Dear Husband, This Is Why I Spent $100 at Target Yesterday

Maybe I've mentioned this before, but I'm a stay at home mom, which means I spend roughly 90% of my existence chasing small people around the same few rooms all the livelong day. And while I'm keeping my eyes on said small people, making sure they don't go swimming in the toilet or eat tubes of lipstick, I find myself constantly taking stock of the little world we live in. And by that I mean, I imagine all the many projects I could possibly start around the house and subsequently drag Matt into after I get in over my head.

Here's an abbreviated version of my current to-do list (which is an ever-changing rolodex of semi-creative "genius"):

~ The little table behind the couch, which I'm dreaming about painting yellow.
~ The dining room chairs which need re-upholstering due to excessive crayon and Play-Doh abuse.
~ The ten-year-old desk from Target in the guest room that's begging to be painted a distressed white.
~ The blank wall above the desk which would be perfect for the floating shelves I've got tucked away in the closet. (I just need someone tall and handy with tools to hang them for me...)

Essentially, I have a running to-do list that would make Matt's hair stand on end if he could actually get his hands on a typed-out version.

And then there are those innocent little trips to Tar-jay and T.J. Maxx where I find myself wandering through the home decor section as I mentally redecorate my house with all the things on the sale end-cap. I've learned the hard way that I am physically incapable of leaving Target without $100 disappearing from our checking account. Every. Single. Time. (I'm starting to suspect dark marketing subterfuge in the board rooms of Target's headquarters and I'm pretty sure Dateline needs to get on that expose' pronto.) This situation is also why my family should always live at least twenty-five minutes away from a Target, minimum. Then there's T.J. Maxx, which is another dysfunctional love story that deserves its own, very lengthy, somewhat emotional blog post. 

But, somehow, in the midst of all the semi-impulse buying (which I'm exaggerating slightly) and project-starting, there is something important happening.

I, dear reader, am home-making.

I'll give you a minute to roll your eyes (if you're my husband) and possibly even smirk over how I'm about to draw a connection between impulse Target-buying and the beautiful and crucial art of creating a home for my family.

Making a case for chalk paint, crafting felt and Target end-caps sales being significant parts of home-making might be a bit of a stretch, but the value of making a home beautiful and the indispensable role of the person who makes that happen is inestimable (says the homemaker humbly).

Do you know who's responsible for turning our house into a living, breathing home? Moi. Matt's a little preoccupied with excessive amounts of yard work and taking the trash out and other household chores that I'd rather not do. And in his free time, he's more interested in rough-housing with our little people and maybe getting in a little Sports Illustrated reading than re-arranging furniture and distressing picture frames. And, that's good with me. I'm happy to assume the role of picture-hanger, knick knack arranger, organizer of shelf decor, painter of old furniture, and basically the CEO of all the pretty stuff and the places it should go.

I realize we could make do without my puttering around looking for just the right place for an old eggplant-colored pitcher that was a wedding present to my grandparents sixty-five years ago. But, that pitcher will play a small part in the bigger picture that is the home I'm creating, which is only made more beautiful by pieces with stories to tell.

Friends, I promise I'm not advocating that you blow your household budget at Home Goods or that you obsess over your house to the point where no one feels comfortable sitting down on your perfectly fluffed couch pillows. But, what I am saying is that the art of making a home is worthwhile. You might not think it matters to your husband and those little people you made together, and they might not even realize it matters to them, but the effort you put in to giving them a home that feels beautifully and intentionally created will offer them that proverbial, and somewhat indefinable, sense of feeling at home.

I do a lot of other things to keep my household working (i.e., cleaning bathrooms, cooking dinner, LAUNDRY, keeping the grocery list on budget most of the time, etc.), but the small moments when I work to make our home a lovely respite, a place for rest and comfort and sanctuary from the outside world, that time is just as valuable as the practical tasks that are always and forever on my to-do list.

At this moment, there are blue chalk handprints on the pantry door, someone's (shout out to Mae) pumpkin muffin crumbs are scattered on the den rug, and nobody's bed is made right now, so we're not living in a perfect house by any stretch of the imagination. Also, I'm not the craftiest or the most skilled at decorating and my budget for anything extra for the house is rather small (Matt would say non-existent).

But, here's the thing, there is redemption even in the simple act of home-making, of making your family's house into a home that is lovely and welcoming. Restoring, creating, making things new: these are ways that I can reflect a redeeming, creative, restoring God. There is real beauty in that which gives this imperfect, Target-loving, home-making mama some hope on an allergy-full, kid-crazed, it's-almost-summer-and-I'm-freaking-out-a-little kind of Thursday. 

Here are a few places I go sometimes for a homey idea or two:

Why my bed hasn't been made yet.

http://therusticboxwood.com/
http://www.younghouselove.com/
http://www.thenatos.com/
http://www.thenester.com/




 

Happy Nerds

Every now and then the stars align and I find myself in the car all by my lonesome. The unfamiliar glory of freedom goes to my head and I consider driving to Montana for the day. I opt for the grocery store instead, which was the plan in the first place, but the sudden ability to have real, actual thoughts (!!) is almost as good as that dreamy road trip to the Midwest. Anyhoo, during these little rides by myself I sometimes turn on talk radio or NPR to see if I can learn something.

This week, I learned a few things that technically I already knew, but suddenly hit me in a different way now that I have two small cheddar-bunny-eating people in my charge. News reports on the total insanity known as Spring Break, which happened a few weeks ago in Florida, caught my attention. And it occurred to me as I listened to the description of what was taking place on the sandy beaches of our bordering state, that, as a parent, I would really, really, really like to shut that stuff down. Way down. I realize that I am at risk of sounding rather old and out-of-touch right now. Prepare yourself, because I'm also probably going to use the phrase "young people these days" any minute.

I've also tuned in to a few radio shows lately discussing the rampant assaults, hazing and generally disturbing behavior that happens on college campuses and I'm starting to think that home-school college should be a thing. I had a fantastic, drug-free, drunk-free, bad-boyfriend-free, crazy-free college experience, but that's been a ninth-grader's life span ago and things have changed a bit since I moved my tassel over. I'm pretty sure iPhones, social media, tweets, Snapchat, Instagram, etc. have absolutely changed the game since I had exactly 100 minutes on my "car" phone (which also came with it's own handy zip-up bag.)

In light of all the information out there on what the "young people" are getting into these days, I have come to something of a conclusion. I think the key to modern parenting just might be summed up by two words: happy nerds.

What's a happy nerd? Essentially, I'd define a happy nerd as a kid who doesn't care too much about what other kids think about them, who likes to learn stuff, who feels pretty confident about who they are, and who isn't spending 3/4 of their lives developing carpal tunnel due to excessive texting. A happy nerd is interested in exploring a new idea or solving a problem or creating something unique rather than spending the afternoon taking questionable selfies of themselves and then dumping all that jazz on to Twitter or Snapchat for other similarly-minded teenagers to comment on.

A happy nerd would rather be spending his or her time discovering something about the world or engaging someone in actual conversation or reading a book that stimulates their imagination or expands their understanding on some interesting topic rather than hanging out at the mall and not shopping.

Do happy nerds have friends? Yes. Just not the kind that invite them to parties in their parents' basement and then ply them with cheap alcohol so they can video them jumping off the roof into a pool. Do happy nerds fall in love? Yes. But, they get to know one another by spending quality (key word) time together and conversation, rather than just texting TMZ-worthy pictures of themselves to each other late at night.

Am I being a tad bit dramatic/unrealistic/naive? Yes. Do I want my son to grow up to be a semi-introverted inventor/engineer? Sort of. Do I hope that my daughter chooses to be a librarian when she graduates homeschool college? Absolutely. Are either of these things going to happen? Probably not.

BUT, I still stand by my happy nerd theory. At the end of the day, I want to raise children who value the things that matter and recognize and avoid the stuff that will resurface on Facebook twenty years from now and keep them from getting a real job. I'm having a moment where I'm realizing my little people won't be little forever and it's making me feel the tiniest bit nervous about who and what they will become. And I absolutely get that, at some point, their choices will be their own and I won't be able to take responsibility for them.

I know that I can't control what paths my children take, but it is HARD for this mama-heart to not want to navigate every step they take and make wise choices for them and absorb all the inevitable heartaches they'll weather. This parenting thing is such a high-wire balance of truth and love, control and freedom, holding on and letting go, acting and waiting, fearfulness and trust. Whoever said motherhood was not for the faint of heart was the Captain Of Obvious Statements.

Red socks go with everything.

Regardless of all my hopes and wishes and plans for who they grow up to be, in the end I just want them to know Jesus. It's as simple and as complicated as that.

And, so I slip into their rooms at night, long after they've drifted into dreamland and I whisper prayers over their sweet little selves. I'm hoping  that they can simply trust and obey and avoid having to learn things the hard way. But, whether they have to fall and get up a thousand times or they turn out to be miraculously obedient, I have to keep reminding myself that they belong to Jesus.

And He doesn't let anything or anyone that belongs to Him slip out of His sight or His hand.

Jesus loves me this I know, 
for the Bible tells me so. 
Little ones to Him belong. 
They are weak, but He is strong. 






  

In Defense of the Romantic Movie: Why You Should See Cinderella

I left my little people's bedtime duties to my gracious husband a few weeks ago and, somewhat on a whim, went to see the new movie version of Cinderella with a girlfriend. Turns out, movies for children without the children are rather nice. And seeing a movie like Cinderella without the children turns into a chance to spend two hours being completely immersed in child-like wonder and remembering what it felt like to lose myself in a magical story outside of time, which doesn't happen very often now that I'm a boring grown-up.

(courtesy of Disney Pictures)

A friend, whom I adore for so many reasons, recently wrote an articulate article for US Catholic about her experience watching the new version of Cinderella with her 5 1/2 year-old son. Her opinion of the film was that this new version of the familiar story was too full of glitter and sparkles for her taste and was missing that tinge of darkness that, one might argue, gives a fairytale the very slightest tangency to reality. And I get that. But, for me, that ubiquitous element of evil is such a given for every single movie that Hollywood puts out that the lack of it felt genuinely surprising (in a good way) and even something of a relief (for the overly sensitive ones of us out there).

Full disclosure: I love sentimental, romantic movies. (Clarification: Not the ridiculously overdone, impossible-to-relate-to sort. Current culture's definition of a romantic movie usually includes either an over-sexualized, possibly twisted version of romantic love that tends to end with someone dying in a somewhat implausible way (e.g., One Day) OR it's a silly romp with an outlandish story that everyone who sees it hopes will never, ever happen to them (e.g., Knight and Day). And, isn't hoping "it could happen to you" part of the loveliness of a romantic story?

In case you're wondering, when I say the words "romantic movie," I have in mind something like Pride and Prejudice, An Affair to Remember, The Sound of Music, Life is Beautiful, The Young Victoria, Jane Eyre, Shadowlands, Out of Africa, etc. I might even include less classic movies like About Time, Sleepless in Seattle, The Notebook, You've Got Mail, and Notting Hill.

But, as you've probably  noticed, Hollywood doesn't seem to make actual romantic movies anymore. It makes Bridesmaids and Sex Tape in lieu of romantic comedies and weaves weirdly dark stories like Atonement and The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby as substitutes for romantic dramas.

And as a person who loves a genuinely beautiful love story and is happy to spend a little time captivated by a romantic tale that transcends the current moment and suspends reality for a couple hours, the new definition of romance in Hollywood film is more than a little disheartening.

And so here we come to the part where I talk about how you should grab up your people (the ones who are old enough to sit still for approximately 105 minutes), fill your pockets with M&M's and Smarties and run to the theater while Cinderella is still playing on the proverbial big screen.

I absolutely won't be able to come close to summarizing the beauty and magic of Kenneth Branaugh's version of Cinderella for you, but I can note a few reasons that this new telling of an old fairytale is thoroughly mesmerizing and worth your time (and a $12 ticket).

For starters, the actress who plays Cinderella is lovely and childlike and believably good, without feeling overly sweet. The affectionate relationship that she and her parents share is portrayed beautifully and evokes a sense of true affection and total trust that is rare in movies. Similarly, the father/son relationship between the prince and the king is warm and kind and sincere. I so want my children to see relationships like these portrayed in the movies they watch and the stories they read, rather than the unbalanced, frenetic family relationships of the characters in most movies and tv sitcoms.

The romance between Cinderella and Prince Charming is simple and innocent in the best ways without the pruriency or overt sexuality normally played out in romantic movies today. Cinderella is demure and wholesome and the prince is respectful but determined in his pursuit of her. It's a lovely picture of an honorable man pursuing a pure-hearted woman as a treasure rather than a trophy.

The last element of this movie that I'll mention is Cinderella's lack of hatefulness or desire for revenge toward her absurdly cruel stepmother and silly, selfish stepsisters. Despite their absolute lack of kindness or love for her, Cinderella forgives them, unprompted and without irony. (And on that note, this is your reminder to bring a pocketful of kleenexes to this movie.)

Instead of a psuedo-romantic story that repeats the same tawdry tale of love replaced by lust and beauty sullied by waste and disillusionment, this movie offers a brave heroine whose goodness and hopeful heart withstand significant losses. If you're hoping for a story that is a slight glimpse into what purity of heart, genuine affection, sincere forgiveness, and a simple picture of redemption can look like, then this film will not disappoint.

I can't help but add a Frederick Buechner quote that I read this past week which, I think, somewhat sums up the story of this girl named Cinderella, and perhaps any good story that has a hint of the gospel in it (which is, in fact, every redemptive story).

"This is the world. Beautiful and Terrible things will happen. Do not be afraid." 

Life is full of lost loved ones, cruel stepmothers, disappointed hopes, and thankless work. But, the truth is that everything is being redeemed, often long before we can see it happening. In the end, all of the cruel and terrible things will be undone and will be replaced with what is good and true and beautiful. Like Cinderella, redemption is at the end of our story, too. And, so, like Buechner said, we need not be afraid.

"Every true story borrows its power from the gospel."  Cinderella is one of those stories.

Being Brave

When I was twenty-two I moved to Nashville all by my lonesome for a job. (And if you ever want to hear a cautionary tale about first jobs out of college, let's have coffee sometime.) I did have one friend who moved to Nashville at the same time that I did, but he was a boy, so there's that. I'm sure you won't be surprised by the revelation that Nashville was kind of touch and go for a while there. A new job, a new city (and state), a new life. I'd done other somewhat brave things before this move, but this was probably the most bold of the things I'd tried so far. And yet, four years later, I had a life in Nashville that was insanely difficult to leave.

  But I did leave. I felt called to disciple young women full-time and so I went on staff with a ministry to college students and found myself tossed into a new set of people, a new list of challenges, a new life again at twenty-six. During my five years on staff with Campus Crusade for Christ I traveled a lot, I drove across the semi-barren width of Florida alone in a soft-top Jeep with no cell service to speak of, I helped run a conference for 1200 people, I lived alone in a city I had visited all of one time before moving, I raised all my own financial support, I dated a boy who lived in Sweden and then subsequently agreed to marry him when he proposed in a castle there in Uppsala. And then I married him four months later in my parents' front yard after having spent at least 85 percent of our dating/engagement apart.

I realize this isn't the most shocking list of exploits you've ever read and you've probably done something 500 times braver, but for this overly cautious, semi-neurotic girl, this list still kind of surprises me. And what also kind of surprises me when I read this list is that almost every brave decision was followed up by good things. Experiences and relationships and opportunities to grow and encounters with Jesus and in the words of every mommy blogger out there right now, ALL THE THINGS.

And yet, (one husband, five moves, and two babies later), as I inch closer and closer to turning thirty-seven, I'm discovering that I seem to have misplaced my bravery.

I just laid out some of my life experiences here for you because I have a bit of a situation. It's starting to feel like any amount of bravery I had in the past has rudely left the building. And I'm curious about this. I'm trying to pinpoint when exactly this happened and there seems to be a correlation to marriage and the subsequent having of babies. The fact is that I'm about to be in my late-thirties (gasp) and in true semi-mid-life-crisis form (if that's even a thing), I am beginning to size up my life. What have I accomplished? Am I where I thought I'd be at this point? Am I who I thought I'd be at this point? Have I had this hairstyle too long? And about a hundred more questions along those lines.

As I've been pondering the great, deep questions of life (i.e. Will I ever fit into that dress again?), I can't help but notice that I've turned into something of a neurotic, self-protective person. Just the thought of driving more than twenty minutes away without good cellphone coverage makes my chest tighten up. The possibility of Matt's job location changing at some point and having to start over again in a new town makes me break out in hives. The ever-constant fears of the plethora of random things that could happen to my kiddos at any given point in their lives is enough to push me over the edge if I let them.

But, in addition to those kind of "what if that happens?" fears, there's also the fear of starting anything new.

I've always, always wanted to write a book. The kind of dreamy, wordsmithy, magical story that transcends time and space continuums. (You're afraid of that book right now, aren't you.) Anway, I'm pretty sure the Christian romance "novel" I wrote in ninth grade isn't in any danger of being published anytime soon. (But, please feel free to ask for a copy because it is awesome). I'm also absolutely sold on the idea of adoption, but can't seem to get my head out of the sand to start taking steps in that direction. I desperately want to join in the fight for the lives of babes who are unwanted and whose mamas are wondering if the best thing is just to end their pregnancies, but frankly, I think I'm scared of what I'll encounter in the midst of that whole tornado of opinions and emotions and politics.

I'm wondering where the shift was where I went from being brave to choosing security over adventure and safety over stepping out of the boat.

And yet, lately, I'm attempting to take back some ground and I've been taking some proverbial baby steps. I typed out two chapters of a book that maybe no one but me and Jesus will ever read. I'm reaching out to some local women who are in the early stages of beginning a pregnancy resource center in our town to see what I could possibly do to help them in that huge endeavor. And lastly, I started reading Russell Moore's book Adopted for Life, which will most likely have me adopting thirteen children by the last chapter. (Maybe don't mention this to Matt if you see him because he's slightly unaware of the whole thirteen children thing.)

I'm heart-hoping that this is the beginning of something and that maybe I'll stop being so hesitant to do the things that make me scared.

It just might be that thirty-seven can be less about aching knees and new gray hairs and more about being brave. And, if memory serves, brave decisions are usually followed up by good things.



"Courage, dear heart." ~C.S. Lewis

The Hamster Wheel Season or Groundhog Day, PBS Kids-Style

I haven't blogged in a while, which makes me a little sad. I also haven't had a complete thought, read an entire book, or had a conversation that didn't include an anecdote about someone's bowel movements in the last eighteen months. I'm not trying to complain, I'm just stating facts. Basically, I underestimated the game-changing nature of adding a second child to one's family. For those of you with more than two, I salute you. God absolutely knew what he was doing when he had me wait until thirty-one to have my first babe. That crazy dream of having multiple children was a bit of a stretch for me and luckily, he knew that before I did.

My children are five and one, which means I mostly do the same things every single day. I started to make a bulleted list, but I'm pretty sure your day will be just as full without knowing the minutiae of our very average schedule. And yet, I feel the need to share at least a few things that make up the hours of our mostly mundane (in a good way) lives. (For those of you who wonder why I don't return calls or email you back, perhaps this will clear things up.)

Basically, I make three meals a day, I provide juice and goldfish at various intervals, I fold laundry, I send people to time-out, I watch episodes of Sesame Street, I trim mini fingernails, I cut food into tiny pieces, I sweep up tiny pieces of food off the floor, I push people in the swing on sunny days and help draw pictures of robots on rainy ones. I dress wriggling little people, hug little people, break up small tiffs between little people, and then put all the small people to bed as soon as is reasonably possible. And then I fall asleep on the couch during an episode of Gilmore Girls with Matt, who arrived home just in time to see said little people before they fell asleep.

Sometimes it feels like this routine we are living is mind-numbingly repetitive. As if we are a PBS Kids version of the movie Groundhog Day. Or we're on a never-ending Disney cruise and Elmo is our cruise director (I realize I just mixed brands here. Please don't be offended.) I daydream about escaping the hamster wheel that motherhood can occasionally be for just a day or two, or a week if I'm feeling ambitious. Some days, I think I can actually feel my brain cells shrinking with every Curious George episode and I wonder if I will get back the ability to process abstract ideas or learn new concepts unrelated to new theories on potty-training. I wonder if I'm slowly becoming one of those women who collapses in on herself when her children leave home at eighteen because she hasn't had a thought outside of their well-being in nearly two decades. Will my personality survive the years of mostly only being known as "Mama"? Am I being more dramatic than you can handle right now? For the record, before this moment, I haven't had a minute alone for seventy-two hours and as it turns out, the baby monitor is letting me know that the baby is currently re-thinking her nap right now.

I know. I know. There are a thousand blog posts written on the hour by moms at home wondering the same things that I am and questioning the seeming monotony of what it is to do and say and possibly wear the same things day in and day out. And, to be honest, it's not terrible or miserable or sad by any stretch of the imagination. But, it can wear you down every now and then and make you wonder if the world outside is passing you by while you are wiping bottoms and answering "Why?" questions until literally the very second your child's eyelids close. Yes, the world is passing you by and yes, Apple will have come out with fourteen more versions of the iPhone before you come up for air in this parenting gig.

But, it's ok. You and I will catch up. And we will survive. And we will read books again and have thoughts again. And, defying reason, we will look back on these little years with nostalgia. The kind of nostalgia that motivates blue-haired women in the grocery store to encourage us to "Enjoy every minute because it goes so fast." I kind of hate those women, but I'm pretty sure I'll join their ranks in about twenty years.

Despite the fact that I check Groupon for last-minute deals to spa resorts on a semi-regular basis, I'm trying to remind myself that each day that passes is another thread in the fabric that makes up my little ones' childhoods. And each one matters. It all has value. My little people may barely remember any specific moments that make up these slow and somewhat uneventful days of this early part of their lives, and maybe I won't remember any of it either, but I'm hoping that all the hours that melt into the days that melt into the weeks and months and years of this season, that they'll all add up to their remembering that they were loved deeply and without conditions.

This seeming hamster-wheel life that repeats itself every morning and every night, it won't last. And I have a sneaking suspicion that when it's gone, I'm going to miss it desperately. Which is crazy. But also not, because there's a lot of simple beauty in these early days of childhood and I'm trying hard not to wish it away.

So, here's to you, fellow hamster-wheel mama and your little people who are doing the same thing you did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. I raise my daughter's empty sippy cup to you. We can do this. And when we're done in eighteen years, let's all get together and go to a spa resort for a month.


   

The Lost Years: In Which I Discuss Cutting Food Up Into Tiny Pieces and Superhero Origin Stories

When that brilliant journalist-turned-biographer whom you haven't heard of yet finally writes my riveting biography, you'll find that there are some details missing in the middle of the book which may cause you to wonder just what was going on during the years 2009-2018. So, I thought I'd go ahead and jot down a few notes so that when you do get to that portion of the fascinating read that my biography is sure to be, you can refer back to this blog post to be reminded of what I was up to during what I'll simply term The Lost Years.

To be clear, The Lost Years aren't exactly what you might expect. They aren't sad or depressing or ominous or any of that. They're just more or less unnoticed. These are the years when most things that are said and done happen here inside our mildly chaotic home (between the hours of 6:30 a.m. and 7:30 p.m., depending on whether or not someone can emotionally handle bedtime at the usual hour or not).

When you finish the chapter on The Single Years: Good Times and Excessive Journaling, you'll make your way into Married and Discovering How to Deal with Conflict and then into Let's Move Five Hundred Times and then there's the lovely chapter detailing our first babe and his love for juice, Curious George and Legos. Soon after you'll have arrived at The Lost Years in which you will read a simple timeline explaining where we lived and any public records goverment websites made the author privy to. There will be a brief mention of a sweet second babe being born and a few notes on her excessive and possibly even gratuitous levels of adorableness, which my biographer will have had full knowledge of based on her research into Facebook Archives.

So, let's talk about those lost years which my biographer will be mostly in the dark about, unless she happens upon this post, in which case, this post will possibly make less sense.

The Lost Years: All the Details You've Been Wondering About

I spend my days cutting food up into small pieces for small people who are inclined to stuff forty-four marshmallows into their mouths if not watched without blinking and at very close range. I drive small people places and buckle and unbuckle and buckle and unbuckle and buckle and unbuckle their carseat belts over and over and over. I fix and deliver snacks to said small people throughout the day and then go on to fix meals for small people who are less inclined to eat them because I've made the parenting error of giving out too many snacks. Argh.

I spend drive time in the car attempting to tell the origin stories of superheroes to my five-year-old who demands more and more superhero information, which has taxed my brain to it's absolute superhero limit. And also, when I said Superman was from Krypton, he heard Crouton. It's possible that I actually said Crouton, considering the state of mush my brain was in after trying to detail how Spiderman got his spidey powers from a spider in a research facility who was there for some reason that I do not have an answer for.


Most of the hours during which I'm awake are spent picking things up and then putting them away and then finding same said items underfoot again within fifteen-twenty minutes. It's possibly the definition of insanity and also gives much more credence to what Abraham Lincoln said about how "cleaning a house with children in it is like brushing your teeth while also eating Oreos."

Lastly, I do a boatload of laundry and I have determined that this task is quite similar to Sisyphus's punishment for whatever it was he did to make the gods mad. That particular punishment, according to the internet, was chosen because the gods "thought, with some reason, that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor." And to this I say, LAUNDRY.

And these things, my dear readers, are the magical things which make up The Lost Years. Hopefully, this post has cleared a lot of questions up for you. 

I'd also like to note that while this mama feels a teensy bit lost in the midst of her own story during these [insert adjective depending on what kind of day we're having] days of raising little people, oddly enough there isn't anywhere else I would choose to be. Except for possibly Maui. But, not really. I love my job even if my five-year-old doesn't think it really is a job and is confused about why some mamas work and I apparently do not. Sigh. 

And now I'm off to brush up on Flash's origin story because I had nothing to offer during yesterday's discussion and I'm pretty sure I'll be quizzed again on the way home from school.

What Is the Deal with Women Friendships Being So Hard?

I didn't get married until I was twenty-nine, which meant that I spent my entire twenties wondering what life as an old maid was going to look like and calculating the cost of cat food for the thirteen cats I would obviously have to acquire to keep me company in my spinsterhood.

OK, that's not really what I was doing, but there were a lot of evenings spent with girlfriends, bowls of ice cream in hand, over-analyzing our love lives and lamenting our singleness (insert sad emoticon face here). There was a lot of whining, tear-filled journaling, neurotic behavior and general emotional overload, but through all that drama, I had a solid group of girlfriends who were walking the wild and weird road of singleness with me. I'm pretty sure I'd have joined a traveling circus if it hadn't been for them.

I've had some heart-deep friendships over the years, most of whom I still feel like I could call up this minute and ask for advice or invite myself to their house in Texas or California or wherever else they've settled (Right? Lex, Chrissy, Lynds?).

There have also been new friendships each place Matt and I have lived and, while it takes a little longer to get close now because whole conversations take place over the course of at least eight play dates, I'm still finding "kindred spirits" in the midst of the crazy-town that is being a mom and a wife and the keeper of a house.

But, even while having friends who are more like sisters to me, I find that there are still some things about friendships between women that make them hard. And, it seems like no matter the depth of friendship, there can still be confusing emotions and jealousies and comparisons and hurt feelings. And, sometimes there's just plain weirdness that nobody can wrap their heads around.

A lot of times, I can track those issues right back to my own sin. Just this week, I sent an email and didn't get a response back in the "timely" fashion I expected to. And, so, I quickly formed opinions, cast judgment, and wrote someone off in the midst of assuming the worst. You're afraid to be my friend now, aren't you. Obviously, you can see what I see now, which is that I gave in to some really gross pride and let my own insecurities speak into a situation that turned out to be nothing more than an email lost in cyberspace. (This is why I'm for actual letters and possibly smoke signals).

So, here is what I'm wondering. What is the deal with friendships between women being so hard? Why do we assume the worst about each other sometimes? Why are we so quick to get our feelings hurt?

Somewhat annoyingly, men don't seem to have these issues. They talk about sports. They meet for lunch and talk about work. They watch football together and tell jokes and maybe get the chance to go on a camping trip on the rare occasion that their wives allow this temporary abandonment. But, according to my husband, they don't suffer the kind of relational drama that women experience. And, what's more, they do not understand it. Let me emphasize this reality of life: If you try to talk this sort of stuff out with the man you married, prepare yourself for a blank stare and possibly an awkward pat on the shoulder. He's not going to understand because, well, he doesn't have ovaries AND because most of what you're telling him doesn't make sense anyway. To anyone.

I have a theory. Despite all the seemingly obvious reasons that we have issues with one another (emotions, feelings, insecurity, jealousy, selfishness, comparison, pride, etc.), it's possible something else is going on underneath it all.

John Eldredge, in one of his books whose name I can't recall, talks about redemptive relationships being opposed. In a devotional book he's written called The Ransomed Heart, he says that, "Our enemy despises relationships, hates love in any form, fears its redemptive power." Pretty sure he's on to something.

Any relationship that offers some kind of redemption will be opposed by our enemy. And, I can't help but wonder if that's what's behind all the inexplicable drama that lives underneath the surface of relationships between women. We all need one another so desperately, and yet, we manage to push each other away all the time over petty disagreements and perceived hurts and misunderstandings.

But, what can we do about this?

We can fight back.

Let's promise each other that when we find ourselves believing the worst about one another or we give in to anger over some imagined snub, that we go to our friend and honestly tell them "This is how I feel. How can we be reconciled?"

It looks easy enough when I write it down, but Lord knows, I am not good at confrontation. I love to sweep things under the rug and pretend that everything is "just fine." I'm Southern, so it's basically a tradition. But, if you and I want to experience the kind of friendships we were made for, it's going to take a little initiative on our parts. We might have to expose our hearts in a way that isn't comfortable. We might even have to apologize for some wrong assumptions and maybe even some not so pretty pride.

But, it'll be worth it.

You and I need friends who offer the Gospel to us. And you and I need to be those kind of friends. There is redemptive power in this way of doing friendship that can overwhelm the mommy wars and the Pinterest-fails and the comparison traps.

Let's go there.