Let's Tell the Truth

My living room, 15 minutes prior to the arrival of company.

Two boys' accomplishment in 5 minutes of unsupervised behavior.

Lunch every day, 7 days a week.

Sometimes on fine china

Our stylin' carpet...

...courtesy of "leak-proof" sippy cups.

The #1 To-Do project "first thing this spring"

It is now October.

I always forget to water my plants.

One time I caught my son peeing in this flower bed that faces the busy street.  I soon realized he had also pooped.

Sometimes my children break things.

Toss stuff in the oven and bake things.

And do this about 75% of the day

...until I could scream in frustration.

And wonder why I can't seem to get my act together...

...until I visit a friend and notice their house, their children, their frustrations are remarkably similar to mine, complete with polka-dotted sippy cup carpet.  And I heave a sigh of relief that I am not the only one who feels absolutely helpless some days (ok, most days!).  It's vulnerable to admit that the ideal I strive for can easily morph into the idol I strive for, and if I am not careful, I burn myself out.  Big time.

But when we share our lives with each other, we expose the truth that sometimes "getting our act together" is simply that--acting.  It's so easy to sweep ourselves away in the desire to maintain a positive, Christian image of motherhood--of ourselves--that we lose sight of the fact that perhaps it's our willingness to admit our shortcomings that truly establishes the common ground for friends to face the daily trials of life together.  Because the truth is, we all love our families and we all strive to become more like Christ...but sometimes the real picture of what that looks like is spilled milk, unattended clutter, crying children, and moments of absolute frustration.

In the honesty of openly sharing our lives with each other, strength arises in uniting our weaknesses.  Let's tell the truth that we can drop all pretense and use our struggles to encourage, commiserate, uplift, and carry each other because we are free to be ourselves--imperfect works-in-progress.  Let's tell the truth that we can smile when our children fight, laugh when they drop their drawers in the middle of the yard, and feel perfectly at home in a sea of clutter.

Let's tell the truth that honestly, we wouldn't have it any other way.

I Hate Cats

I hate cats.

They are sneeze-inducing, flea-producing, overgrown rodents that are, quite frankly, a menace to society.

As they say, "The only good cat is a dead cat", and I heartily concur.  Me, along with the millions of other cat-haters who deliberately swerve their vehicle on (and off) the road towards the furry felines, in fervent hopes of making this world a better place--one flat cat at a time.

Oh, I am not totally heartless.  I must confess--I had a cat once.  He was a marbled, grey-and-white long-haired beauty, claiming ancestry in the noble breed lineage of--"Cat."  (Admit it--a cat is a cat is a cat).  I think I may have even loved him--for a full five minutes until our ancient furnace kicked on and scared the bajeebers out of pretty kitty so badly, he screeched through the house and tore up the mini blinds.

That cat now lives in Cleveland.  Need I say more.

And from that day on, our household thrived in a blissful era of sneeze-less, cat-less harmony.

Until last night.

Last night, the unthinkable happened.  An evil, stray feline, whom I'm convinced is the spawn of Satan, slithered into the upholstery shack (after midnight, of course, when sin roams the earth), and claimed the heart of the talented, yet somewhat naive towards feline wiles, Handsome Upholstery Guy.  With naught but a curl of his tail and purr of his...his...evil cat-ness, the fanciful feline stole the heart of the Handsome Upholstery Guy, while the rest of us slept innocently next door.

Then this morning arrived.  Handsome Upholstery Guy confessed to the crime, which I'll admit, sounded pretty darn cute.  To be specially adopted by a stray cat, particularly without the aid of a steak bone or pork chop is really one of nature's rare feline wonders, and I was somewhat eager to meet this meow-ing marvel.

However, after popping an antihistamine and scanning the deck where kitty was last seen, I admit I was not overly crushed to find it empty.

Because you know I hate cats.

So when I sat down to enjoy my morning cup of coffee, you can certainly understand the horror that surged through my veins when from the dew-kissed planks of our house's side deck (ok, it was really sprinkled with ill-aimed stinky diaper bags from the evening before), squeals from my children arose, alerting me to the return of evil personified in feline form.

That darn cat!

I made up my mind then and there I was not going to love him.  Remember, I hate cats.  Any logical person must understand my sentiments.

The children certainly hated him.

Raspberries to you, evil kitty.  You'll not steal a piece of my heart!

You are terrible with kids, ferocious kitty.  You really need to leave.

The sandbox is not your potty, rancid kitty.  Go...away...

Stop staring at me, crazy kitty.  You know I hate you...

and would never hold you...

Because you are evil.  And you make me sneeze.

So scat!

I'm not going to love you.

I'm not going to let you inside.

And I most certainly am not going to let you jump in my lap, nuzzle your head, and purr your wicked wiles upon my mortal soul, until you fall asleep and snore your sinful way into my heart.

No, I am going to stay strong.  For the good of my family.  For the good of society.  For the good of all cat-haters across the world.

Because I. Hate. Cats.

Welcome to the family, Zurg Johnson.

Achoo.

When Infertility Births Insanity: Picture Books of Hannah from "The Other Side"

When your heart aches for a child, you feel like you're on a solo train to nowhere.  Watching depots bustling with people you'll never step off to join.  Entering endless tunnels without the faintest glimmer of light.  Month-long journeys that circle right back to where you started from.  Only you carry more scars with each flip of the calendar.

In the desolation of your soul, you grab a book to search for consolation:

And read with fresh eyes.

You inflict the margins with the scars on your heart.

And find you have a sister.

But you know the name "Peninah."  You've lived the echoing pain that can radiate from those with close relational ties.  You endure intrusive questions and comments, yet you season your aura with grace.  Because the weight of this secret is somehow sanctified when shared solely with the Savior.

But the ride still feels lonely.

 You go through these...

...lots and lots of them.

Along the way, you learn you are not alone.  You have kindred spirits.

So you keep trying.  Waiting, wondering.  Constantly reminded month after month of dreams unfulfilled.  Confused as to what you could have possibly done wrong.

But still daring to hope...

 

...and imagining life as a "What if...."

Months evolve into years.

Until one day you feel unnaturally queasy...

...and get the shock of your life.

Suddenly, you turn a new chapter.  You are now on "The Other Side."

You are a conundrum.

Anticipating the future...

...yet painfully remembering those who are left behind.

You will never forget.

Then your time comes.  The cradled arms of your fulfilled heart radiate the joy that you are now "Mommy."  And it feels great...

...until about the third night of 1:07 a.m.

and...

and...

and...

and...

So you try a few tricks.  Tried-and-true methods...guaranteed to work.

You try it again

and again

and again

Night after night.  Month after month.  Generating a mental vocabulary you never dreamed possible.

For well over a year.

Until you finally realize your dream is the footnote to which magic recipes do not apply.

Your physical and emotional burnout clouds the shimmer of your once  joyous thanksgiving.  A new day has dawned.

A new chapter explored.

New books fill your library.  You read them over...

and over...

and over and over and over and over and over...

Until every absurdity you studied in college finally makes sense.

And just when you develop new meaning to the rhythms of living your heart's dream, you wake up one morning to acknowledge a flipside.

Now the battle to fulfill your deepest desire has become the battle with that deepest desire.

Until you're not sure how much more you can take.

And you feel guilty.

Guilty because you have everything you ever wanted badly enough to scar your books and secretly cry in desperation.  Guilty because you feel you don't deserve the grace to admit that what you expected to be occasional rough roads has become the most difficult ride of your life.

That just doesn't stop.

So you're back on that train to nowhere.

Feeling guilty.

Because you have not forgotten your journey.  You have not forgotten the sisters you left behind when you joined "The Other Side."  You remember what it's like to want something so badly that even morning sickness sounds like heaven.  To see the classic "mother with the screaming child at the supermarket" anecdote and yearn to be in her shoes.  To wish you had a reason to clutter your house and yard with bright plastic toys, to change poopy diapers, to endure sleepless nights.  Your mental chastisement never ceases because you have not forgotten.  You're forever etched with the knowledge that you have received the exact dream they want but cannot have.  So you should be grateful.

But you were disowned the minute the strip turned pink.  Your fulfilled desire has rendered you invalid and not worthy to feel their pain.  Nor do they want to know yours.

You are on "The Other Side," sister.

And Peninah is still here...

...giving all the answers.

 

Which you must quickly learn to manage.

...or else you'll drive yourself crazy from the failure complex wrought from the comparison game.

 So you learn "The Other Side" is its own third dimension.  You are neither here nor there.

Once again, you board the solo train to nowhere....

...and blush because you realize you left your book on the seat

.
..as well as your sister

So you visit for awhile, and revive your soul.

 

...and [Hannah] said to [Eli], "As surely as you live, my lord, I am the woman who stood here beside you praying to the Lord.  I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him.  So now I give him to the Lord.  For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord."  (I Samuel 1:26-28)

Your train has reached a destination.  A destination that is the beginning of a new journey.  You are not alone.  For as long as you wrestle with the complexities of your blessing, with the battles of motherhood, with the Hannah's and Peninah's of the world, you will give them to the Lord...

...over and over

...month after month

...for your entire life

...secretly carrying your scars

But made stronger because of them.

Because the Lord is gracious to Hannah as His children grow in Him (I Samuel 2:21).

You Are Mom

(To those of us who are not "such a good mom!")

Sometimes it feels like I am on the inside looking out.  Enviously watching the "such a good mom!s".  You know them.  I know them.  They tirelessly play games with their kids.  Make crafts.  Create innovative lesson plans.  Cherish those blow-the-fluff-off- the-dandelion moments that make the facebook newsfeed such a special place.  Modestly dipping heads in acknowledgement of the laud sure to follow:  "You're such a good mom!"

I am silent.  I watch, and I wonder...

How on earth are these women not cleaning toddler pee off their bathroom floor every ten minutes like I am?

I know the blessing of motherhood, its challenges and its rewards.  I know sometimes you have to snag the simple snippets of joy where you can before the flood of daily chaos overwhelms you.  I love my children.  But I also need a break from them.  The games I do play are the ones I play in my head...why can't I be "such a good mom!"? 

Well I hate playing games.  So today, I quit.  I am not "such a good mom!", and I'm ok with that.  And if I could write a comment on the status of every fellow woman who wearies in the midst of the "such a good mom!" battle, I would boldly declare:

We are good moms.

Because we get up every morning and strive for what does not come naturally to us, we are good moms. 

Because we constantly look inside ourselves to search for areas of improvement, we are good moms.

Because we struggle in hope that the greatest rewards come from a lifelong challenge, we are good moms.

Because we know that classic, tell-the-grandkids stories arise from the pull-your-hair-out antics of our crazy kids rather than the perfect obedience of boring kids, we are good moms.

Because we know that not always having 100% positive things to say about motherhood 100% of the time does not mean we aren't thankful for God's blessings or love our children any less, we are good moms.

Because we can appreciate dry humor as a great antidote to stress, we are good moms.

Because our children will feel love combined with the fact that the world does revolve around them, we are good moms.

Because we quickly learn that we mother by faith, not parenting books, not model families, we are good moms.

Because God gave our children to us
To bless us
To refine us
To teach us that He is holding onto us on the days we don't have the strength to reach out to Him,
Because He gave them to us
Not James Dobson, not the Duggars, not the Pearls...

Not "such a good mom!"

Because He gave them to us
we are "Mom"
because He is such a good God.

And I pray through these crazy days of lost tempers, zapped energy, and yes, even dribbled pee, somehow He is making us more like Him.