I’m often greeted with mixed responses whenever I mention one particular practice in which my husband and I participate: fasting. “Why would you choose not to eat on purpose?” “I could never do that. I… More
The coach finishes his post-game pep talk then holds up the coveted game ball. He’s ready to announce tonight’s recipient. I glance at my son, his eyes wide in anticipation. I can almost hear his slow intake of breath, the butterflies of possibility fluttering in his stomach. I’ve been there on pageant stages, at cheerleader tryouts, the waiting to hear your name announced yet knowing deep down it probably isn’t going to happen. C closes his eyes hoping to hear his name. Tonight was his best game of the season, but he plays on a team of standouts, and their plays and displays outshone his. “Tonight’s game ball goes to….” I don’t remember whose name was called; I just know it wasn’t his.
Few things drive me to my knees faster than parenting. I think Satan likes to attack my parenting because it is where I feel most insecure. I’m accustomed to tackling challenges with ease, but parenting leaves me baffled. What works one day prompts disaster the next. Throw a strong-willed child into the mix and boom! Once again, I’m left in the wake picking up the shards of a broken morning.
This July is my fortieth birthday. Forty isn’t a little mile marker on the life highway, it’s one of those big flashing billboards reminding you not to text and drive on the interstate. You might notice it for a moment as you glance up from your smart phone…..the one that didn’t even exist twenty years ago. Forty is one of those birthdays that requires reflection: from where have I come and to where am I going? As I prepare to celebrate in a few months, I’ve been wondering what it would be like to go back and have a chat with my
twenty-year-old self, the one on the brink of jumping into life with both feet, a life full of unknowns but also brimming with promise. What would I say to that naive girl? What wisdom would the 40-year-old version of me impart to that ingenue? So, I decided to create a list of truths I’d like to share with that much-younger me:
I’m not sure how it began. I think it all started with the chaos of moving to a new home in a new city in the middle of a school year. However it commenced, it was clear: my children’s use of electronic devices had gotten out of control.
“Mom, can I play on my i-Pad while you unpack?”
“Mommy, I finished all of my school work; can I play X-box for a little while?”
For two months, I acquiesced because it allowed me to unpack one more box, organize one more closet, and buy one more minute of peace. Before I knew it, my children, particularly my son, were begging for electronic devices on car rides, at dinner, and even attempting to slide them under pillows in case they awoke in the middle of the night. Clearly, we had a problem. Their dependence on smart devices for constant entertainment had even taken a toll on their personalities. My son was moody and jittery when the iPad wasn’t in his hands. Fights ensued over whose turn it was to play X-box. They were rushing through assignments simply to get to tech time. When I finally decided enough was enough and attempted to set limits, I was met with mourning and gnashing of teeth, so I found myself continually giving in because that was easier than the hassle of dealing with the outburst over just saying, “No!”
This is the time of year where I usually reflect on my failed resolutions of the past 365 days, an uplifting berating of my many failings and shortcomings. Most resolutions never live to see me sneaking Valentine conversation hearts from my kids’ stashes. It’s been such a strange and atypical year, though, that I decided to reflect on what the past year has taught me about who I am, flaws and all. Continue reading “New Year Reflections”
I watch helplessly as my daughter rips the cushions from the couch and heaves them to the floor. “I’m not going, and there’s nothing you can do to make me.” She picks up a tray off the coffee table and stares threateningly into my eyes, daring me to move. “Put that down,” I say calmly in my firmest “I mean business” voice. “No!” she says and hurls it at the wall. Before I can respond, she grabs my arm and sinks her teeth into the muscle above my elbow. “Go. Go. Just go to your room and leave me be!” I shout. I sink into the one remaining cushion on the couch and allow the tears to flow. Continue reading “Because Sometimes You Need Help: Parenting a Strong-willed Child”
My hands toss into the air along with exasperated sighs and harsh words of frustration. Another strand of lights is only half working, when minutes before all had been working. I circle the tree like a Maypole without all the fun, undoing what I’d just spent twenty minutes doing when the lights spring back to life, and another strand suddenly goes dark. I look out the window and notice my neighbor’s tree, perfectly lit, as if posing for a typical Norman Rockwell portrait. Despite my Pinterest ambitions, my tree always manages to resemble Charlie Brown’s before the rest of the Peanuts magically transformed it. Once again, my imaginings of an idyllic Christmas are fading, and I haven’t finished the leftover Thanksgiving turkey. Continue reading “O Come, Thou Long Expected”
I can vividly remember the day my husband told me we were moving. I had just come home from spin class and was contemplating requesting sessions from a personal trainer for my birthday when my husband burst into the bedroom and announced, “I’ve got an opportunity in Nashville, and I think we should take it.” Like any good wife, I immediately burst into tears. Continue reading “Lessons from Moving”
I quickly post pictures of me taken at the finish line of the Gulf Coast Triathlon without examining them too closely. I just completed my first triathlon, and these pictures need to get to the world wide web as soon as possible. The people need to know. Later, when I’ve had time to recover, I scroll through the photographs taken by family and friends. I pause on the one of me proudly holding up my finisher’s medal, and I am disgusted. My first thought isn’t, “Look at what you just accomplished after years of battling injury. You go girl!” No, sadly, my first thought is, “Who is that big girl? I look so fat.” What should be my most triumphant moment in a long time reduces me to tears of frustration as I pore over every flaw, picking apart each inch of my body with a negativity I wouldn’t reserve for my nemesis. Continue reading “The One Where I Open Up About My Struggle with Body Image”
My dear sweet girl,
I didn’t really expect to discuss this with you at the tender age of seven, but when after watching The Voice with Mommy for a mere ten minutes, you suddenly came downstairs after a commercial break with your hair down and brushed dramatically to the side just like a few of the contestants, I felt a lurch in the pit of my stomach. Your innocent pony tail and head band had been replaced with a Lauren Bacall peekaboo. What I thought was an innocent, innocuous singing competition had already begun to teach you what our culture values as beautiful, and you didn’t even wait until the end of the show to model their ideal. Despite a steady diet of Veggie Tales and Gigi: God’s Little Princess, despite having never allowed “fashion” magazines into the house, I have realized that I can’t always protect you from “the world,” and since I’ve noticed that most retailers think seven is the right age for little girls to look like grown women, I think it’s time we had a chat about what true beauty really is.