Insecurity Starts At 3??

It happened just moments ago. Another Mommy Heart Sunk moment. My three year old is having a hard time starting preschool for the first time. She cries, whines, and begs me not to go. I make her. This is life. I love her, but I also love her too much to not make her do hard things. Certainly, those hard things will help build her character...I rehearse to myself over and over again...because quite frankly, I don't want her to go either.
Today was picture day. I put her in this new purple and white stripe dress. She hates doing her hair. It actually never looks that great. You know...like those moms whose girls have curled hair and huge bows that look as if they are straight out of a magazine. Yep. But, no. We don't do hair like that.
I promised I would watch her from outside the window. I could see her, and she could see me. We were both happy. She walked timidly over to the teacher who was having the adorable preschoolers find their name card and place it on the calendar. Eleanor strolled over cautiously. She kept looking out the window to make sure I was still there. I stuck my tongue out at her and smiled. She smiled and giggled back. Awww... I love that girl. Then it happened. The little girl that looked like a fashionista strolled over by Eleanor. The teacher saw her and announced in her cutest, nicest teacher voice, "Oh my goodness. Don't you look so beautiful today." The beautiful girl smiled and continued on her way. My adorable toddler immediately looked down at herself. I could see her mind wondering why she didn't receive such a compliment. She looked at the fashionista again. And then down at her clothes again. She felt sad. Rejected. And so did I. No one did anything wrong. Nothing should or could have changed. Except for the fact that I felt like running in and hugging my daughter and looking in her eyes.
"Baby...welcome to life. I'm sorry you had to find out so young, but here you are. If I can teach you one thing...one vital piece of life: God doesn't look on the outside, but He looketh on the heart.  So guard that little heart with your life and I will be here to help you. If you help someone who is sad, play with someone who needs a friend, say nice words when you feel like saying mean ones...you will be the prettiest girl the world has ever seen. I know...because that's the way I already see you. And one day, you will see yourself the same.

The Chaos We Call Family Prayer

Family prayer is an anxiety inducer. I admit, there have been some nights that I actually silently pray that my husband will forget about calling all of our adorable little ones around us to close our long day with family prayer.  I've already spent my patience quota for the day and I'm not sure I have the reserve needed for another ten minutes.
"guys...get up here" "now" "no..you can't shower first" "I'm serious...get up here" "yes, you have to come" "who wants to say the prayer?" "Anyone...anyone?"
The 15 year old is sitting in a orange leather armchair with his body sprawled everywhere. He's staring at the ceiling wondering how many years he has until he is officially out of the house. The younger teenager drapes his skinny body over half the couch and refuses to move when his adoring younger brother starts crying because there's no room to sit by him. The six year old continues screaming to the point where you worry the neighbors will hear. You sternly tell the 13 year old to sit up so his brother can, for pete sake, sit by him. He rolls his eyes and then rolls his body onto the floor. If he can't use up half the couch...he won't use it at all. The ten year old kneels and is actually ready to pray. Phew. 1 out of 5. The baby refuses to say the prayer. That's fine. I'll pray. I start my prayer. About 10 seconds into the prayer, the baby shrieks at a deafening tone akin to the six year old. I open my eyes.
"I want to say it...I want to say it," she screams. I continue with my prayer that no one can hear over the screeching siren of the three year old. . I can't decide whether to stop my prayer and let her say it (I become an enabler) or keep saying a prayer that no one can hear. I always choose the former. I'm an enabler. It takes a minute for her to calm down and catch her breath. She prays.
So one may ask...why do you keep this practice going?  I'll tell you why. It has changed my heart and it has changed my life. You see, those family prayers have been a source of revelation. The Lord has worked through my children, to let me know the things I need to hear. The things I would never know they felt. Or feared. Or hoped for. Over the last fifteen years, I have heard these prayers uttered by my children...who really are God's children.  They just happen to be on loan to us for a brief amount of time.
"please help the sick kids at dad's work to not be sick anymore," "thank you for my Spiderman costume," "thank you for our cozy home," "please help no one to be mean to me at school," "please help mom's back to be better so she can run again," "thank you for dad's job so we can eat food," "please help me to not be scared at school," "please help the poor people to be less poor," "thank you for our cars that work," "please help dad to come home soon," " thank you for the new shirt mom bought me," "please help us to find the remote control," "please help us never go from the good side to the dark side," and I've even heard the sacred uttered words, "please help us so we can all live together forever."
And so we keep praying. Not perfectly. Not because I want to. But because we need to.  A child's prayer is a sacred song. So as long as they will sing, I will be there listening.

The Power of Goodness

I don't get it. How can a sliver, a moment, a second of goodness take away hours of grief? I just lay next to my baby girl. She was hard today. Not more than usual...just a normal toddler. Screaming, crying, throwing her food at me. You know, the typical day. But tonight, in a simple, solitary second, everything was good. I lay next to her as she drifted off to sleep. I pulled myself up just enough to see if her eyes were truly closed. And then it happened. A sliver of good. Her pale skin with closed eyelids. It was a second of hope. Of joy. Of peace. And that one, single second, will get me through dozens of days.
My sister has a teenage boy much like my own. She sweats, cries and runs herself ragged trying to raise him. She puts her everything in to raising a child that doesn't seem to care. And then one day she received a text message. "Thanks mom. I love you." A sliver of goodness and suddenly the hard times don't seem that bad.  Just. Like. That.
I guess I do have faith that good will prevail. It has too. There is corruption and cruelty at every level. There is heartache, headache and harassment.  We see betrayal, backbiting and banishment.  I sometimes feel as if there is no hope. Until I realize the power of good.  Evil will not win. It cannot. Because in every sliver of goodness, is a piece of the almighty God. He will win. It may not seem possible, but it has to be.  Simply because God can do more good in one second, than men can do in years. And He will continue to do so. If we only stop and look. Over and over again.

Those Awkward Times When You Realize You Aren't As Young As You Used To Be

1. You are invited to playgroup with all of the young moms at your church.  You glance around the room and smile awkwardly. You have just realized that if every person in this room were to get pregnant, you would be the only one to qualify for a high risk pregnancy due to advanced maternal age.

2. Your husband texts you from work. "Hey honey. So I went to the gym today and worked out. However, I threw my back out getting dressed." Hmmmm..when you need ibuprofen after getting dressed in the morning, it's not looking good.

3. Day after day you stare at the cute young parents walking to pick their kids up from school. You are silently embarrassed. You think to yourself from your air conditioned car, "yeah...I did that too...10 years ago. Jerk."

4. My husband got a job offer because someone told him that they  were hoping for a "more experienced looking" candidate.

5. You're three year old can outrun you. Granted, I have nerve damage down my right leg. But come on...she's THREE!

6.  You used to wake up several times night to feed a crying baby.  Now you wake up several times a night to go to the bathroom.

7. On the same note, during an amazingly terrible karaoke rendition of "The Devil Went Down To Georgia" at a Christmas party, you abruptly cut your act short because you are praying no one can see the urine running down your legs.

8. As long as we are being honest here...the rebel in you decides to take your rebelliousness to the next level. Seriously. Wait for it....just wait. Yep. That's right. We are staying up past 10:00 tonight. Not sure what we are going to do. But we are doing it.

A Talk With My Teenager

It was dinnertime. Dinnertime and chaos are synonymous at our house. I had kids all over the kitchen whining and spilling food in all sorts of random places. I looked out to the backyard. It was green, breezy and quiet. I silently slipped outside by myself and hoped no one would see me eating alone is peace.
Awwww.
This was the life.
I then gazed back through the sliding glass door and saw my teenage son. My heart knew I wanted something much more than a moment of peace. I wanted my son to talk to me.
I beckoned him outside to sit with me. He complied. Not willingly, but he complied.
I stared at him in silence for a moment. You see, he really has nothing to talk to me about. But I have so much I wish I could say. I would have said,
"remember all those times we used to laugh together?"
"remember when we slid down the stairs in sleeping bags?"
"remember when I accidentally killed your beta fish?"
remember, remember, remember...
But he has grown.
He's a teenager.
And very good at it.
But I had him here, on this gorgeous night, all by myself.
 I decided to tackle the elephant in the room.
"So when did you start not liking me?"
He looked at me.
And smiled.
I love that smile.
"Ummm..it was probably sometime in eighth grade."
I've always loved his honesty. That kid is as honest as the day is long.
I respond,
"so you haven't liked me for about 18 months?"
"yeah..probably."
"Well,  you're brother still likes me and he just turned 13. How much longer do you think I have with him until he starts not liking me either?"
He smiled again.
"I'd say...you're lucky if you get another year."
I smiled back.
It was a beautiful night. I silently thanked God that my son was talking to me. Even if it was just about his dislike for me.
Moms of teenagers learn very quickly to be grateful for anything.
I used to enjoy his voice, but I've learned to accept a glance in my direction. I used to be a welcome guest in his room at night, but I am now grateful that he lets me in the door if only to say goodnight.
I used to take him out to dinner, but now I'm just glad he says thank you when I bring dinner home to him. I used to love when he said, "I love you too," but I know...deep down, he kindof still likes me. He may possibly even love me.
He has just temporally forgotten.

Is It Worth Growing Up?

I slipped half consciously into her pale teal and purple room. She was laying beautifully in her bed. I felt prompted to ask her about how she felt about growing up. She stared at me. She is 10 years old as of last month. We chatted about what the next few years has in store for her. As I was talking, her little chin started quivering.
"Oh, no. does this scare you?" I asked.
She nodded that little tween head and couldn't speak...afraid if she did, tears would surely come. She was desperately trying not to cry.
My heart was aching.
I told her my story about how I didn't want to grow up either. I felt the same way. I wished God had made me a boy because then I wouldn't have to deal with all of the unfair girl stuff.
Her chin continued to quiver.
Her dad walked in at that moment.
"What's wrong babe?"
She could no longer contain the tears.
"I don't want to grow up," she feebly replied.
He hugged her. Again and again.
I wiped her tears and spoke.
"Hey, I know it's not fun...but guess what? It's all worth it. Do you know why?"
"Why?" she whispered as she continued to wipe those innocent tears.
"Because one day, you will be sitting on a bed with your own little Ne Ne. And you're going to realize that you wouldn't give up that moment for anything in the world."
She smiled.
We went to bed.
The next day, I was busy sending some random text message to some random person. It was so important I can't even remember what it was. But she kept holding up her pinky finger wanting me to promise something.
"Just a minute, just a minute," I hastily replied.
I finally turned to her and asked what was so important.
She stuck her pinky in my face and told me that I had to pinky promise her something.
"It depends," I answered with a half smile.
"Promise me that growing up is worth it?"
I looked around. I laughed out loud.
I pointed her to one corner of the kitchen where the baby was licking a melted popsicle off the table. In another corner a toddler boy was having a tantrum. A thirteen year old boy was bored and asking what we were going to do for the rest of the day. A fifteen year old boy was cooking ramen in the dirty kitchen.
I held up my pinky finger and locked it with hers.
“Absolutely," I assured her.
"Life doesn't get any better than this!"
I pulled her matted, blonde head into my chest and kissed it. Over and over again.
"Absolutely."

When I Paid My Son To Stand Up To His Bully

He was in fourth grade. I saw it every day. The moment he slowly walked out of his school with his head hung down.  He carried the weight and sadness of being a victim of an elementary school bully.  "Retarded. Weird. Stupid. Idiot. Loser." All of the words that hurt. Sometimes it got physical. The school counselor was aware. The principal was aware. The behavior continued. I am a mom. I did what moms do. I took that little boy in my arms and I told him exactly what would happen if he finally stood up for himself.  I explained that the adults at his school weren't protecting him. I get it. I come from a family of educators. They can't deal with every issue. I have no doubt they had bigger problems than my son's bully.  But we were going to end this together.  I told that blonde hair little boy that I had five dollars just for him. The moment the bully touched him, my son was to push him back. And if he did this, I would have his money ready. And I would be so proud.

Several days later I saw that same little blonde boy exit the school and walk proudly toward my car. His head held high. I couldn't help but smile as he walked toward me. He entered the car. His smile was magnificent.
"Why are you smiling?" I asked slyly.
"I pushed him back. I get five bucks."
I smiled along with him. I held up the money and he grabbed it with delight.
We won.
The school counselor called the next day. He explained that there was an issue the day earlier. My kid had started an altercation by the drinking fountain. I explained kindly that the other little boy had actually started the altercation by shoving my child's face in the drinking fountain while my son was trying to get a drink. I explained that I had given my son explicit directions to stand up for himself. I told him that not only was I proud of my son, but I also gave him monetary reimbursement for his behavior.
The counselor didn't know how to respond. He told me that they prefer not to deal with bullies in this way. I was very sincere. I explained that I have a responsibility to protect my son. Well, actually, teach my son how to protect himself. I continued to tell the counselor that the way the school was dealing with it was not working.   I further told him that he did not have my permission to ever discipline my son again if it pertains to him defending himself.
The bully never bothered him again.
I have a soft spot in my heart for school bullies.  So often they are fighting a bigger battle than any eye can see. I loved my son's bully because he was a child who was silently aching inside. Our children have a responsibility to always be kind and accepting. But they should never have to be a victim.

Are we done having kids?

I'll be honest. I was pretty exhausted after three. Somehow we ended up with five.  Every parent knows there comes a time when you must decide, "how much more can we handle?" My husband and I recently had this conversation. It's not a decision that you take lightly. However, if you're anything like me, sometimes every day experiences can be blazing sirens of warning that help you make your decision a little easier.

1. I was driving my two oldest boys somewhere and thought I'd ask their opinion.
"What would you guys think about having another baby?"
My oldest son's mouth dropped wide open.
"No. Absolutely not. Don't you think we already have enough of those things running around this house?"
"What things?" I ask somewhat perplexed.
"KIDS. They everywhere."
 Point taken. I guess that's a no.

2. My baby wakes up and begs incessantly for chocolate ice cream. I give it to her as I load up the other kids for carpool.  Yep. I am giving my three year old chocolate ice cream in the car for breakfast. I actually find myself feeling extremely grateful. At least it's only ice cream. It could be worse. If she asked for a piece of cake to go with it, I'd probably give that to her too. I realize I am too tired to fight the battle. I've been doing it for fifteen years. Being grateful for an ice cream breakfast probably shouldn't be a thing.

3. You are filling out a permission form for your daughters dance class. Your daughter looks over your shoulder in horror. Her heart is broken and her exasperation tells me I have done something terribly wrong.
"What did I do?" I softly question.
"Mom, you didn't even put my right birthday. Do you even know when my birthday is?"
I looked at the form I had just filled out. I couldn't tell. It seemed right to me.
"Are you sure that's not your birthday?"
"Are you kidding me right now, mom?"
I looked again.
Yup.
She was right.
It was her brothers birthday.
"Shoot, sorry babe. I totally know your birthday. Just give me a second. It will come to me. I promise."
I sit there racking my brain going through each child's birthday and birth year.
I finally figure hers out.
"See. I told you, I totally know your birthday."
She was mortified.
"Mom, I think you have too many kids."
 She may be right.

4. School carnivals. My hip, younger self could hardly wait to donate all of my time, talents and resources to make the school carnival amazing. This year I found myself standing in the middle of bounce houses, cotton candy and snow cone machines feeling completely dazed. I felt so overwhelmed. Instead of cheering and counting how many milk bottles my 5 year old was triumphantly knocking over, I found myself fumbling for my phone. I pulled up the calculator and figured out just how many school carnivals I had left in my future. I realized if I had another baby...I'd have to add another 3 years... which means three more carnivals.

5. See #4.  When you have to pull out your phone because mental math seems nearly impossible in your current emotional state, it may be time to reconsider your priorities. 10 (age at which my child graduates elementary school) - 3 (age of my youngest child) to find out that indeed I do have 7 more school carnivals in my future. SEVEN. That's 7 more raffle baskets I will guilt myself into organizing, 7 more thanksgiving feasts, 7 more teacher appreciation pots of chili,  7 holiday parties that need donations and 7 times to bring in a special birthday treat.

So, yeah. I think we're done. However, my brother just sent me a beautiful picture of his newborn son. I cried. He looked so perfect. So amazing. So straight from Heaven. A piece of my heart was aching. Maybe I want one more.

And then I remembered the school carnivals.

The Parable of the Granite Countertops

We've been married nearly 17 years. We have lived in 5 states and 8 houses.  We've had 1 beta fish, 1 leopard gecko, 1 garter snake with 30 little garter snake babies, 2 kittens and 5 kids. No granite countertops.
I find myself taking my two little kids down to my favorite granite warehouse. They sell remnants. I stroll down the remnant isles dreaming of what could be mine. I know how many square feet we need. I've measured. I've made my husband measure. I've priced it out. Over and over again. After all my hard work and research, we still have the dark, outdated brown and black swirling laminate countertops. There is absolutely nothing wrong with them. No reason to rip them out. They are sturdy, durable and clean up fairly well. But everyone else has granite. Well, actually, I'm starting to worry that I completely missed the granite era. All of my friends are now ripping out their granite and replacing it with an even durable quartz. Seriously? That could be even farther away in my future. Maybe never.
I think about granite as I fade to sleep. I dream of the light, beautiful stone sprawling across my long, open kitchen. It would look amazing. I would be so happy. So blissfully happy...for a moment.
If only granite could buy happiness, we would all be set.
I know too much. I've lived too long.  No amount of granite can make me happy. It is a fact of life. As soon as I install my dream granite, my wants will immediately go to something else.  My happiness will still be unfulfilled even after my prince in shining granite comes with his beautiful granite truck. It makes me so sad. Yet, unequivocally happy.
It's all too simple.  It requires my time, not my credit card. It requires me to find joy in the present, instead of dreaming of the future.
Don't get me wrong, if the chance arrives, I will be driving speedily down to my granite warehouse and picking out the most beautiful granite remnant you have ever seen. And I will be happy. For a moment. But I will know in my heart, that it is temporary. Just like all worldly possessions. The happiness will fade and be replaced with another want.
Luckily for all of us, true happiness, or joy, is not bought. It is earned.  Joy is a smile running toward my car in a school parking lot, a jump hug in my arms  and a soccer game in the backyard.  It is my 15 year old getting behind the steering wheel for the first time and my 5 year old being snack boy at preschool.  Joy is fifteen hugs and kisses at bedtime, and a laughing hysteria as I chase the kids around the house.  It is watching their smile light up a room when they find my random love notes in random places.
It takes my most selfish resource, my time.
Luckily, joy is something we can all afford. God gave us everything we need to find it.
He just forgot the granite countertops at the Ford house.
I’m starting to think it was on purpose.

Why I Don't Apologize For My Messy House Anymore

If you would have happened to stop by my house a couple of years ago, our conversation would have probably gone something like this:
"Hey, it's so good to see you. Sorry my house is a mess. I've been trying to clean but my kids keep creating messes that I can't seem to keep up with."
You would have been polite and said something like this,
"Oh, don't worry about it. It looks great. It's so hard to keep a house clean with kids."

Not. Anymore.

Now you come over and I try not to say anything.
I own it. Did you hear me? I OWN it.

I've had at least one toddler roaming my Sherwin-Williams beige painted walls for over 15 years now. I have another 15 years to go.  I keep painting them. And washing them. And painting some more. It's not as if I don't try to keep my home looking fresh and clean. I do. In fact, I believe in the age old proverb that indeed,  "cleanliness is next to godliness."  But I also believe something even more.

I believe that to embrace motherhood in its entirety, you will miraculously find yourself reverently wondering if God could possibly love you just as much as you love the little hands that leave dirt on your walls. And suddenly, the dirt on the wall becomes a sacred stain that forces you to understand how much you, yourself, are truly loved by your creator. The stain becomes an emblem. A flag of victory. A sealing to your calling in this life.
I am a mom.
I choose the little feet before the little messes. I choose the building blocks before the building frustration.
There's one thing that occupies my mind each day.
"In 15 years...what will I regret the most?"
It shapes me.  It haunts me.
I know I won't regret a messy house, but I will certainly regret a missed moment.
I will regret not pushing my child on the swing, or playing tackle football in the yard.  I will regret not going to the park or playing in the mud. I will regret yelling. Or losing my cool. I'll regret not pushing trains around the track and not memorizing all the names of the fiercest dinosaurs. I will regret not putting down the phone when they ask me a question.  I will regret not making them mow the lawn. I will regret not letting them light fireworks in the driveway and matches on their birthday cakes. I will regret not letting them struggle to solve their own problems.  I will regret not laying down at night with each child in their bed, reassuring them of my love. Even when they ask me not to.
I try to spend my days doing the things I hope I will never regret. Not the things I hope you see.
You will see my house and you will see my kids.
If you happen to see the sacred stain on my painted walls, I just want you to know,
I will not apologize.
I choose them.

My Husband. Your Doctor.

Speeding through town, I had just dropped off a kid at football practice. I raced back to the church to drop off another kid,  then drove quickly to a soccer practice for a third.  At about 7:00, I start to lose my cool.  I'm used to my husband being late. But tonight I was frustrated. I sat in the parking lot with two babies, strapped in their seatbelts, fidgeting and whining behind me. I sent a rather mean spirited text to my husband.

"You said you would be home tonight to help with carpools. Where are you?"

He responded,

"I'm sorry honey. I just made a grown man cry like a baby. I'm doing my best to hurry"
You see, my husband is a pediatric hematologist/oncologist. That's code for a kid cancer doctor.

I stared.
At that blasted phone.
It was that same phone I stared at months ago after driving with five kids in a freezing Nebraska blizzard to our child's' first piano recital. James never came.  I had to take the two disruptive little kids out.  I missed the performance. I sent a similar frustrated text to my husband.

He responded,

"I'm sorry honey. We just got some labs back for a patient. I had to tell his parents that there was nothing more we could do. They are crying. They asked if I could please help them tell their son."

These are not isolated instances. This is our life. A mom at home trying desperately to save her family. A dad at the hospital trying desperately to save yours.
I continue to stare at the phone. Ashamed at my frustration. Knowing a family needs my husband much more than I.  I sit in the parking lot and cry for you. I bow my head as our minivan becomes a sacred altar and I pray for you.  And I pray for him. Every night. That he will be inspired how to help you. And your baby. I don't know who you are. And I never will. But we share something in common. My husband. And your doctor.

He leaves the house before the kids are at school. He misses soccer games, Scouting Court of Honors, piano recitals and football practices. We chose this life. And we chose it together. I forgive his absence. And he forgives my frustration.

My husband has two lives. Ours and yours.  I'm grateful that he's mine. And grateful that he's yours. There's no one else I'd rather share him with. I think he's pretty great. And sometimes I really miss him when he's with you. But I know you need him more.

Why does my husband always get hit on, and I never do?

 Seriously...people of my gender... when did a wedding ring became an invitation?
I will be completely honest with you. If I ever considered having an affair, it would not be with a married man. Chances are, he has kids. I've already got plenty of those.

He started getting hit on in residency. An older woman came up to him in a patient room (just the two of them) and pronounced, "Um-um. I could drink champagne straight out of your dimples." Wow. Even I had never thought of doing that.

Once at a medical conference, a girl came up to him at a restaurant. He was sitting with his colleagues. Apparently, in his words, she was pretty attractive. She brushed his shoulder and gave him the eye. He ignored her. But his buddy didn't. He saw what was going on and said, "hey, if you're not going after that, I will."

In fellowship, another woman called him, "Dr. Sexy."

I try to explain to him that he gets hit on because he happens to be a doctor. My mom is married to a doctor. She warned me a long time ago that it would happen. But he is sure it is because he is so darn good looking.

Your not alone in wondering what may be wrong with me. Why doesn't anyone want to drink champagne from my dimples?

In my defense:
My car smells like old French fries and spoiled milk (and that's after I've been through the car wash).
I have a gut that hangs over my pants because I can't give up Coke. Oh, and in case you missed it, I carried five children in there too.  I am hardly ever, without at least one child with a runny nose and bare feet. And let's be honest, school book fairs and PTA meetings aren't really known for being pick-up parties. Let's just say, I don't get out much.
And to be honest, if anyone wanted to hit on a mom with five kids, I don't think they are in it for the long haul.

So here I stand. With a hit on husband. I love how he thinks it's funny.  He is my Dr. Sexy. And I get to be his best friend.  Maybe one day I'll even get hit on too. But for now,
I think I'll go drink some Coke from his dimples.

Being a YES Parent

It's not easy...I know. Trust me, I am one of you. We all know that it is easier to let them play video games then let them outside. It is easier to do it for them, instead of letting them fail trying to figure it out. Luckily for me, I was blessed with this kid. He refuses to take NO for an answer. And so I have learned. I have learned the blessings of becoming a YES parent. It's as if we all want strong, independent, confident children...but don't have the patience to let them become such. It's messy. It's tiring. No, actually...it's downright exhausting. And above all, it is humbling. I decided a long time ago, that I would not care what my neighbors thought of us. It isn't easy. There is an invisible social norm to raising children. And I don't fit it. My house isn't white and beautiful. It's worn and tired. My walls have marks and the carpet has stains. Mud lingers in the entryway. Hand prints line the windows. Pillow pits and blanket forts greet you at every turn. Play doh and paint have left my table stained. But I am devoted to YES. The word NO is reserved for running in the street, doing drugs and having sex before marriage.
When you become a YES parent, your life may look something like this...

broken chairs become catapults

and drum sets shouldn't cost you anything

people will stare

and neighbors wonder why...

wanting something doesn't mean buying it, but rather, creating it

bedspreads are meant to be the home of solace seeking activities

 costumes are never purchased

power drills have no minimum age limit

and haunted houses appear in your driveway

laundry baskets become machines of creative movement

Playing with fire...well, it actually should be accompanied with gloves. My fault. For reals.

kids actually really don't need you hovering over them in the kitchen

and no one said you need a fishing pole.

Next time you find your child doing something out of the invisible social norm:  Breathe. I suggest closing your eyes. And just say,
"YES"

Side Note: One day I was explaining to Jake that he is going to be a millionaire because his mom was so amazing and always let him invent things. As a payback, I was wondering if he would pay for my nursing home care when I get super old. He thought for a minute. He smiled.
"O.K. Here's the deal. I'll pay for your nursing home. Just don't think you're getting the best one." 
Hmmm...can't wait for my economy living conditions! Thanks buddy. 

Have my last 15 years been in vain?

I was in the car with these two teens. We were talking. Not sure about what. But my oldest decided to take the conversation in a different, unexpected direction.
"Mom, I can honestly say that I don't think you have ever given me one piece of advice that has actually been helpful."
I thought he was joking.
"You're joking, right?"
"No..I'm serious."
"Wait...you're joking, right?"
"No...I don't think you've ever given me any advice that has helped me to be a better person."
I was dumbfounded,
I didn't know what to do..so I laughed.
And then his younger brother figured it was a good time to air all the dirty laundry.
"Oh yeah, and mom. You REALLY stress me out."
"What is going on here, guys...what are you talking about?"
"Well..it's just that when you get stressed...I get super stressed because you're so stressed."
"Jake, I am seriously like the most laid back mom I know. I let you destroy my house. I let you cook in my kitchen and use the drill and hammer and nails and, and, and...I was trailing off."
I was in a state of shock.
"Mom, I think your laid backness actually makes you stressed."

O.K. I couldn't help but laugh. I had to do something besides cry.
Perhaps the last 15 years of my life had been in vain. All of this stay-at-home mom stuff was a waste. Perhaps a day care lady would have given them better advice? I continued to drive home in a stupor of thought. They were both dead serious. I had to do something...fast. I saw a McDonalds up ahead.
"I don't know about you guys...but I need a coke. And you need ice cream."
Upon receiving their ice cream, they both said, "thank you, mom."
I won.
I smiled to myself.
I guess my last 15 years weren't in vain. I was forced to praise myself because obviously no one else was going to.  Alright, Jessie. You're rockin in.
After 15 years, you've raised brutally honest, grateful for ice cream boys.

P.S. Later that night, Will admitted that if it makes me feel any better...his dad has never given him any good advice either. So yeah, I feel better now.

Best Friends

Long story short. I was laying in bed when I opened an email from my 9 year old daughters church leader. It was not good. Basically, my daughter and her friends were not being respectful. I almost started crying. When you get an email like that as a mom, you are irrationally thinking that between the lines, the lady was basically saying..."so, I'm not going to put up with your sub-par parenting anymore." Which was absolutely not the case. But that's how I insecurely felt.
The next day I spent making homemade chocolate chip cookies. When Naomi got home from school, she wrote an apology letter. She was crying. She felt terrible. She knew I wasn't happy. We drove to her teacher's house.  Her teacher was very kind and appreciative. It was over. Apology accepted. Forgiveness granted. She was done.

As we drove home, Naomi was desperately trying not to cry.  I looked over at her. My heart melted with love. She is my best nine year old friend, after all. We have had talks before about how in Heaven, we are going to be more like friends than like mother/daughter. Sometimes we refer to each other as best friends. Cause that's what it will be like in Heaven.
I reached out my hand toward that tender-hearted, precious daughter. She grabbed it and clung to it as if I had just offered her the most amazing olive branch. She held my arm so tight. I started crying. Tears were streaming.
I heard myself say, "Babe...we can still be best friends. But today...I had to be your mom."
She nodded as if she completely understood. We looked at each other. And smiled.
And cried happy tears.

"Just a Mom"

My husband in a doctor. I'm not. In fact, I have a degree in English.  Whenever I am asked what I do, I instantly reply, "I'm just a mom." Sometimes I worry I am not enough. Sometimes I wonder what I am actually contributing to the world. I mean, my husband is saving kids with cancer for heaven sakes. I clean urine off the toilet seats. I do a great job at the urine cleaning and all...but it's not like I need a doctorate for it. But sometimes, just sometimes, my urine cleaning is put aside for just a moment. And something like this happens. 
I lay there in a king size bed. Smashed between two toddler bodies. One a boy. And one a 

girl.  It was late and dark. My four year old son lay on my right side. He quietly slid into silent slumber. I could hear his breathing slow, and then become almost inaudible. A sign of his passing into dreamland. My toddler girl, on the other hand lay to my left. She was uneasy. Perhaps hyper.  I was exhausted and couldn’t bear the thought of getting out of bed one more time. I tried all of my old tricks. Singing, scratching the back, whispering secrets in her ear. Nothing. Nothing worked. I finally decided to lay there. Still as can be. Maybe she would see that everyone was asleep and join her brother in his dreams. I lay beside her. Breathless. Pretending. She didn’t take the bait. She felt around in the dark for my familiar face. She reached her skinny, short, warm clammy arms around my neck. She squeezed my face next to her chest. I felt like I was being strangled just like a prey to a reticulated python…I knew every constricting snake, thanks to my years of reading disgusting bedtime stories to my now older boys. Even after years of trying to forget the disturbing snake images in children’s books, I could still see that reticulated python strangling it’s prey. I was now the prey. To a three year old little girl. But this time, it wasn’t disturbing. Not even at all. I struggled to breath in her death grip. I tried to breathe as quietly as possible. Her movements softened. Slowly. The adorable 3 year old python had it’s 38 year old tired, exhausted prey. The prey found herself to be unexplainably…happy. Perhaps even…joyful. I lay there in bed. Staring blankly at the dark ceiling. The python quietly slipped into slumber. Her grip still held my neck in firm choking stance. But that night, I lay there.  Strangely struggling to breathe. Completely at peace. Thinking that this moment, was worth a thousand bad ones. That at this one, little piece of time, I couldn’t have wanted to be anything…anything. But “just a mom.”

When an MRI is a welcome break...

Living 1000 miles from any family has its challenges. The biggest challenge? Getting up the nerve to ask my already worn out, tired out, dried out mom friends to babysit.  I only call in a favor when it's necessary. I hate asking. I know my kids. They're hard. Ive taken them to ultrasounds, pelvic exams, therapy appointments and anything that isn't absolutely neccesary that may implicitly state, "no children allowed." An MRI is one of those occasions. I hate to admit my mom fail's...but I have even made my seventh grader stay home from school for an extra hour to babysit so I don't have to ask a friend. Terrible...I know. But don't judge. If you are judging...you probably live by your mom.
I dropped my little's at my friend's house. Got in the minivan and sped down the road. I sat in the waiting room with my white, cotton, open in the back hospital gown. I waited impatiently to be taken back. I felt a huge guilt making my friend watch my kids. I really, really wanted them to hurry this thing up. It was my fourth MRI in four years. I knew the drill. It would take about 20 minutes once I was in. Come on, come on...I kept thinking.
And then it hit. There was a magazine on the table. I heard myself breathe. I heard everything. The buzzing of the machine. Opening of doors. It was eerily quiet. I sat back in the chair. I changed my tune. I started thinking, "take your time, take your time."
It was finally my turn. She slid my body into the claustrophobic intensely nerve wracking tube. The tube in which you could not escape. I laughed out loud. I was in heaven. I was stuck on my back. I couldn't move. Not even budge. They reminded me that I had to be as still as possible. I lay there. Quietly. Peacefully. Heavenly. The loud pounding noise from the machine pulsated my body. I felt relaxed. Minute after minute. I was hoping it wouldn't end. Finally she announced from the speaker, "this is your last one." "it will be four minutes."
I felt like crying. I only had four minutes left! It wasn't enough.
I was escorted to the locker room and put my clothes back on. My insurance paid 20 minute visit to the MRI spa was over.
I walked my depressed self back to wait for the doctor to give me the results. The nurse came in to see how I did. I admitted that it was the best 20 minutes of my week. She burst out laughing. "You've got to be kidding," she replied. "Everybody hates those things."
I responded.
"With all due respect, if anybody hates those things...it's because they don't have enough kids."
That was AMAZING!

Food Issues

I have food issues.  I have no idea how it started.  I honestly cannot let my kids go to bed hungry. If you are one of those moms that tells their child that if they don't eat what you made for dinner then they can go to bed hungry...just FYI...I am the complete opposite. It's not a good thing. It's a weakness. Big, big weakness.
Example:
Dinnertime at the Ford house. (this is NOT made up)
"Ok guys...it's dinner time. Everyone get in here."
"What's for dinner, mom?"
"Spaghetti with homemade bread and salad."
"Oh...I don't like that kind of meat sauce."
"Can you make me some ramen?"
"I think if I get rid of the red sauce off the meat, I can use the meat to make a taco."
The baby just stared at her plate and then crawled down and left without a single word.

What would a normal mother do? Tell them that's their only option.
I'm not normal.
"Sure...I'll make you ramen."
"Here Jake, here are some taco shells for you to make a taco."
"Do you just want a bowl of cereal instead?"
"Oh wow. Naomi you're actually eating my dinner? Thanks, babe."

Yup. That's about every night at the Ford house. Every. Single. Night.
I make a fairly healthy, four food group kind of meal. Four of the five children end up with a bowl of cereal or ramen. Maybe settle for a pop tart or two.

Why do I let them get away with this?
I will tell you why.
I have ISSUES.
I cannot...let me kids go to bed hungry. It's as if I think they are going to wither away and die if they skip a meal. It's not normal. But, alas. We all have our issues. Mine could be worse.

I decide I am done trying. That's it. I'M DONE. I'm not cooking dinner anymore.
But we all know I'm just talk.
I will wake up again tomorrow.
Worry about dinner all day.
Make the blessed dinner.
And then make three more dinners for the kids who don't want to eat the first one I made.
And so it goes.
The cycle of my motherhood eating issues.
But we all know that I will do it.
Again...and again...and again.
Because after all the cooking, the worrying, the clean up and the sighs of exasperation...
I will do it every day of my life.
Because they are the ones who make me happy.
I tell my kids the reason that mothers love their kids so much...is because they serve them so much.
It's just as Christ taught us. You love those you serve.
Well...I really, really, really love my kids. I must be doing a good job serving them.
A dang good job!

Then and Now...

All posts after this one, are from my earlier years of being a young mom with 3 and 4 kids. My husband was going through Medical School, Pediatric Residency and finally Pediatric Hematology/Oncology fellowship. It was almost four years ago that he were able to finally take his first, "real job" as a Pediatric Hematologist/Oncologist at Omaha Children's Hospital. We now have five kids and our oldest is now 15. The next is 13. The next is 10. Then down to 5 and finally, 3.

I took an almost five year break from composing our families memories. As I have been reading these old posts, my desire to be a better mom is overcrowding my desire for my kids to grow up...as I have been carpooling to four different schools all year... I've been thinking, "I can't wait for Will to drive....I can't wait for Luke to start Kindergarten....I can't wait...I can't wait...I can't wait." 

The truth of the matter is, I CAN wait. And I want to wait. These old memories have been forgotten all too quickly. Our lives have changed. We have changed. I am re-committing myself to motherhood. My greatest joy and certainly my greatest journey. Join me as I tackle teenage years...who knew?? 

I've never done it before. Unfortunately, I don't think I am very good at it. But here we go....

Paydays, Promotions and Praises

As a mother, I have found that unlike my husband, I do not recieve the wordly definition of paydays, promotions and prasies. I Never get paid, the only promotions I have recieved is going from one kid to two, and than again from two kids to three...if that counts as a promotion. The praise I get is usually self-recognition. When I really need to feel appreciated, I will hint to James what a great mom I am and he usually agrees. Praise enough...I guess. This weekend I have found another aspect that seperates motherhood from the workforce. Sickdays. This weekend I have felt incredibly worn out, tired, and have had a horrible sore throat. I really think I might have mono. I have been battling this thing for a couple months now and it never seems to go away. However, no matter how cruddy I feel, I am never able to take a day off to recover. Not only am I not able to take a sick day, I find myself taking 5 kids all by myself on a nature walk through the woods, play in a stream for two hours, watch my three year old catch his firstfrog, empty out a similac container and help him make a "natural habitat" for our new found froggy friend so that we can take it home and show daddy, feed kids three meals a day plus snacks, put kids to bed and wake with them in the middle of the night, and everything else that all mothers already know. Why can't I take a "sick day."? It is a very interesting thought. I paged James yesterday and told him how sick I was and asked if he could get off early. I knew he wouldn't be able to, but I thought I would throw it out there. I thought about calling a babysitter. However, I would have to put all three kids in the car, pick her up, and of course, pay her. I didn't have the energy. Here's the deal. Motherhood is not a job. It is a lifestyle. It cannot qualify as a job becasue I cannot quit, I cannot take a day off, I do not get paid, I cannot expect promotions or praise. I will never be able to kick my feet up on the golf course enjoying a relaxing retirement. I will never be able to go shopping without thinking first, what my kids need. This is motherhood. Perhaps, for some, this may not seem like any way to live. For me, it's the only way. I couldn't imagine missing my three year old catch his first frog, my three month old smiling with the first bow that I have ever made in my life, and seeing my five year old imagine up mud pies and imaginary adventures in the midst of good freinds. Yes, I would like a sick day. Perhaps today. But I must be truthful and answer this question. Would I take it? I am not sure. I never want to miss a moment. So yes, I could complain that motherhood is hard, that there are no breaks, time-offs or prasie. As for the pay-days. I still can't afford new dining room chairs, but for some reason, I think that I would rather be making natural habitats for frogs. 

Happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day
It's not even half over.
But it's been so, uh..."everyday"... I wanted to write down every detail as it is fresh in my mind.
James woke me up at 6:00 A.M. and kissed me goodbye. I'll see him tomorrow afternoon. Maybe.
I slept in. We were 10 minutes late for church.
I left the house a mess. Bowls of cereal still on the table. Cinnamon roll frosting smeared all over.
Did I mention it was Mother's Day?
Naomi didn't want to sit with me.
She kept calling my best friend mommy and sat on her lap.
My friend already has three kids of her own. I thought about going to retrieve my daughter but I didn't want to deal with the screaming of taking her away from her "pseudo-mommy" so I made an executive decision. I let my friend deal with her.
The Primary children were than called up to sing the Mother's Day song.
Jake and William looked so cute. Matching in their dress shirts and ties.
Until Jake started strangling his brother from the stand.
Neither of them were singing. Jake just put both of his arms around Williams head to stop him from singing. William kept trying to whack them away.
Luckily, they only bulldozed two other children in the choir.
I was getting off my seat in the very back of the chapel to go and retrieve my disruptive boys...
(it was that bad) until another adult stood up and pulled them apart and continued to
stand by them.
On the way back to sit with me, Jake was tripped and fell flat on his face.
Naomi kept clinging to my friend calling her "mommy."
Later, Naomi had to be removed from Nursery. She was a hazard.
Her yelling, hitting and kicking the teacher landed her in a room by herself.
I just wanted to let you all know from my heart to yours,
Happy Mother's Day.

Costco

I had to pull over right before the freeway entrance to let my little children use the concrete parking lot for a restroom. Even Nomsi took her shorts all the way off and went potty on the ground just like her brothers. Her urine was all over her and I made a mental note to give her a bath later. For now, just get back in your seats.

We arrived at Costco. Super Sample Saturday. We tried everything. Some things twice. A lady saw me as I steered my cart away from running into hers becasue my three children were hanging off different directions. Why would any of them sit down when they could hang off the sides? She looked at me and said, "God bless you for bringing three children here all by yourself."

I smile. "My husband is never home." 

Three seconds later, in the back end of the mega warehouse center, my newly potty trained 2 year old says, "uh-oh, potty."

I quickly pick her up and hold her against my side. With the pressure on me, I knew she could hold it. We grabbed our last few things when I forgot about her potty need. I set her down. We walked toward the check out line...followed by a steady stream of urine and glances from many onlookers. I wouldn't have noticed if no one had been looking at me. Crap. What do I do? I actually just kept walking. A 15 foot stream of urine kept running. A middle aged man walked by and says, "it looks like somebody sprung a leak." I smiled. And kept walking. I was humiliated.

We checked out. We took another potty break. 

I bought three hot dogs and a piece of cheese pizza for me. I have a commitment with myself to only have one Coke a day. I sat there at the beverage dispenser toying with the idea of either Coke or Sprite. Forget it, I thought, this is definitely a two Coke day. Maybe three. I watched the flavored sugar liquid fill my cup and savored the taste of the caffeine on my throat.. I loaded the groceries. I loaded the kids. I passed out hot dogs. Jake didn't want his. He wanted pizza. 

I told him he wanted a hot dog in the store and the pizza was mine. He would have to go hungry. We sped away. I only got about 100 feet when I pulled off into the Bed bath and Beyond parking lot. He knew his mother was weak. I also knew it. 

I jumped out of my seat. Yanked the back door opened and gave Jake half my pizza. he smiled. Then Naomi threw her hot dog on the floor and whined. She wanted the other half. I gave it to her. 

I returned to my seat hungry. 

We drove home. 

I seriously think I might have Strep. My throat and my face feels like it is going to fall off.

so far...

my day has been pretty good. 

The Last Two days...

In the last two days...

Someone told me that if I get to boss him around, than it is only fair for him to be able to boss me around

Size 7 toddler feet walked right through my swept pile of grossness and tracked that very grossness into the other room

Smushed chocolate donuts were found smeared in the carpeted stairs, the leather couch and the kitchen floor

I have been given numerous wedgies...and it is funny EVERY time

I was hit in the face 

A pair of little hands grabbed the front of my swimsuit exposing parts of my body that have only been seen by my husband to a few sympathetic onlookers

I have been a horse

I have been a backpacker

a baseball catcher

and a cheerleader

all in the same day

I swore I would NEVER be a cheerleader.

Than I became a mother.

What a great couple of days. 

Definition of Motherhood

To anyone who was wondering...

What is the actual, literal definition of motherhood?

I will tell you.

You lay in your bed wondering how you are going to make it through one more day.

You close your eyes. Trying to sleep.

You find yourself repeating positive affirmations in your mind trying to calm your anxious nerves.

You finally drift off to sleep.

Only to be awakened by that never-ending, unstoppable need to use the restroom.

You see in motherhood, every child you give birth to, actually doubles your nighttime restroom visits.

I am up to six.

On the way back from the bathroom, you decide to peek your head into your children's rooms making sure no one has kidnapped them.

And you find this picture.

Your mind immediately, without any hesitation depicts the scene that might have taken place. 

After threatening your child's life if he comes out of his room one more time, you picture him going to his brothers bed begging to sleep with him.

The older, stubborn brothers usually refuses this request profusely.

The older boy must have felt bad when the younger one made those sad, puppy eyes and told him how scared he was to sleep alone. 

The older boy relented.

The younger boy cuddled close to his stronger, older and braver brother.

Their mother happened to catch this moment on a trip to the potty.

Tomorrow, I just might make it.

And this, is motherhood.