What I Love About Motherhood (Beautiful Mama Award)

     One thing I love about being involved in youth ministry is spending one-on-one time with some
amazing young women. It doesn't happen as often as it used to (I figure having three children, a home-based business, and a writing career kind of complicate the whole scheduling issue). But just a few days ago I got to hang out with a lovely young lady after the boys were in bed, and we had a great time talking.

     I forgot how it worked its way into the conversation, but my friend was absolutely floored when I told her that growing up I had no real interest in children or motherhood. I figured I would have kids one day, but I honestly didn't care for youngsters one way or the other.

     I think I just had no idea how rewarding motherhood would be.

     One thing I love about being a mom is how many friends I've made because I am a mother. In addition to friends who come over for play dates (and stay for adult conversation), I've made many blogging friends whose special-needs and parenting blogs keep me encouraged and inspired. One such friend, Joy from I Can Say Mama, nominated me for the Beautiful Mama Award (hence this post about what I love about motherhood).

     In addition paving the way for me to meet great friends, motherhood has also smoothed out my rough spots. You would not believe how judgmental I used to be. I have a friend who likes to quote, "I was the perfect parent before I had any kids." Yup, that was me. Having kids (who don't behave exactly like I want them to every hour of the day) has taught me to be more gracious and forgiving than I otherwise would be. I always thought of myself as a patient person, until about kid two or three popped up. And even though it's humbling to find out I'm not as perfect as I used to believe, I like to think that motherhood is teaching me to be a better person (if only by exposing my faults so I can deal with them).

     Third, I love motherhood because it gives me such purpose. I always dreamed I'd change the world. As a teen, however, I figured that would be as an international relief worker or as a cutting-edge doctor or as a Pulitzer-winning novelist. I never imagined I'd be changing the world by raising three amazing boys. And amazing they are. Nate wants to grow up to be the first man to walk on Mars. Silas is five and has already published a poem in Highlights Magazine. And Thomas ... well, if being cute could save humanity, Thomas is your toddler.

     Being a mother is an awesome experience, and I'm blessed to know many other tremendous mothers. So I am in turn passing the beautiful mama award on to Vanessa at Journey Full of Life, Regi (whose blog is mostly about her writing journey but whom I also know to be a wonderful mother), Stephanie at Homeschooling Mom of Four, and Sylvia from Faithful Mom of 9. All you have to do is:

1) Click the above award image, save it and use it in your acceptance post.
2) List three things you love about motherhood.
3) Nominate other deserving mamas; you may choose as many as you like.
4) Post the link to your post in my comments section so I'm sure to see it!

Random Fact #20: When I was a senior in high school, I was nominated the most likely to "make a difference."

Bundle of Blessings

me and my bundle, seven years ago

This post appears in the Christian Home Magazine. Check it out!

     Today my son Nate turns seven. It's hard to believe this science-loving, marathon-racing, book-devouring bundle of sheer energy and creativity was one just ... well, a bundle.

     Nate was by far the most difficult of my babies. Which meant that when his two little brothers were born I was completely prepared for everything coming way way. (Or not.) All jokes aside, I certainly did learn a lot during my very first year of motherhood. So in honor of Nate's birthday, I am passing on to you the lessons brought to me by my first little bundle of ... well, you know.

1) Your definition of minor discomfort is not my definition of minor discomfort. I'm talking specifically about that fun day or two after delivery when your milk comes in. Ouch. What to Expect did NOT prepare me for that! Let's extrapolate for a moment, though. What you might experience as a tiny nuisance may be painful enough to have me walking at a 45 degree angle for a week. Or a month. Don't judge my reaction to something until you've walked in my shoes. Or worn my nursing bra.

2) Bring a change of clothes to church. It just so happened that Sundays were Nate's preferred day for blow-outs. One mess at church was so bad that my son had dirty squirties oozing out of his diaper, onto his back, then up and around his shoulder and torso. Two adults, 37 papers towels, and a very messy church sink afterwards, Nate was somewhat clean. The only problem is I forgot to bring his extra clothes that day.

     Moral? I've got two to offer. The first is to do what our current church does and keep a few baby outfits on hand for new and unprepared parents facing similar emergencies. The second is to realize that Nate actually had it right; Sundays should be the one day of the week where we are most willing to show our "muddier" selves. Instead we spend Sunday mornings pretending that everything in our lives is smooth as a baby's you-know-what (and I'm talking about a clean baby here, by the way).

3) Breastmilk is sweet. Unless it's regurgitated. Yes, I'm the mom who got spit-up in her mouth. Her open mouth, to make matters worse. In my defense, my novel experience of tasting my own curdled milk was the result of a fun Super-man style game that had my baby giggling and smiling. It also gave Nate's spit-up the perfect route to land on my tongue and glide effortlessly down my throat as I laughed at my charming little superhero.

     Do you need me to tell you that it wasn't all that pleasant? How many of us, unfortunately, have shocked or disgusted others by the things we "spit up" when provoked? With all the death and bitterness we can spew out, it's no wonder God calls the mouth an open grave (Psalm 5:9).

4) Healing doesn't make your scars disappear. Seven years ago, my doctor cut me up, pulled back my abdominal muscles, spliced open my uterus, and yanked out a six-pound, fifteen-ounce alien. All right, he was actually a baby, but since I had never seen a brand-new, fresh-from-the-womb infant before, I truly was surprised at Nate's appearance. (Not quite the Gerber baby I expected. Not yet, at least.)

     Four weeks after my C-section, I stopped taking pain meds. Four weeks after that I stopped feeling sore. But seven years later, I've still got a scar.

    You know the story about the woman in labor that Jesus tells his disciples? She's in pain at the time, but once her baby is born she "forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world" (John 16:21). I'm glad I'm no longer in labor. I'm glad my incision site no longer feels like a thousand red fire ants are trying to reopen my wound from the inside. But I've still got that six-inch scar. 

     When I think about my life's journey, I'm thankful for the healing God has brought me after that painful tests I've suffered. I see the good that's come from the trials I've had to endure. But my memory hasn't been erased. My scars still remain. So do yours, if you're anything like me. And that's nothing to be ashamed of.

     Today I celebrate the life of an amazing seven year old boy. And I thank God for all the blessings the Almighty sent down to me wrapped up in that cute, cuddly (and sometimes very messy) bundle of joy.

What about you? What has parenthood taught you about life, the Lord, or the more unsavory sensations of infancy? (Feel free to leave your comment below.)

At Least I Didn't Forget the Baby

(This post was included in The Christian Home Magazine Issue 91. Check it out to read what other Christian bloggers have to say.)

What's up with this photo?

     I got to church early today. Which is miraculous in its own right considering I have a toddler, a preschooler, and a first grader who still hasn’t mastered that whole zip-up-your-own-coat rite of passage into full winter independence. And it’s definitely winter here, if you were wondering.

     I actually didn’t just happen to show up at church before my usual 10:34 am entrance. (I am of the persuasion that four minutes late is completely acceptable. It’s a lot like the speed limit, I figure. As long as you’re not five over, nobody’s going to give you a hard time about it, right?)

     Showing up early to church today, along with my three bundled Eskimos, was actually a pre-meditated feat. You see, apparently some people in our congregation feel I must have the spiritual gift of janitor, because I’ve been asked to clean the church building once a week (which, I assure you, would never have happened if any of the deacons had ever stepped foot into our home. Let this be a lesson to you to always invite your deacons over for dinner at least once in your early days attending a new church).

     Anyway, this morning I was cleaning the men’s room (a sanctifying work in itself) and I decided that my long hair was definitely not an asset at that moment. (Another point at which long hair becomes a liability: changing poopy diapers. But I digress…) As I went to pull my hair up, I realized: I didn’t brush my hair today.

     All right. There’s something you need to know about me. I am not high maintenance. I brush my hair for exactly one minute a day: half a minute in the morning, and half a minute at night. But today, in the rush of getting three pairs of coats, three pairs of mittens, and three pairs of boots on my three little snow babies, I not only forgot my own coat; I apparently also forgot to brush my own hair.

     With my tangles pulled back for the rest of the morning in a messy bun, I’m sure nobody noticed my grooming faux paux. (In case anybody’s wondering, I still haven’t brushed my mange and it’s close to bedtime now.) The truth is I’m often forgetting things, only to notice my mistake at the most inconvenient times. You don’t even want to know about shopping trip I had almost completed before I realized I had forgotten to put on my bra. And this happened at about three in the afternoon!

     Whenever I feel like I must be losing part of my brain (blame it on three full-term pregnancies and two miscarriages) I encourage myself with the thought: At least I’ve never forgotten my kids.

     Maybe I shouldn’t joke about it, because I know some parents who seriously traumatized either themselves or their offspring by doing that exact thing. One night in youth group we were discussing the verse about how a mother can never forget the children she has borne, and the conversation took a fifteen-minute turn towards the ugly as everyone shared stories of how their parents lost them at some point or another. Let me assure you, that as soon as I forgot one of my kids somewhere, I’ll post a column about it (once Child Protective Services is through with me, that is).

     What I’m trying to say is that we women have to constantly juggle so many tasks and roles (not to mention handbags) that it’s no wonder we forget things every once in a while. But I figure that as long as we’re not forgetting the really important stuff, we must be doing all right.

     But what exactly is this important stuff (besides the baby), you ask? Each woman is going to have her own list, but a few things are probably universal to all of us.

     For example, never forget to be thankful. Even during hard times. Even on bad days. Gratitude is not an option, at least not according to Scripture. So let’s “enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise” (Psalm 100:4) every day of the year … not just on days when we’re stuffing turkeys and drawing the play-by-play schematics of our Black Friday plans of attack.

     And what about this one? Never forget that “the tongue has the power of life and death” (Proverbs 18:21). It’s no wonder that James says the woman who learns never sins with her mouth has reached total perfection. Our words can breathe life and hope to those we love, or completely tear them down. When we forget to “tame our tongues,” we can actually speak words that bring death … death to dreams, death to trust, or death to relationships. Not a pretty picture, is it?

     In addition to cleaning urinals (did you know those things actually flush?) my Sunday included a pretty sad reminder that we should never forget how short life is. Our kids may drive us crazy. Our spouses may never get over that one bad habit that's been driving us bonkers for years. But our loved ones might not be with us tomorrow. Are we going to let petty inconveniences ruin our relationships?

     When I worked at an assisted living home as a caregiver, I met a woman who couldn’t remember her name. She couldn’t remember what she ate for breakfast. She couldn’t remember who her husband was, how many children she had, or what she was doing living on the Alzheimer floor. But she remembered a song, a song she sang to herself all the time. In spite of her Alzheimer’s, she still remembered Jesus loves me. Which brings me to my last point:

     Never forget that you are loved. You and I might forget to be thankful. We might forget to hold our tongues. We might even forget to pick up our kids, or – maybe worse - forget to cherish them. But just like Martha on the Alzheimer’s floor, may we never forget: Jesus loves us, this we know for the Bible tells us so.

     Because that would be even worse than forgetting to wear a bra to WalMart.

What about you? When has your memory gotten the better of you? Have you ever forgotten something really important (like the kids)? (Feel free to leave your comment below.)  

Parenting in Community

What's up with this photo?

      I am not an outgoing person by nature. Some of my earliest childhood memories involve hiding behind my dad’s legs. As a teenager, I was paralyzed with insecurities. When I was newly married, I only went to social functions if my husband – a textbook case of ENTJ extroversion – came along with me.

     Then, a year and a half after our wedding, I delivered a six-pound, fifteen-ounce human being into the world. Of course, my life would never be the same.

     Something major changed in me that day (and it wasn’t just my waistline size, either). I had spent just about my entire life feeling like I didn’t belong. I was on the pom-pon squad in high school, but didn’t fit the confident, bubbly and flirty personality of the cheerleader stereotype. I was an editor of my college newspaper, but didn’t know half of the pop culture references in the music and movie reviews I was publishing. When my husband moved to his hometown to youth pastor the country church he grew up in, I felt more like the communal daughter-in-law than an actual member of the body.

     And then I got pregnant.

     Like it or not, I was now the center of attention. (It had been years since that church had seen a baby.) I clenched my teeth and dragged my embarrassed self to my own baby shower … and had a wonderful time being prayed over by the women in my congregation. Every Sunday morning, I received more belly rubs and unsolicited advice than I thought possible … and felt truly loved.

     After Nate’s birth, women came over to deliver meals and many of them stayed to visit. For the first time, I was part of that wonderful rite of female relationships, when two mothers share their birth stories together. It didn’t matter that a few of these women hadn’t delivered babies in five decades or more. The fact that I was now a mother meant I shared something universal with every other woman who had ever had a child of her own.

     We left our small country church when Nate was only six months old in order complete our missionary training at Sanford Bible College. Both Phillip and I knew going into it that I would have to get a job. I had such a strong heart for at-home mothering that the prospect of finding employment was unnerving, to say the least. Fortunately, I was hired to work at the local daycare center, where I could bring Nate with me, nurse him, put him down for his naps, and do everything I would be doing with him at home anyway.

     The other benefit of working at the daycare – besides getting to be with my son full-time -  was spending my afternoons with other moms. There were three of us who worked there at the center, and each of brought our own kids along with us. It was like getting paid to have a play date every day of the week. These other moms shared their stories, gave their advice, modeled healthy parenting, and became great friends to me.

     Proverbs 27:17 tells us that “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” No mother should try to raise her children in isolation. I can say with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t be the same kind of mom I am today were it not for these friendships I made with other women when my son was still a baby.

Seeking Out Community

     Unfortunately, in our busy day and age, finding a community of other mothers to share experiences with can take a lot of work. Here are some basic ideas to help you foster deeper relationships with other moms.

     Join a Bible study. Notice that I didn’t tell you to join a women’s group. A ladies Bible study or a mixed Bible study can both be great ways to meet other moms who have encouragement and advice to share with you. (And chances are you’ll meet other moms who need the encouragement and advice that you have to share with them!) Our family was so close to our small group that when we brought our third son home from the hospital, we invited everyone from our Bible study over to our house for Papa John’s pizza the very next day. It was a wonderful experience welcoming Thomas into our family surrounded by some of our closest friends (and no one expected the house to be clean either!).

     Get nosy (politely). I have never yet met a mother who refuses to tell me how old her child is. Often, asking these kinds of basic questions about another woman’s family is a great way to start a conversation. One weekday in Wal-Mart, I was standing behind a mother and her kids. Since the two girls were obviously past their preschool years, I asked their mom if schools were closed that day, and ended up meeting a fellow homeschooler who remains a very dear friend to this day.

     Ask for help. I needed a C-section when my oldest son Nate was born. After laboring 24 hours and then getting spliced open, my body didn’t feel like recovering very easily. It was humbling to ask other women in my church for help, but they were more than happy to oblige. In addition to benefiting from their practical assistance, I was also blessed by their fellowship. Many of my relationships in my church blossomed even more deeply as women came over and washed dishes of swept floors.

     Seek out advice. Sometimes motherhood is scary. When Nate turned two and discovered it was fun to play with his little brother’s “anatomical bath toy,” I was on the phone within seconds with a veteran mother (who assured me Nate’s behavior was normal and helped me to laugh it off). Sometimes just talking through an issue with another mom is enough to give us clearer perspective or deeper peace. Other times, we can rely on the experiences of other moms, learn from their successes and failures, and become even wiser parents for our own children.

     Today, I am thankful for the friends God has put in my life, women who assure me that I am not alone as a mom. My prayer is that God would likewise surround you with wise and encouraging mentors, sisters, and friends who can walk with you hand in hand on this glorious journey called motherhood.

(This post was included in The Christian Home Magazine Issue 90. Check it out to read what other Christian bloggers have to say.)

What about you? What kind of support or encouragement have you received from the fellow moms in your life? (Feel free to leave your comment below.)