Recovery.

It's okay not to be okay, or so the saying goes.

One of my passions during the time I studied for my Masters degree was the physiological effects of trauma on the brain.  It has been so helpful to me over the last year and a half as I've attempted to raise a traumatized teenager here in our home.

Trauma parenting is so different than regular parenting.  Parenting in general is hard and worrisome, but if parenting is like riding a bicycle, then trauma parenting is like trying to ride one backwards on a tightrope.  That may or may not be on fire.

Trauma and attachment issues present themselves in literally every aspect of a child's day, from getting dressed to selecting food to choosing friends and going to school.  Loss, grief and lack of trust govern much of their thought process and behavior.  They are terrified of intimacy, keep people at a distance, hide their feelings, they are prone to prolonged periods of fear, and have a limited ability to trust.  They manipulate and lie.  They take literally ten times longer than children without trauma to learn new skills (even simple ones) and new patterns of behavior. They make the same mistakes over and over (and over and over and over).

Let me be clear, because it cannot be overstated: none of these things are the fault of the child. Only deep love, compassion and the formation of secure attachments can begin to promote new brain growth and impact the biological and emotional development of trust (I am safe), self-worth (I am precious) and self-efficacy (I am heard).

But the parenting process.  It is exhausting.  It is constant.  It is overwhelming.  It is neither natural nor instinctive in many ways.  It is necessary, valuable, and worth doing - but it is all those other things, too.

Parenting is the ultimate exercise in leadership.  When we agreed to take on a child with trauma, we instantly became responsible not only for his physical well being, but also his emotional development and his relational healing.  We had to build connection when we were virtually strangers, identify and heal wounds that we didn't inflict and redeem ground we didn't lose.  We had to quickly become experts on a child whose 14 year history we barely knew so that we could become the agents of healing he needed us to be.  We became versed in neural rerouting and self-regulation and trigger responses, and most of all, we had to have the tools and time and self-reflection to develop and put in place strategies and environments that would promote healing. 

Most of that fell on me, partly because of Casey's travel schedule, but also because it is "in my zone" professionally and personally.  Meanwhile, there were three small children to be cared for and schooled, a home to be run, a pregnancy and life happening abundantly all around us.  Major transitions - whether positive or negative - are always difficult to navigate in the life of a family, and we have had a LOT of them.

And then... sixteen months later... this opportunity came up for him to go home.  He had struggled with the loss of his friends and his life as much as with the loss of his father, and now he had a shot at going back to a place where he felt more "normal."  Where he was more securely attached and hopeful.  He felt that way, and because we love him, we did, too. 

But it was a loss for us too, particularly for the kids who truly opened their hearts with love and compassion in the most amazing ways.  Love, as they say, is a verb, and theirs was so much more than just lip service. 

We feel a little like the team that goes to the Superbowl and loses: proud that we made it this far, gratified by our efforts and teamwork.  As a family, as individuals, we know that we left everything we had out there on the field, but ultimately, it didn't go the way we would have liked.

And now... we have to pick up the pieces.  To stop and recalculate.

It's hard. 

I'm physically and emotionally exhausted after the work and the non-stop stress of the last year and a half, compounded by what we went through in the spring.  The kids are sad, and we all have a little bit of our own PTSD (mild on the spectrum, but real nonetheless) to contend with. 

We are not okay.  And, while I know that we will again be okay, it takes time to get there.

We took September really slowly.  We stopped for no reason to do fun things and build happy memories.  We focused on connection above all else. 

We did things that made us laugh. 

We took lots of breaks and were very intentionally aware of our commitments.  We applied grace liberally to every aspect of life. 

We got out of our routine and enjoyed beauty.  Because we can.

We focused on joy, peace and rest.

I don't see much changing for us in October.

In many real ways, we're rebuilding our family.  We are different people on the other side of this experience.  I know that our foundation is still there, and that foundation has proved, and continues to prove, incredibly strong.  But it is again a matter of establishing our new normal. 

We will get there, and we will get help if the path becomes too difficult.  We are worth fighting for. 

And while it's hard, there is grace.  And Halloween Bingo.



For parents dealing with attachment and trauma: Don't miss these amazing resources!  THIS is what we used during my MA program as foundational for connecting with "kids from hard places."  It is a game changer.  Also: this, and this are phenomenal. 

On Hope and feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul

and sings the tune without the words 

and never stops at all.

                           -Emily Dickinson

Our family is embarking on another big transition: Jacob has an opportunity to move back to his home town.  As with so many things in this chapter of our lives, it is not my story to tell.

But, after much prayer and consideration, it became clear that this was the best move for all involved. 

Our goal from the beginning has been to take the next right step, out in faith.  We are convinced that this is the next right step, too.  After all, we were only ever standing in the gap to help this young man.  

Hope has made such an enormous difference. 

We love you, Jake, and wish you well!

On greener grass and gratitude

She was beautiful, there was no denying it.

Long, slender limbs.  Athletic build.  A narrow face tastefully painted and framed elegantly in waves of gold.  You know the ones... those effortless curls that take time and practice and skill to produce.  Her clothing was casual, with that perfectly put together air of someone who has either a very good eye or a great deal of time and money to blend all the elements: earrings, necklace, bracelet, well-polished nails, perfect shoes and just a hint of lipstick.  A hint of glamour, lest the casual facade fool you.

The truth was: I envied her.

My own face bore no makeup.  Well, that's not entirely true.  If there was make up on my face, it was purely the remnants of whatever I'd hastily smeared on thirty six hours beforehand.  My clothes showed no discernible style or taste; that would be implying that someone had sought out the clothing as an aesthetic expression instead of simply yanking it from the hodge-podge, mis-match that passes for a closet these days.  A closet reflecting the plethora of different sizes I've been again and again: small, medium, large, early-pregnancy and late-pregnancy; the vast majority at least five years old and only a few lacking either holes or stains.  Styling of hair had long-since been abandoned.  Heck, even the washing of hair was of particular concern at this point.

I feel shabby.  I feel tired.  I feel overweight, sang the refrain in my head as I mustered my remaining patience and tenderness to remind, again, the half-dozen little hands that strayed longingly to touch the this-es and that-s some evil marketing genius had placed in the grocery store check out line, aka the final herculean labor that had to be endured before I could proclaim this shopping trip with three small children, teenager and baby to be a success.  Standing behind Helen of Troy with her cart full of the organic produce responsible for her willowy frame had not been part of this equation.

The baby grinned up at me from his vantage point in the backpack on my chest.  Grinned adorably, and let out a rip-roaring, body-shaking SQUIRT.

"HE POOPED!!!!" My four dissolved into loud giggles as I gazed sheepishly at the checkout lady and the beautiful girl in front of me, both of whom had turned, wide-eyed with surprise, to face me.

I shrugged.  When you gotta go, you gotta go.

"How old is he?"  The woman in front of me inquired sweetly.
"Two months."  I replied, feeling a slightly embarrassed desire not to meet her neatly-embellished eyes.
"He's adorable."  She continued, "Looks like you've got your hands full."

I thought about my morning.  About the breakfast I'd taken only two bites of in between nursing and turning someone's undies right-side-out and gently taming the bedhead.  About the reminders I'd issued about loving words and gentle hands and how brothers are a treasure.  I eyed her hard, skinny legs and thought regretfully about my doughy ones.  About how the two of us must look standing side by side.

"Yes."  I agreed with a weary smile.  "But they're worth it."

Her own smile faltered for a moment, and her eyes became sad.  She looked at me again.  Surveyed the scene: the teenager and his I'm too cool for this pose; the big two actively engaged in a war of I'm not bugging you! (which can only ever end badly); the two year old sitting in the front of the cart, chubby toddler legs swinging away while singing a perfectly off-key rendition of Twinkle Twinkle; the poopy-diapered baby grinning happily on my chest as if his mother were the classiest, best-smelling person in the entire world.  Her eyes rested on him for a long time.

And then they filled with tears.

"My husband and I can't have children.  We've been trying for years.  I've just come from the doctor.  He confirmed it."

Before I knew it, we were both crying right there in the check out line.

My days are long.  They are exhausting.  We have reached a tipping point where there is routinely more to do than one person can do alone, and I am alone and without reinforcements often. Casey was recently away for more than two weeks, in which time I managed to sneak a shower all of twice.  I regularly miss one meal a day; I frequently miss two.  It's pretty pathetic in many ways, actually.  And ironic: I still can't seem to lose even a pound of the remaining baby weight.

But I was reminded in the most humbling of ways how lucky I am.  Someday, my nails will be polished and my hair will be styled.  Someday, my clothes will not bear the stains of little fingers.  Someday, I will again have time to exercise and shower and eat, and my ears and weary brain will not be overwhelmed with noises and requests and shouts of watch me, mommy!

It is shamefully easy to take for granted the gift I have been given. Too easy to forget the longing I once had as I fearfully struggled to get pregnant.  To easy to forget that, as Dr. John Trainer once said, children are not a distraction from more important work.  They are the most important work.

Life brings us so many seasons. This season, while my children are small and their hearts are open, while I have the joy of laughing with them and walking with them and holding their hands, is such a short one.  Too quickly, the time I have to invest and share with them will be over.

The reality is: I could easily have been the woman in the checkout line.  But, thankfully, that is not the life God blessed me with.  Choosing, intentionally, to see the blessing and to build my life on gratitude: that is the challenge.  To savor the moments I will cherish for all my days, and to invest in things that will have eternal significance.

To smile.  Even if my smile is weary, because my hands and my heart are full.

The little homeschool week that could(n't).

So, some days.  Does anyone else ever feel like this?

I mean, I know that there were days I used to drag my weary body out of bed in order to go to work.  There were days that I really felt like I was just play acting at being a teacher, and somebody was definitely going to catch on at some point. Masters-schmasters.

But mostly, as a working adult, you're forced to soldier on.  Some days maybe more successfully than others.

One thing I'm struggling with in this homeschooling game is how much emphasis to place on academics.  Just how much is enough?  How much is too much?

I know that sounds silly, but please remember that mine are still little.  I mean - little.  And we do school pretty close to year-round in some form or another.  And, in all honesty, part of the reason I believe in school at home so passionately is that I firmly believe that - with all the best of intentions - we are too-often drowning our little ones in academics when they should be spending more time in play.  (There have been so many examples in various academic publications I've subscribed to over the past decade.  This is just one that I've loved, for reference, and don't even get me started on how much I love the Finnish model.  Swoooooooonnn.)

It's all about balance, and it's something I'm still working to find for us in our school day, week and year.

This last week, I was just burned out.  My kids were burned out.  And, Casey was home - which truly is a relative rarity in our world.

It started innocently enough: they were playing so nicely on Monday, that I just let them keep playing.  Sure, we read books.  We always do.  But we didn't sit down or do anything formal, and everyone was completely content to go at his or her own pace.

And then, Tuesday came... and they were still so happy to play!  To run and rough-house and tackle their daddy.  To color and paint.  To snuggle.  To play dress-up.  So we let it be.

Now it's Friday, and I can't say we've "accomplished" anything more than what I noted above.

There is a piece of me - that piece that was accustomed to thinking it necessary to soldier on - that is hugely unsure about how wise it is to just drop everything and play.  My teacher brain is still trained to measure outcomes and evaluate effectiveness.  To start at point A and get to point B.

My mothering brain jumps into overdrive with warnings and flashing lights: if they're illiterate and can't multiply fractions, it will be your fault!!!!  What if they live with you until they're 30 and can't function or hold down a job?  

And then another part of my brain kicks in to argue with my other self: what if you listen to the signals they are sending out?  What if you give them the chance to explore?  What if they play and laugh and enjoy one another and nobody stops them?  What might they learn about themselves?  About each other?  About their own creativity and inquisitiveness and imagination?

I want them to strive for excellence.  I want them to know about hard work, integrity and following through when things get tough.

But... maybe those are lessons that don't have to be taught today?

I know this won't be the last time I struggle with that balance before they're done.  Beyond that, though, I'm pretty sure that having the ability to drop everything and enjoy each other in those unscheduled, unscripted moments is one of the absolute greatest joys and benefits of homeschooling.
This week, we're running with it.  More than that.  We're relishing it.

Let them be little

As the light begins to fade through the windows of my kitchen, I am often able to catch a glimpse of the sun going down behind the mountains.  Most often, I stand and watch the world as it is swallowed into night with my hands immersed in soapy water.  The sponge, soap and somebody's caked on, left over food feel like the answer to that dreaded stay at home mom question, "what did you do all day?"

My little home, full of little people, is just a gaggle of ordinary, repetitious little moments.

The dishes.  The never ending stream of laundry.  Intervening with all the gentleness I can muster in another sibling crisis.  A giant, untended pile of train parts and pieces that somehow made their way into the middle of the floor from two rooms away.  Another run to the grocery store.  Diapers, poop, and somebody's mystery body fluid.

Nobody can ever really prepare you for what it's like.

Though my hands and my feet are busy non-stop, as the day comes to a close I am forced to confront the fact that I actually did very little.  Certainly little of significance.

In the midst of all those little people, sometimes I give in to the idea that I, too, am little.  Insignificant.  Pressed in on all sides by the unending voices crying out with needs that all too often speak to me of my own inability and failure.

It would be wonderful if I was creative enough, clever enough and had enough energy to make each night the BEST! NIGHT! EVER! as my children are fond of exclaiming, but realistically?  Yeah, we're probably going to eat grilled cheese for dinner.

The thing that is so tricky, the thing that the perfectionist in me wants to rail against is letting ordinary be enough.  Letting little be BIG.

Because, really?  At the end of the day, when I look back on my journey as the mother of these children, what is it that I'm actually going to remember?  What will really matter?

Will it be how clean I kept my house?  How well-dressed and well behaved my children were?  How significant and important I was?

Or can I let go, and accept that there is beauty in the messiness of life.

Because these things - these insignificant, ordinary, little moments - are the building blocks of the rest of their lives.  

I like things cleaned up, put away and tidy.

But creativity doesn't blossom sitting still in a room.  Imagination is limited only by the size of the canvas.

Life is short.  They are little only for a beat; a breath.  And then those dirty little hands are up and grown, and instead of feeling pressed in on all sides by how full my life is, I'll find myself pressed in by the lack of noise and motion and chaos and by how very much room there is for me.

I will again have a clean house.  I will not always decorate with finger paintings and small, sticky footprints.

Let them be little.  Little is BIG.  Messes are memories.  And we only get to do this ride once.  I am privileged to get to walk with them, to be a part of their journey and watch as it unfolds before my eyes.

Not everyone has that opportunity.

Comparison really is the thief of joy.  Those feelings of insignificance, of redundancy and isolation that can creep in, particularly in this age of social media where everybody's best is on display and everybody's normal is hidden, distract us and make us miss the most important thing of all: being present for all the little stuff.  The stuff that really isn't little at all.

So even though so often it feels as if little things like dishes are my only legacy, I have to remind myself:

little is always enough.  

Weight loss update: 30 days

So, you guys?

Remember how I said that I was going to be making some personal changes with regard to exercise and weight loss?

I started the year the largest I've ever been.  Maybe not the heaviest, I don't really know, but what I do know is that the weight was very stubbornly not coming off.  Even more stubbornly than it's been in the past.

I was big.  I was squishy.  I was just plain out of shape.

Fortunately, I found an exercise program, one that lets me work out for just a few minutes a day at home, and I've been doing it ever day for the last month.

It has been so energizing to get up every morning and invest 20 minutes in myself.  To tune out the needs of everybody else and let ME take center stage.  I can't tell you how long it has been since I've re-claimed that privilege for myself.  Actually, that's not true.  It has been somewhere in the vicinity of about 4-5 years, since shortly after Leah was born.  Yes, that's as sad as it sounds.

Most often, it is me and the tiny one who jumps happily and (mostly) quietly in her bouncer long enough for me to get my work out in.  Sometimes I'm joined by my big early risers, who always cheer me on or do the moves with me.

The best part is that I feel better.  I have more energy.  My body is more flexible and strong.  In all, I'm getting back to feeling like the person I've always known.

But here's the second best part:

I have lost 15 inches off my body in 30 days!

6 months post-partum, and I'm well on my way to getting back into those coveted skinny jeans.  For, like, the first time ever.  This is a big deal, folks.

After having been gone all month, Casey came home and saw the changes.  I do believe his exact words were, "W-O-W!"  Because, well, he's a good man.

This is the really good stuff.

I've been thinking a lot about seasons.

I know that, even as I write this, I am in the midst of life's greatest season of transformation: motherhood.  Still, I am amazed at how very much I have already been transformed in nearly five short years.  I have come such a long way from that season of shiny, timid new motherhood. 

When Leah was just a few days old, we attempted her very first bath at home in our bathroom sink.  

There she was.  Our tiny, seven pound sweetheart in the bath we had painstakingly prepared for her, complete with thermometer to ensure that the water was the perfect temperature.  Sweet thing that she was, she did wonderfully in the bath!

And then, it came time to pull her out.   All ready to receive her was the adorable pink Pooh bathrobe that a sweet friend had given us for our baby shower.  The one I had lovingly selected while registering, dreaming of the day I'd have a tiny body to wrap in that little robe.  We pulled her out of that perfectly heated water...

...and discovered that it is really, really difficult to navigate a tiny pink robe with a wiggly, screaming baby who resents being wet and cold.  She resisted it.  Her arm got stuck.  Her tiny legs throbbed and kicked.  I couldn't seem to get her warm or dry enough.  

And then her little lips began to turn blue, and I was convinced I'd killed her.  Given her hypothermia.  I cried and sobbed along with her.  I was supposed to be her mother, yet I had found a way to mess up her very first bath at home.  Surely, this was evidence of my failings as a mother.  I must be awful!

It's okay, Mama.  Just breathe.  

I sweat every decision.  Agonized over every call.

Read each choice as an opportunity to fail and destroy my new daughter's life.  

Whew.  

That's some kind of pressure to put on myself.  

I vividly remember feeling a kinship to this song and wondering if I was wise enough and good enough and smart enough to deserve the opportunity to have my heart's greatest desire.  

Still... through the doubt, through the worry, through the hard, I will forever remember that first year of Leah's life as one of the sweetest, most tender and wonderful of mine.  I was so happy to be her mommy!

Seasons. 

Now, as I reflect on motherhood nearly five years later... oh how much has changed.  I thought being a first time mommy was hard.  Then we welcomed Logan, and I was so overwhelmed.  

We had the new house, the new baby who never slept, the perfectionist mother who couldn't divide her time well and the physical recovery.  Oh my. 

Seasons.  

Thankfully sometimes, they do not last forever.  

I learned.  I grew.  I got better.  The juggling got - not easier, but more familiar.  More doable.  The joy and beauty of it all returned.  

Casey is gone this month.  All month.  On the heels of being gone pretty much since September.  

I won't lie to you and tell you that everything is sunshine and roses here all the time.  There are three small children and no reinforcements, which often makes for one worn out, weary Mom.  There is laughter and arguing and hugs and time outs and school and high-fives and tears and tickles... but the one thing there is not is a mother who measures and finds herself lacking.  Where once I shed tears, certain that God must sigh and roll His eyes at all my faults, I am now sure that He looks at me and says, "Well done, my good and faithful child."  

It's not because I'm perfect.  Because... well, I'm so far from perfect we don't even have time to discuss it. 

It's because I see what I didn't before: The beauty of this motherhood gig isn't in perfection.  The beauty of motherhood lies in the choices we make in the midst of imperfection.  

I don't have it all together.  I never will.  There will never be enough of me to be perfect all the time.  But where I once saw that as failing, I now see it as opportunity for me to play my role, and to let God play His.  

His calling isn't for my perfection.  His calling isn't that I raise perfect children.  His calling is for me to make my life my offering, and let Him fill in the places I can't reach. 

Having three is my favorite season.  

I am better.  I am gentler.  More patient and compassionate.  More ready to go first and disciple my children.  

Why?  Because to mother three little ones, I can no longer lean on me.  I must lean on God.  And somehow, as I lean in to God to be refreshed, to gain wisdom and strength and be reminded of my need for grace, as I give Him my heart, I am better equipped to win my children's hearts in love and understanding.  

I don't need to be perfect, because I can rest in the assurance that when I follow after Him, God sees my efforts.  And He wastes nothing.  

This, right now?  This is the really good stuff. 

Weight Watcher: a pregnant lady's story

It's probably a little stereotypic to start the year off with a post about weight.

I'm not really a resolutions kind of person.  It's just not my thing.  Mostly because I think the New Year is a wholly unattainable time to swear that this time, really, you're going to get your stuff together.

Yeah... you and the rest of the world are suddenly going to reform all bad habits because another new day rolled around on the calendar.

Sure.

Here's the thing, though: for me, it is time to do something on the weight front.  My journey with weight has been such a roller coaster over the last five years, it's a little crazy.

When I got pregnant in 2009, I was at my lowest weight since high school.  Within just a few pounds, in fact.  Beyond just the superficial, I was healthy.  I was strong.  I was a version of myself that I was extremely happy with.

Hormones, though, are absolutely not my friend.  The second I got pregnant, before I could even schedule my doctor's appointment and about thirty seconds after the pregnancy test had dried, I gained five pounds.  No big deal...

Confession?  I gained sixty five pounds during my pregnancy with Leah.  Yup.  And although I would never in a million years tell you that it wasn't worth it, sixty five pounds is a ton.

Because of my miscarriage risk, I am always advised to be on the "walking and swimming only" exercise plan during pregnancy and, although my diet wasn't perfect, I suspected at the time that my weight gain had a lot more to do with hormones and genetics.  My mom gained 80 pounds during her pregnancies.  My grandma talked about gaining 100.  Even my sister, who is extremely health-conscious, gained 65 during her pregnancy.  So, it was what it was.

After Leah was born, I tried to get my body back.  I wasn't overly worried about it, as I knew that I wanted to turn around and get pregnant again, but I gave it a shot.  I joined a gym and spent about 6 months really working on it.  I lost most of the baby weight, but my body stubbornly stuck at 20 pounds up from where I'd been pre-pregnancy.  No matter how much I worked, I couldn't get rid of that extra 20 pounds. The truth is that, even 20 pounds up I was still in a healthy BMI range (if that tells you how skinny I'd been before getting pregnant!) and felt pretty okay about myself, so I let it go.

Then, when Leah was one year old and I stopped nursing, 10 pounds fell off literally all by themselves.  I did nothing different except stop nursing, and within like 2 weeks, I was down 10 pounds.  No, hormones certainly have nothing to do with my weight gain or loss...

When I got pregnant with Logan, I was still 10 pounds up from where I'd been when I got pregnant with Leah.  Weight wasn't the end of the story, though.  My body.  Whew.  Even though I was only 10 pounds up from the skinniest I'd ever been, pregnancy had warped my body.

When the weight came, it came fast and furious.  I ended my pregnancy at virtually the same weight I'd been with Leah (within about three pounds), but the way it looked on me the second time through was completely different.

This time, I had a horrible time getting the weight off.  Partly because I was a) so broken for so many months, b) so very, very tired and worn out from dealing with sweet baby Logan and c) because instead of giving birth in spring with summer and warm temperatures to contend with, I had a fall baby and jumped immediately into the holidays when I'm naturally less likely to exercise and eat well.

Over the next summer, I gave losing the baby weight a shot.  I was about 15 pounds up from my pre-Logan weight (25 pounds up from my original pre-pregnancy weight).  The first thing that happened was I very quickly gained five pounds, at which point I got discouraged and gave up until I stopped nursing, hoping I could repeat the success I'd had after I stopped nursing Leah.

I stopped nursing Logan in September, but the weight didn't instantly come off.  I began a diet and exercise routine, and by October I'd lost about 8 pounds.  I was proud of my success... but at the beginning of November, I found out I was pregnant with Olivia.  Just like I had when I got pregnant with Leah, the first thing that happened was that I gained five pounds.  Boom.

So... here I was.  20 pounds up overall and pregnant again.

There was a brief few weeks when I was the heaviest I've ever been in any pregnancy - at like week 34, no less.  Then, for whatever reason completely unbeknownst to me, I ended up losing weight at the end of my pregnancy to put me at exactly the same weight I always reach.  My body, evidently, knows the weight it wants, and it doesn't matter if I eat kale or cheeseburgers, I am going to reach that weight regardless.

I am not one to have issues about my body, whether I'm "thin" or not.  How could I?  It has made three pretty wonderful little humans, and I've always felt that this season is temporary.  That being said, going to Hawaii was pretty humbling.

Holy Moly... that's a heck of a picture of me.

My pant size has gone up immediately after having my babies - after Leah, I was an 8.  After Logan, a 10.  After Olivia, a 12 - even though my weight has been practically identical in all three pregnancies.  In fact, I was a pound down on Olivia's d-day from where I was on Logan's.

People, it's time.  Enough is enough.

It's not a vanity thing.  Not mostly, anyway.  At my core, I just miss being me.  I miss feeling like somebody I recognize, that somebody who was athletic and fit and strong.  I deeply miss having a place on the long list of important things that take up my time.

So, I am committing to a 90 exercise program.  It's about 20 minutes six days a week, and I am absolutely carving out that 20 minutes for myself come heck or high water.  With Casey gone and homeschool and everything, there is no way I'd be able to squeeze in trips to the gym.  But this?  This I can do.

Heaven help me, I'm posting my before pictures.  I am keeping track of my weight loss through measurements - but I am not stepping on the scale.  Based on my previous experiences, I have a really tough time losing weight while nursing, so odds are good that I either won't lose or may even gain weight, which I know will totally de-rail me.

In case you were wondering, this is what my body looks like five months post-partum after three bebes.  I wouldn't change where I've been for the world... but still, I am very excited about where I'm going!

Not to mention, Casey is out of town until February.  I'm eager to see what changes he might come home to!

On a one horse open sleigh

You know those ideas that sound really good in theory but turn out to be a bit of a disaster?

That happened to me recently.

The plan was simple enough: take the kids on a festive, Christmas-y sleigh ride, complete with jingling bells, over-loud off-key caroling, marshmallow roasting and hot cocoa.  

I booked it weeks in advance, and I knew that my festive-y, Christmas-loving children were going to be absolutely delighted.  

But when the day came, it was snowing.  Reeeeeally snowing.  And absolutely freezing.  I called the ranch before we left to see if they were even running the sleigh rides, and they assured me that the weather wasn't too bad.  The did advise me to bring extra warm clothes, but that it would be okay.

So we packed up the car, every article of warm, winter clothing we own, and set off.  

I could feel in my bones that it was a bad idea practically as soon as we set off.  The drive took us almost an hour longer than it should have, and the van was slipping all over the road.  The snow was coming down pretty heavily, and when we had to stop so that the kids could go potty, it was 7 degrees outside with the wind howling. 

I think it was the kids' enthusiasm and excitement to go on a sleigh ride that kept us from turning around.

When we arrived at the ranch, it was slightly better.  It was a balmy 24, the wind wasn't whipping quite so badly, and we were promised lots of blankets for the ride.  I very seriously considered staying in the car with the baby, but decided to push on.

...A decision I very quickly regretted to my very core.

Thirty minutes later, the sleigh had only been able to go maybe 1,000 yards due to the high, windswept snow.  The baby was absolutely bawling - screaming her head off even though every in ch of her was wrapped up not only in her winter gear, but then inside a blanket and protected completely from the snow by a second blanket.  I was convinced she had hypothermia, because I am not at all overly dramatic.  When they could go no further (we were nowhere near our destination), we had to get off the sleigh so that the horses could turn it around to head back to the barn.  The snow was so high they couldn't pull it and us through it.  It was a complete nightmare.

Unless, of course, you asked my children.  Who, despite the ridiculous conditions, were absolutely as happy as they could possibly have been (well, except for the screaming one).

All they saw or cared about was the fact that they were  on a sleigh ride at Christmas time.  They didn't care about the freezing snow hitting their faces, or the fact that when we got out, the snow came up to Logan's waist.  They made snow angels and waited for the horses, shouting encouragements and calling them by name.  They were so excited and completely overjoyed.  In hindsight, I have no words to describe those two little joyful souls.

We went back to the barn to enjoy our hot cocoa, and I'm pretty sure my children had no idea that what they had just experienced was SO not the way it was supposed to go.  As far as they were concerned, it was perfect.

The lesson there is pretty clear, particularly at Christmas time.

Although I was extremely grateful to get back in the car, those two sweet, excited children made it a wonderful memory.

39 weeks

It's been a bit of a roller coaster here in my corner of the world.

I'm making a conscious effort to enjoy my life: to enjoy the last few days and weeks I'll have as a mommy of two, to enjoy the laughter between my two precious littles as they run around and knock each other over.  To watch my big girl go bravely off to camp, fearless and enjoying every second.  To treasure the hugs from my beautiful little boy, who is, without doubt, the world's best hugger and possibly the sweetest little heart of all time.

But I will also admit to being completely, totally, mindlessly distracted.

This body.  Yowza.  It's messing with me in a really big way that's both totally joyful and absolutely wearing me down.

I started with all sorts of positive things on the labor and delivery front, all sorts of things which have never, ever happened to me before in my previous pregnancies.  Two weeks ago, at not yet full term, I was dilated!  I wanted to shout it from the roof tops and do a little pregnant gal happy dance, because I've only ever gotten that pitiable poor girl, you're locked up tighter than a fat guy in spandex look from the doctor as she shakes her head in response to my question about dilation.

Then, I lost my mucus plug.  I know, disgusting, but for the girl who showed absolutely no signs of progress up to and including the day my babies were born, this was like a hallelujah chorus.  Maybe labor wouldn't be awful?  Maybe... gasp... it would be manageable!  Maybe it would actually move!

Except that the day after both of these things happened, my husband was leaving for Florida.  FLORIDA.  The single corner of the United States that is furthest from my current location.  So we danced around the idea of him cancelling his trip, which we both agreed was ultimately stupid.  How could I have two babies so determined to stay in that they both had to be literally yanked out of me, and then worry about giving birth three weeks early?  Seems pretty implausible. We made back up plans.  And then more back up plans, just in case.

And then, the day after he left, at 37 weeks and 3 days, I started having contractions.  Labor contractions.  Decently strong labor contractions, which started at 10 minutes apart and got progressively closer and stronger.  Just exactly like the books said they would when labor begins.

After alerting the media, NASA and the Department of Homeland Security, we ultimately decided that there was really nothing to be done except see if they progressed and went anywhere.  It was 2 a.m. in Miami when we finally made this call, and he couldn't get out on a flight any sooner than 7, so nothing to do except go to bed and see what happens.  Luckily, nothing happened, and I sighed a big sigh of relief.

The trouble is, this pattern has pretty much continued, almost daily since then.  It was worrisome when Casey was out of town, but since then I've been very fervently hoping that it would pick up and actually kick me into labor.  Instead, I have nightly contractions that start at about 10 minutes and work their way down to 6 or 7 minutes apart, getting increasingly stronger over the course of 6 or 7 hours and then.... stop.  For no apparent reason.

I wake up the next morning sore across my abdomen like I've been doing crunches all night, irritated and grumpy and absolutely no closer to having this baby.

I've been dilated to 4 for a week, had my membranes swept twice and have continued doing all the "things" I can do to help my contractions progress: walking, pelvic tilts, squats, bouncing on the ball, taking Evening Primrose, relaxation and visualization, that other thing that got us into this to begin with... everything the literature suggests might help make a difference.  Nothing.

Well, no.  Not nothing.  Lots and lots {and lots and lots} of good, early labor contractions.

Except now, after two solid weeks, they're totally wearing me down.  I'm crampy and sore.  I'm having real trouble sleeping because I contract so much and for so long in the middle of the night.  I'm super hormonal, and everything makes me either cry or want to yell.  My patience is wearing paper thin.  I'm tired of always having one proverbial eye on my body, trying to monitor if what's happening to me is normal or something I need to pay close attention to.  I'm tired of trying to keep things in a constant "ready-to-go" state, making sure I always know whether we have enough pull ups and milk or where our people are just in case I need someone to come and tend to the kids.  I'm totally worn out physically; I wake up honestly feeling like I've run some sort of minor marathon during the night.  I have a tendency, despite my many blessings, to follow the tracks of the sun through my house, waiting for night to come so that I can just sit quietly without issuing instruction or praise, or have little hands touching me, begging to be entertained, fed, hugged, taken potty or any thousand other totally reasonable unmanageable demands.

And I'm disappointed.  I can't help it.  I'm trying so hard not to be.  I was totally ready to have this baby on its due date - I never had any doubts that we'd be having an August baby or that I should be concerned about going into labor.  So much so that I fully encouraged Casey to take the job in Miami when I knew I'd be 37-38 weeks pregnant.  I even encouraged him to take a gig here over the next few days, because I didn't anticipate being in any form of labor until sometime next week.  Then, all those really positive things started happening, but it definitely has had me thinking that "pop" might be on the agenda before too long.  And now, here we are.  Two weeks later, 39 weeks pregnant and I'm still contracting virtually every night as if I were going to go into labor, only to wake up worn out but still pregnant.

So, this is all very new to me.  Anecdotally, I feel like my body is still not working the way it's supposed to.  It seems like most people's bodies run on an FM frequency, and somehow I'm tuned into AM and can't get my crap together.  I know that many people have a few days or a few incidents where they play the am I in labor? guessing game, but two weeks of this craziness every day seems really excessive.  And I can't seem to get out of my head the thought that my body may truly just not be able to contract strongly enough to move a baby without some medical intervention.  I've wondered this since my very first miscarriage almost six years ago, and it's been reiterated to me each and every time I've done anything labor-like since.  I can rock the early contractions, but as far as being in active labor with heavy contractions... I'm thinking more and more that my body shuts down because that's the only direction it has to go on its own.

Which, I suppose, is okay - as long as I can come to terms with it; something I'm trying hard to do.  That truly natural labor I've longed for for the last five years may just always elude me, despite my best efforts to the contrary.  In which case, I need to remember to be very, very grateful for modern medicine, even that villain Pitocin I've been trying so hard to avoid.

The whole point of all of this at the end of the day is to make sure that baby is healthy.  That goal is vastly more important than whether or not my body works - I know that.  And I am so, so beyond grateful that this is even on the table for me; please don't mistake my struggle for being ungrateful.

It's back to wait-and-see.  I am still eager and hopeful that this little body might somehow chug into gear and do what everyone tells me it was meant to do.  Mostly, though, I'm just so darned excited to meet our special little someone.  I know from experience that in that moment, all these fears and doubts and stresses will simply cease to exist in the presence of such overwhelming joy.

Me and Amy, we sound the same.

I would like to hereby proclaim my undying love for Amy Poehler.  Because I think we can all agree, she's completely hilarious.  So many amazing SNL moments.  The best Hillary Clinton impersonations (one of my all time favorite skits and the absolute only good thing to come out of election year dramas.  Two funny, funny ladies).

Here's the problem, though: it's day one (seriously?  It's only day one?!) of a two week single mom stint and already I sound waaaay too much like Amy.  

And not the nice, conversational, complementary side.  

I'm a little more intense.  A little more "HOW DO YOU MISS A PASS LIKE THAT?!"   

Because, I love my little stinkers.  More than life itself.  This Mom gig is my most important job, and all those sappy, inspirational quotes that have those with kids and without kids debating whether motherhood really is the hardest and most noble job in the universe... they totally get me.  Sentimental and sappy though they may be, there is no question which side of that debate I fall out on.

I also feel a very strong sense of obligation to teach them right from wrong, proper manners, good citizenship, character, patience, gratitude, humor, joy, about good books and belly laughs, empathy, the beauty inherent in hard work, kindness, self-reliance, humility, prayer, how to fall in love with themselves, appreciate what they bring to the table and all those other things that will be so necessary as the real world seeps in to beat them down.  And more often than not, I hope very dearly to confer these mighty life lessons, not with words or lectures but by living them out.  By being my very best me, flaws and mistakes and imperfections and stretch marks and all, and letting the wisdom and the lessons that are learned in those ordinary, everyday moments flow out of me and into them.  Not because I've taught them anything, but because they've come along with me and watched me learn.  Watched me grow.  Watched me fail.  Watched me try.

But I have a secret to tell you: there are days.  Like, well, today. 

Days that begin with milk and cereal spilled because, in some miraculous role reversal, the one year old has much more control of his body and choices at meal time than the four year old.  Days where it took us literally an hour to get our sad selves out of the house.  Days where, despite the conversations about how important it is to rest her body and staythefrickinbed, there are fairy wings and dress up clothes strewn about her room and her motto is nap?  We don't need no stinking nap! which would all be fine if only she could be a reasonable, rational, somewhat decent human being until 7:30 p.m. without a nap.  Days that end with me nixing a bath and giving the go-ahead for tiny humans to run around in public looking rather like that dirt-cloud kid from Charlie Brown because, as Twisted Sister once said: we're not gonna take it anymore!  And by we, I very fervently mean me.  

Hello, my name is Melissa.  And I can't take it anymore. 

Which is bad, mostly on account of the fact that there's no relief pitcher in my house for the next two weeks, it's just me.  And all those life lessons I'm working to pass on through my Super Mommy Behavior are cancelled out, and instead the message is I'm TIRED! and ANGRY! and FRUSTRATED! and sound all Amy Poehler-y.  WHY ARE YOU DISAPPOINTING ME?!

Yeah, well done on that.  

Which brings me to the last important lesson I hope I am conferring to my children: the lesson that involves just showing up.  

True, it is a far cry from those inspirational motivational posters and a little more like the "hang in there, kitty" posters that used to make me cringe in high school.  But the truth is, there are times in life where we won't be all that we can be, and to GNC's dismay, we won't beat average, we'll just be average.  Not because it's what we're striving to be, not because it's our ultimate goal or because we don't want to improve, but simply as a result of that little state of affairs called being human.  

If the goal is to only show up for the days on which we're sure we can be perfect and can fulfill all those other things on that list I made up there, we're... well... totally screwed.  We'll never, ever show up. 

Life doesn't give me the luxury of waiting until I can be Super Mommy who knows ALL THE ANSWERS to ALL THE THINGS and manages to handle every circumstance with grace, wisdom and style.  Life asks me to just show up, beautiful mess and imperfections and all, and keep trying.  To make sure that, above all else, my kids know that they are loved and cared for and that they have a mommy who will always, always show up for them, even when that's the very best she has to offer.  

Because I love them, perfection cannot be my goal.  If that's the legacy I'm determined to leave for my children, what a massive, unrealistic disservice I've done them in the long run.  I've set them up for failure if perfection is not only the goal but the expectation and they miss the huge, average-but-critical importance of just showing up, when it's hard and when it's easy.  When you want to and when you don't.

Which works out well for me, particularly after a day like today.

Parenting Paradigm Shift: Embracing the What-Ifs

There is no doubt: one of the most difficult things to do is modify behavior.

There's a reason that countless resources exist, whether in the form of books, college courses, self-help courses with any multitude of strategies and perspectives on raising children.  Because, the truth is that for each and every one of us, we all spend our adult lives analyzing the way that we were raised.  Nobody gets out of this without a little therapy. Freudian formal or over Starbucks with a girlfriend, we all end up laying on the proverbial couch over the relationships, habits, norms and values we were brought up with.

One of the things that is most troubling to me, though, as I try to define for my children what their "normal" will look like, is how very easy it is for the world to undo the lessons I am working so diligently to deliver.  Those values that I'm working so hard to model and reinforce are easily overridden by the hundreds of messages they are receiving simply as a byproduct as they go about their day.

It certainly plays into my decision to homeschool.  I've watched kids cry about wearing a certain type of pant to school because "the girls at school don't like pants like this."  You'd think this message came from my 8th graders, right?  I wish.  This was from kindergartners.  I've listened to second graders talk about Miley Cyrus (not those adorable Hannah Montana years, either) and all the images that conjures up.  At the age of four, Barbies have become the top "get" as presents, and, though I know it flies in the face of little girl "tradition," I'm just not sure what redeeming value that particular toy has.  At the end of the day, it just doesn't fit in with the values we're working so hard to help instill in our children.

 So, for our kids, we've made a very intentional executive decision: Embrace the what-ifs.

What if, from the time that child is tiny, we fed him or her exclusively with positive messages?  I am not suggesting parenting without limits - quite the opposite - but positive messages in the form of music, modeling, books, toys, movies, TV shows, other parents and, yes, other children.  What if we surround our children with an array of age-appropriate, well-vetted imagery, speech and actions that nurture their spirits, character, and souls?

What if we cast off that which is negative, limit that which is neutral, and seek out only that which gives voice to the value and potential of our children?

What if we stand between our children and the idea that the status quo is acceptable, even best, as a yardstick for what goes into developing our children?  What if we reject the notion that, since everyone else is doing it, strength in numbers somehow equates to raising compassionate, joyful and engaged offspring?

What if we approach parenthood not only as a major milestone in our own lives, but as an intentional, inspired launching pad for our little beloveds?

If there is one thing I am discovering as a mother, it is that God has entrusted me with the high honor to speak identity into my children.  Not to say that they are empty vessels who wait on me to breathe life into them; clearly they are their own beings with amazing personalities, strengths, ideas and preferences all their own.  Every mother knows how difficult it is to force a child to eat a food he or she doesn't like, or to argue a point with a toddler who has made up his or her own mind on an issue.  They are willful, independent beings right from the start!

Still, the ability we have been given as mothers to influence, touch, guide and develop our children cannot be overstated, nor should it be undervalued.  We are not to simply sit on the sidelines as our children grow - particularly when they are small and willing to embrace the lessons and wisdom we have to offer.

If you've ever tried to speak with someone about sheltering your children, the responses are as mixed and varied as your audience.  In some ways, the idea of "sheltering" has become a veritable bad parenting buzz-word, equated with unhealthy, awkward children who will undoubtedly grow into adults who melt at life's simplest challenge.

Done well, this could not be further from the truth.

The goal of sheltering is not to keep them from the world, but to better equip them to enter a world full of tough choices.  To arm them with self-confidence, Godly knowledge and discernment.  To help them know where their parents stand on difficult, controversial issues - and more importantly, why we feel that way - and give them roots to make their own choices out of wisdom.  To gift them the opportunity to develop their own character, skills and minds as individuals and give them lots of practice making choices while the stakes are small so that they are ready to function in our much larger world of pressures, choices and consequences.

In education terms, we would call it "front loading."  Without getting too technical, it means to spend a great deal of time pre-teaching the skills we know our learners will need to use independently later on.  In fact, most of what we do as teachers isn't conveying knowledge or facts, but investing up front in the "big ideas" that will carry them through the lesson, then refining processes and providing feedback so that when students are ready to grapple with the subject independently, they have the greatest chance at success.

The idea, then, for raising children, is to identify the characteristics and behaviors we would hope to see from our children and spend time investing in those while they are little.  To surround them with a world that supports and reinforces those values while we can, and gradually release them, with guidance and feedback, into young adults who make their own independent decisions.

"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it." 

Proverbs 22:5

It's not about protecting them from failure.  Failure is our greatest ally in making wise choices.  It's not about protecting them from pain, since some things you can only learn through experience, pain and loss.  It is about asking two questions: who can our children become if they are allowed to focus on becoming the best version of themselves, and what do they need from us in order to get there?  Not for the purpose of engendering selfishness or vanity or entitlement, but because when they embrace the best version of themselves, when they know who they are and why they're here, they have the most to give back to the world.  

Where they take it is ultimately up to them, and the issues they'll confront over coffee (I pray it's just coffee and not more intensive therapy!) will undoubtedly be their own.  For my part, though, I'm content to err on the side of caution.  It's alright with me that when my four year old hears "Don't Stop Believin'" on the radio, she confidently informs me that she likes the song because it's about God.  That she found it odd when, at a dinner with our friends recently, they didn't pray before their meal.  That she calmly informs other children that they need to use kind words and gentle hands. At four, this is the "normal" I have prepped her for.

And I'm cool with that.  

It doesn't mean we will be perfect.  It doesn't mean our children will be.  But what if we keep trying?