering. I'm not sure what that might look like yet. Maybe it's just a shoebox filled with a few toys, a toothbrush and a coloring book. But, maybe it's volunteering at the local crisis pregnancy center and/or delivering food to a foodbank and/or adopting a child who needs a home (!!) Maybe it's time to be a radical when it comes to meeting needs and easing suffering and offering mercy.

I have no idea what it might look like. I just know that I'm tired of thinking about myself and I want to do something instead of just getting mad and wishing things were different.

On my way to pick Sam up today at school I passed a church with a sign in their front yard that said,
"Do Justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly." Hello, Micah 6:8.

It's time to pick up that stick and get serious.

Small Town Update

I just thought I'd relieve your fears and enable you to sleep peacefully again by letting you know that I am, in fact, still planning on posting here on this blog. I know, I know. You've been staring at your computer for the last 2.5 weeks waiting earnestly, tapping your fingernails on the table, checking your Google reader obsessively in hopes that I'll write a quick post telling you about all the ways that moving back home has me rethinking my entire identity and how I'm now writing a soon-to-be published book about the life-altering experience of returning to one's hometown.

Well, despite the fact that you are most likely not doing any of the above, I figured I'd still dash off a short post and let the world know that this will not be another abandoned blog, despite the lack of recent posting or of having interesting things to say of late. In case you were unaware, moving to another place and living with your family until you find another house of your own can be very time-consuming and requires heightened levels of emotional energy. There's also a lot of stress-eating and that takes up more time than you'd expect.

So, all this to say, I'll be posting interesting things here shortly. (i.e. recipes for possum stew and how to skin a squirrel in two minutes flat). So, prepare yourselves for true tales of life in my hometown where sweet tea and fried food rule and where "gizzards and livers" are proudly offered at local gas stations. It'll be a good time.

                                                    Here's me chatting with a neighbor who dropped by for a chat.

                                                   Just me and the girls on a Saturday afternoon shopping trip.

P.S. Don't feel too sorry for me. There are two Starbucks within twenty minutes, which means I'll probably survive.

Be Here Now

The boy is at school and I'm sitting by the window watching the morning sun stream through the trees over the carpet of grass that is my father's life's work and possibly his first love (I kid. But, it's basically a small golf course back there). The steam rises from my mug of black tea and the sound of a newly discovered band plays in the background. (Of Monsters and Men, if you're curious. And yes, I realize I'm a little late to the party on that one.) The new normal continues to unfold here and I am trying really hard to embrace it.

It's cold this morning and I have on a cardigan, perhaps the best article of clothing ever invented. And just for the record, 51 degrees in Georgia is cold, people. Don't judge, Canadians. Cardigans make me happy in a way that doesn't make sense for 99.8 percent of you out there. And I'm okay with that. Something about needing to throw on a sweater reminds me that it's not a million degrees in the Deep South and that a good hair day may, indeed, be achievable. Good hair on any given day during a southern summer is about as rare as a unicorn. If you have a good hair day here in Georgia between May and September, you marvel and take pictures and tell your grandchildren about it, for it is the stuff of dreams. But, I digress.

Today I'm thinking about something my friend Molly said on her blog recently regarding having just moved with her little family to a new place. She explained that she had decided to be intentional about finding good in the season she's in instead of focusing on the difficult, the unfamiliar, the uncomfortable parts of a new context. I'm going to take that word of wisdom and run with it.

So, here I am, purposing to stop moaning about what I've left behind with this move and determining to start dwelling on the good and the beautiful things that are here now. I'm tired of waiting for joy. I keep thinking it'll happen when we find our dream house, or if and when we have another little one, or when the creators of Gilmore Girls finally call me back so that I can persuade them to make an eighth season and let me play Lorelai's other daughter (I realize I need to let this dream die).

I think one of the keys to finding joy in our circumstances has to be this: learning how to actually be where you are. One of my favorite quotes is by the missionary, Jim Elliot, who said "Wherever you are, be all there." In the age of television, laptops, iPhones and iPads, this feels like an impossible charge. But, I'm discovering that lamenting the past or pining for the future leaves me unable to appreciate the now. I want to be more present and to find joy in the little things, the things right in front of me, the things that matter.

And then, there's this:

You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore. ~Psalm 16:11

According to Psalms, the definitive answer to finding joy is being in God's presence. I'm terrible at that. I'm too busy doing laundry, picking up after my family, cooking dinner, watching HGTV, organizing my sock drawer, reading articles about what Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick ate for dinner. I'm really good at finding things to do to keep myself busy. And, in the midst of all that, I miss it: the being present, the being still. I miss God and the joy He's offering me here and now.

It sounds simple. And maybe it is for some people (i.e. Billy Graham and a few really godly mommy bloggers who don't waste time watching tv and reading celebrity magazines). But, I have a feeling that being present, being still, and finding joy might prove to be a little more difficult than it sounds.

But, I think it just might be worth it. I'd like to trade in all my discontent and my busyness and my impatience for real, no preservatives added, actual joy.

I'm ready to be here now.

Weird Is the New Normal

I'm not good at change. It makes me itch. It makes me snack late at night. It keeps me up when I should be sleeping. It drives me to bake cookies, buy celebrity magazines at the grocery store, eat spoonfuls of Nutella at random, mindlessly watch back to back to back episodes of HGTV's Property Virgins, and indiscriminately shop online. Change is not a good color on me. It makes me less normal. Much less normal.

So far, I've survived the mind-numbing pack-a-thon, the stuffing of all our worldy goods into a POD and our two cars, the awkwardly sad goodbyes, the drive to our new piece of geography, and the attempt at making a temporary home with my parents'. I feel a bit shell-shocked and may need to be held at any moment. So, if you and I bump into each other at the grocery store or a gas station any time soon, prepare yourself, I may try to hug you.

The hardest part of all this transition is something I'm not sure I would have expected before the wheel of change started turning. I didn't expect coming back to my hometown to be so, well, weird.

It reminds me of the title of Thomas Wolfe's book You Can't Go Home Again. Maybe you read the cliffs notes for this in high school. I'm pretty sure I never read it or the cliffs notes. But, I keep thinking about that title and feeling like Thomas and I should have a coffee date. Having spent almost as many years away from home as I spent living here, I'm realizing that as familiar as this place is, it's not familiar at all anymore. I mean, since I left, they built a massive Wal-Mart and closed the drugstore where I worked my first job and they built two more Waffle Houses (with a mile between them) and there's a shiny new Walgreens' where the Ford dealership used to be. Oh, and Hardee's reopened for the third time (But will it be the last grand re-opening? Who can say.)

I know. I know. These are not even close to being significant changes. Obviously, two new Waffle Houses have no bearing on my life in any kind of real way. But, still, things feel different. And, probably most of all, I feel different. I'm not who I was when I left here sixteen years ago. I'm a completely revised version of myself since that day I drove out of town to college and never officially came back.

I realize this probably doesn't relate to where you are or what you're experiencing right now and hopefully you can cut me some slack here and let me openly journal on this public blog that should be about relatable stuff like holiday crafts and crockpot recipes. But, maybe, just maybe, there's somebody out there who's done this before: moved home after having been gone for years and years and found out that it feels incredibly weird and awkward to be back. If this is you, maybe you've got some pointers for me? I could use a ten-step plan and maybe a couple of counseling sessions if you're up for it.

So, here I am, trying to sort out the unsortable. I hope you'll forgive me if I sound distracted when you call or if when I send you an email, I mention what I had for dinner, or if that Facebook message I wrote on your wall is a tad bit needy. I need a little time to figure out what the new normal is.

Sigh. I have no final words of wisdom to leave you with here. And so, in an effort to end this post in a less brooding way, I'll leave you with a picture of Ryan Gosling (because I haven't taken a picture of anybody important in about a month and because this makes me laugh).

I've been to Target a few times lately. And I came out with some unexpected items. Maybe you can relate to me and Ryan about that?

The end.

Move it

I should be packing. But, instead, I'm watching KLG and Hoda, checking my Facebook, and drinking a decaf latte I just picked up at Starbucks. Obviously, I'm in serious denial. Also, Sam is at preschool in case you were concerned that I'm being a negligent parent.

So, since I've got all this "free time," I thought I'd give you a quick update on the packing situation. I assumed you were probably checking your Google reader every few minutes in hopes that I'd post something. Wait, you weren't? Well, here's an update anyway.

I'm currently staring at my kitchen which looks like the delivery ramp at Wal-Mart. It's a sea of boxes and I'm tired of looking at it. It makes me sad. This whole week has been like one long, really slow band-aid removal. I want to rip it off already!

If you know me at all, you know that I have a tendency to get anxious when things are a little out of control. Moving is one of the contexts in which things are majorly out of my control and I start to daydream about running away to join the circus or a motorcycle gang. I've had heartburn all week, I've had a twitchy eyelid, I can't sleep, and I wake up before a sane person should even think about waking up. I'm falling apart, people.

And then, there's the ever-present POD looming in the driveway, daring us to fit all our stuff inside. I realize this is a first-world problem if there ever was one. But, I dreamed a dream that this portable storage unit would be the answer to all our moving prayers. And yet, it's unexpected smallish-ness is increasing my stress level, and this may or may not cause me to break out in a rash. This was supposed to be simple: get the POD, squeeze ALL our stuff in, send it off, reunite with it in a month or so. But, instead, the POD is mocking me with its promises to fit "three-four rooms, no problem" when in fact, it's probably only going to fit Sam's train collection and a chair. I exaggerate, but still, I'm concerned.

So, once I finish recounting my moving woes to you here, I'll get off this couch and start trolling the house again to figure out what needs to be mashed into a box with a bunch of other random stuff that I'm not sure why we haven't gotten rid of yet. Anybody need a bread machine?

Sigh.

And, yet, despite all this, in three days we'll be on our way. A new adventure. A new part of our story. A new everything. There's good in this, even in the midst of moving mania. There has to be.

Gotta go. KLG and Hoda are doing surprise makeovers.

Away We Go

I heard once that moving was number three on the list of "Terrible Things That Can Happen to You," right after (1.) a very large boulder falling on your head and (2.) being kidnapped by Somali pirates. Did you know this? Maybe I'm exaggerating a teensy bit, but according to people who know stuff, moving from one place to another is one of the most stressful life events. It's a bit hard to believe that taking stuff from one house and putting it in another one is capable of creating epic weeping and gnashing of teeth, but if you've done it, you know it's true.

Obviously, it's so much more than just the moving around of inanimate objects. It's the moving on from friends and community and favorite places and pediatricians that you like and that one bank teller that always gives your kid a sucker. It's the leaving behind of people and places and things that have become familiar and comforting and part of your story.

Matt and I have moved four times since we've been married, and that doesn't even count the summer we packed ourselves up and moved to Florida to live with college students for seven weeks (Do not be alarmed. We did not join a weird, short term commune, but were staffing a summer mission project at the beach). We're pros at packing up our junk, renting an over-sized truck that pounds gasoline, and rolling down the highway to our next stop. It's almost like a hobby. In fact, when I list things I do in my spare time, I like to say that I read, have friends over for dinner, blog, troll for deals at TJ Maxx, and occasionally pack all my stuff up in a million, zillion liquor boxes and drive it somewhere else. 

But, this move feels a little different. Matt's accepted a job that I think he'll be really happy in; we'll be living near family, which is kind of amazing (i.e. free babysitting); and we've got a little guy who needs a yard and a puppy and pretty soon, a school. So, I'm thinking this move has the potential to be a permanent one. Maybe.

And yet, while there are all kinds of good things about this life upheaval, it's very bittersweet.

Despite it's being less than a thousand square feet, we've loved our little house and have sweet memories of Sam morphing from a crawling baby to a little boy while we've been here. I'm already jealous of the people who are going to moving in to "our" house after we leave. We love our barn church with it's un-air-conditioned sanctuary full of college students and crying babies and occasional dogs and cats wandering through during communion (shout out to Church Lady). We'll miss our community group who we've come to love and feel safe with. We'll miss all the little kiddos who have been Sam's friends and have been the topic of his conversations at night before we go to bed. ('lijah, Jack, Big Sam, Yella, Kade and Quinn, Hah-wee (Harley), Hay-wee (Hailey), Ada and a few others I'm sure he would not appreciate my leaving out.)

We will miss this mountain and all the people who have been part of our little world here.

Six days from now, we'll be making our way to the heart of Georgia, where we'll do this whole thing over again.

Here we go. 

     A little shot of our cozy mountain house back in the winter of 

      2010 when we had eight inches of snow. 

Juggling

I learned how to juggle in college. I was on a retreat somewhere in the mountainous region of North Georgia when a guy named Darrell taught me how to juggle in one legendary evening. I even learned to juggle with/to another person. What?!? I know. You're quietly trying to process my awesomeness right now, the bounds of which you were heretofore unaware of. Or you're silently judging me for boasting about a skill that typically only traveling carnies have. Either way, I can juggle. At this point, my skills are rusty, but they still exist.

Segue. Seg-way? Here is where I explain why I've just revealed my secret carnival skill and how it relates to the past year of my life.

Long, long ago, when I was in college, a friend used juggling as a metaphor to express how she was feeling about a hard relationship in her family. She explained that she felt like she was juggling all these different parts of her life, like balls in the air. She described one of those balls in the air as that hard relationship and, in keeping with the juggling metaphor, every time that particular ball hit her hand it felt sharp and jagged, instantly reminding her of how painful that part of her life was.

I didn't do her metaphor justice, but hopefully you got the gist of it. It's been a few months since my second miscarriage and I keep thinking that I've gotten things back together, that the engine of my life is humming along just fine, and then that one ball drops again and out of nowhere I'm pounded with the sharp reminder of that loss and disappointment. 

Last Sunday at our church, which meets in a barn on a mountain (feel free to covet my church right now), the big barn doors were open and a breeze was blowing in while the band played their guitars and sang songs about Jesus during communion. My eyes stung with tears as we sang together about God's love for us and His promised redemption. I realized that only there in that barn sanctuary do I find myself wanting to really cry over what I've experienced this past year. In the midst of singing about God's desire to free me from hopelessness and restore what's been lost and love me in spite of myself, all of that truth just rushed in and nearly knocked me over. I could almost hear Him whispering to me that He wanted to be in this with me, to comfort me, to show me heart-healing compassion.

And then again, in a Bible study yesterday with thirty women who genuinely love Jesus, I felt that same sense of God's presence, offering me compassion and reminding me that He is not indifferent to the losses He has allowed me.

Lastly, before I wear you out with over-sharing and too much "feelings" talk, I want to share a couple of verses that struck me in the very small window of time I spent this week with my Bible.

The first is Psalms 41:11 where David says that because the Lord delights in him, "my enemy will not shout in triumph over me." I know David was talking about rough, tough, sword-carrying enemies. As far as I know, I don't have any of those. I hope. But, I do have a real enemy and it's The Enemy. I'm no match for him, and if I'm being honest, I'll admit to having believed some of his lies in some low moments recently. But, reading this verse in Psalms gives me such hope. Even though I feel like this particular struggle in my life brings out the worst in me and tempts me to believe things about God that I know aren't true, my enemy doesn't get the last word. God gets that one.

Then there's this one: Psalm 130:7 says "...hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love and with Him is plentiful redemption."

Hope. I love that word.

Hope in the Lord. He gives good things. He will not let your enemy shout over you in triumph. He gives new songs. He tells new stories. He redeems everything. Hope in the Lord.

And so, this juggling act I'm in the middle of continues and I know I'll keep catching that one jagged ball that makes my heart hurt. But, there's hope. Lots of it. And there's the satisfying knowledge that one day, Jesus is going to very literally beat The Hell out of the sin-induced suffering you and I are walking through. (acknowledgments to our pastor for that little turn of phrase)

So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'm still in this.
But, God's doing something good with it.
And that gives me some very real hope.

Call me if you want to talk. Or juggle. I'm up for both.





Public Service Announcement:

*I realize that I keep posting about the two miscarriages we've had in the past year. If you're interested or need a refresher, you can read about that part of our story here and here. It continues to be a huge part of my life right now so I find myself needing to keep talking about it. What I'm also discovering is that there's a significant chance that you or maybe one of your friends or sisters or moms have likely also lost a pregnancy at some point and for these reasons, I'll probably keep talking about it. It's happening out there and, to be honest, most people aren't going to mention it. I feel the need to mention it.*

You Are Not A Bad Mom

As far as being a mama goes, I'm fairly new to this gig, being only 2.8 years into it. But, despite being something of a rookie, I've become really good at one of the seemingly key maternal skills in my short tenure as a mother: I'm really good at feeling guilt and really bad at believing that I'm doing a good job loving my babe. Case in point, I'm currently feeling guilty about the following things (specifically regarding motherhood, which means I won't be mentioning how much chocolate chip banana bread I just ate):

1. It's raining here and I didn't send Sam to preschool with a raincoat. #badmom
2. I haven't finished Sam's baby book yet. #scrapbookfail
3. I let Sam watch cartoons while I took a shower and blowdried my hair this morning. #negligentparent
4. Sam didn't eat enough for breakfast and now I'm worried that he's hungry at school, which is obviously my fault because I didn't give him something that he wanted to eat for breakfast (i.e. cookies, rice krispie treats, goldfish). #mychildisprobablymalnourishednow
5.  Sam is almost three and not yet potty-trained. #worstmomever

Ridiculous, right? And that's just a sampling of all the things I will feel guilty about today and then subsequently hear the tape-recorder in my brain click on, repeating this same phrase over and over: You Are A Bad Mom.

But, you know what? I'm starting to realize that that is just a big, fat lie that I'm letting be the backdrop of my parenting experience. Somehow, I've let the Today Show, Parents magazine, mommy-blogs, Facebook, well-meaning friends, random people in the grocery store, and a plethora of other various entities control how I see myself as a mom. And, in the midst of all those voices telling me that I'm failing, I forget to hear from the Lord, who determined that I should be a mom in the first place.

I have this feeling that I might not be alone in this cycle of guilt and insecurity and general feelings of maternal failure. (Can I get a witness?) If you're like me, maybe you've been letting other folks determine your perception of what kind of mama you are. Maybe you've been forgetting what's true, like I have.

Remember that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams' character keeps telling Matt Damon's character, "It's not your fault, It's not your fault, It's not your fault..." until that truth finally sinks into Matt's heart and he breaks into a million pieces and weeps uncontrollably on Robin Williams' shoulder? Well, that's kind of what I'm trying to do right now (minus the breakdown/tears), so let this sink in.

You are not a bad mom. 

You are not a bad mom.

You are not a bad mom.

You might be a tired mom, a sick mom, an overwhelmed mom, a sad mom right now and maybe one of these factors means your child eats PB&J three meals in a row today, or watches Cars 2 on repeat for a while, or has a breakdown at the restaurant over a toy you forgot to bring. None of the above makes you a bad mom.

Do you love your babies? Do you believe that God gave them to you specifically? Would you do anything physically possible to make sure that they are safe, cared for, protected, loved on? Then, feel some freedom, sister, and stop believing the Enemy's lie that you are not enough. He's not the boss of you.
 
So, ease up on yourself. Ease up on the other moms you know. God gave you the babies He gave you on purpose and you are exactly the right mom for them. God gave them to you, but He also gave you to them.

     And here's a gratuitous picture of this mama and her babe. And, yes, that is an

     "I Heart Great Clips" sticker. Explanation can be found here.

An Open Letter to J. Crew

Dear J. Crew Magazine/September 2012 Issue,

I've been receiving J. Crew magazines for years now and you are the latest issue in that long list of shiny, newly printed style guides that have been tucked into my mailbox. I realize this is a little awkward, since we've never spoken and likely never will, but I feel the need to explain to you a few of the reasons why I am starting to question my desire to keep seeing magazines like yourself bundled with my bills and Bed, Bath, and Beyond flyers. 

I need to air out some grievances and will hopefully be able to fully explain why I think that you may have some stuff to work through, or that you may have just been through a break-up, or that you may just need to lay off the after-work cocktails.

To begin with, like most of the bourgeoisie whose fashion cues originate from Target, I occasionally find myself daydreaming about your cozy cardigans and your comfortable, yet shapely, tees. I lay awake at night wondering what it would be like to travel back in time and order a J.Crew wedding dress instead of the one I chose five years ago. And then there's the ever tempting siren of your "Jewelry of the Month Club" which never lists a price and leaves me to wonder who might be part of that incalculably lucky group of women finding a new piece of certified J. Crew costume jewelry in their post office boxes, mailboxes, or at their suburban front door.

But, despite all of this fashion-induced covetousness, I must tell you that the pleasure of imagining myself in the perfectly tailored apparel your statuesque, graceful, "I look happy but I'm actually very hungry" models are wearing is slowly being diminished by the printed pantsuits, the mismatched outfits, the eccentric eye wear, and the ensemble on page 4 which includes matching printed top, pants AND shoes in Burgundy Silk Foulard. I cannot imagine who might be convinced to dress this way other than at the end of a gun. No one, in case you were wondering. Even the model in the picture looks like she's trying hard to pretend she's okay with how your stylist has dressed her. She's not. If you look closer at her face, it's obvious she's dead inside. Your pantsuit has killed her soul.

In order to make sure this letter doesn't reach a length that could potentially cause the printer at Office Depot to stall out when I try to print this letter, I'll instead be concisely listing for you the items I find to be the most ridiculous and borderline morally objectionable:

Page 5: Velvet slippers in navy with what seem to be small bouquets of flowers embroidered at random on the shoe. $400
These should not exist.

Page 6: Smooth flannel pants in camel with "hand-applied" sequined bows. $495
I do not understand.

Page 40: Purple cashmere sweater $238, mustard pant $128, teal coat $335, leopard print clutch. $448    This looks like a crayon box contracted food poisoning.

Page 44: Felted wool hat in red currant. $475
I reject this on all levels.

Page 58: Wool peacoat $278 paired with tweed stripe shorts. $118
Does not compute.

Page 59: Matching navy tweed top $128 and pant $148 with brownish turtleneck underneath.
No. Also, I think Ali MacGraw wore this in Love Story in 1970.

Page 60: Fall bootie in leopard calf hair with wedge heel. $398
These make me sad.

And lastly, on your back cover, I take issue with the 60-something woman posed like she is, instead, a wannabe gangster. Also, do we really have to revisit all-denim outfits again? I thought I had left denim-overload safely back in my 1990's middle school wardrobe. I guess not. Sigh.

And so, J. Crew Magazine/September 2012 Issue, I close, with a sadness only Target's New Arrival section can assuage. Your fashion is incompatible with reality and with my heart.

Sincerely,
Dara Lynn 



 

::Acknowledgements to J. Crew and McSweeney's Internet Dependency's "Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond"::

That Time We Went to Great Clips

Sometimes, when I go the store or to the post office or, say, to get Sam a haircut, I like to dress like I'm a respectable adult. You might find this surprising considering my recent confession to occasionally resembling a homeless man in my spare time. But, in fact, I actually take showers and have been known to brush my hair and even wear lip gloss.

So, yesterday was one of those days where I decided to kick it up a notch. Despite the seriously depleted wardrobe I had to choose from, due to a negligent laundress (me, in case you were confused), I wasn't sporting my finest. However, I did pull out the iron (gasp!) and pressed the little creases in my Converse Target skirt to make it look a little more refined (I'm using this word so loosely, I'm surprised it hasn't fallen off the page).

Sam and I head to Great Clips down the mountain (kiddo haircut - $10; Mexican restaurant next door for a post-haircut enchilada - priceless). It happens to be in a strip mall of sorts catty-corner to The Wal-Mart. And, because of where we live, which is close to mountains, this whole montage of consumerism is positioned in a valley that is way, way too picturesque for one of Sam Walton's temples of cheapness. In fact, I told Sam (my Sam, not Mr. Walton), "Wal-Mart does not deserve to be here," to which he did not respond.

Anyhoo, because by this time you are probably clamoring for a photo of Sam's new haircut, I'll indulge you:

And now, I'll share a photo of me, who you'll remember was trying hard to look relatively decent and even remotely adult-like on our little outing to Wal-Mart Valley. (That's right. We put on our fancy duds to go to Wal-Mart)

What's that sticker about, you ask? Oh, well, despite my efforts to look like a real adult, someone (see picture above my picture) thought sticking their "I Heart Great Clips" sticker on my chest was a good way to find it later. This must have happened at some point when I was distracted by the cashier at Wal-Mart or choosing Berenstein Bear books at the library because within a couple minutes, I'd forgotten it was there.

And so, that sticker stayed there for the rest of our errand-running. I can only imagine people wondered at my apparent enthusiasm for Great Clips seeing as how I was willing to proudly wear a sticker proclaiming my love for them and their great clips on my chest.

Summary:
Attempt to accomplish haircut, grocery run, library visit - SUCCESS!
Attempt to appear like a put-together and somewhat normal adult: FAIL
Free advertisement for Great Clips compliments of my chest: DONE

Mapmaking

I had a moment recently, or to be more honest, a whole day where I just about gave in. It was already "one of those days" when I rolled out of bed and by mid-morning, on our way to Sam's pediatrician for yet another doctor's appointment, I was having it out with the Lord in the car. Sam was hanging out in his carseat with the miniature Slinky I'd just bought him and I was driving a little too fast with hot tears running down my face, trying hard not to take Job's wife's advice. Just to cut myself a teensy bit of slack here, I was a little low in the blood sugar department and should have had a little more to eat that morning. Somehow that always seems to make anything hard seem ten times worse.

This doctor's appointment was one of a number of visits we'd made recently to Dr. Jeannie, Sam's fab pediatrician, thirty-five minutes from our house on the mountain. Sam had a cough that sounded like he'd been smoking for the past thirty years of his two and half and it didn't seem to be letting up. So, here we were, making our way back to the doctor after what's seemed like a summer of doctor's appointments for he and I.

Before we'd left that morning, I'd finally gotten up the courage to open up the bills from the procedure that followed my miscarriage and found that, while our insurance covered the lion's share, we still owed nearly $1000. I thought I was prepared for that when I opened that bill, but something came undone in my heart when my eyes scanned that number. It felt like such an injustice after what we'd just experienced, like adding insult to injury.

All the way to the doctor, I mentally yelled at God, explaining that we did not have an extra $1000 lying around. We certainly hadn't asked to lose a pregnancy and then get stuck with a huge bill to deal with. Then somehow I managed to make my way from that grievance into some old stuff I'd obviously not dealt with and was still apparently holding against Him. I even managed to bring up the fact that we'd spent five years doing full-time ministry, so what was the deal giving us such a hard time? There I was, acting a lot like the older brother in the Prodigal Son story who believed that his good behavior obviously warranted his being treated a little better.

Anyway, all this to say, I was almost ready to throw in the towel and tell God to just leave me alone. I got this close (imagine me pinching my fingers together right now) and then I ate lunch. This had an amazing effect on my ability to be reasonable and essentially toned down the anger that was real, but had been somewhat enhanced by low blood sugar issues. My daily spoonfuls of Nutella make more sense to you now, don't they.

I spent that day crying a lot, which is more than a little unusual for me. I think some of that was a delayed response to the grief of having just had a second miscarriage. The questions and confusion and uncertainty that come as sides to that full serving of sadness take some time to respond to. Apparently, atleast six weeks for me.

The past few days have been less emotionally dramatic and I've felt like I called a truce with God for a while. I haven't felt as angry, but, I've also known that something isn't quite right and needs to be dealt with at some point.

Today, I read my friend Kitty Hurdle's most recent blog post about her and her husband's adoption story. (You can read about that here at their blog joelandkitty.com.) In her post, she admitted that she and her husband had been struggling to trust God in the midst of some pretty intense circumstances, highlighted by a long walk through infertility. Kitty shared that after some intense prayer and confession, she and Joel were reminded that God had been faithful to them throughout the hard season they were in. What they also realized was that they had been listening to the Enemy's lie that God was actually cruel. After that wake-up call, they were reminded that "God is good even when He doesn't feel good."

That last part made my eyes water.

I've been letting the Enemy tell me what to believe about God. What the heck. No wonder I felt like telling Him to take a hike.

So, I've resolved to stop doing that and start remembering how God has been faithful to me. For starters, there was this five years and one week ago:

And then there was this:

And now there's this:

And this:

And this:

On that pitiful drive to the doctor last week, I forgot all the ways that God has been faithfully writing a story for us that is full of joy and hope and redemption. It's so ridiculously easy to let the hard stuff make us lose sight of the good and the beautiful things that fill up all the rest of the space in our lives.

A friend in college, who was going through a really rough patch at the same time that I was during our senior year, shared a quote with me about making a map of God's faithfulness by intentionally remembering how He has been good all along and believing that He will continue to be good even in the hard seasons that we walk through.

So, here I am again, trying my best to make that map.


Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
-Catharina von Schlegel, 1752

Mama Was a Homeless Man

You know that woman in the grocery store wearing grubby yoga pants and yesterday's make-up that you felt sorry for last time you went to pick up goat cheese and melba toast? Um, that was me. You may or may not have also noticed that my faded shirt (a la Tar-jay) had a hole in it and a peanut butter and jelly handprint on the back. Additionally, you were right to wonder if I had taken a shower that day or the day before. And no, I didn't do my own hair. My two-year old had a hand in that hairstyle I was sporting.

You felt confused about my appearance and maybe a little sorry for me, didn't you. Well, let's just say that in this season of life personal grooming has become something of a luxury. It's the sort of thing one indulges in on the occasional weekend when the husband takes the little guy to Cracker Barrel for pancakes. Instead of going out for coffee with a friend, I choose to stay at home and shave my legs, maybe even trim my nails. It's the little things that help you feel like a human being after spending the week very intensely focused on keeping a little person fed, bathed, and alive.

A friend of mine recently told me about something she'd seen on Facebook that I keep thinking about. It was an open letter from a babysitter to a stay-at-home mom which basically acknowledged her having come to understand why stay-at-home moms are the way they are. She specifically mentioned that she was now more sympathetic to a stay-at-home mom's plight after a stint of babysitting and it had all been made clear to her why said moms tended to resemble homeless men.

When I dreamed of children and homemaking all those years whilst mooning over Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, I never pictured myself one day resembling a homeless man. And yet, that day has come. I wear hole-y clothes, sport unwashed hair, look perpetually haggard, and always seem to be carrying around a lot of random stuff.

I still have my pride or I'd post a quick picture of me in my ubiquitous yoga pants (which haven't done yoga a day in their spandexed life) and my pilled, one pocket Target tee (you know the one), and weird hair. Sigh.

I made the mistake of reading an old friend's fashion blog today and then clicking on a link to her favorite fashion blogger's blog. I wish I'd never seen it, but now I keep it open on my browser to occasionally glance at it and remember that people outside my house wear things like heels and pinstripes and equestrian-printed party dresses (What? And yet, it's true.) I sighed over every page on that blog and then kind of wanted to cry a little bit. Just a very little bit, mind you. You can go there yourself and see if you don't feel like shedding a small tear for your lost fashion sense. But, prepare yourself, she has posts like "Wine Country Weekend" in which she posts pictures of herself wearing chiffon and wedges and big sunglasses and you'll want to run outside right then and there and burn your Target yoga pant collection. Don't say I didn't warn you: http://atlantic-pacific.blogspot.com/

But let's be honest, in their hearts of hearts, stay-at-home mamas don't want to remind people of homeless men. They want to wear pretty sundresses and necklaces and perfume and have hair that doesn't smell like peanut butter.

I'm slightly afraid that the few pictures I've made it into (I'm usually the picture-taker) during Sam's early years will only make him ask the question, "Who's that homeless man?" Maybe this is a wake up call. Maybe it's time to reclaim my ability to wear something other than spandex pants and t-shirts. Maybe this is the moment when I should pull those orange patent leather wedges out and boldly wear them to...the park.

And yet, as nice and impractical as that would be, the hard, cold truth is that it would last for about five seconds and then someone would deposit a small dumptruck load of cheddar bunnies on my lap and it would all be over.

So, the homeless man will continue to show up in family pictures. Perhaps before Sam's rehearsal dinner I'll have figured out how to photoshop and can airbrush out those yoga pants and add some equestrian printed capris instead.  

Hope you don't mind a little self-indulgent picture posting. This is me a few years back before my homeless man persona took over. I like to look at it sometimes and remember myself before yoga pants took over my life. I know what you're thinking. Get your camera out, woman, and take a recent picture of something. Well, maybe I just will. But, until then, you'll have to be content with circa 2007 me.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch...

2:00 p.m.   I put Sam down for a nap (which will likely not involve actual sleeping), and I close his door to the sound of his musical toothbrush singing "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" on repeat. If you're wondering, this is the kind of thing Communists could use to torture people into surrendering information. I've been listening to that toothbrush sing about a rabbit for the last twenty minutes and if I had any information to give the Commies, I'd have spilled it by now.

2:05 p.m.   I'm back in Sam's room with the intent of swiping the toothbrush before it drives me clinically insane. But, then I discover that he needs a serious diaper change. Whilst changing said diaper, the toothbrush continues to serenade me and Sam chews on it a bit. Then he smiles and says,

"Mmmm. Want a bite?" to which I answer, "No, thanks."

"Mmmm. It's tasty." Sure, it is.

"Tastes like cake," he says. Right. Or Chinese plastic.

I'm laughing hard at this point in the conversation and I realize that because you're not here to see how adorable he is or hear his little voice saying all this, you obviously can't enjoy it as much as I do. But, in the interest of writing things down for his future wife to (hopefully) read about his childhood, here I am posting it before I forget it.

This is the kind of moment in the long days of staying at home with a toddler that make it all so infinitely worth it. Thank the Lord for singing toothbrushes that taste like cake. I'm not sure I wouldn't just run away on occasion without moments like these.

Sigh.

P.S. I just noticed that this is my 100th blog post. So, I'm thinking I should have written something a little more momentous for numero hundredo. But, then, maybe this is just the right thing to mark one hundred posts. I suppose a post about changing diapers while laundry gets tossed around in the dryer downstairs is just about right for commemorating this blog's 100th entry. I think it's official now: I am a mommy blogger. That felt like a weird confessional. Oh, well.

The Danger Zone

With my somewhat inexact math skills, I've calculated the time between now and the day I turn thirty-five. And it turns out that it's something like nine months and eighteen days. I have a very real fear that when the calendar rolls around to that day that everything attached to me will instantly begin to sag and all those wrinkles I've been fighting back will show up with reinforcements and take over my whole face. In other words, thirty-five is haunting my dreams.

In addition to my sleepless nights over turning half of seventy, I'm also pondering the medical community's assessment of this random number of years, specifically in the life of a person who could potentially make a baby at any moment. According to them, thirty-five is the beginning of The Danger Zone. And this, my friends, is not the Kenny Loggins' kind of danger zone (Pause here to let that particular line of song from "Top Gun" reverberate in your memory as you see a post-Scientology Tom Cruise playing shirtless-jean shorts volleyball in your mind's eye). No, thirty-five is where my ObGyn starts getting cagey about the possibility of me having more babies.

My great grandmother had sixteen children. Sadly, only eight made it to adulthood and those eight were all boys over six feet who probably made her want to give a few back on occasion. (Rabbit trail: those eight boys all went to war during World War II and every last one of them made it back without a scratch.) Anyhoo, she was having babies into her mid-forties, which these days is unacceptable unless you're a well-preserved Hollywood actress who still looks thirty-two, despite having been in The Danger Zone for roughly ten years.

So, I'm wondering, is the day I turn thirty-five really the moment when all bets are off and the chances of my child being born with an additional arm or third eye become more than just a vague possibility?

I keep trying to sort out the fear that I feel about trying to have more children and my hope that there will be atleast one more person to use all the baby stuff I've got squirreled away in the attic. I'm trying really hard not to let an impending birthday make me afraid.

I did not expect my childbearing years to be as tough as they've been and, to be honest, some days I'm ready to throw in the towel and just get a small dog. But, as long as there's still a chance, it's hard not to keep hoping for just one more small, Johnson and Johnson-scented miracle.

Prepare yourself for an awkward confession happening in three, two, one... Sam and I were rocking his stuffed animals to sleep this morning and I was holding this scruffy old dog named Henry that belonged to Matt when he was a baby. There we were, me cradling a thirty-year old stuffed animal and Sam holding a cat puppet with the scariest plastic eyes you can possibly imagine. I was attempting to teach Sam "Rockabye Baby" which is a weird little tune if you take a moment to think those lyrics through. Pretty sure a mom who couldn't get a wink of sleep because of a crying baby wrote that song at 2 a.m.

Anyway, there was a weird moment as I held that stinky old stuffed dog (I've febreezed him, but he still has a bit of a 1980's aroma) where I was reminded of what it felt like to hold a real, live baby. I put that dog down in a hot second because I felt like that just might be the beginning of something I might need counseling for later. No more rocking stuffed animals to sleep for me.

But, the reality is that despite the seemingly long odds, two miscarriages, and a somewhat aging body, I can't seem to give up hope for another baby. I want to sometimes. I try to convince myself that I can be content with one child, that he won't grow up to be the Unabomber because he didn't have any siblings, and that our future Christmases won't be uber depressing with just one kid opening all the presents.

And yet, I can't get away from this hoping stuff. It's hard to push down.  

I mean, God gave Sarah a baby when she was like ninety-eight or something, right? I think He can probably work with thirty-five.

And while we're talking about babies, here's a picture to remind you of how cute Sam was as a babe.
                                                        
                                                                                            Baby Sam, circa 2010

Again

Lately, I've been feeling the urge to clean out closets, get in shape, lose five pounds, eat spinach, read more, watch less television, invest more in friendships, read my Bible, write more, learn new things, sit on the porch more, etc, etc, etc. I think I'm feeling a bit stagnant these days and realizing that if I don't live with a little more intention, I'm going to miss out on some things I don't want to miss out on.

What's prompting this mini-revival/premature mid-life crisis, you ask? Well, it's partly the wake-up call that turning thirty-four gave me. It's also something of a response to a change of plans we just got handed.

If you know me, you know that I don't share personal things as well as a normal person might. (Perhaps you disagree considering the fact that I have a blog, also known as a very public diary). But, to be honest, I'm not good at sharing feelings. Ask my husband. About once every six months, something comes over me and I find myself overwhelmed by all the emotions I've been stuffing for half a year and it all kind of blows up in one big explosion, usually over a rare dinner date with said husband, who is blindsided mid-meal. Also, as a bonus, I usually cry when this happens. Lucky Matt.

Anyway, I tell you this because, in light of my seeming handicap when it comes to sharing feelings,
I'm going to once again use this blog to mass-communicate something personal that I'd likely make really awkward if I was telling you in person.

Remember last summer when I shared about the miscarriage we had? Well, despite the odds being somewhat stacked in our favor regarding having a healthy pregnancy after a miscarriage, we had another lost pregnancy this summer. We're still processing this whole experience and trying to make some sense of it, so it's possible that I'm writing this post prematurely. (Which means there may be a sequel to this post that includes some sort of minor breakdown, possible identity crisis, or something else equally dramatic.)

I've been wrestling with a lot of the obvious things that probably anyone would after a disappointment like this one. It's been hard not to be angry and tell God He's really got some nerve giving Snooki and the Kardashian sister babies when we're obviously the ones who should be getting babies around here. (note: I realize the seriously gross arrogance I just expressed, in case you were wondering). But, beyond the issue of the Snooki/Kardashian/Hollywood people having babies like it was their newest hobby, I've had a harder time with the reality of others who have perfectly healthy babies choosing to medically dispose of them while folks like us are aching to welcome little ones into our family. I haven't been able to reconcile any of this just yet, although some light is coming through the crack in the door I've been trying to shut and the truths of common grace and the promised redemption of a fallen world are starting to filter in.

What I'm also keenly reminded of is how unbelievably miraculous it is that any baby makes into the world considering all the minute details that have to happen just right for the whole process to even work. It's mind-blowing, really. The ultra-sound screen we stared at a month or so ago that didn't have the baby we were expecting floating around in it only made me that much more aware of how crazy-precious the little one God gave us two and a half years ago is.

And so, in the midst of all the grief and the confusion and the rearranging of our life and our plans regarding our little family, I'm reminded that there is still hope. I'm still working out the details of what exactly to be hoping for, but regardless of my frequent lack of faith and the weight of this fallen world, I cannot help but believe that there will be some redemption in even this.

I've been spending time at my parents, getting help with the little guy and regrouping a bit in a place that's familiar and safe. And this is where I've been thinking about this need for intentionality that keeps waking me up in the morning with thoughts of writing books and traveling and praying more. Maybe I'm having an "Eat, Pray, Love" experience after a devastating loss, but I'm not sure that it's the same thing.

Having lost something I was really, really hoping for seems to have reminded me of what it means to hope for something at all. I think in the midst of baby-having, baby-watching, and the past year and a half of toddler-hood, I forgot how to hope for more than just the moment I was in.

After a different kind of loss years ago, a wise friend offered counsel that included "leaving a crack in the door for Jesus." I think that's where I am again. Despite the instinct of a wounded heart wanting to slam the door shut on the possibility of hoping again, I think the desire to see God do something new and restorative is strong enough to help me leave the door cracked a little.

A friend emailed me last week with this verse:

I Peter 5:10 "And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.

Restore. To give back. To return. To renew.

There's a boatload of hope in that word. I think I'm going to go write that one on the wall somewhere or crochet it onto a pillow.

Or maybe have it tattooed on my arm.

                  This guy is a daily reminder of God's faithfulness to me. He's also the reason I may

 need to take valium on a daily basis at some point.

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

You know how sometimes you're cleaning the lint out of the dryer, or picking up the forty-two thousand cheddar bunnies that your child has tossed onto the carpet, or walking up the stairs to get the laundry you keep forgetting to bring down for the hundredth time and suddenly you have an unexpected flashback from The Old Days? The days when things like cheddar bunnies weren't on your list of things you knew existed and laundry only happened once or twice a month and you wore make-up more days than you didn't.

I had a flashback like that the other day whilst doing something mundane and house-wifely, like washing the dishes or making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Out of nowhere came this image of my younger self with dyed, one-shade-lighter than goth hair, glistening in the sun. What was that about, I wondered. I remembered that those boxes of impermanent hair dye come with this magical conditioner that makes your hair shiny and awesome for a few weeks. I found myself considering dying my hair again. And then, the logical part of my brain shot that idea down.

After pondering the benefits of hair dye for a moment, I washed another dish and mulled over that bit of my hair's history and then recalled a little more about what the catalyst for one-step-away-from-goth hair had been. The Kardashians weren't ubiquitous then, so it couldn't have been an unconscious attempt at achieving the hue of their lustrous, unnaturally shiny locks. And then I remembered.

That dye job was right out of my old "I just got dumped" playbook. I dyed my hair soon after a less than enjoyable summer of yo-yo dating and then a subsequent break-up. My solution to this "devastating" loss was to dye my hair a semi-ungodly color. It was super shiny for a while and then it was just awkwardly dark.

This stroll down breakup memory lane prompted a bit of reminiscing about my ill-advised responses to breakups during my twenties. In case you aren't there yet, or can't really remember them, the twenties are a teensy bit tumultuous. There's a boatload of figuring out how the heck to be an adult that spawns more than a little drama. And, everything feels so intensely important and weighty and life-altering. Turning thirty solves some of this, and having a child solves a whole lot more of it. However, I have this sneaking suspicion that it might start all over again at forty.

Anyway, I thought you might enjoy a little look back at some of the ways I turned a breakup into a dramatic life-altering revolution. And if you're still a single, twenty-something or other, maybe you should take notes.

1. My first misguided response to a break-up may seem pretty dull, and to be fair, it was. Essentially, the choice here was to become a nun of sorts. I lived in a house with five women, spent hours and hours reading my Bible and praying and was for all intents and purposes a nun/hermit. I think we even called our house a "nunnery" if I remember correctly. Looking back, this wasn't as dramatic a response as it could have been, but it took me a while to get back in the game after a semester as a nun/hermit/potential una-bomber.
NOTE: This is not to say that a semester of reading my Bible and praying was a bad thing. I just didn't get out much. Or ever.

2. The second response was a little bit more dramatic and maybe a little more pathetic considering the boyfriend in question wasn't an official boyfriend. Lots of ambiguity and confusion here, friends, so we'll just skip to the misguided response part. After a dramatic conclusion to our non-relationship, I resigned from my first real job in the city and moved back in with my parents, four hours away. I was 23 so let's all give early-twenties-me a break.

3. Breakup number three was less dramatic and more crazy ex-girlfriend-ish. No, I didn't burn anyone's house down or key anyone's car. I did, however, decide that it would be a really good idea to join the gym which my gym-obsessed ex-boyfriend frequented. I still cannot explain what made this seem like a good idea at the time, especially when my greatest fear was running into said ex-boyfriend at said gym.

Feeling better about yourself yet?

4. A few years later, after a long-distance relationship suddenly became no-distance, the "no" part of that equation led my boyfriend to decide that we should call quits. This breakup was the catalyst for the goth hair I mentioned above (which really wasn't as bad as you're imagining). It was also the impetus for the purchase of an almost brand-new Jeep Wrangler. Turns out, owning a new car doesn't make being dumped feel any more awesome in case you were thinking it would.

So, maybe there weren't as many unfortunate responses to breakups as I remembered. Maybe I'm blocking a few out for my sanity's sake. All I know is that it's a good thing Matt showed up when he did, or who knows how long this blog post would be or what sort of lunacy I might have engaged in over a breakup (i.e. I was probably just one breakup away from a tattoo).

Now I'm curious if anybody else out there has made an ill-advised decision related to a breakup. I'd love to hear it...