What the future holds

For those of you who have been keeping up with my blog, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging. Since my last post, things have changed quite a bit for me. I am now actively following the dream that God put in my heart. I’m still writing, I’m just writing different things. Mostly, I’m writing lyrics for songs my husband and I are working on. I’m taking voice lessons and we are now putting together a band to perform our songs. Things are starting to happen, and it is really exciting. God is showing me over and over that he has big plans for us if we will just follow him wherever he takes us.

It’s hard to explain, but I really believe that God has us on a path that will lead us to amazing things if we don’t get scared and back off. Big things are in store. I’m eager to see what happens next.

Reviving a Dream

I know, I know. I’ve been a bit lax in posting to my blog, lately. I’ve had a lot going on and writing has not been at the forefront of my mind. Work has been crazy. My Little Man has been trying to get a molar for the past few weeks and being VERY disagreeable about it. I’m starting to think someone stole my sweet little boy and replaced him with an obstinate, overly sensitive grump. I’m ready to have my son back.

To make things even more interesting, I’m reading a book right now called The Dream Giver by Bruce Wilkinson. In it, he talks about how God gives each person a Big Dream for their life. This is something that each person is born with and is designed to do. People usually know from a young age what their Big Dream is. If you don’t know what your Big Dream is, think back to what you wanted to do when you were a child. Many people decide somewhere along the way that the Dream they have is impossible and they give it up in favor of a more reasonable pursuit. This really only leads to living a life that feels unfulfilling and like something is missing.

This book is really speaking to me because I have spent the last few years of my life trying to figure out why I always feel so unsatisfied. I have always felt that I was meant for something bigger, something more that what I am doing. Apparently, I was right. I’m not meant to have an ordinary life. None of us are. We are meant to be doing extraordinary work that God designed for us to do before we were born.

Here’s the hard part. Reading this book reminded me what my Big Dream is. It reminded me about the dream that I’ve had since I was a child. It reminded me that God spoke to me 7 years ago and told me that it was what he had for me. It reminded me of the dream that I decided about 5 years ago I wasn’t talented enough to pursue. It resurrected the dream that I gave up because it was too much of a “pipe dream”.

It’s been an enormously emotional experience. It was more painful that I would have guessed to begin to believe again in the dream that I have given up on. I’m still struggling with it. Mostly, I’m scared. I’m afraid that I’m not good enough, that people won’t care enough to listen to me, that I’ll try and fail miserably, that I’ll invest myself in something that really has no chance of succeeding. I’m trying to convince myself to try anyway.

Confession

I named this blog “Confessions of a Working Mother”, so I suppose there should be some confessions here once in a while. So here goes . . .

I don’t think I’m very good at being a working mom.

Now I know that women tend to be too hard on themselves, and I’m no exception, but I just think that other working moms seem to handle it better than I do. I just haven’t been able to figure out how to work full-time, keep the house clean, spend enough time with the kids so they won’t be scarred for life by my absence, keep them fed with good, nutritious food (which must be organic and free of high fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated oils, MSG, steroids, hormones and any other evil I can’t think of at the moment or haven’t heard about yet), nurture my relationship with my husband, work on my personal development and expand my skill-set so that I can advance at work, watch enough t.v. so that I have a clue what people are talking about around the watercooler, work on the novel that’s been percolating in my head for the past 6 years, keep up with the latest fashion and hair styles, stay slim and in shape, and make sure I have enough “me time” so that I don’t go crazy. Oh, and don’t forget the necessary 8 hours of sleep every night. There’s more, but I think that gives you a basic idea.

I just don’t have enough hours in the day to do all that. I’ve gotten pretty good at multitasking, but still something is going get put off or pushed to the side.

I’m ashamed to admit that my children eat too many meals that consist of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, mac & cheese with chicken nuggets, or cheeseburgers and french fries. I know they should be eating organic eggs from free-range chickens with nitrate-free bacon for breakfast and grass-fed beef with pesticide-free veggies purchased from the local farmers market, but I have two hours from the time I get home till they need to be getting ready for bed and I’d like to spend some of that time interacting with them in a way that doesn’t include the sentence “You’ll eat it because it’s good for you and I said so.”

Another area in which I am failing miserably (much to my own embarrassment) is housekeeping. I don’t like to invite people over because my house is never clean. Ten minutes after I finish cleaning something, it is dirty again. When I had only one child and didn’t have a job, I mostly kept up with it, but now it’s out of control. In some ways I’ve given up trying to have a clean home because the amount of time it would take to keep everything clean would leave me nothing left to do any of the other things I listed above. So, somewhere along the way, I decided that it was more important for me to spend time actually playing with my children rather than following them around the house with a vacuum in one hand and a wet wash cloth in the other.

Does that make me a bad mom? Maybe by some standards. Sometimes by my own. Most days I’m ok with it. Now and then, though, I encounter another mother at the mall who works full time and looks like she just stepped out of Vogue magazine with her kids who could be featured in a Baby Gap ad. She talks about the dinner party she had at her home last weekend and the gourmet meal she made, from scratch. I start wondering why I can’t keep it all together they way she does. What character flaw do I have that she is obviously lacking?

Then her four year old daughter throws herself on the floor in a kicking, screaming tantrum because she just saw my daughter wearing a Tinkerbell costume and it reminded her that she wanted to wear her Cinderella dress, not this outfit that matches her baby sister!
That’s when I realize that looking perfect doesn’t mean being perfect. (And I make myself feel better by telling myself that she probably has a rich husband and a housekeeper to do all the things that she’s not doing while making herself and her children look so good.)

I can only hope that when it comes time to pass through the Pearly Gates, “Thou shalt have a clean house” won’t be the 11th Commandment that all who enter must have kept. Maybe God will forgive me for not trying to be perfect. ^_^


But the Lord said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

Unexpected News

Well, it’s official. I’ve had suspicions for the past couple of weeks, but didn’t really know until today that it is true. I almost can’t believe it.

So what’s the big news, you ask? No, I’m not pregnant. No, my husband isn’t cheating on me. No, I haven’t been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for blogging. The news is that as of today, I wear a size 8. Yes, a size 8, as in a single digit on the tag in my jeans. I tried on 8’s in three different brands at Macy’s, just to be sure. For me, this is an occasion for celebration! I haven’t been able to wear this size since I was a freshman in high school.

For those who don’t know me personally, I’ve spent the last year and a half working hard to lose weight. Low carbing is my method of choice. (If you are interested in learning more, ask, and I’ll point you in the right direction.) In October of 2005 I weighed in at a little over 200 lbs. I count my starting weight as 205, but I don’t really know for sure what it was, since I didn’t have a scale and only weighed at other people’s houses. I was growing out of my size 16 stretch jeans. I knew it was getting bad because I didn’t like to get down on the floor to play with my daughter because all my belly fat squished my lungs when I leaned over and made it hard to breathe. I preferred to wear slip-on shoes because tying my shoelaces was so uncomfortable. I had very little energy and tried not to stand up and sit down too much because my knees were starting to hurt. All these things should have clued me in that I needed to make a change, but somehow I just kept telling myself that it wasn’t that bad. The person I saw in the mirror needed to lose some weight, but certainly wasn’t obese.

Then I saw a picture taken of me at my birthday dinner. I actually really saw myself. I don’t know why it’s so much different to see it in a picture rather than the mirror, but it was different. I could no longer deny that my weight was out of control. Something clicked in my mind and I decided at that moment, “This is it. I have to lose this weight. I’m done being fat.” I knew that Atkins worked for me because I had lost around 40 pounds a few years earlier on that plan. (The weight came back because of a lot of drama in my life that took my focus off my eating as well as having and nursing two babies.)

I changed the way I was eating that day and I haven’t looked back since. I certainly haven’t been perfect, but I have been consistent and I think that that is the one of the primary things that has gotten me to where I am now.

Along the way, I met a very special group of ladies on LowCarbFriends.com that have helped me to be accountable and stick with this thing when it got hard. Actually, there was one lady in particular who has been with me through it all. Pri17cess, I don’t think I ever said “Thank You”. I hope you know how much I appreciate you.

So, back to my original topic. Size 8. I actually thought that it was not possible. I really believed that size 10 was probably as small as I could go. If you had told me two years ago that I could get down to an 8 and even think about trying for a 6, I probably would have thought that you were making some kind of cruel joke at my expense. All my life I’ve been told that I have what are affectionately referred to as “good birthing hips”. My mom told me that I was a “pear-shape” when I was a teenager, since I carried most of my weight in my hips and thighs. This was true, but it led me to believe that it was a condition that would never change. I was told many times that I “carried my weight well” which was supposed to be a compliment, I know, but told me that I was just meant to be on the heavy side. Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that I’m not as big-boned as I thought. My hips aren’t forever doomed to stay size 10 or larger.

I still have a little bit of weight to lose. Maybe 10 or 15 lbs. I don’t really know for sure because I’ve never been at this weight as an adult. I’m just going to have to get there and see how it looks on me. I think that I’ll know if I ever get past the point of looking slim to emaciated. If not, my husband loves me and will tell me if he thinks I’ve lost too much.

It’s funny for me to talk about the possibility of losing too much. I’ve been at least slightly overweight since I started puberty. I spent several years trying to convince myself that I should just accept that I was overweight because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life loathing my body because it wouldn’t function like others and be naturally slim on the typical American diet of pasta, donuts and french fries. Being too skinny was not something that could happen to me. But here I am, trying to make sure that not only do I get myself to a healthy weight, but keep myself in a healthy mindset about it, too. It’s a paradigm shift, to be sure.

It didn’t happen overnight, and I think I’m glad it didn’t. I’ve had a few stalls, (and actually am in the middle of a long one right now) but I think those times have helped give me time to adjust to my smaller body as well as the changes in the way people interact with me as a result of it. I’m not ready to say that I’m at my goal weight, yet. But this is a big milestone for me, and I couldn’t help but share it with anyone who would listen (or read, as the case may be).

Yoga

I did my first yoga workout today. I don’t think it went quite the way it was supposed to, though. There wasn’t much peace and serenity involved. The problem could have been the two children who were extremely interested in what I was doing.

Anna narrated the whole workout for me.
“Those grown ups on the tv are acting like they are sleeping.”
“Now they are pretending to wake up.”
“Mommy is sleeping. I will wake her up now.”
“Mommy is going to crawl now. I will do it with her.”


In the mean time, Christian thinks that mommy is in prime position for playing.



Downward dog pose quickly became a tunnel to be crawled through.


Cobra pose obviously was an invitation to climb on my back for a ride.



Cat pose became a wonderful slide. I don’t think you are supposed to go from cobra pose to cat pose with a 43 lb child on your back, but the instructor on the video didn’t say that. Maybe it’s an advanced variation.


The Warrior pose also made a great tunnel. Too bad I wasn’t supposed to stay in that pose long enough for him to get all the way through. Of course, he thought that getting squished was great fun, so he crawled under me with every chance he got and stayed there until I either squished him again or moved so that he wasn’t in my way.


I did manage to get through the entire 30 minute workout (for the most part). I hope that yoga isn’t an all or nothing thing. With my two little ones running rampant while I am trying to do something good for my body, closing my eyes and dismissing “every thought that enters the mind” just doesn’t seem like a safe thing to do.


Is it still possible to get some of the benefits of it even if I can’t engage in the peaceful meditation part of it?


Any yoga experts out there in the blogosphere who might know?

Musings

At church yesterday, the pastor talked about service. He spoke about all service being equal in the eyes of God. Cleaning the bathrooms is the same as preaching to millions if both are done with the right heart and motives. Service is service and God does not designate one as greater than the other. There certainly are those that appear more glamorous and important to us, but glamorous isn’t necessarily valuable and important isn’t necessarily effective.

So, now I’m wondering if my desire to do more and be more is just my own insecurity surfacing once again. I’ve realized recently that I have a high need to see the results of my work to feel that my effort has been worthwhile. For the most part, results means others seeing what I have done and recognizing it. My attitude has been, “If I spend hours or days working on something and no one sees it or is affected by it, what’s the point of doing it in the first place?” I guess it comes down to a need for external validation.

I know that there are those who serve doing what many would consider menial tasks, but for them the act of serving itself is all the reward they need. I wonder if my need to see the results of the work I do is a character flaw that I need to work on or just a function of the gifts and talents that I’ve been given. In other words, how effective is a painter who paints and then hides the canvases in his attic? What good can a musician do if he never plays his music for others? What use is a writer whose words are never seen? It’s something I’ll have to think and pray about.

Any words of wisdom?


Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

Running Scared

I have a confession to make. It might make me a bad mom, but it’s time to be honest. So here it goes. . .

I like it when my son gets scared.

I don’t, of course, like that he is afraid, but I like what happens when my little man is scared. A loud noise from construction outside or the siren of an emergency vehicle sends him running, as fast as his chubby two-year-old legs will take him, for the protection of my arms. He scrambles up into my lap and hides his face in my shoulder. He holds onto me with all his might. That is the part I like. Some days it is the only cuddle time I get from him.

Since the day the little guy started walking, he hasn’t stopped moving unless he was eating or sleeping. Occasionally he does come and give me a spontaneous hug or drooly kiss, but those moments are gone as quickly as they begin. A good scare can give me perhaps a full minute of soft, wonderful baby hugs. If he has a bad dream or other night-time fear, I might get 15 minutes before he either falls asleep or wakes up enough to decide it’s time to play. 15 minutes! It’s like heaven.

So. . .there it is. I enjoys those times when my son gets genuinely scared. Do you think it makes me a bad mom? Oh well. It could be worse. I could scare him on purpose.

Hmm. Now there’s an idea.

Pancakes!

I went to lunch the other day at a local diner. Shortly after I ordered my food, a boy, about nine or ten years old was seated near me with his mother and grandmother. He picked up the menu and announced, “I want pancakes!”

“We came here for shakes, not pancakes,” his mother said from behind her menu.

“I want pancakes! I want pancakes!” This kid had whining down to an art. His voice pierced through the air and made me cringe and grit my teeth.

“No. If you are going to have food, I don’t want you to have all that sugar.” What? They came for shakes, but she didn’t want him to have sugar?

“I’m going to have pancakes! I want pancakes! I want pancakes! I WANT PANCAKES!” He really seemed to believe that if he asked frequent enough and loud enough his mother would relent and let him have the PANCAKES! he so desired.

“Stop it! Stop! You aren’t having pancakes,” the harried mother hissed. The boy leaned across the table and yelled in her face . . . You guessed it, “I WANT PANCAKES!” I couldn’t help but think about what would have happened if I had ever dared to try that with my mom. There would have been no pancakes. There would have been no shake and probably no dinner. I may even have had to wait in the car while everyone else ate their lunch.

The waiter returned at the end of this tirade. After some conversation, the mother convinced the boy to get a root beer float, since they didn’t have an Oreo cookie shake. About this time, I finished my lunch, paid for my food and headed back to work, grateful to leave.

I really felt bad for that mother. Her son caused such a scene in the restaurant and it was very obvious that she was embarrassed. I can’t imagine, though, that this was an unusual occurrence. I wonder how many times he had done this very thing in other places. I also wonder how often it gets him what he wants.

Can you imagine how this same kid will be in, oh, say, six or seven years?
“I want this car. Mom, buy me that Mustang! I want that car! GIVE ME THAT CAR!”

How about in 15 years . . .
“I want a raise! I deserve a raise! I want more money! Give me a raise!”

He’s in for a rude awakening, and if it doesn’t come from his mom in the very near future, it will be very painful when he gets out into the world and discovers that whining doesn‘t get you whatever you want. For his sake, I hope it happens sooner rather than later.


He who ignores discipline comes to poverty and shame, but whoever heeds correction is honored.

Waves

Overwhelmed
Waves wash over me
One after another
Sand shifting beneath my feet
I stumble backwards
Regain my balance
Start forward again
Another wave
The tide gains strength
The waves grow higher
But I’m getting stronger, too
Learning what to expect
Brace myself for impact
When to stand firm
When to relax
And let myself be carried
By the currents of the sea
To places I don’t know
Unfamiliar lands
That I’d never have
A chance to see
If I’d fought each wave
And tried to stay
Where maybe I’m not
Meant to be

An Unwanted Visitor

The flu settled into our home for an extended stay last week. I’ve tried and tried to get him to leave, but like all unwanted guests, he would not budge. It’s been several years since the flu has come to see us and this was quite a visit. I haven’t been so sick in a long, long time. Luckily the children have been mostly immune to his presence. The adults, however, have not been so lucky. We all feel quite beat up and miserable. It seems that our unwanted guests is finally thinking about leaving, though. We’ll all be very glad when all remnants of him have gone. The sooner the better.

It Only Takes a Moment

I came home from a Super Bowl party Sunday evening to a voice mail message from my mom. She said that she and Dad had been in a car accident earlier that evening. The car was totaled and Dad was in the hospital. I immediately called Mom’s cell, but it went straight to voicemail. My sister was the next person I called. She had also just gotten home and hadn’t heard anything yet. She called one family member and I called another trying to get some kind of information about what was going on. It took about 20 minutes and about 10 phone calls, but we eventually got the story. Mom made it through with only bruises from the seat belt, but Dad had several cracked ribs and his scapula (shoulder blade) was broken in two places.

An event like this makes me even more contemplative than usual. It’s so strange to find out that while I was having a good time at a party, people that I love were experiencing something horrendous. Somehow it seems that we should just be able to know or sense when something like that happens to those we care about.

It seems incomprehensible to me that we can be going about our lives with our dreams and plans and in one moment everything changes. A plane crash, a heart attack or a car accident alters forever the course of a life, a family, a nation. These things happen all the time to people all over the world but it doesn’t really mean that much until it happens to you.

The only thing that keeps me sane and gives me hope in the seeming randomness and chaos of it all is my faith that there is a plan and it isn’t all random.

As I said earlier, this kind of thing makes me even more contemplative than normal.

My dad is ok, and life hasn’t been altered too much this time, but I know that it’s only because he was protected. If he had driven through that intersection just a moment earlier. If that car on the freeway hadn’t cut him off, causing him to slow down just a bit. If he’d driven just a little faster, the outcome could have much different. I’m just very thankful that it wasn’t.


For God guards the course of the just and protects the way of his faithful ones.

What the future holds

When my daughter was about 8 months old, I noticed her repeatedly banging her head into the walker she was playing in. At first I though she was doing this intentionally, as children sometimes do, but then she kept to banging her head even though she was crying.

Over the next couple of weeks, Anna became colicky, something that had never been a problem before. She was less responsive and even stopped sitting up on her own. This, coupled with the clusters of the repetitive, jerky bowing movements, told me that something was very wrong. I took her to the Urgent Care and was quickly referred to a neurologist. The doctor scheduled her for an EEG right away. I should have known by the speed with which the tests were scheduled that they suspected a serious problem. After the pediatric neurologist looked at the EEG, he told me that he wanted her to get into an MRI as soon as possible. He also said that my beautiful little girl had Infantile Spasms. Instead of explaining what that meant, he told me I could look it up on the internet. I was given a prescription for ACTH (a steroid) and the nurse showed me how to give my daughter the shots in her legs to administer it.

Later that night, I sat in front of the computer, tears welling in my eyes. “Infantile Spasms” sounded so benign, but what I saw on the screen was incomprehensible. How could my child have this this horrible condition? 90% of children who have Infantile Spasms also have West Syndrome which involves severe developmental delays, most never learning to speak or even walk. Ninety percent! I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. In 10% of the cases, the children manage to avoid the worst of the developmental delays. In 2%, no cause can be found. Desperately I searched for more information. Stories with good outcomes. Something to give me hope that my daughter had some kind of chance. I found support groups and a few personal web pages chronicling the journeys of parents with their horribly intellectually stunted children. Steroid treatments. Huge weight gain. Minor improvements and then a backslide into oblivion. Such a thing shouldn’t be possible. Not for me. Not for my Anna. These other parents celebrated the achievement of the acquisition of a few ASL signs by their ten year old or maybe a spoken word or two. It was devastating.

My one hope came in that the MRI revealed nothing in the structure of her brain that would cause my daughter’s seizures. At least there was that, but something had to be the cause of the horribly debilitating seizures. With no cause, what could be done?

I can’t begin to describe the depth of sorrow and fear that settled into my soul. There was that two percent, but the 98% overwhelmed me so that it looked like 100%. No chance for a good outcome. I would spend the rest of my life caring for a child who might, someday, learn to speak a few words.

Thankfully, that turned out not to be the case for me. The ACTH treatment were successful in stopping Anna’s seizures. After four weeks of the steroid, she was free of the spasms and regaining her lost skills. Her repeat EEG after six weeks was normal. Normal. I almost can’t believe it even now.

Anna is now a healthy four year old little girl. I forget all the time that she used to have a seizure disorder. I suppose we won’t really know for several more years whether or not there will be any residual effects from the seizures, but she doesn’t seem to have been affected either intellectually or developmentally. She is certainly smart enough. Anna has basically taught herself to read. Her handwriting needs some work, but I guess I’ll cut her some slack on that. ^_^

There is no way to know that Anna's future holds, but Thank God for that 2%.


And we know that all things work together for the good of those who love God, those who are called according to his purpose.

Lessons I've Learned From My Children Pt 3

Boys and girls are just made to be different.

Obvious, I know, but I didn’t realize how different they are until I had one of each. It’s amazing to me that even at the tender ages of 2 and 4, the difference between the sexes is apparent. We have a wide variety of toys in our home for the children to play with, but with a few exceptions, they gravitate to typically gender specific toys. My daughter loves Abby Cadabby, Disney Princesses, Barbie and playing dress-up. My son’s idea of a great time is building Legos towers, crashing cars, climbing, and knocking things over. If it’s pretty, my daughter likes it. If it makes noise or can be thrown, my son likes it.

Before I had children, I believed that children are socialized to behave in typically feminine or masculine ways. I thought that, all things being equal, boys might play with dolls and girls might like to race RC cars. I really did think that boys learn to like tractors and superheroes because those are the toys that are given to them by their fathers. By the same token, I thought that girls play dress-up with their Barbies because they see their mothers paying so much attention to their appearance.

While I do like to look nice, I am not particularly fashion conscious. So, Imagine my surprise, when my daughter started insisting that she wear a dress every day. I rarely wear dresses, so I have no idea where she got the idea that if a person wears pants, they must be a boy. For about 4 months last spring and summer, all my daughter would wear was dresses or skirts. The only way I could get her to wear pants was to let her wear a skirt over them. She notices if I do something different with my hair and is overjoyed any time I actually do wear a dress. She loves her princess costumes and frequently runs around the house with her fairy wings on and a pink magic wand in her hand. She is definitely a girly-girl, and she didn’t learn it from me.

My son, on the other hand, likes to build towers just so he can knock them down. His favorite words are animal and car noises. He’d rather grunt and point at what he wants than to actually speak the words necessary to ask for it. He only wants to get hold of that pink magic wand so that he can hit someone or something with it. It’s a recurring problem we have that didn’t occur with my daughter. He just likes to hit people for some reason. He didn’t learn that from me or his father.

Some of the differences I see are partially due to the fact that my daughter was the firstborn and my son had a big sister to keep up with. I can’t help but notice, however, that boys who are firstborn or only children are generally still more active and aggressive even than girls who have older brothers. It’s comforting to me that boys will be boys whether or not they have “manly” toys to play with and girls will be girls even if mom doesn’t play Barbie with them. It’s good to know that there is an order to the universe and there’s not much I can do to mess it up.


God created the man in His image; in the image of God He created him, male and female He created them. And God blessed them.

Lessons I've Learned From My Children Pt. 2

When you have a bad dream, all you have to do is turn your pillow over and the bad dreams will go away.

My daughter watched The Little Mermaid for the first time tonight. I should have known when she became very upset when Ariel had to escape the jaws of a shark that maybe it was going to be a little scary for her.

When I tucked her into bed, after she brushed her teeth, read a story and said her prayers, I took the opportunity to ask her how she liked the movie.

“The Sea Witch is mean,” she said.

“Yes, she was. What happened to her?” I asked.

“She fell down”

“What made the witch fall down?”

“Ariel was in love,” responded my four year old daughter. At the time I thought that this was just one of her random answers that she gives now and then, but I suddenly see the depth of understanding in that answer. The Sea Witch did fall because of the love between Ariel and Prince Eric.

“Was anything else scary?” I asked.

“King Triton was mean.”

“Yes, he was mean when he got mad at Ariel.” I got to thinking that the movie might prompt a nightmare, or at least an over-active imagination. She sometimes has a hard time telling us when something is wrong, so I’ve been trying to talk to her about what she should do in various situations. With that in mind, I asked “If you have a bad dream and get scared during the night, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll turn my pillow over,” she said.

I smiled at her matter of fact tone. “So, if you turn your pillow over, you’ll have good dreams?”
She flipped her pillow, nodded, and laid her head down, snuggling under the blanket. With the matter settled, I kissed her forehead, turned off the light and said “Good night”. I walked to the living room marveling at her innocent faith. How wonderful to believe that all you have to do is turn your pillow over and bad dreams will disappear. How extraordinary to be unconcerned by fears that may come. How remarkable to be so free of worry. How I’d love to recapture some of that innocence.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Lessons I’ve Learned From My Children Pt. 1

If I can’t do something by myself, I should ask for help.

It might sound silly, but I actually had to relearn this lesson recently. One evening, after a particularly frustrating day at work, I was going through the bedtime routine with my four year old daughter. I set out her pajamas and told her to go potty, take off her clothes and put on her pj’s. I left her to it and went to the living room to check on the progress my husband was making with our 2 year old son. Several minutes later I heard fussing coming from her room. When I opened the door, she was sitting on the floor crying. Her pajamas were on, but unzipped.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” I asked. No response. “Sweetie, did you hurt yourself? What’s wrong?” Again, no response. Getting a little frustrated, I helped her to her feet and started looking her over, checking for a new boo-boo. She just stood there crying. I sighed. “I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.” My beautiful, intelligent little girl (who, by the way, already can read full sentences), flopped down to the floor, grabbed the zipper of her pj’s, which was down near her foot, and yanked it repeatedly, obviously in frustration.

OK. Now I get it. She’s having problems with the zipper. “Do you need help zipping it up?” Still wailing, she nodded her head. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” I asked, helping her once again to her feet. The zipper was a bit stuck, but it only took a moment for me to fix it and get my daughter properly zipped and ready for bed. “If you need help, all you have to do is ask,” I said in my Mommy Voice. “I don’t know what you need if you don‘t tell me. It’s better to ask for help than to get mad and cry about it.”

Later that night, after the kids were tucked into bed and all was quiet and calm in the house, my husband asked me how my day was. His question opened the floodgate. I began telling him, once again, about how the volume of work flowing onto my desk has become much greater then the volume flowing away from it. I’ve been struggling for months to keep up with it, but it’s a losing battle. The client has become particularly hard to deal with, my boss keeps giving me more and more responsibility (without more pay, I might add) and no one seems to care how buried I’m getting.

Then my husband asked me something that he’s never asked before. “Do they know that you are overwhelmed?”

“Of course they know. How could they not? I mean they keep giving me more and more and more and I’m just supposed to get it all done. How could they not know?”

Suddenly I remembered my conversation only an hour earlier with my daughter. “I don’t know what you need if you don‘t tell me. It’s better to ask for help than to get mad and cry about it.” Realization struck. I’ve been doing exactly what my daughter did, only on a bigger scale.
Somehow, somewhere on my way to being an adult, I decided that I should never have to ask for help. I decided that I should be able to do everything that needs to be done on my own. If, for some reason, I can’t change the transmission on the car, get the grocery shopping done for the week, and respond to all 382 emails impatiently waiting in my inbox at work, all on Saturday morning, then I must be a failure. If I really had it all together, as every other working mother in the world surely does, than I would be able to do all those things and look glamorous at the same time. To admit my inability to multitask every task in my life to perfect completion is to admit a fatal flaw in my character.

I would never look down on another person who needed help, so why do I think that others will do that to me? For that matter, why do I condemn myself for things I would never condemn others for? I guess it’s time to start cutting myself some slack . . . and to start asking for help when I need it.

God will be gracious if you ask for help. He will surely respond to the sound of your cries.

A friend in need . . .

“I saw my ex-boyfriend the other day. He told me how sorry he is about the way he treated me and says it won’t ever happen again,” Olivia said.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve heard this story so many times. In a few weeks, she’ll be telling me how excited she is that they are back together again. Everything will be great for a few months, then she’ll be calling me in tears because he got drunk again and said something horrible to her. She’ll put up with that for another few months. Then she’ll start agonizing over whether she should stay in the relationship and show him that she loves him in spite of his problems, or whether she should leave because staying only lets him think that he can treat her like garbage and she’ll always forgive him when he sobers up and apologizes. I’ll give her my best advice, and she’ll say, “You’re right, he probably won’t ever change, but I love him! How could I ever leave him when he needs me so much?”

The crazy thing is that Olivia is a highly intelligent woman. At 32, she is a Pediatrician with a well-established practice. She’s compassionate, funny and beautiful. There is no logical reason she should settle for a man that can’t figure out what a great thing he has and actually treat her the way she deserves to be treated. Still, there is something within her that makes her believe she can’t do better or maybe that she isn’t worthy of anything better.

So, what’s a friend to do? I’ve tried the direct approach. “Liv, honey, you’re boyfriend is an alcoholic. Don’t be an enabler!” I’ve tried the subtle approach. “He’s at the bar again? Does he work there now?” Neither method was successful, obviously, since she’s reconciling with him, again. I’ve come to the conclusion that she doesn’t really want to know what I think about the situation. She just wants someone to rejoice with her when things are good and someone to hold her while she cries when things are bad.

It’s so frustrating to watch someone I care for so deeply put herself into an abusive situation over and over again. My heart breaks each time she calls me in tears because he threw something at her when she asked him why he didn’t come home last night, or because he called her unforgivable names when she didn’t make his eggs the way he likes them. It breaks even more when she defends his behavior. There is a strong temptation to give up and decide that I just don’t need the drama she brings to my life. It’s too much work.

On the other hand, Olivia is my friend. We’ve known each other a long, long time. What kind of friend would I be if I dumped her because I’m tired of hearing about her problems, even if they are of her own making? She counts on me to be there when she needs me. I can’t let her down. Does that make me an enabler?

Maybe the best options lies somewhere between those two extremes. Maybe I can be an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on without letting myself be pulled in. Maybe I can be a rational voice in her irrational world. Maybe I can be there when she finally sees him for who he really is. Maybe I’m just not ready to give up on her yet.


Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!