Things, Memories, and Sparking Joy

I once read that there's a whole contingency of people who cannot get rid of an object that a memory is attached to. I don't remember where I read this or in what context, but the idea is that if an object disappears from a person's possession that they are worried that the memory that is attached to an object will disappear with it. Because of this, they keep the object as a reminder of the memory and cherish it with a certain amount of sentimental fondness. 

I am not wired with this particular characteristic. 

I don't know if it's because I moved a fair amount growing up or because I have an innate urge to offload things that I'm not using and that are taking up space, but I have no problem purging a closet or room and getting rid of things I no longer use or need. Haven't worn this dress in years? Gone. Not ever going to whip together anything out of this cookbook? Thank you, next. Scent of this candle I was gifted too overpowering and it's never going to get lit? Let's not keep that light buried in a basket. With only a few notable exceptions, I will offload pretty much any "thing" that isn't getting used. 

With this in mind, you would have thought I would have jumped all in on the Marie Kondo phase that went bananas during Covid. Purging all of the things, organizing all of the remaining things, and only keeping those things that "spark joy". But I didn't. I remember during 2020 my social media feeds were filled with people who were spending their newfound free time when their life slowed down by looking around and realizing that they didn't want or need all of the stuff that they'd accumulated. They sang the praises of the KonMari method and were feeling the freedom of getting rid of piles of stuff. 

That wasn't me. I was in the "How many different ways can I bake bread?" trend of that same era. You don't have time to purge things if you're drowning your stress as a parent who is supervising the remote learning of two young kids - one of whom is neuro-spicy - in carb-laden homemade comforts. My family does not share in the same zeal for the release of the things that I do, and so it was breads and brownies and cookies and King Arthur Baking Challenges instead. Had I attempted to have my two elementary-aged children thank all of their stuffed animals for their service and release them from their shackles, I would have had a mutiny on my hands. 

The kids are now middle-school aged and a lot of the toys and things that sprinkled their younger years are starting to make their way to more playful pastures. One of the last holdouts from the elementary era was the pretend food, a bucket of toys that for the last couple of years seemed to only appear on Thanksgiving Day as some sort of "make a fake meal" tradition they concocted or when a smaller friend was visiting that needed entertainment. I sorted through the bin, placed all of the food that was in good condition in a bag, and posted it on the online Marketplace for a lot less than we paid for it but enough to get the kids an ice cream or new board game. 

Within minutes, a dad messaged me with interest. Yes, please take it off our hands and into the hands of your little one. He drove to my house, handed me cash, and a brief story. 

His elementary-aged daughter had one wish for her birthday: a new play kitchen. My sale of a Trader Joe's bag full of pretend food came for them at the absolute perfect time. 

The paltry amount of cash in my hand does not cover the worth of the joy that pretend food brought my children or the joy it will bring that little girl whose one birthday wish was a play kitchen. I could have charged and received $1,000 and it wouldn't have amounted to the value of that joy. 

But the pretend food is gone from my house and space for a new round of memories connected to things has opened. 

There are times when a purge is necessary in order to move forward. For example, any time I have a move on the horizon I find this to be the prime opportunity to purge of things that have collected dust and taken up space long enough. No one wants to move things they don't have to; moving is enough of a pain in the backside without having extra boxes of clothes you haven't worn in ages, kitchenware you'll never use, and papers you haven't looked at in over a decade. 

Books move. All of the books move. Don't judge. And while you're at it, don't look at my "To Be Read" list on The Storygraph either. 

In the late spring of 2022, a house came on the market in our town that after 5 years of passively watching the market my husband and I agreed fit both of our checklists. We looked at it, put in an offer, and against every odd we had stacked up against ourselves in our head - it was accepted. 

I immediately went into action. I worked my whole life for this. I moved 9 times in my life before I went to college and countless times in and out of dorms during the course of my Bachelor's degree. No, family, we are not going to just throw it in a box and then sort through it when we get to the new place. That's how we never get rid of things and become keepers of boxes of unused things. I became a Tasmanian Devil of packing and purging, getting things squared away through the stages of first getting ready to stage to sell, then minimizing down to what we absolutely needed for the last few weeks while we prepped the new-to-us house, then the last things before we evacuated. I was a machine, constantly repeating the phrase "Trust me, fam, we're in good shape, I've done this more than I care to think about, it's a lot but we've got this" as each box gets packed and each room becomes less of a home and more of a naked shell. 

When you're moving and you're in this flurry of activity to get it all done, at some point you look around and the space you've occupied is now empty. In this case, the space was our first house. Our first space that was truly ours. We celebrated 12 years of birthdays and Christmases in that house. Both of our kids came home through the front door of that house, because we thought that they - like us and every friend and family member welcomed to our home for the first time before them - deserved a grand entrance through the front door and not the basement next to the garage. First birthday cake smashes. First steps. First tooth fairy visits. Snow days. The most amazing octogenarian neighbors who loved our kids like their own grandkids. 

We sat on the floor of the kitchen in our first house, eating takeout dinner and sharing our favorite memories. Our laughs echoed, the sad and excited tears of our kids fell to the floor. Cleaning up the vestiges of our last meal in the house, my husband took the kids outside to play in the yard one last time while I stayed behind in the kitchen to set up the small gifts and menus and brochures from our town I had gathered for the new family with the toddler that was moving in. 

I turned one last time to look at the empty kitchen that I had packed and purged and had made my home office for the last decade after leaving work to be home full-time. I looked out the back deck door at my family running around making one last set of joyful memories before we turned the page to a new chapter in a new house with a new yard and a new set of neighbors who would love my kids so well. 

A house is just a thing. I move on from things. 

But things serve us, and this house turned us from a couple of crazy late-20s kids into a couple of early 40s adults. This house watched us grow from a fairly newly married couple into a full-blown family. This house held us during a pandemic and was a constant when uncertainty ran rampant. This house showed us independence and helped us mature and grow. 

I looked at the plant and the sidewalk chalk and the folded menus and brochures on the island and looked at the space that had once been filled with things and was now empty. This kitchen, this house, this toy that I and my family had outgrown and were ready to pass along to the next family. 

I took a deep breath. And then somewhere, something, some well of suppressed emotion that I had put a cap on while I purged and packed and packed and purged and moved all of our things from one place to hold our stuff to another place to hold our stuff just erupted. I stood there, in the middle of the kitchen, the ugliest of ugly cries spilling out of my depths and pouring out, covering the walls with a dozen years of memories and stories and love. 

My husband through some cosmic spousal connection at that moment looked through the back deck door and saw me standing there, arms at my side like some sort of physically paralyzed yet emotionally collapsing doll, and ran into the house. He held me, he let me cry it out, sharing in the outpouring of emotion that somehow I had been the last one to grab the rail and jump on the feelings train as it pulled out of the station a minute after departure time. 

The money that exchanged from buyer to seller in the closing of the sale of our first house, one that became our home and saw us grow into a family, was paltry in comparison to the memories we made and took with us. It's nothing compared to the couple who bought it and who are now making their own roots and memories and growing their own family within its walls. 

I never did follow Marie Kondo or jump on the KonMari bandwagon. 

But things serve us. And though we may purge them and send them to the next person in a cycle of usage that lasts as long as the object does, the memory impact is much longer. The memories are part of our story, part of what makes us who we are. 

Thank you, Pretend Food. Thank you, Mint Green Colonial. 

We are grateful for how you served our family. 

Death, Dashes, and Decisions

I was introduced to the music of Garth Brooks sometime in my teen years. My high school boyfriend, for all of his faults, was a great lover of Garth and we would often listen to his "The Hits" album when I was riding shotgun in his car. When I was talking about Garth's music during that time with the cousin of a family friend, it was he who told me to seek out the secret extra verses of the iconic "Friends in Low Places" and "The Thunder Rolls" featured only on the live albums. Long after the inevitable heartache trail left by my high school beau, Garth's music continued to keep a hold on me and in some twisty full circle series of circumstances it was my husband who made my concert bucket list complete with floor tickets in the 10th row in 2015 where I got to see not only Garth Brooks but his wife Trisha Yearwood perform for a glorious 2.5 hours. 

Not the best pic from that night,
but it was the best night.

Garth Brooks is a music legend. This is not an opinion. This is fact.

But what exactly is it about Garth's music that I find so engaging, relatable, enjoyable? The songs certainly have a catchiness, a "rock-out"-ability, and the kind of music I can get lost in while driving in my car or cleaning my kitchen. But it's not that.

For me, what I love about Garth is that his songs are personal. 

They tell stories. Take "The Beaches of Cheyenne" as an example, a song about a couple who has a fight, and the wife has to live with the regret of that fight when her husband dies. It is my favorite Garth song. Or "Papa Loves Mama", a song that on paper is a standard issue country song about an affair with a hint of violence - but it's that musicality and upbeat way that he belts out "Papa love Mama, Mama loved men..." that takes it to another level. 

Or they have wisdom. One of his best songs is one of his more recent, the song "People Loving People", a reminder that when it comes down to it the way that we are ultimately going to have to solve the problems of the world is just to love one another. It's the same refrain that can be heard in the words of Carlos Whitaker in his book "How to Human" - "I don't stand on issues; I walk with people." 

"People loving people, that's the remedy to everything that's evil..." 

Sing it, Garth. 

I am currently reading the book Winter's Fury by A.E. Rayne. I chose it as one of my Amazon Prime First Reads at some point, a "perk" that Amazon offers its Prime members which is really just a way to get you to enjoy book authors or series and buy more books. I'm about halfway through, but it's one of these Norse-type fantasy books with arranged marriages and family and political turmoil and power struggles and forced proximity romance. I'm about 56% of the way through the book at the writing of this post and so far the book has been largely character and plot development, buildup of conflict, and we are now to the point where the instigators have shown up and things will start to play out and either resolve or leave you with a cliffhanger to get you to procure the next book. 

The other night while reading, I came across this line and it really hit me in the reality check spot. "If you only focus on the pain at the end, you'll have an empty life, filled with fear and loneliness. Death will claim us all, eventually, you can't stop that. But you can choose how to live before it does." 

Death will claim us all. You can choose how to live before it does. 

Not long after 9/11, Garth Brooks released his 8th album - Scarecrow. I don't remember if I got it as a Christmas gift or bought it for myself, but I had it not long after it was released. This might be my favorite overall album of Garth's, maybe because of its timing right smack in the middle of my college years, but so many of these songs just spoke to me. "B-E-E-R- R-U-N" could have been a college student anthem, and "The Storm" hit me in the feels at a time when we were all reeling as a nation. I felt the loneliness of a late-night radio DJ in "Mr. Midnight" and to this day I still occasionally sing my daughter to sleep with "When You Come Back to Me Again" so she will always know that people are there for her. 

But what does Garth Brooks' "Scarecrow" album have to do with Winter's Fury? 

Three-quarters of the way through "Scarecrow" is another one of my favorite Garth songs, "Pushing Up Daisies". This song, like "Standing Outside the Fire" and so many of Garth's songs before it, is a call to us to live our lives to the fullest. I remember driving between campus and home singing the chorus loudly in my 1994 Pontiac Grand Prix...

To give you a picture. 

"There's two dates in time that they'll carve on that stone, and everyone knows what they mean. But what's more important is the time that is known on that little dash there in between... oh that little dash there in between." 

Death will claim us all. You can choose how to live before it does. 

There's two dates in time that they'll carve on our stones, but what's more important than those dates is the time on the dash in between. 

When you woke up this morning, you woke up. 

Sit on that for a minute. When you wokup this morning, you woke up. What a gift you've been given to just have woken up this morning! Yes, I'm being serious right now. There are 1,440 minutes in a day. Let's say you sleep for 6-8 of them, that means you have about 900-1,100 minutes where you are awake and can make choices that will define that day. 

What will you choose? Will you choose to focus on the pain, whether that's the anticipated unknown pain we may eventually face when Death arrives or the pain of the daily grind? 

Or will you choose to focus on the things that aren't painful? Maybe that's the joy of the laugh of a child or the peaceful silence of a snowfall. The steam coming off of your cup of coffee. The chatter of the moms watching their kids at the playground. The laughter and cheers at a sports bar. The reunion of loved ones at the airport. A movie night with family and friends. 

Serving those who have less than we do. Giving a shoulder to someone who is grieving or our hands to someone who is moving. 

Death will claim us all. What's more important is the time that is known in that little dash there in between. 

You can choose how to live that dash. 

Live it, Reader.

Lies, Guilt, Freedom, and Love

When we found out that we were pregnant with our second child, I immediately started to pray for another son. I just felt like my heart was wired to have 2 boys, that God did not wire me to be the mom of a daughter, and that having that extra person to wrestle with  - especially during the hours of the day that Daddy is at work - for my firstborn would be absolutely perfect.

At 16 weeks, we had an ultrasound done due to some complications I was experiencing with the pregnancy. I told the technician that I knew that sometimes at 16 weeks you could tell the gender, and that if anything was obvious she didn't have to hide it from us because in 2 weeks we were going to find out anyways. There was a point in which she stopped the wand and pointed out on the monitor something she thought she saw: "Look at this," she said pointing at the screen. "Now, it's early to tell, but that certainly does look like something doesn't it? But don't start decorating yet, wait until your next ultrasound because I could be wrong."

I didn't start decorating - but I did start picking out and discussing names with my husband. Names like "Matthew" and "Xander" and "Dexter" and other names that you call a boy. I was over the moon with excitement because we were going to have another little boy! ANOTHER BOY! I was going to be one of those Moms of Boys who were always lamenting the troubles of having boys - but I was never going to lament, because BOYS!!!

Evie - 12/2013 ultrasound

Two weeks later, the full workup ultrasound happened. While my incredibly active baby flipped and flopped and the tech somehow managed to get all of the measurements she needed, she looked also for the gender indicator.

"Right there!" she declared. I looked and saw nothing. Nothing at all. Two chunky little spread eagle thighs that she had frozen on the screen.

"Right there what?"

"You're having a little girl! Look at that, see - one, two, three - those three little lines show me that you're having a girl."

...and my heart sank. There would be no "Matthew Dexter" puttering around my house (it was the name I had decided on even though there had been no agreement yet with my other half). There would be no addition of testosterone to the fold.

I feigned excitement. "Cool! A girl!" I said (or something like that). I buried my disappointment and just prayed that the remainder of the pregnancy go well, that the hematoma I had would resolve itself and cause no harm on my little girl. We prayed over a name for her and scoured baby name books (because we didn't like any of the family names we had as first names for a daughter) and waited. At 28 weeks or so - the day before we found out the hematoma had indeed resolved itself - we landed on the name Evangeline, which means "bearer of good news".

Yet here I was, disappointed that I had a daughter growing in my belly. And the first few months of her life she just cried - the child that refused to believe she was a baby, was stubborn and independent and determined from the day she was born. Not only had God given me a daughter - He had given me a daughter that was every mother's wish to their own children: she was just like me.

Somewhere around Evie's first birthday as her personality was really starting to form and that independence was forming into an active, bouncing, exploring toddler who was the best companion her big brother could have ever asked for... the guilt set in.

How could I have EVER questioned God's judgment in giving us a daughter? What kind of mother am I to have been disappointed with any sort of healthy child growing inside me - especially when I didn't think I could have one successful pregnancy, never mind two? What would my daughter say if she ever found out that I was disappointed that SHE is my child and that I didn't get a "yes" answer to my prayers of another boy? Why would I think that anyone other than who God gifted to our family would be a better friend and sibling to Will than our Evie-girl? 

I spent the next year wrestling with this guilt, this doubt of my worth as a mother in ever questioning the gift of my bright, bold, loving, loquacious, adorable, wonderful daughter. Anyone who has ever dealt with "Mom-Guilt" or "Parent-Guilt" knows that it can be some of the heaviest, most self-doubt creating, horrible brands of guilt that exists. It's like the glitter of emotions; once it covers something or enters your heart, it's near impossible to get rid of it - and when you think it might be gone you find more that's even more impossible to remove than the glitter you thought you already got rid of.

There were a few times that I would be watching my daughter in some sort of moment, something that was showing how she was growing and developing into this absolutely wonderful little person, and I would feel that gut-punch of guilt again at the doubt I had when she was still in-utero. So many times I would hold back tears because the guilt would come out of nowhere, in a wave, and I wouldn't know how to contain it.

Then one night as I was making dinner somewhere around my sweet Evangeline's seccond birthday, my guilt seeped through enough that my husband saw that something was wrong. I confessed to him these waves of guilt I would feel, that I hated that part myself for ever doubting God's plan in our daughter, that I wished I had never felt that way.

"D," he said, "I think it's time to let that go. Do you love your daughter?"

"Well... yeah, of course, I mean... look at her - she's Evie."

"Then? Let it go, D. You know God has. And I don't ever doubt that you love her. So? Let it go."

We prayed together that night about it. I prayed about it for a while after that and I know that Steve did too. I know this because at some point the guilt just... disappeared. I hadn't noticed it at all, but it had just withered away and disappeared like dust on a windy day. There was no second thought about it until the other day when I was laughing and giggling with my Evie on the couch and I got this overwhelming wave of emotion - but it wasn't guilt. It was joy, it was wonder, it was love. Then again a few days later as I listened to her telling me a story in a language structure that no 2.5-year-old should have yet. Joy, wonder, and love.

These moments kept happening again and again and again. Joy. Wonder. Love. Joy. Wonder. Love. It was during one of these moments that it hit me: the guilt was gone.

God had taken the guilt off of my shoulders and opened my eyes to the wondrous gift of our little girl. He removed that weight of self-doubt and instead opened my heart to experience that which He wants all parents to experience with children. Joy. Wonder. Love.

In that realization I felt so much freedom. Freedom to enjoy my daughter, to focus on building my relationship with her, freedom to experience the joy of having a daughter and the freedom that comes with having confidence that God's plan is indeed better than any plan we could imagine. 
Moms... Dads... Parents... we all experience guilt in our parenting, am I right? Sometimes we snap at our kids when we lose our patience or we forget about something that we said we would do or we don't pay as much attention as we feel like we should or whatever other list of things we beat ourselves up over in any given moment or day or week. We forget to have grace with ourselves, to remember that we are human and imperfect, that we will never be able to be one of those fictional parents that have been created by society as the flag-bearer of perfection in parenting.

We also forget that when parent-guilt sets in, when we start to experience self-doubt, when we hear those whisperings that we have somehow failed and that because of that failure we cannot be the parent God has called us to be - we forget that those words, those feelings do not come from God. We forget that those are lies, that those feelings are not the truth, that those are things that come from the Enemy. John 8:44 tells us of Satan that "...He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding on to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he speaks, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies." 

Lies of self-doubt are not of God. There are plenty of kinds of healthy guilt that DO indeed come from God - but that weighty, paralyzing, self-doubting, inescapably burdensome guilt is not. That is not the kind of guilt meant to make us grow, to repent from our sin and become closer to Him. Rather, that is is the kind of guilt that further divides us from God and brings us off of the path He has set for our lives. We need to be able to recognize when our guilt - especially that horrible parent-guilt - is not of God so that we can pray, combat it, and be released from it. Only then will we be able to hear the Holy Spirit work in our hearts and do the work in our parenting that God has called us to do.

Evangeline - "bearer of good news".

And here I thought that good news she brought with her was just that we chose her name the same time that the hematoma was one... turns out it was so, so much more than that.

Joy. Wonder. Love.

Ricky Gervais, Bullying, and Why It Matters

A week or two ago, Ricky Gervais appeared on "The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon" and during his appearance complained about a recent experience he had on a first class flight. Once settled in his seat, the flight attendant advised him that while he would be getting his complimentary champagne - they would not be handing out the complimentary nuts because someone on the plane had a severe nut allergy. As the story went on, I chuckled a bit at the jokes because quite frankly if I can't see the humor in life then I might as well just give up.

But then... then the jokes took a bit of a dark turn, and not just because I'm the parent of a child with food allergies. Towards the end of the clip, he talks about how before he flies he will take a shower and then "rub himself in nuts" so that when the passenger says "oooooh I'm dying", no one will know it's him.

This is the joke that made me cringe. The rest of it, if I'm honest, didn't really bother me because I get it from the other side of things and yes - I even laughed a little (especially at the following "really special service" joke). We live in a world where gluten-free diets have become trendy and where people are faking - yes FAKING - food allergies in restaurants just so that they don't have to have the food on their plates. Only about 4% of the adult population and 8% of children live with medically diagnosed food allergies, yet I read somewhere that something like 30-40% either "believe" they have them with no clinical diagnosis.

So I get it. And so I get the humor in Gervais' basic line of humor in this instance because even I as a food allergy parent think that the trendiness of gluten-free and saying you have an allergy is out of control. People who are just following a trend are giving those whose throats close up or break out head-to-toe in hives or start uncontrollably vomiting a terribly bad rap.

But that one joke - the joke about rubbing nuts all over himself before getting on the plane - that one bothered me. And the reason why had nothing to do with food allergies.

I'm a parent. I have kids. I was a kid once. That wasn't a nut joke to me. That was a bullying joke.

Let's say that it was indeed a nut-bullying joke - which I guess it specifically was - but let's start there. When I was at the FARE conference in May, a statistic I heard that I will never get out of my head is that one-third of kids who have food allergies REPORT being bullied for it in school. 

That's just those who report it.

Let's go bigger than that. According to DoSomething.org, 17% of students report being bullied 2-3 times per month or more. 3.2 million students report being bullied each year.

Again - that's just those who report it.

Someone who ACTUALLY has a life-threatening food allergy didn't choose to not eat whatever thing or things make their body revolt against them when they ingest it. No one with a real food allergy is intentionally trying to inconvenience the people they come in contact with - they just don't want to land in an ambulance or oh, I don't know - die.

But kids - all people really - can be mean.

I had a girl in the 6th grade who wanted to start a fight with me (it got escalated to the assistant principal) because I bought my earrings at the flea market - seconds after complimenting me on how cute she thought they were. In the 7th grade I got sprayed with Raid because my last name sounded vaguely like "Cockroach".

Think of the innumerate reasons that the "mean kids" come up with to pick on others. They don't wear the trendiest clothes or they might speak differently or they smell strange or they eat different food. They have glasses, they walk funny, they struggle athletically, their skin is a different color, they "like" people of the same sex, they wear two different socks, their parents live in a trailer, they have a lot of pimples... the list can go on and on and on. I could sit here for hours and still not complete a list of the reasons people tear each other down.

We all have our platforms from which we can speak out against injustices in society. I'm a parent, I'm a blog writer, I volunteer in our Sunday School. I can teach my kids to love and care and be empathetic towards others and find the best in them to build them up rather than tear them down. I can write here about injustices in the world and ask those few who read this to act in love and not be mean-spirited. I can teach those little preschoolers in our Sunday School about the love of God and how we are called to act as Jesus does.

Celebrities, however, have a more far-reaching platform than I do. Than the majority of us do, really. And when they talk, when they act - people listen. When Ricky Gervais makes a joke about rubbing himself in nuts, it makes a whole group of people who are frustrated with the inconveniences those with food allergies impose on others cheer up and say "YEAH!". What's to say a kid doesn't watch that, think it's funny, then go to school rubbed in peanut butter and sit next to the kid with a peanut allergy?

The good news is that there are a LOT of celebrities out there who are actively speaking out against bullying. Demi Lovato and Ellen Degeneres are probably two of the more well-know anti-bullying activists, but there are many more including our current President.

When we see someone - either a celebrity or someone in our peer group or our workplace or our schools or anywhere - who bullies another person, who picks on them for their differences... we need to speak up. We need to be proactive and show that there is more love in the world than there is hate. It is so much easier to see the negative than it is the positive - but if we can get more and more people to be a light in the world... then maybe the bullies won't get the spotlight anymore.

We have it hard enough in this world without looking for reasons to make others feel smaller, We will and can do better when we lift each other up - no matter what our differences are.

So, Ricky Gervais... well... I went ahead and left a note on his Facebook page (and got several likes/loves - no "angry" or "wow" or "sad" faces, which was encouraging). I was one of many parents and people with food allergies who spoke out against his comments. Anyone who follows his twitter feed knows that he responded to this feedback as one would think he would ("I make jokes about the Holocaust, cancer, and AIDS. Someone just told me not to make jokes about food allergies" or something to that effect. "Warning: This joke may contain nuts" and several jokes about how no one should make jokes anymore because everyone takes things too personally).

I didn't care. I'm not going to change Ricky Gervais and I don't want to. But if just one person was touched by hearing that one-third of kids with food allergies are bullied and tried to learn more about it - that's great. If a parent watched that clip with their teenage kid and it started a conversation about bullying and how we should help each other and not harm each other - awesome.

Use your platform to spread love. We all have one. What's yours?

(Un)realistic Expectations

I remember my first mother's day 4 years ago. Will was only a week old and was such a snuggly little baby. He rarely fussed and was content just to be held. Steve was a nervous first time dad and I was still recovering from my c-section - only had been home for a couple of days - so he was all about making sure I was comfortable and borderline waiting on me hand and foot. I'm fairly certain someone brought us a meal that day.

It was blissful. It was wonderful. It was right out of a Hallmark commercial. Smiles, cooing baby, bliss.

My second I don't really recall, which makes me think it was similar to most other Sundays. But my third... oh good grief my third...

The kiddos - taken May 2014, right around Mother's Day

It was my first Mothers' Day with 2 kids. Steve had asked a couple of weeks in advance what I wanted to do and I replied that I wanted to get some Top Donut - donuts and iced coffee - and take a walk by the river. I was a month off of my c-section with Evie and I wanted to move around and enjoy the outside. I didn't want to cook, I didn't want to stress - Evie had been born in the midst of a housefull of sickness and I was glad to be out of that hump.

Well... as luck would have it, Evie was entering her 6-week growth spurt, eating like crazy and as a spitty baby does - was spitting up like crazy too. We were just figuring out that Will has seasonal allergies - his Zyrtec hadn't kicked in enough to protect him, he was prone to throw up with too much post-nasal drip, and so was sneezing and vomiting everywhere. Steve was just coming off of a pretty bad cold and while he was also anxious to be outside - he was cranky from being sick for a week.

But I had my expectations of a wonderful family walk with iced coffee and donuts and a breakfast picnic on Mothers' Day. I had set this beautiful picture in my head and was determined to follow through with it. We would do it. It would be amazing. We would overcome risks and have a beautiful morning together.

The actual picture? It was... less than beautiful.

I will never forget that at the end of that day I was sitting there almost in tears. I was covered in puke and snot and poop and didn't want to think about what I wanted for dinner. Steve and I were both frustrated with how the day was turning out, concerned about a relapse into post-partum depression like I had experienced with Will, and we were disappointed with the day overall. 

All I wanted was Mothers' Day to be over. I declared it a sham, a falsehood, a day like any other day - only possibly more stressful because of unrealistic expectations that I (and the rest of the world) had constructed at the outset.

Have any of you ever had this experience of unrealistic expectations that get completely shattered? I feel like these expectations that we construct for ourselves (whether it's Mothers' Day or something else) have huge potential to add to our emotional clutter and baggage - especially during busy times of year like the spring with banquets and graduations and events and parties. They can add additional work we can't handle in our lives, they can give us a false picture of reality, and they can make us feel that if things don't go as planned they are an utter failure and the pressure of that need for success adds unnecessary stress.

Life has been crazy in our home over the last several months, and so I didn't set up expectations this year. The only thing I really wanted were donuts for breakfast, to not have to worry about dinner or subsequent clean-up, and to get 30-60 minutes to myself (if at all possible) in a Starbucks with a book and a cup of coffee. Not only did I get all of those things (even if dinner was out at a restaurant with 2 overtired toddlers - one with minimal nap, the other on the back end of a chest cold - and my in-laws), but I even got to spend 30 minutes talking to my own mother while folding 3 loads of laundry (less to start off the week with!) and space to myself to work on a crochet project until Steve came up to bed at 10.

Was it a perfect day? No. But I didn't set up any expectations. I had desires, but didn't make them needs.

So when our good friends texted me last night and said "D, how was your Mothers' Day?" - my answer was "Well... no one vomited on me. So it was pretty good."

God has given me these gifts of motherhood and marriage - and that means the good and the bad, through sickness and health, beautiful and ugly, laughter and tantrums. Motherhood is a mess and fatherhood is a mess and the jobs are nonstop, constantly demanding, and the kids don't stop being kids for a day just because of what the calendar has decided the day will be. As such - celebrating motherhood and fatherhood is inevitably going to be messy too. To expect anything different from that is just setting ourselves up for disappointment - instead, we should expect the normal chaos, the normal skinned knees, the normal sniffles, and maybe even a quarrel or two. After all, those are the things that we're celebrating anyways. 

No one vomited on me. That's a successful day of motherhood in my book. 

In Which I Piss Off Some of the Feminists Who Follow Me...

When I was in college, I worked with the orientation program for new students. There was this video that we showed the kids from a guy named Mike Green (aka "Greeny") about making responsible choices - specifically about alcohol and parties, but the wisdom could be applied to many of the situations that we are presented with in college life. What stood out to me was a line that he repeated throughout the video:

"Be your brother's keeper, be your sister's keeper."

In college, and really in the whole world, we are a part of a larger community. We need to watch out for each other and make sure we are taking care of each other in as many aspects of life that we can.

So now we cross into the territory where I get absolutely infuriated when I see memes or posts or whatever posted on social media that basically say that we women should be able to dress as provocatively as we want. That when a young lady goes to school dressed in clothes that are too revealing that it is detracting from her education to send her home or send her to the office for a change of clothes that are less revealing. That our first amendment rights of expression are being violated because men can't just control themselves and not rape us. Or some other variation on this general idea that we should be able to wear whatever we want, whenever we want and everyone else in the world - namely men - should just kind of deal with that.

Before I get into this - let me be abundantly clear about a couple of things:

1. I do feel that no matter what a woman decides to wear be it a full-on burqa or a g-string bikini - no one has a right to violate her body, or cat call, or otherwise treat that woman in any way disrespectfully. Rape is despicable in all instances - no means no, and wearing an outfit (or not wearing an outfit) is not an open invitation for anyone to force themselves upon another person.

...ok really that's it. Rape is horrible and I don't think that dressing provocatively is an open invitation to be raped. There is never an excuse to that deeply abuse a fellow human being. Ever. For any reason. At all.

I just want to make sure that's clear before I begin my rant.

And friends, I AM going to rant. Buckle up.

I can remember as a teenager wanting to dress in a certain way because I wanted my boyfriend to be attracted to me. I didn't understand what all that entailed, but I knew that I had a certain amount of appeal to him and I wanted to... exploit it may not be the right word, but I'll use it for now.

There were a handful of times that I would leave for school in the morning and be turned right around back to my room. But... My mom had a fingertip-and-bra rule: If she could see my bra, a shirt needed to be layered underneath or the one I had on changed altogether and if the skirt/shorts I was wearing did not extend past the tip of my middle fingertip when my hands were at my sides then I had to change that too.

Why?

Because having your boobs hanging out isn't exactly appropriate for school, nor is having your behind hanging out when you bend over for your pen. Also because my mom cared/cares very much about me and didn't want me sending out an unintentional message. She explained this to me, and I understood. I didn't go off on a free-speech rant, and she let me choose what the substitute or replacement was - but those were the boundaries. Because she cared. And wanted to protect me. And I understood her boundaries existed because she loves me.

At no point did I think that she might be violating my first amendment rights or insinuating that I was a slut. She was just being her daughter's keeper and watching my back.

Let me extend this a bit further. Dress codes exist in high schools, I think, for a number of reasons. The BIGGEST one that I can think of is that when students get into the real world they are expected to dress in a certain professional manner. They cannot wear "F**K YOU" t-shirts or "GARAGE BAND WORLD TOUR 2013" t-shirts to work, nor can they wear jeans ripped to shreds, or have their underpants hanging out, or wear incredibly provocative clothing. If the purpose of school is to prepare you for the real world - then that should include clothing. A lot of jobs that these kids are going to work force you to wear a uniform, or adhere to a certain dress code or an expectation of a certain level of business attire exists in the culture. The odds of a student landing a job where excessive amounts of cleavage OR the donning of a "F**K YOU" hat are acceptable are pretty darned slim. As such - dress codes prepare students for the real world where real rules apply for real reasons.

The memes that are out there defending the rights of women to dress provocatively miss this point. Instead they say it's distracting from a girl's education or violating her first amendment rights. Well... to me this smacks of "Yes, but just because you CAN run into a crowded movie theater and shout 'FIRE' doesn't mean you SHOULD". Is it responsible to dress in a way that sends a message you're not looking to send, potentially putting ourselves and our fellow human beings - in this case, likely men - at a risk of being in a situation where intentions are misconstrued and a relationship or a person's emotional well-being can be destroyed?

But Danielle - you're bordering on "slut shaming"! But Danielle - it's not our responsibility to make sure that other people behave appropriately!

Is that really true though?

Let's go with the commonly accepted notion that men are more visually stimulated sexually than women. Whether this is truly engrained in them biologically or created from a society where physical appearance is elevated above internal beauty does not matter, studies have supported this in one capacity or another and so we'll start from here. If that is indeed the case, then if Suzy Student walks into class one day wearing loose-fitting jeans, a standard t-shirt, and a pair of Converse - would you not say that it is less likely that Peter Pupil notices Suzy than if she were to walk in wearing a low-cut midriff shirt with a mini-skirt and a pair of boots that carry the nickname "f**k-me boots"?

Now, if Peter is a stand-up human being (which most men are believe it or not) even if he IS distracted by Suzy it won't affect his studies and he can go on with his day. Suzy feels empowered or beautiful or whatever with what she's wearing and no harm is done.

But Danielle - what if Suzy really DOES want people to look at her physical beauty?!?! What ever happened to "if you've got it, flaunt it"? WHY ARE YOU STOMPING ON HER RIGHT OF FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION????

Welll... because. The reality is that no matter what her intentions, Suzy is going to turn heads with the latter outfit. She's probably going to get attention both positive AND negative from both boys AND girls at the school. It's possible that while walking around with her backpack on that her skirt creeps up the back of her bag and her behind will be flashing everyone. It's possible that some of her male friends will notice that her low-cut shirt creates the perfect "basketball hoop" for potato chips during lunch (both of those things happened to me).

It's possible she'll get cat-called. It's possible she'll be sexually assaulted or sexually harassed or raped.

Dress codes exist to teach kids that there are boundaries for what is acceptable to wear in the real world. A lot of this is professional - but a lot of it is personal. And in this instance, the school is protecting not just Peter from "being distracted" - it's protecting Suzy too.

Because Suzy doesn't understand as a teenager whose brain is not fully developed yet that she is indeed taking a risk by dressing that way - and the school needs to be its sister's keeper in this instance.

I stopped choosing revealing clothes after a time. Sure, I got tired of having Fritos chucked at my chest, but mostly I realized that I wasn't doing myself any favors. I watched as girls who dressed certain ways were thought to have certain behaviors and I didn't want to send a message to anyone that I was someone I wasn't. I began to dress more to represent who I actually was and not who the pages of Seventeen stated I could be.

I have a daughter now - and so a lot of this really hits home and is part of what infuriates me about these memes and posts. I know - some of you are reading this thinking "Well what do you want to teach her? That she needs to dress in a certain way so that men don't go fawning all over her?"

Good question. What do I want to teach her? Three things:

My daughter. She's awesome.

1. How you dress should be an expression of who you ACTUALLY are - not what whatever the magazine or social media of the time when she's in high school says she should be or look like. The people who will love her the most in her life and cherish her for who she is are the ones who will find her attractive in sneakers, a sweater, and khakis. Right now her preferred outfits are dress-like shirts, leggings or jeans, and a pair of sneakers because she loves to run. She's active. She needs to dress to express who she actually is - not what she thinks will appeal her to someone.

2. I'll finally close on my Greeny point that I've skirted on several times. For better or worse, our male counterparts are sexually visually stimulated. I want my daughter to understand how the male mind works and how she can be her brothers' keeper. How she can help men out there to see women as more than just sexual objects and see each one of us for our true depth of beauty. I want her to help the men in her life to disspell this reputation they've gotten as pigs who "only want one thing". I want her to blow up social media with how strong and awesome people are. We're not going to destroy rape culture by elevating the rights of women to dress however they want - we're going to destroy it by empowering real men to speak up and make it harder and more uncomfortable to sexually harass women. I want her to be a part of that.

3. We're a Christian home, and we believe in God and we believe in Jesus. In Stasi Eldridge's book "Captivating", she spends page after page after page describing how we are so beautiful just as we are created by God. Each one of us is unique and beautiful and amazing regardless of how we look or dress. God has designed each of us and Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that God has great plans for us of hope and a future and not of disaster. Psalm 139:13 describes how we were beautifully knit together in our mothers' wombs. We have lost our ability to place our intrinsic value in how God sees us - and I hope and I pray and I desire for her to base her worth in that.

In a world where we scream for equality and for the rights of the individual, we have lost the need for true community and we have forgotten how to be our brothers' keeper and our sisters' keeper. We will not beat rape culture or rape mindset by downplaying our very real role as women. Feminism might seem to some to be about our rights to do whatever we want and not be abused by men - but really it's about being strong, being independent-minded, and being able to be counter-culture and changing the culture. It's about rising above societal norms and not perpetuating the same ones and just changing the soundtrack of reasons.

So, social media - enough with the pseudo-feminist memes about free speech and distractions from education. Enough with the "You Go Girl!" rants and double-standards when we then post pictures of ourselves and expect men not to virtually cat-call us when we do. Enough slut-shaming and enough of not loving ourselves and respecting ourselves and others.

Let's ACTUALLY empower our daughters, our cousins, our BFFs, our sisters to actually do something about it on a personal level. Let's become activists.

Let's DO something. 

Top 5: "They Didn't Tell Me That..." About Parenting

I've been a parent now for 3 years, 8 months, and 28 days (thanks to the duration calculator I found for letting me know exactly how long it's been - helpful tool). It's been a countless number of ups, several downs, and an infinite amount of teachable moments. I have been stretched, I have celebrated, I have grown, I have felt small. I have never felt more awake and alive and I have never felt more tired.

It all depends on the day, maybe even the moment.

Over the last 3 years, 8 months, and 28 days I've read a number of blog posts, articles, books, and social media snippets about parenting. Silly memes about toddlerhood, heartfelt posts of mushy moments, snarky recounts of grocery store tantrums, comments filled with opinions and advice, technically and medically written articles about the pros and cons on everything you can think of. Between all of the things - you would think that the average plugged-in mom who reads and tries to do research and stay on top of things would have found out all of the things and have covered all of the "they didn't tell me THAT about parenting" that's out there.

Little life-changers. Cute, ain't they? 

But no. No no no. There were other things. And these things that no one warned me about are so minute and silly that maybe you think they're not worth me sharing.

Oh, my friend, but if they happen to you - you'll thank me. Or maybe you're reading this in solidarity saying "OH HECK YES" with every word. Maybe you have your own little things that you've never seen show up in a blog post or journal article that you wish someone had told you. Whatever.

Maybe this is just a means for me to vent and you've heard all of these and this post is boring to you. My apologies. My blog, my monkey. Or something.

So what didn't anyone warn me about...?

Parenting: It's a messy job... and... well... we do it.

Dry Hands: When I was working full-time, I was filling my water bottle 3-4 times a day (at least) and was applying hand lotion every time I got back from washing my hands in the bathroom. My hands were so soft - I would get compliments at the end of the winter when I would get manicures at how soft my hands were considering how dry people's hands get during that time of year. Enter motherhood. I'm now changing diapers (and using their accompanying wipes), cleaning messes, and forgetting my gloves when I leave the house. I am lucky if I remember to apply lotion in the morning and at night as part of my routines. Water... well... I have a bottle, and I struggle to make sure that I fill it 2-3 times in a much, much longer day. My hands - as a result - have been cracking due to dryness for the first time in as long as I can remember. It's frustrating and I work to remember to hydrate myself and my skin - but I constantly fail. And I start over again.

My Clothes Became Frumpy: I stand in front of my closet these days and realize that my wardrobe has changed drastically. Where it used to consist primarily of clothes that I wore to look presentable and at least semi-professional, it's now full of clothes that I don't care if they get covered in snot/paint/food/whatever in the course of the day. I was going out for drinks & apps with Steve the other night and pulled 4 shirts out of the closet before I found one that wasn't covered in grease stains (presumably from turning away from cooking to break-up a toy quarrel or from greasy covered hands diving in for a hug). When did it happen that I couldn't even find a presentable outfit to go out on a simple date and feel like - to quote Michelle Pfieffer in "One Fine Day" - "a woman and less like a dead mommy"? But there it is.

If you haven't seen the movie - after this mishap, she wears a dinosaur t-shirt.
Because that's what Moms carry around for spare clothing. Seriously.

You Need To Remember That You CAN Be Sexy: Now here is something that is never ever talked about out loud. I've read what seems like a million blog posts or snarky comments about women who just don't want to even think about sex at the end of the day because they're sooooo tiiiirrrred and just don't feel like they even want to THINK about sex when their husband gives them "that look". Um... hello? Am I the ONLY mommy out there that wants to remember how the children got there in the first place? And how much FUN it was? Man, my husband WANTS me and I WANT him and... and... I just do. not. feel. sexy. It's not that I don't want to have sex - I just feel like that "dead mommy" I was just talking about and how in the world could he want someone that's tired and has dry cracked hands and looks so danged frumpy. Pick up, Buttercup... do something about it. Kids are in bed? Turn on the sexpot, Sweet Cheeks. Look at him and see the hotness that he is - no, forget that, you already know that. Look in the mirror - even when you're a dead mommy - and see the hotness that HE sees. Even if it's just a fast-action go before you crash - we can't lose that part of ourselves. And we should freaking talk about it more. Out loud. Seriously.

Good-looking AND an awesome dad? Seriously. This guy deserves me to sex it up once in a while.

Time With Girlfriends Isn't Always Quality: I had this picture when I came home from working that all my friends who were also at home full-time and I would get together and our kids would play and we'd be able to catch up and talk and sip coffee. Oh no. Such is not the case. We spend time discussing our kids, chasing our kids, gulping coffee, and lamenting that we should attempt to get together with our husbands (or without) and withOUT the children. Playdates do NOT allow for quality grown-up time. Neither do trips to the mall playground, the park, an ice cream stand, a museum... whatever it is, they're just not times for quality adult time. I know what my girlfriends with kids look like and those without are very patient and gracious with me as I send emails/texts and we have the occasional phone call.

(I bet now is when you're like - oh, Top 5... here comes the sappy "But I Love My Kids" bullet point. Well, you're totally wrong. You already know I love my kids, let's be real. We all love our kids and we all can't believe how fast they grow and we all wish we could hold on to time and blah blah blah. That's not what this post is about. Moving on.)

You Suddenly Hate Yourself as a Child: I was the only one (that I can remember) my mom never looked at me and said that she wished I had a child that was "just like me". In fact, she's occasionally called me "the easy one" - but somehow, I feel like that couldn't be the case. Because I threw massive temper tantrums as a kid. And as a tween/teen I bottled everything up and withdrew until I just completely exploded. My daughter is an incredibly dynamic, intelligent, well-spoken, hilarious 21-month-old who inherited my temper tantrums. How... was... I... not... raised... by... gypsies??? This morning she held a football in her hand while wearing a Tom Brady jersey. Her brother put on a football helmet and said "Throw me the football, you're Tom Brady and I'm Edelman!". She proceeded to have a full-scale meltdown because she wanted to be Tom Brady. What.... the...???? What... I... Mom: I know you read every one of my posts. You've said a number of times that this is just like how I was as a kid. I'm sorry. I am publicly apologizing. No one person has wanted to make me inhale a bag of chocolate chips while hiding in a dark closet like my daughter does when she has a "meltdown morning".

Temper tantrums don't happen while they're sleeping. Just as a heads up.

Look - I love my job. I looked at my husband when we got married and told him that my dream job would be to have two wonderful children and to be a stay-at-home mom. This is seriously the best gig ever and my kids have helped me to grow and expand and get closer to God and learn more about myself than probably any other people have in my entire life. But it ain't glamorous, and it ain't clean, and it ain't June Cleaver.

(Here's your mushy closer... are you ready?)

But for all the cracked fingertips and snot-stained t-shirts and temper tantrums in the world... I wouldn't ever trade it. There's not a moment that I don't look around at the beautiful mess that our life is and thank God for it.

Leave My Dreams, It's Not Your Heart

"Why are you here? Why won't you leave me alone?"

"I just want to make things better between us. Can't we be friends..."

He leaned in closer to my face and I could feel every hair on my body stand on end with fear. The last thing I wanted in that moment was for him to kiss me. Why can't he ever just disappear forever? Why does he keep coming back? I took several steps backwards and could feel my stomach wretch with anxiety...

"Please..."

"I am married. Why can't you understand that? Just leave me alone. Please!!!"

"I just..."

I reached out and shoved him away, feeling the anger and fear and anxiety dripping along with the tears that ran down my face.

"We can be friends... it's OK..."

He walked closer to me again... Why won't he get the danged picture??? "JUST GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME AL..."

My eyes jerked themselves open as I heard a sweet voice say "Hi, Mommy!" through an inserted pacifier. I was back in my bedroom, my bubbly daughter awake next to me. I looked at the clock - 6:18 AM. Steve must have already gone to... wait. Steve wasn't there, he was away at his annual conference.

Me and my mini-me, having some morning snuggles...

The dream. That's why. I rubbed my eyes and breathed slowly to reset my quickly beating heart, snuggling my giggling daughter and remembering all that God has surrounded me with. I reminded myself with each inhale that it was just a dream and with each exhale that it wasn't real. The recurring dream that I have each time that Steve is away on business - the one where my ex-boyfriend from 20 years ago shows up and tries to be a part of my life again. Sometimes he's trying to woo me, sometimes he's trying to just be friend, but always the sentiment is the same.

That he loved me. Never meant to hurt me. That he wants to reconcile. That he wants that part of my heart back. That I was his only love.

In every dream he is the 19-year-old that cheated on me not once, but twice. In every dream he is every bit the sweet-talker that my 14-year-old self couldn't resist and that my 17-year-old self took back and that my 19-year-old self believed his words that he would leave his then wife for me.

In every dream I want nothing more than for him to disappear. In every dream I want to know where my Steve is, because he is never there in these dreams but always missing. In every dream I can feel walls closing in around us, in every dream I am desperately fighting to get back to my present-day reality and begging through tears for my past to go as far away as possible.

After every dream I wake up uneasy. I wake up questioning things I never should be questioning. I wake up with faster heartbeats and quicker breaths, wanting to run back to where I wake up. The place that God has surrounded me with love and reassurance and His grace.

But I can rarely shake that feeling. That feeling that no one can be trusted. It takes days, sometimes weeks. Always Steve is reassuring, because he knows that this part of me causes deep insecurities and he wants me to be whole, to let this part of me die, to be released from it.

Last year after having this dream, I woke up and turned on Steve's iPad to watch some Netflix and try to get back to sleep. It was only 10:00 PM where Steve was, and iMessage sent across a text from a colleague that they should meet up for fries.

The bells went off. Who meets for fries at 10:00 PM? What the heck?

I called Steve and through tears told him about my dream, that I saw the text, and I just needed to hear his voice and know we were OK. Know that my fears were unfounded. Because God has blessed me with a husband who is willing to understand this part of me and help me through it - he stayed on the phone with me until I calmed down.

Then - and those who know my husband's love of condiments will understand this - he went and met some colleagues for fries with blueberry ketchup. Because that's what a condiment lover does when he and his colleagues don't want to get drunk at the after party during a conference.

My awesome, caring husband at his annual nerd conference.

So I lay there with my daughter listening to the hum of the fan and her adorable sweet voice through her pacifier and reminded myself that my husband is faithful. That he promised he would always be faithful from the first time I confessed this part of my soul to him and he has never done anything to demonstrate anything other than fulfilling this promise.

I said a prayer, asking God to help release me from these dreams. To help me finally remove 20 years of scarring and tell that 16-year-old in a heap on the floor of her kitchen, holding a phone in her hand and pouring tears out that it all turns out okay - better than okay, actually.

God, I begged, please... please... please kill this.

A couple of hours later I pulled out my phone and opened my devotional app while the kids finished up their breakfast on the porch. The topic of the day? "The Enemy's Tactic Against You." As I read through the devotional that focused on Genesis 3:1: "Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made. He said to the woman, 'Did God really say, 'You must not eat from any tree in the garden''?"

I read on and could feel my pulse quickening as the images from the previous night's dream flittered across my memory. I devoured every word of the devotional, and inhaled through my teeth as I read these: "He uses four words: 'Did God really say...?' Maybe you haven't had the enemy slither up next to you in the form of a serpent and speak these words out loud. But I bet he's whispered them into your ear. After all, the enemy's greatest desire is to separate you from God."

I looked out across my yard to the breeze flitting through the trees and up at the outline of morning moon my son was excitedly pointing out. I could feel God's sentiment on my heart: "Danielle... I delivered you through that old life and gave you this life, these kids, your husband. The enemy has taken over this part of your heart - take it back. Do not listen to the whisper of the enemy anymore."

I closed my eyes... "In the name of Jesus... give me my danged heart back. In the name of Jesus, that belongs to my husband, that belongs to my family, that belongs to me, and most importantly that belongs to God. Give it back."

I opened my eyes and my daughter said "Pee-it-boo!" through her wide mouthed grin, and my son laughed.

I felt... relieved. I felt... at home again. I felt... empowered. I felt... full.

That morning when my husband had his video chat good morning with us, it was like fresh air filled my lungs. When he returned home that Friday, it was the first time I didn't feel relieved that he was home but rather felt fully and richly blessed that he had the opportunity to take advantage of this part of his career. I didn't feel on edge and looking for reasons to suspect, and instead have felt nothing but love and happiness and grace and the fullness of God's blessing on my marriage.

Watching for Daddy's car to come up the hill when he got home from the trip.

A few days after Steve got home, this was the key verse in my morning devotional: "Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the Devil, and he will flee from you." (James 4:7)

For at least the time being - and for the first time in a very long time - I have felt the Enemy release his grip from the part of my heart that was still crying on the kitchen floor of my parents' house hoping her sobs wouldn't wake up her sisters. I have been able to breathe easier for the first time in almost 20 years, having resisted the Devil and watching him flee.

"Therefore, put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand." (Ephesians 6:13)

There will come a time when the Enemy will come back, when he will try to take that part of my heart back again, when he will push down that insecure teenager to the floor and laugh as her tears flow. When he will remind her that she's not good enough for a guy to stick around, and that will always be the case.

It will be when that time comes that it will be up to me to put on the armor that God has given to me. It will be up to me to call to Him, to reach up in prayer and use the power that I have been given in the name of Jesus to resist those whispers.

Because the self-destruction of doing anything else just isn't worth it when compared to the beauty that lies in the life that God has gifted to me.

The Wednesday, The Mom Guilt, The Husband, and God

We call the day my daughter was born "The Thursday".

Every so often, I think about the day that will always be stamped in my heart as "The Wednesday". That is the last day that I had with just Will and I before I was blessed with his baby sister.

It was a gorgeous April day, the kind of day that I wasn't wearing any jacket at all and I was comfortable just throwing a little vest on Will to go outside and play. I wasn't feeling too terrible even though I was a week or so away from my scheduled c-section date to welcome Evie into the world. I felt puffy, large, and pregnant - but I still felt fairly mobile.

We went outside that afternoon after his nap and took advantage of the gorgeous weather. Winters in New England are always hard, so when those first few 50-60 degree days start to appear you learn to take advantage of them. Will had asked me in his cute little almost-two-year-old way to go outside when he woke up from his nap that afternoon, so we did.

He climbed on rocks in our garden. He wandered around the driveway and drove his little truck. We walked together up and down the sidewalk as he looked at ants and picked up sticks and examined the grass. We enjoyed the weather, we enjoyed each other.

Will's last day flying solo with Mommy - April 2014.

Then I went to bed. I got up. We did our hectic day. We had Evie by dinner.

The arrival of Evie grew our family in size, in heart, and exploded our capacity for love even further. She's sweet, she's energetic, she's bold, she's hilarious. I don't think that Steve, Will, or I can imagine her NOT being a part of our lives. She's seriously an amazing kid.

Sometimes Steve and I will split duty with the kids, either because he's got a day off from work or he's home for the weekend. Usually either he will sit with both of the kids while I do errands without needing to juggle extra people or we will split the kids up and take them for some one-on-one time with Mommy or Daddy. For their own reasons, both of these arrangements are wonderful and I've come to appreciate them. We have found that the significance of these times is not lost on any one of us, and we love when we all come back together.

I've never really thought twice about our little upgrade from 3 to 4. Having Evie and Will together all day was just a life change that I accepted and welcomed with open arms. I had never pined for the days of only one child, maybe because I grew up in a family with 4 (sometimes 5) children and never thought about the bond my parents had with each of us individually. I never asked my mom about her feelings as we continued to expand, just knew that she loved each one of us together and separately.

Me and the kiddos - May 2015

Last week, Steve got Friday off to "observe" the Fourth of July holiday. We decided to do our split-duty and I took Will to his speech therapy appointment. We chatted on the car ride up, he excitedly gave me the tour of the therapy center's new digs after the session, then he took my hand as we walked up the sidewalk back to my car to leave. He had his little hand in mine as we paused to check for moving cars in the parking lot before proceeding. Our shadows extended in front of us, and as I looked down at them I caught my breath.

I suddenly longed for that last day before Evie was born. Those days when it was just Will and I and there wasn't as much chaos and I could just watch in wonder as he discovered the world. The days when I could just snuggle with him without worrying about his sister trying to shove him off my lap for her turn or he could pick out a book without anyone quibbling about whose book was going to be read first. My heart had a brief moment of ache and want for those days of only having one child.

Then the dreaded Mom Guilt came over me like a tsunami crashing on the shore.

Image via SeizingHopeDotCom

Later as I was emptying the dishwasher, Steve could tell something was bothering me. So I confessed my horridness as a parent to him, defending myself that I don't want to NOT have Evie, I just miss those days of just Will. That I love Evie with all of my Evie love, but sometimes I just wish I could cuddle Will without them pummeling each other and whining about Mommy's lap.

I cried. I told him I felt horrible, and guilty, because Evie is amazing and I felt like I was betraying the love I have for her in a way.

Steve just laughed at me.

Not in that way, guys.

He gently took the dishes from my hand as he laughed and told me to stop feeling guilty. "Dee, just stop it. Seriously. You should not feel guilty right now."

He took me by the shoulders and just spoke the words that I needed to hear, that he needed me to hear, that God needed me to hear.

I don't remember the exact words, but the sentiment was this: I love Evie. I love Will. I love them with all of the heart that God gave me for each of them. God loves us individually and wants a relationship with each of us individually. And just as He loves us and wants a relationship with us individually, so has he designed parenting for us to love our children and have relationships with them individually.

As his words sunk into my heart, Steve continued to encourage me. "Honey, it is totally normal and OK for you to want to spend time with JUST WILL, and it's OK for you to want to spend time with JUST EVIE, and it's OK for me to want the same things. In fact, we probably should do a better job at making sure we spend time with JUST WILL and JUST EVIE individually."

We have an awesome family, and we need to work on our bonds together and apart. We need to love each other as a whole and as our parts.

Image credit to RLPhoto

I have often said that God created us in His image, and the closest thing that we will ever experience to what it's like to be Him as Our Father is to be a parent. To know what it's like to be willing to do anything for your children, to long for them to have the best, to want to protect them yet know that you have to let the go and let them grow. To be willing to lay your life on the line for them.

To want a relationship with them as individuals. To want them to look at you and say "I Love You" and mean it from their hearts, not because they feel an obligation to say so.

What my husband did as he spoke to me that day is remind me of this; he reminded me of this dynamic we have as parents to want to love and encourage and be with our kids individually. In The 5 Love Languages of Children, the authors write "If you have several children, you need to look for times when you can be alone with each one... The key to quality time is found in its values and priorities you as parents determine to cherish and implement in your home."

I should not feel guilty - that was the reminder my husband continued to give me for the remainder of the day. I love my children. I want my children to love God and have a relationship with Him.

They matter to me individually. The best way for me to know how to serve them and raise them and know what is best is to spend time with them one-on-one as well as together. The best way to know how they need me to love them is to spend time with them one-on-one as well as together.

I no longer feel guilty on this one.

I'll save my Mommy Guilt for the next time I lose my patience and temper.