Running the Race

Yesterday afternoon, our family was preparing to sit down for our family dinner. Ryan had just gotten home from work, a place that presents the same monotonous dragons to slay with each new day and is filled with people who refuse to take accountability for their obligations. Cap that off with a 40 mile commute in the sweltering summer from one end of The Valley to the other, and he was understandably exhausted. The kids and I spent the day at the museum. It was a ton of fun, but I am not naturally a get-up-and-go kind of parent, and these outings with 4 children take every ounce of energy I can muster.

 

I put the finishing touches on our cashew chicken with rice, and was gathering the last few items to set the table. As our children gathered around, a simple question about parenting was returned with a tired retort, which in turn somehow instantly threw up a wall so high that Ryan and I could no longer see each other. The only thing we could see was the wall between us. In addition, the air itself had changed in temperature and thickness. I knew our kids could sense it right away.

 

I grew up in a home with parents who did their very best to parent my siblings and me. But when they had disagreements or fought with each other, their walls would stay up for hours, sometimes days, and as a child who didn't understand that parental arguments are about the parents and not about the kids, I internalized the tension and found it hard to function.

 

Now as an adult, I CANNOT handle these walls. I just can't. They make my skin crawl and fill me with so much anxiety that I can think of nothing else. I can't function until the wall is ripped down. With a sledge hammer. I am not sure how Ryan feels about this particular trait of mine. Anyway, we found ourselves immediately in the other room, seated on the couch so we could be comfortable as we peeled back layers and exchanged tears (Okay. there wasn't much exchanging. It was all me.) I am so grateful to be married to a man who has never hurled an insult at me during a disagreement. I hope I can say I offer him the same. Life is too short to treat the Greatest Gift God has given me with anything less than complete respect. I am far from perfect in this, and will always be a work in progress. I am grateful for his patience.  Our dinner grew cold and we turned curious children away several times.  But none of that mattered.

 

You see, family-life is really hard. And parenting in a blended family? Fuggedaboutit. It is gut-wrenchingly hard. If anyone tells you otherwise they are lying through their teeth. The vulnerability and consciousness it requires can leave me feeling so raw and tired that I want to curl up in a ball, lick my wounds and never come out. Every once in a while, I have to remind myself "You chose this". And I did. It was a conscious, joyful choice to bind myself with these particular people, and specifically to be a parent in a complex blended family. It often reminds me of another choice I made a few years back.....

 

About 5 years ago, I allowed a friend of mine to convince me to train and run a marathon. I am not a natural runner. It doesn't come easy to me, and with my exercised induced asthma, it can get pretty ugly. Despite these things, running a marathon was on my bucket list, and so I agreed hesitantly to the task. I am no fool. Unless you are a freak of nature, marathons are an amazing feat of physical strength and mental stamina. I knew this. I was under no delusions that this was going to be a walk in the park. That wasn't the point.  Actually, that WAS the point.  I chose this particular task for the very reason that it would be incredibly hard. It’s a funny thing, struggle and reward. They are directly related; the greater the struggle, the more magnificent the reward.

 

On race day, I gathered what I thought was all the necessary equipment for success. When the gun went off, I began running with what seemed was the larger portion of the free world. There were thousands and thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. It was really easy going too. It didn’t require a whole lot of concentration. The further I got into the race, the more I could feel the effort that was required of me.  It was a lot of physical effort.  I remember hitting a point, around about mile 14, when I thought “Oh.my.word. This is soooooooo hard. What was I thinking?”  Every time it seemed like I couldn’t go much further, a fellow runner would chime in with words of encouragement. “You are inspiring me”. Or “Keep up the good work!” A more experienced runner would say “Just breathe through it. Trust me, it’s worth it.” These words would be just enough motivation to get me through to the next beautiful vista.

 

There came a point, though, that the stunning views and the cheers of strangers were not going to cut it. This was the point when the effort changed from physical to mental.  I found myself in a port-a-potty, stationed mercifully at mile 19. My muscles and joints hurt so badly that I COULD NOT physically get myself to stand up. In addition to that, my intestines were attacking me with a vengeance so sharp, that for the life of me, I could not think of why they hated me so much. I had so much salty sweat running down my face and into my eyes, that I was unable to open them. Like, not at all. To top it all off, my ill-fitting clothes were chafing me. I had rubbed a spot so raw and bloody on my back, that it was now seeping through my clothing. I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS!!!!!!! Wait. Yes, I did.

 

I had a choice to make. I could quit. People do it all the time. They had vehicles trolling the course for just such a purpose, to pick up those who could not, or would not, finish. It would be as easy as hailing a cab. Oh, how I wanted to! Everything in me wanted to give up. But as I considered this option, I remembered why I had signed up for the race in the first place. It was a once in a lifetime experience, one that I couldn’t get in any other way. The growth that I knew would come from it was something I expected would shape me for the rest of my life, something I could draw on when other situations grew difficult.  Finally, I knew the satisfaction that would eventually come, if I could just hold out strong to the end. I would be able to look back on this accomplishment with the fondest of memories.  So, I made another choice. The choice every runner has to make when the going has gotten so tough that they feel they may be torn limb from limb. To keep going.  To do my best despite the pain.  And I did.

 

I was right about that race. It HAS taught me life lessons that I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. I think about it all the time as I navigate this awesome, exhilarating, maddening, blended family of mine. Being in a family is an endurance race.  The views along the way can be so stunning they almost take my breath away. Many times, I am so bored I could gouge my own eyes out. During these times I am just going through the motions, waiting for the next view to break. But sometimes, I find myself in the port-a-potty of life. You know the one.  This is when, no matter the move I make, it hurts.  My vision is clouded and I find it hard to even think clearly. The effort I have put in up to this point has completely depleted my tank, including my reserve. At this point, there is nothing more I can do than grit my teeth, say a prayer, and make a choice. To move.  Usually in increments so small it seems I am not moving at all. But I am moving forward, and that is progress. And progress is good.

When I was 6, or maybe 7.....

"Jump, Brooke. C'mon honey. You gotta jump. Trust me, kiddo". 

His voice, deep in tone and slow in cadence, gently plead with me to make a choice. He chose his words carefully, knowing the choice he was asking me to make felt like it would break me. For me, it seemed too much to ask.

We had been at this for what seemed a life time by now. How did I get myself into this predicament? As a child, I was always meticulously responsible. I knew how to make smart choices and weigh the cost/benefits of my actions. I was the kind of child that neighborhood mothers watched in anticipation as I grew, waiting for the day when I was old enough to babysit their children. In short, I had a good head on my shoulders.

And yet, despite my sensible nature, I also had a streak of something else in me that fought against my careful demeanor. I loved a challenge. I craved the high I got from pushing my mind, body, and spirit beyond the boundaries of safety. The feeling of a sprinting heart beat always brought me back for more, searching for a way to stretch my abilities.

From time to time this would get me in trouble. I remember the day that I set out to climb the light pole at the end of our street. As I sat at its base and stared up the 30 some odd feet to its top, I knew I shouldn't..... but I had to. I pressed my ear to its warm, gray metal and could hear the humming coming from inside. This pole was mine. I peeled off my socks and shoes and began the climb. I was quick, like a native islander up a coconut tree. Before long, I was at the top, and paused a moment to appreciate my accomplishments and the view that it earned. It was the most beautiful lower-class, slummy, filled with dirty faced kids neighborhood I had ever laid eyes on.  I had conquered it. What if I just took a minute and shimmied out along the crossbar? That would enhance the challenge and once out there, I could hang from it like the monkey bars at school. No one would ever have known if SHE hadn't tattled on me. I still haven't forgiven her. Out the door came my mother, screaming and threatening me within an inch of my life. I considered briefly staying there and waiting her out. She would never be able to reach me. I thought better of it, deciding that I would probably get hungry eventually, and headed down. I can still remember the sting on my backside. She felt good about it. She had taught me a lesson.

But even valuable lessons can be forgotten if the call of the Sirens grows too loud. Not long after, I found myself sitting on my front lawn, ticking away the hours by myself, as I often did. Wait a second. Why had I never noticed this before? The large tree in our yard, with its sprawling branches, came curiously close to the roof top of our house. I couldn't climb directly from the branches to the roof, but if I employed the services of my friend the garden hose, I could climb to that large limb there. It hung several feet above the roof, and if I looped the hose over it, I could lower myself down. Yes! The boredom of the day melted away as I put my plan into action.

I was on to the roof in no time, and celebrated my victory with a walk around the place. Well, not much to see here. I decided I had had enough and went back to the hose to climb up and then down again. Unfortunately, getting ON the roof was the easy party. I was stuck. Horribly, hopelessly, permanently stuck. I considered the 9 foot jump to the ground. Nope. Too risky. That was a skill I wouldn't conquer for another couple of years. I analyzed the situation from every angle that my little 6 year old brain could gather. Try as I might, I knew there was no solution. I sat down on the blistering roof, hugged my legs to my chest and dropped my face to my knees. How had I gotten myself into this situation? I knew that the fault was my own, and I felt a burning shame that I couldn't fix the problem that I was responsible for.

As I sat there, hopeless and with tears coursing down my face, I knew there was a solution. I didn't want to consider it. It hurt my pride too much. There would be consequences....... but I had to.

I stood up, and tentatively at first, I began calling for my father. My pleas became louder and louder as I realized that he would never hear me unless I put some energy into it. I probably yelled for several minutes and could feel my voice growing horse. Then, when I was sure he had ironically gone deaf in the last half hour and would never hear me, I saw his dark head of hair emerge from the house. He walked out into the yard, looked up at me, and had to stifle a smile. I wish I could have seen myself. Dirty, grungy little girl with ever-present scrapes on my knees and tears running down my face.

 "What happened"? I detailed my harrowing experience, and again, he smiled ever so slightly. "Well. It's not really a big deal. All you have to do is jump to me". Ummmmmm.......... excuse me? Come again? "Just jump". I walked to the edge of the roof and looked down. He WAS my dad, after all.  I  SHOULD trust him. I crouched down and prepared myself for my probable death. NO. I can't do it. Minutes passed, each one felt like a lifetime. Each time I would come to the edge and prepare myself, my gaze would rest on the 2 foot span between the edge of the roof and his outstretched arms below. A lot can happen in a 2 foot space. Let's be honest. It could be the difference between life and death.

"Jump, Brooke. C'mon honey. You gotta jump. Trust me, kiddo". 

His voice, deep in tone and slow in cadence, gently plead with me to make a choice. He chose his words carefully, knowing the choice he was asking me to make felt like it would break me. For me, it seemed too much to ask.

Finally, I came to the conclusion that I had no other choice. Be stuck here forever, or take a risk that seemed scarier than any I had taken up to this point in my life. (Never mind the "Using the light pole as monkey bars" incident). I put my toes on the edge, just like they had taught me in swimming lessons, screwed my eyes shut, and jumped. For one brief moment, I could feel the wind in my face as I moved through the air. And then I was in my daddy's arms, safe and sound, and actually laughing out loud at the anticlimax of the decision. And then I was grounded.

I have looked back on this experience in my life more times than I can remember, drawing on it for lessons I couldn't have learned any other way. Over and over again, I find myself stuck on the symbolic precipice of a situation. Sometimes the situation is one I have gotten myself into through choices I am not proud of. I need to make a change in order to put myself back on a path that leads to happiness. Sometimes the situation is no fault of my own, just a natural occurrence of living in a mortal world. Sometimes, the situation isn't bad at all, but really actually very good. It just requires more courage to make change than I feel I can muster at the time. I know that if I don't want to be stuck where I am forever, I need to make a choice, a choice that feels like it could break me. One little jump. One moment of suspension. 2 feet to cover. On the other end of that jump is my Father. At times He must be slightly amused at the fear that comes from these little jumps. But He has my best interest in mind. He is the last person who would want me stuck on the roof forever. In fact, His whole purpose is my progression. And he will NEVER, EVER let me fall.

God said, "Come to the edge."

I can't. I'm afraid!

God said, "Come to the edge."

I can't. I'll fall!

God said, "Come to the edge."

So, I came to the edge.

He pushed me!

And I flew.

 

Guillaume Apollinaire

Noah, Reagan, McKay, Cannon





I think the approaching Mother's Day has me waxing sentimental. I love this day almost more than any other day of the year. I look forward to the hand made gifts from my children and the scheduled "me time" that I inevitably get because I am married to the most thoughtful man alive. But, these aren't what make the day so good for me.  This is my day to sit and reflect on how blessed I am to be a mother and particularly the relationship I have with each of these little people I have been given the sacred responsibility to watch over. I really wish I could say that I am the kind of person who appreciates each day with my children, living in the moment and enjoying myself despite the lunacy of it all. Don't get me wrong, hide and seek for the poop sessions, middle of the night  efforts to just get someone to "fall the H&!! asleep", and cleaning only to have someone follow right behind me to mess it up can be fun, but it can get a bit monotonous. I tend to be the type of girl who puts tasks before people, a trait I am ashamed of and am constantly trying to improve. This is why I love Mother's Day so much. I can appreciate my children for the amazing people they are and really enjoy what it means to be a mom. These special souls are so awesome, and this is why:

 

Noah

I haven't known you for your whole life, but I know that you've been cool since the very beginning because of this picture here.

 

 



 When your dad and I got married when you were 5, the only thing I could really say that I knew about you was that you only ate a careful combination of carbs and cheese, and you seemed to cry about EVERYTHING. It intimidated the snot out of me to begin parenting a child "mid stream".

Though I think we did pretty well under the circumstances, it was an unavoidable rough start. I am so glad that those days are behind us. Now that sweet little baby face with its pudgy cheeks has been replaced with the face of a young man. Here are a few things I have learned about you since then:

 

You have a sensitivity for others' feelings and the compassion of a much older person that comes only from experiencing intense difficulty and loss at a very young age.
You eat like a horse now. I suppose there is no happy medium.
You set your eyes on a goal with steely determination and work at it until you achieve your desires.
You work really, really hard. No one will ever be able to call you lazy.
You set the tone for sibling relations in our family, and its a really good tone. I can't believe my luck that my children never fight and rarely disagree.
You still forgive me every time I screw up. I am hoping (but not betting) that this will continue as you get older.
You genuinely want to do what is right.
You would play basketball every day, hour, minute, and second of your life if you were allowed.
You're a great reader! They won't even let you check out the books at the school library that are in your reading level because they said they would be "too mature" for you. Whatever that means.
Your jokes don't suck anymore.

Reagan
My buddy. I feel like you were a gift from God to get me through hell and back again.

 

 

I thank my lucky stars every day that I have a piece of your daddy with me as I go through this life. I don't think we have a whole lot in common, at least not yet, but I think this is a case of opposites attract. I love what makes you, well, YOU. 

You look exactly like your daddy. I can see him staring back at me through your droopy little eyes.
You have the best memory of any kid I have ever seen. I knew I was in trouble when you memorized all of the Articles of Faith when you were in nursery. All I could think about was that I better never ever do you wrong or you would never forget it.
You are all girl. You love dresses, makeup, and dolls (so unlike me).
Inversely, you like to be viewed as tough, getting in there and doing what the boys are doing. You hate when people see you cry.
You want to please your parents and your leaders. You never want to disappoint us and in your school class you have never once "clipped down". Apparently, that's a big deal.
Somehow you have managed to feel a close connection to your daddy, even though you have no memories of him.
You.are.smart. Oh, my heck. I am dreading the approach of the 4th grade when you will undoubtedly pass me up in intelligence and ability level.
You are a perfectionist.
Despite being bit, pinched and having your hair pulled on an almost daily basis, you deal with your little sister with the patience of Job. You're a better woman than I.

McKay
For me, you will always be the glue that truly united this family. You are the child that I was able to have after fearing that I may never get the chance again. You signify hope and renewal.

McKay. McKay. McKay......McKay. What can I say? Words cannot express the personality contained in this 27 pound body.

You march to the beat of you own drum. Somehow you manage to have your own style at only 2 years old and it expresses itself like a second hand store exploded on you.
You are naughty, naughty naughty. I know this is supposed be a list of strengths, so here is the strength. I don't know how you do it, but you commit your naughtiness with a charisma that makes it hard to get mad at you. I am sure this is a recipe for creating a horrible teenager, but I suppose we will cross that bridge when it comes.
You are independent. You want to do everything yourself.
You look up to your older sister like she is a Hollywood star. You even stated this morning that "I hate Elsa", a fact we all know to be the opposite of true. You were just trying to be like Reagan.
You are sensitive to others feelings and are able to sense when someone needs a pick me up.
You have a bottomless pit of energy that I am sure will service you well someday. I just hope I live to see that day.
You have a close relationship with your dad that is so endearing. You two really get each other :)
You love to hear a good book and have an above average ability to sit and listen.
You always clean up your own messes.

Cannon
There was a time when I was afraid of having a little boy. I had never done it before, and it seemed so different from having a girl, so I didn't want to do it. I was nervous at first, but I am a believer now. You have me wrapped around your little finger. I could eat your face. Literally. Who could resist that little baby hairless rat face? (I don't do a very good job making fat babies).

It has been a treat watching your personality develop. Its still early yet to tell, but so far it seems like you are going to be rad.

 

You are physically more advanced than my other kids. You sat, stood, and took steps light years before the others.

You are cuddly. You like to snuggle up to me and you make me feel like you like me.



You laugh is infectious, coming from deep down in yo' belly.
You really like books. Both eating them and reading them.
Your head is really lumpy and misshapen. It gives you personality.
You can go from minding your own business playing where you are supposed to downstairs to finding your sisters money on her floor upstairs in a matter of 20 seconds flat.
You started sleeping through the night pretty early (for the most part). Thanks for that.
You absolutely refuse to drink anything from a bottle. Sorry. That's not a strength. That's just plain defiance.

I am so grateful for the gift it is to be these tiny people's mother. Here's to remembering that fact every day, even during the crazy times :)

Good Grief

I went out on a date with my hot boyfriend tonight, a practice we are struggling to make habit in our crazy lives. Ryan loves movies, and he loves superhero movies the most. Lucky for him, there is a never ending supply of those on the market right now. They are not my favorite (I struggle with swallowing the unbelievable), but am happy to go with him because I know he enjoys them so much. It is a very rare occasion that a movie comes out that peeks my interest. I love a good historical piece, but often those end up containing more violence and carry a higher rating than my pre-pubescent sentiments can handle. I must admit that I am also a sucker for a good romance. Unfortunately for me, a movie fitting my definition of a good romance hasn't come around since, oh, lets say "While You Were Sleeping". These movies so often focus on the sexual/physical aspect of a relationship. Now don't get me wrong, I know that this is an important part, but it isn't the deepest most abiding part. The part that gets me coming back for more is the emotional aspect of a relationship. "The Age of Adeline" seemed to fit this bill, so I drug my ever cooperative husband to it(who, let's face it, owed me one after 10 superhero movies in a row. He had no choice). The premise of the movie is that Adeline, who is born in 1908, endures a freak accident at the age of 29 that stops her age progression. One would think that the ability to never age would be an amazing gift, a fountain of youth with limitless possibilities worth an invaluable price. But, she will forever remain the same age, causing her to have to move from place to place and avoid any close personal relationships in order to keep her from becoming an oddity and a government experimental rat. She eventually gets tired of running and the avoidance of emotional ties and decides to take a risk. She begins dating a young man with whom she feels a very strong connection. Lucky for her, she miraculously experiences another freak accident that reverses the effects of the first, causing her to age again. I could feel the relief in myself and in the entire movie theater as she discovers her first gray hair. Why was that so relieving? It seems counterintuitive. As I though about it, the relief came because, even though youth is highly valued, there is greater value in the experiences we have with those we love as we grow old with them.  Pain, loss, and life's let downs all forge the relationships that we cherish into something stronger than we could ever experience otherwise.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended the marriage ceremony of a young lady who I have had the privilege of watching grow up over the last several years. When I met her, she was 14 years old, with braces and nothing more to worry about than a history quiz to study for and the boy she was into that particular week. Today she is still young, only 20 years old, and her new husband not much more than that. As I sat in that ceremony, just a few feet from them, I couldn't help but reflect on what their lives had in store for them. Some might say that it is foolish to commit yourself to someone at so young an age, that you can't truly know if that person will make you happy in 10, 20, or even 50 years. I don't think it is about someone "making" us happy though. So many of the experiences that lay in front of them will undoubtedly be very difficult. Everybody has their own package of uniquely designed hardships. As we approach those difficulties together, we develop the kind of bonds that are the stuff of true happiness. Welding requires intense heat, but without that heat the two objects cannot be joined together.

Different experience, same vein. I attended a funeral today of the husband of a good friend. He was an even better friend to Cory. In fact, they finally get to hang out again because they are buried a mere 10 yards from each other. He was 46 years old. Beautiful wife. 4 kids. They have endured more family hardships than anyone should be asked to endure at that age. Not fair. At least at first glance it doesn't seem that way. I think this is the point of marriage though. We have no idea how long we are going to be allowed to stay together on this ride called life. Could be 1 year and 8 months. Could be 28 years. Could be 72 years. The beauty of marriage is that the commitment says "No matter how long we are here together, I take care of you and you take care of me. I will sacrifice for you and put our needs above mine. At times it may get pretty ugly and one or the other of us is probably going to get pretty darn banged up, but I am staying on the ride for the whole ride". The trick is to thank God that you got to take the ride at all.

Weaning, a weekend getaway, and pine trees

I have been thinking obsessively lately about bristlecone pines. Fascinating topic, I know.

Ryan and I had the rare treat this weekend of escaping for a few days almost completely sans munchkins. Cannon decided he simply would not be left out of the action and brought his desire to fruition by simply refusing to drink anything out of a bottle. Ever. Under any circumstances. Even to save his own precious life.

The weekend was spent leisurely exploring and reacquainting ourselves with who we are behind all the children. It boggles my mind how easy it is to forget how to give of myself to my husband amidst the never ending stream of dishes, laundry, church obligations, and homework assignments. I swear, the days, weeks and months of my life could be measured by the cycle of the dishwasher and the washing machine. Really fulfilling stuff.

During our hours of meandering, we did something that I have been wanting to do for years but have never found the time. We took a tour of the roof of the Conference Center in Salt Lake City. I know that this reveals how much of a tragic nerd I really am, but it's been working for me for 33 years now, so I am just going to continue rolling with it. Judge not that ye be not judged.

Anyway, during our tour, which was conducted by a darling grandma with a head full of the kind of historical facts that make my little heart go pitter-pat, she explained to us the vegetation that was used in the landscaping of the roof. I was transformed to a mountain side with quaking aspens, blue spruce, and yellow meadow grass dotted with wild flowers and flowing streams instead of where I really was, which was atop a 4 story building in the middle of the down town center of a major U.S. city.

As she explained the details of one particular type of tree, I couldn't help but feel a draw to it, as if we were siblings born of the same parents who reunite after a long separation. I wanted to approach it (very tentatively of course, because I struggle to put myself out there in new relationships), and introduce myself. I wanted to sit under its branches and listen to it tell the story of what it has seen and experienced.  I felt like we share a similar existence.

The bristlecone pine grows in isolation just below the tree line. It grows in soil that is too hostile for most other plants to survive, so it lives its life mostly alone. But that's okay. It seems to like the extra space. Because of cold temperatures, high winds, dry soils, and short growing seasons, it grows extremely slowly, almost imperceptibly. The outer protective layer, its wood, is so dense that it makes it almost impervious to disease, harsh climates, fungi, and insects. The trees longevity is due in part to this dense protective layer.

Oh.My.Gosh. Looking at that scrubby, scraggly, wind beaten, darn ugly tree was like looking in a mirror. And as all moments of self realization do, it taught me something very valuable about myself as I reflected on it. I often find myself just inside the circle of socialization, barely doing enough to maintain relationships and get to know new people. The environment I create around me may not be considered hostile (though I would be lying if I said it never was), but most often isn't very warm and fuzzy. While this may lend to lonely moments, I am used to it and even find comfort in its familiarity at times.  I am capable of learning and growth, and if you look at the current product compared to the one from many years ago, the difference is noticeable. But, if you look at the day to day, week to week, and month to month growth pattern, it is quickly evident that I am on the slow train to becoming what I need to become. That's okay. "Slow and steady wins the race" has always been my motto. Unless I am rolling so slowly that I actually start rolling backwards but never notice the change in direction. That's been known to happen. I have built an impenetrable outer layer to protect me from the fungi of this world. (You KNOW you know someone who fits this description). It protects me from pain, betrayal, embarrassment, loss, and just plain making a stupid fool of myself, which happens more than I care to admit. It is this very shell that has allowed me to make it this far intact. A little beat up, but still smiling.

I have often thought of these attributes of mine as something to be ashamed of, something that I needed to work on to become my best self.  But as I listened to our tour guide delve into the details of this unassuming little tree, I could hear a sense of wonder and pride in her voice at what it was capable of and what it must have seen and endured during its lifetime  And I thought "Yea. She's right"! So, here's to being proud of who I am and making the most of the God-given attributes I came with.

What Memorial Day Means to Me

A couple of months back, a young friend of mine asked me to answer a question for one of her school projects. The question was "What does the American Dream mean to you"? As I struggled to fully answer her question, I remembered a quote from the revolutionary patriot Thomas Paine that has always struck me as very profound. It was affecting to me as a college student when I first heard it, and it carries increasingly more weight with continued life experience. In trying to incite the common man to take up the cross of liberty and defiance against the English before the Revolutionary War, he said "What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly. It is dearness only that gives everything it's value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon it's goods; and it would be strange indeed if such a celestial article of freedom should not be highly rated". Think about that for a moment. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly. If it doesn't come at a cost, we don't truly appreciate it's value....and, if anything deserves to be valued, it is freedom.

You had better believe that my freedom is valuable to me. I PAID for that freedom. I paid for my freedom with the most valuable possession I had, my best friend and father of my child.  I paid for my freedom with tears. There were the tears that fell as I watched my husband kiss our baby, quickly hug me, and then load onto a bus, headed for a country that I couldn't even imagine if I tried. Those tears awakened in me a sense of longing. There were the tears that fell as I sat across from two men in army uniform, as they informed me that he was never coming home. Those tears numbed me to the core. There were the tears that fell as I lay in bed that night, and felt the loneliness wash over me like a tidal wave so heavy that I thought I was doomed to be crushed. Those tears cut into me like a hot knife. There were the tears that fell as I sat in the shower after the funeral, tears that would not stop because it had taken a monumental feat to hold them in for an entire day. Those tears pushed me towards the very edge. There were the tears that fell as I stood hand in hand with a good friend whose husband had died with mine, as we forced ourselves to attend each and every memorial service for the soldiers from our husbands unit who died after they did. Those tears began to heal my heart. There are the tears that fall each and every time I stand to sing a patriotic song. "Oh, beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife. Who more themselves their country loved, and mercy more than life". Those tears make me feel proud.

So, what does Memorial Day mean to me? I will tell you what it does not mean. It does not mean a carefree day off of work, a light-hearted barbecue, a killer sale on mattresses, drinking excessive amounts of alcohol, or a trip to the lake to water ski. It does mean that a whole lot of somebodies paid for my freedom, and one of those somebodies was pretty darn important.

Mom Guilt

I can't be the only one with this problem. I suffer from a sickness that eats at me everyday of my life, possibly every hour. It causes me mental, emotional, and spiritual stress. I have a horrible case of "Mom Guilt". If you are anything like me, this phrase requires no explanation. But, for those of you who happen to have all of your ducks in a row or more free time than anyone I know, I will give an explanation. "Mom Guilt" is that pit in your stomach you feel when you go through a whole day without having read one word to your child. Its the nagging feeling you get when you realize you chose to spend 30 minutes on Pinterest and therefore did not have time to dance around the living room to Disney songs with your daughter. Heck! Forget about personal time on Pinterest! Its the dilemma you face when you know you have multiple loads of laundry, an entire house to vacuum, and 3 bathrooms to get clean and your son wants you to sit still and listen to his account of the game "Boys Chase Girls" that he played during recess today. In short, "Mom Guilt"  is the feeling we get when we have chosen something, ANYTHING really, over quality time spent with our children.

I am going to be very straightforward and admit that most of the time my guilt does not come from chosing personal time and interests over my children. My guilt comes from an Obssessive Compulsive (self-diagnosed :) need to engage in homemaking activities 24/7. Making my own baby food. Cooking from scratch every night. Sticking to a very rigid daily cleaning schedule. Researching food storage techniques. I am telling you..... I have a problem. Aha! I can feel it right this very second picking away at my conscience. My children are out back playing some ridiculous game involving trolls and basketball players and instead of watching them, cheering them on, laughing at their ridiculousness, I sit on the computer and try to analyze why I am not out there playing with them. Its a vicious cycle, really.

I have tried to pinpoint the source of this guilt that we feel. I became a single mother when my first baby was very young. 5 weeks old. We spent so much quality time together that it was coming out of our ears. I never got a babysitter for her unless it was the most extenuating of circumstances. Then, every couple of months, all of a sudden I would feel this pressure building up from a complete lack of personal time. I would call my mother or mother-in-law and try to hold back the tears as I asked them if I could drop off my baby right this very instant. I think I felt like this was my chosen career, my God-given destiny, to be a mother, and that it was wrong somehow to try and get a break from it.  That if I wasn't enjoying every single second spent with my child, that something was wrong with me.

I was wrong. Dead wrong.

The blame can be placed on a lot of things. I can blame it on the idealism of Pinterest, the "putting my best foot forward" anecdotes from Mom blogs, the perceived competition I sometimes feel with other mothers about our homemaking or child rearing skills, or even quotes from my church leaders or other great women and men about the unparalleled influence that a mother has on her children. The truth is though, that I have to embrace two facts. The first is that no one has control over me and no one can influence my feelings unless I let them. I need to take charge of the way that I feel. The second is that I AM ENOUGH. As long as I am doing my best and showing love to my children, my efforts will be multiplied and magnified by Him whose sacrafice enables us all to be more than we could ever be on our own. And once in awhile my best means we just didn't find the time to intricately braid the 3 year old's hair, drop everything to read a tall stack of picture books, or make my own household cleaners. Heck, sometimes it means we didn't have time to put clothes on, brush teeth, or eat something other than Top Ramen for dinner. And do you know what? That's okay!