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