Tag: Faith

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Sharing, Closet Space and How to Prepare for Marriage

Give me a drawer for my unborn baby now!

When Tim and I wed the kids and I moved temporarily into his bachelor pad condo with the view of the waves.  At the time, we were looking for a home to buy and figured it would only take a few months to navigate the home buying process. 

We were wrong.

We packed up all the kids’ toys –the Barbie Guitar, the Lego’s and the Nintendo.  All we brought was our clothes, a few books and the lizard –Sean.

But our three-month tour turned into a two-year stay.

Now Tim had a pretty nice shack for a single dude.  The condo had two large bedrooms and an enormous living space all remodeled and state of the art.  There should have been enough room.  But Tim had been single for thirty-six years and all of a sudden he had to make room in his life and his heart for three more (four with the lizard).

Initially, he cleared out a few shelves for me.  After I whined pitifully, he gave the kids a broom closet (less than three feet across and about two feet deep), a dresser to share and then finally cleared out another half-closet for his new bride.  He continued to occupy the walk-in closet, three dressers and the hall closet.

I tried not to make a fuss and make do with this simple and pared down living style.  I don’t have a ton of clothes because I tend to spend my money on the kids and books anyway, and I knew how hard it was for Tim to go from single (AKA self-absorbed) to married and sharing everything.

 But when I got pregnant with Kolby everything changed.

We were still tied-up in a never-ending escrow –eight long months from beginning to end –and didn’t know if we were going to bring the baby home to our new house or squeeze her into the condo.  My nesting instincts were kicking in to high gear and that’s when I went ballistic.

“I don’t even have a drawer for the baby’s clothes!  Wahhhhhhhhhhhh!  

A torrent of tears erupted and two years of frustration poured out of Tim’s sweet little wife.  I threw a pillow at him and some baby socks and wailed like an abandoned child at the mall.

Tim learned a good lesson that illustrious day.

  1. Learning to share starts before you get married.
  2. Living alone is not the best way to prepare for marriage.
  3. Never deny a woman closet space even if she says its fine –inside she is pissed.
  4. When starting out a new marriage, if at all possible, it’s best to move into a neutral space.  The truth is, the kids and I felt like visitors and Tim felt invaded.  A neutral space right off the bat would have alleviated much of the turmoil.

Tim sent me this article by Mark Driscoll and it made me laugh because we experienced some of this in our relationship and its good advice.  “5 Ways to Move from Selfish to Servant as a Single.”

(FYI…It’s not an endorsement.   I agree with about 79% of his stuff and the rest I abhor, so basically I’m conflicted about the dude)

I would add a few things…

Four (More) Ways to Move from Selfish to Servant as a Single (to Prepare for Marriage)

1. Get a roommate

My husband feels strongly about this one.  Tim always had a roommate until the last few months before our marriage and even then it was hard for him.  Guys-specifically get weird living alone.  In a vacuum of no accountability men will act like boys(X-box, porn, endless sports).  Women collect cats.  And you don’t have to share.  Living with people is important for mental health, accountability as a Christian and future interactions with a spouse.

2. Volunteer with small children or teens. 

It will give you perspective on irrational human beings and you will be better prepared for parenting and marriage.

3. Stop hoarding

 Pare down your wardrobe.  Instead of collecting things to gather dust –collect experiences and friendships.  Give away unnecessary stuff to people who need it and will use it.

4. Learn time management now

Even as a single mom with two munchkins I had more time than as a married mother of three.  Every relationship takes time and energy.  If you are struggling to balance time as a single person it will only get worse when you get married. 

 

Do you have any more tips to move from selfish to servant to prepare for marriage?

 

 

 

 

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Teens, Jell-o, and Why Animals Eat Their Young

 

I always thought this quote was terrible –“Mothers of Teenagers Know Why Animals Eat Their Young” and yet now I can honestly chuckle and relate.  OK, I’ve never really thought about eating my kids but military school and/or a nunnery might be an option.

It cracks me up when parents of toddlers and small children insinuate because I have two older children –ten and thirteen along with my two-year old, that parenting must be easier.  I nod my head, hold my tongue and silently think, “Oh boy, you are going to eat those words someday oh parenting Yoda of a one-year-old.”

I’m not sure which part is easy?  I don’t even get the benefits of my kids dressing themselves.  I still have to check every article of clothing my daughter wears out of the house lest a hoochie mama try to slip by.  Then there is my son who tries to pull his pants halfway down his behind and wears jeans so tight skinny could be defined as the new loose. 

I get wrinkles from being up with a cranky toddler all night and then face a daily mental battle from my tween and teen.  Sick babies might be a pain in the you know what but they don’t even come close to the never-ending onslaught of brain cell destruction that parenting older children requires.  I feel like I need a graduate degree in reverse psychology and teen Latin (AKA kid speak) to get by.

How do I get my kids to not do stupid stuff when we all did stupid stuff at that age? 

I cringe when my kid’s start probing into my past.  “Mom, were you pure?  Did you French kiss?  Did you pray every day? How old were you when you first had sex, smoked, and stole your parent’s car for a joy ride on Balboa Island?” (Thanks dad for sharing that information with them)

Ummmmmm?  Is this a multiple choice question?  WWJD doesn’t seem to be cutting it anymore and I can’t repeat the acronym I am really thinking…

Sometimes at night, I hold little Kolby close and breathe in her innocence and thank God she is two.  I smile in delight at her temper tantrums and bossiness and adorable pouty face when she sits in time-out.  And I sing praises every morning because I can still dress her in whatever I want and put girly bows in her baby curls. 

Mostly, I thank God she likes Mommy better than all her friends.  Yeah for me! I appreciate this all the more because I know these moments expire around eleven -give or take a few months.

It’s difficult as a pastor’s wife.  People expect me to do it right and have all the answers.  The truth is, the only thing I have figured out is a reliance on the one who does –Jesus. 

I’m the one in church raising her two wimpy arms high in worship, not because I am spiritual, but because I am begging and pleading for direction.

I literally prostrated myself on the ground of the floor in my closet a few weeks weeping and crying out to for God to guide my family through these difficult years of high school and Jr. High.  Even though I have amazing kids whom I lavishly love and adore, navigating emotions and hormones and temptations is like nailing Jell-O to a tree –pointless and frustrating.

I guess if I am honest, I can thank God for these awkward puberty years too, because it certainly draws me closer to him. 

On my knees close.  Kissing the ground close.  Flat on my face close.

I sure miss the days when a crisis could be resolved with a Hello Kitty band-aid and a kiss.

Do you have teens?  Can you relate?

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Heads, Tails or Fleece?

Got Fleece?

Some decisions are too big to flip a coin over and so we pray and plead and ask the big guy for a sign.  But in marriage this gets a little murkier when one person clearly hears God and yet their spouse remains unsure.

So is the case in the Keller relationship.  We have a big whopper of a choice to make but there has been disparity between the two of us as to when to pull the trigger.  I’d tell you what this big superdeeduper decision is but then I might lose my special agent status and possibly compromise national security. 

Anyway, God was clear with me on the details but fuzzier with my hubby Tim.

We faced one another sitting Indian style on our bed one night (certainly the best way to compromise) discussing the pros and cons of our issue and Tim suggested we ask for  fleece from God. 

Now fleece harkens back to the tale of Gideon in the Bible, who asked for a sign from God after an angel appeared asking him to lead the Israelites in battle against the gnarly Midianites who were terrorizing the Israelite people and forcing them to hide in caves after overrunning their country.

Gideon was understandably freaked out at the angel’s suggestion.   He promised to obey the command: but before commencing the battle he oh so casually requested a sign from God that the Israelites were certain to win the battle.  The sign Gideon asked for was this –that when he laid a fleece of wool on the ground, if the victory was with Israel, then the fleece would be wet and the ground dry.

He placed the wool on the ground, and taking it up the next morning found it wet, although the ground was dry. So he knew God was saying “get your sword out dude.”

But Gideon was still uncertain. He pleaded with God for a second sign. This time the ground was to be wet and the fleece of wool dry. God, who is infinitely more patient than me gave him the desired sign and then Gideon humbly obeyed and went out and kicked some Midianite butt.

Now Tim –just like Gideon –was requesting fleece.  It would appear he was simply asking for a sign, but I know my husband and in the back of my mind, I thought, “OK GOD, YOU HAVE TO PROVIDE FLEECE.”

Maybe a stinky sheep wool sweater or a wet stuffed Easter lamb on the lawn would suffice?  I know how literal my husband is and all the various ways God was clearly speaking to me weren’t making an impact on him.

So I’m on the freeway a few days later and I glance up at this white van in front of me and the license plate reads, “GOT FLEECE?”

It was my Evan Almighty moment!  My burning bush, my donkey talking! YESSSSSS!

Shaking and laughing, I risked peril and near death to reach for my iPhone and snap a few pictures to prove the sign to my husband.

Tim studied the pictures intently that evening and agreed this was indeed a sign.  He gave me that wise pastor look, “Sam, clearly God has spoken through a van on the 5 freeway.”

But then Tim (being Tim) smiled at me and said tongue in cheek, “Ok, now we wait for a second sign.”

Jinkies!  I know my husband is willing to follow whatever God calls him to do, I mean the man left his six-figure corporate income to go into ministry.  But come on…recognize the awesomeness of the van!

But then I am reminded how in marriage we don’t always see eye to eye and his quest for clarity might be a gift from God to balance out my more spontaneous nature.

Ok Jesus, got anymore dry fleece?

 

 

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The Homeless and the Role of the Church

“Excuse me, are you in charge?” I asked the elegant woman who was setting up a serving table of hot pasta and bread.  A long line of people snaked around the corner and were already pushing and shoving, impatiently waiting to be fed. 

I smiled and stuck out my hand which she ignored.

“Why?  What do you want?” she responded snappishly.                                                                         

“It’s our first time here.  We’re from Mariners Church in Mission Viejo and we brought some food and clothes too and we don’t want to get in your way.”

The lady rolled her eyes at me and turned her back.  “Do whatever you want,” she barked.”

I was confused.  I had just arrived at the park near the courthouse in Santa Ana notorious for its large homeless population.  Why did this churchy lady who was supposed to be helping the poor act like I was a dog pooping in her yard? 

It wasn’t about a lack of need.  The need was OVERWHELMING.  There were about two hundred people in the small park meandering around.

My group chose another spot on the opposite side of the lawn and set up our tables.  Within seconds another fifty people were crowding around us.  I asked my Marine friends to stand guard while we tried to find a modicum of organization amidst the chaos. 

All of a sudden a frustrated homeless man started shouting there were scammers crowding to the front of the line.  He yelled out “They ‘aint homeless!  You come here to feed us cuz we got no homes and they take all our food and go home to their houses.  They are cheating.  They’re going to steal the clothes you brought for us and sell them at garage sales AT THEIR HOMES.”

Certain faces in the crowd –certain VERY clean faces stared at the ground in shame.

We did our best.  We tried to bring the folks with tickets from the police for sleeping outside to the front of the line and help them out first.  People argued and shoved and I tried to be stalwart when my heart-felt like a squishy noodle.

A little later some of the homeless girls I was chatting with pointed to a woman with four nicely dressed children taking off with about six bags of our clothes. They claimed she was a known garage sale scavenger and in her arms was my prized collection of baby clothes. 

NOOOOOO!

They were Kolby’s first sleepers and handmade diaper cloths and I actually cried while packing the bags –trying so hard to trust God and to let go of stuff. 

And now here was this lady –this garage sale troll stealing my baby clothes from the people in need to sell them for profit. 

So I confronted her.  She played dumb and pretended to not speak English and I stood there feeling pissed off and helpless. 

Do I take my clothes back or do I trust God for justice?

And so I let them go but my spirit started churning.

When I got home I debriefed with my husband and he explained the reason why the other church didn’t want us at the park was because they make the homeless sit through a gospel session before they are allowed to eat.  And here we were just giving away food and clothes for free.

How dare we intrude with no agenda?  No Jesus shoved down their throats.  We had the audacity to just hang out and meet a microcosm of the need at hand.

It makes me sick to my stomach and yet…

I want to go back with a desperation I don’t understand.  I am dying to return to this septic tank of poverty where people are robbed and beaten up for the clothes we just gave them.  Where the homeless are force-fed Jesus by stupid and obtuse churches.  Where predators exploit the poor and use the system to get free inventory for their garage sale business.  And people without homes are treated like criminals and ticketed while the corrupt steal from them daily.

I want to go back to see Gloria who was so sick she could barely stand and to hang out with Princess who fled an abusive husband and to connect with Joe, the sweet filthy man who did everything he could to take care of his friend before helping himself. 

Joe pointed up to the sky as I left and then pointed to me.  I smiled weakly, not really feeling very Christ-like.  I was furious and resentful at the unfairness of life.

And in this awful place where I wonder where God is…maybe Joe reminded me. 

Sometimes it’s just about showing up.

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Am I Pretty or Ugly? Little Girls, the Media and Self-Esteem…

The other night I spoke to a group of amazing young women at Fristers –a non-profit dedicated to equipping and empowering teen moms.

I talked on PURITY and that it’s never too late –which is clearly God’s sense of humor.  How I became the poster child for no sex before marriage is still a mystery to me?  I guess it’s one of those Saul/Paul miracles –you know the guy who used to persecute Christians and then became the champion of the Christian movement?  Jesus takes the most unlikely people, wrecks them with his love and grace, and then bamm…new outlook and spokesperson status.

Laughs aside, I love encouraging these gals.  I bought into the lie for way to many years that I was only as good as I looked and that my self-esteem was intertwined with my beauty.   As I looked out at the sea of young faces I knew these sweet girls had fallen for the same bucket of deception.

And it’s getting worse and worse.

I saw on the Today Show this morning that little girls are posting pictures and videos on Facebook  asking, “Am I pretty or ugly?” allowing strangers to rate their appearance and opening the door up for bullying and predators.

Why do our little girls and our teens and truthfully –most women believe we have so little to offer?

I think it’s because we are duped from the get-go (and cursed from a certain apple incident, but that’s a whole other can of worms).

One of the things I came across recently is that men control 95% of the media we consume. Only 5% of what women consume is actually directed by women. 

What?  That means I am letting men tell me how to be a woman?

And it’s not like these are Godly men who want the best for women.  These are corrupt men who are defining what you and I believe.  And it’s a 24/7 assault on our spirits. 

I am not a big feminist.  In fact I cringe at some of the rights women think they need to be equal with men.  I believe men and women are different –and that’s something to be celebrated (in the context of equality in God’s eyes). 

But let’s be honest here, it’s the media who is the biggest enemy of the female heart, not the politicians, or the religious right or the schmuck at the office who degrades you and tells you to cut up his steak. It’s the media who controls what is before our eyes and we keep watching and encouraging the exploitation.

Every time we turn into Jersey Shore, Sweet Home Alabama and Secret’s of an American Teenager we tell Hollywood to keep pumping out more BS.  I know, I know…it’s your secret little addiction and you are a grown up.  But what about the hordes of little girl’s out there who watch the same shows and believe they need to look like a Bachelor hottie to be loved and get a rose?

It’s the disturbing and relentless messages targeting our little girl’s hearts by defining their worth and value as objects and subsequently destroying the female spirit.

The media tells us women are only as good as we look, that it’s ok to  parade us around in bikini’s and sexualize us into a piece of meat.  They tell us the size of our boobs is more important than our intellect or our hearts.  They tell us it’s ok to give our bodies away over and over but then they come back and call us trash and whores after we do. 

The reality show craze has elevated toddlers dressed as pageant tarts into celebrities, its turned teen sex into an act as normal as brushing your teeth, they’ve twisted abortion into the smart girl’s ticket to success vs. a life wasted slaving over a child’s snotty nose, while ironically shaming the courageous girls who actually take responsibility for their actions and decide to have their babies.

In college they call it a walk of shame when a girl slinks back to her dorm in her heels and party dress the morning after a hook-up.  They call it a walk of fame for a guy.  They let us buy into a sick and twisted double standard regarding men and women and sex. 

Pornography is the new norm and men are being sucked in and women are left to compete with an airbrushed image that doesn’t speak but opens her mouth and takes it.

And that’s what women are supposed to compete with? 

I don’t think so.

And I confess I am one of the guilty parties who bought into this lie from the enemy of my soul – hook line and sinker.  Even worse I perpetuated it.  I allowed myself, for a long time, to become the it-girl of the media’s distorted lie. 

But not anymore…

The other night I was able to tell these girls the TRUTH about who God says they are.

children of God. made in HIS image.  worth dying for.  radically loved. cherished. treasured.  beautiful.

After I spoke, the founder of Frister’s –Ali Woodard went around the room and had each girl take the microphone and claim her beauty.  Ali made the girl’s say out loud “I am beautiful.”

One by one, with giggles and sighs, some bold and some whispered out tremulously, the girls took a stand against the lie.

But one girl couldn’t do it.  She downright refused to accept she was anything but ugly.

She cried out, “It’s not true.  I can’t say it.  It’s a lie.”

And I stood at a distance and wept. 

What are we telling our girls?  This young lady chose life instead of killing her baby.  She has chosen to seek support and graduate from high school and pursue her dreams and be a loving mother.  But despite all of these things –inside she sees only shame and loathing and condemnation.  She sees ugly, not pretty.

Ali returned to the girl and worked with her.  It took a long time.  Finally she choked out in a small voice, “I am Beautiful.”

And I wanted to scream for all of the little girls and the big girls and the older women who don’t claim the beauty we have been given by God. 

In his image he created them.  Male and FEMALE he created them.

beautiful

  

Take some time today to tell the women in your life, especially the little ones –they are beautiful. 

Related Articles:

Beauty and Body Image in the Media

Statistics on Women in Media

 

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Got Emotions?

There’s a knot where my emotions live.  If I think about the knot it makes me want to cry.  So every effort to write has been rather futile this last week.  I reach for inspiration and the knot is like a lump of noodles clogging my drain… I mean brain

I’m not that great at grieving.  If stuffing had a competitor at Thanksgiving it would be me.  Generally my emotions only leak out in intimate small group settings where I feel really safe –and then some sort of emotional dam opens and I break down from bottling emotions that have been pent-up for ages, like a fine wine gone bad with bitterness.  It’s a weepy snotty affair and I associate this with weakness. 

So the way I protect myself from emotional hijacking is to lead the group and be a great listener.  It’s a safer place –always being the strong one.

I realized the other day, after my third round of blisters from shingles in three months, something needs to give.  I don’t want to live in this guarded place of protecting myself from hurt.  All too often I stay subtlety detached, not wanting to get too close to people, because they might leave me or hurt me, so I hover at a healthy distance and inoculate myself from pain before it can catch me.

But it always finds me.  I can’t hide from life.  And if I’m honest, I hate this about myself.  I don’t want to miss out on passion and laughter and joy to avoid discomfort and devastation.

I married Mr. Fun who wears his emotions on his sleeve and experiences high highs and low lows.  And somehow I have allowed myself to live vicariously through his emotional life so don’t have to have my own.

I stand at a distance and remain the steady ship swimming through the churning seas.  One is not better than the other, but I recognize the two together don’t equal a whole.  Sometimes it’s just two broken pieces patched together and leaking.

I buy into the lie that I need to be the glue in my family.  I imagine I wouldn’t be getting shingles if I let myself unravel a little bit more.  I have become a secret control freak who only cries at other people’s stories.  

You know something’s out of whack when you’re friend has a miscarriage and you are so upset she has to console you.  This lovely friend came over last night to be there for me in my time of need and I remained dry eyed and stoic –where are my tears hiding?

So here’s my goal for the next few months –to let go and FEEL deeply.  To not hide behind the laughs but to live them, to stop minimizing, and to go to the dark places in life recognizing that even there I am not alone. 

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,” even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. (Psalm 139:11-12)

For all of you covert Type A’s hiding behind being nice and steady and secretly overwhelmed up to their eyeballs –care to join me in this adventure?

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Punching Puppies

I normally write about churchy stuff, funny things, or sex (which I take a lot of heat for) but today I can’t get past what God is laying on my heart.  And I’m sorry to say it’s not the usual satire that makes you fall off your chair in convulsions at the office.  This might make you cry and maybe that’s funny, or maybe it’s not –so here is my apology up front.

I had a tough day yesterday –an out of the ordinary overwhelming day.  Usually, I’m a pretty chipper bird but this weekend was a doozy emotionally.  We have been trying to get pregnant.  And it looked like this month was a go, until it wasn’t.  Not to go into details, but it didn’t work out –an early miscarriage, a few days of whacked out hormones that took me to the edge, and then the disappointment set in like a dense fog. 

I wanted to punch puppies.  Curl up in a ball and hide under the covers until the pain subsided.  I couldn’t look at my husband without crying.  He was baffled and we battled all morning until I could find the words to communicate that I just needed him to be with me, to be my friend and listen. And even though he’s a man and I’m a woman, he figured out how to love me in the moment and to simply be present. 

We took a walk.  We got a cup of coffee.  We watched our toddler chase birds.  And at some point we prayed. 

And it was a prayer of surrender.  I needed help to believe.  I needed strength in my faith and the ability to trust when I can’t understand. 

I am fortunate.  I have three beautiful children.  But I’ve also had numerous miscarriages –one painfully far into my second trimester.  I wish I could say it gets easier to deal with disappointment but it doesn’t.  They all suck. 

If you are pregnant for a day or pregnant for six months –something happens to your spirit and bonds you with life.  It’s what women are uniquely designed for.  We have a gift to connect with the unseen –with the very breath of creation.

But life isn’t easy.  God’s Kingdom is here and still yet to come and we live in this awkward middle ground of beauty juxtaposed with sin, of pain and heartbreak and love and laughter. 

I’m better today.  By the end of the day I pulled out of my funk.  I took Faith on a special Taco Bell run.  I played Just Dance with my son.  I relished in a frothy lavender bubble bath with Kolby.  And I snuggled deep into my husband’s arms, burrowing in like a scared bunny rabbit. 

And eventually hope floated to the surface.

I don’t understand God.  But I surrender.  I trust his plan is better than mine even though the cup might be bitter to swallow.  And ultimately I believe one day he will lift me up in His time.

And I wait for that day with anticipation.

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Champagne Taste on a Beer Budget

Five hands reached out to the center of the table and piled one on top of the other.  Kolby’s little arm had to stretch really far, but she got the tips of her fingers in as our family made our New Year’s pact.

“One, two, three…Yo Gabba Gabba,” we yelled out to seal our commitment. 

The crowd at CPK (California Pizza Kitchen) looked at our table in open curiosity.  Our family isn’t exactly a quiet bunch and tonight we were celebrating Kolby’s second birthday.

First, we went around the table and affirmed our little girl.  Kolby beamed over her mac-n-cheese and pizza.  Then we picked one New Year’s goal each and shared it with the table.  We finished up by picking one crucial action item we could each do in the next few months to turn our goal into a reality. 

Our conversation was sincere, tender and full of cheers and encouragement.

The family next to us glanced over at us occasionally.  Their boys were dressed in the height of surfer cool and the mom and dad had the “OC well groomed look” (i.e. hours at the mall, salon, dermatologist and gym).  Each child got their own meal and soda.  It was obvious their entertainment budget had more wiggle room than ours.

Our family was out to eat on a gift certificate received from a congregant as a Christmas present.  Each of us split a meal and we made our kids drink water.  I dressed baby Kolby in a birthday girl t-shirt, just to make sure the restaurant didn’t forget to give us our free ice cream sundae.

Just as they delivered Kolby’s monstrous sundae (amidst a loud and lusty rendition of “happy birthday”) and the five of us dug in –snarfing like wild dogs on the baby’s treat, I noticed the other family getting served individual desserts the size of Texas. 

I looked at my husband and chuckled, “You know you’re the financially strapped pastor’s family when…”

  • The waiter hates you because the bill is always couponed, meals are split, and they have to ID your kids to make sure they are twelve and under for the kids menu (the hair on my son’s lip and almost six-foot status might indicate an older teen-ok he’s thirteen)
  • The baby yells out “Amen” when the food arrives because she is hungry and doesn’t want to wait for prayers.
  •  The homeless guy in the parking lot is wearing an outfit you have in your closet because the same rich family in town gave you both their hand me downs.
  • You get excited when your kid loses a tooth with a cavity in it. What a saver!
  • You re-gift nice gifts you actually want.
  • You consider washing the birthday girl t-shirt and wearing it the next time you go out to get another free dessert.  (The two-year old won’t catch on for a while)

You also really know you’re the pastor’s family when the rich kids next to you look longingly over at your table and wish they could abandon their big sundae’s and fancy clothes to come and hang out with the big, noisy family where the mom has just spilled ice-cream all over the son’s pants as they try to share bites and snort hysterically.

And even though I don’t love always struggling and pinching pennies, I also know there are some things money simply can’t buy.

 

 

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Confessions of a Bad “Player”

 

Some people simply know how to play better than other people.  My husband is one of them.  Tim’s middle name is “epic” fun.   He is energetic, spontaneous, and always up for an adventure on the fly.  He is also the kind of guy who get’s on his knees and plays blocks with the baby, dukes out Madden with our boy untill the wee hours of the morning and delights in Scrabble with our daughter.

I, on the other hand, was not blessed with the “gaming” gene.  I’ve got the bookworm gene, and the cuddling/nurturing/smart-ass gene…but games, not so much.

And while I am no expert in birth-order traits, I think “us” more structured “type A” personalities can blame growing up as an only child or as a much older first-born.  It’s hard to play games (other than Solitaire) when you are the only kid around.  (I guess my imaginary friends don’t count as companions either?)

Anyway, it was no skin off my teeth as a little kid, because I thought I was a grown-up.  By the age of four, I read the newspaper with my Lucky Charms and coffee, scavenged for antiques with my parents, and conversed with adults effortlessly.  Basically, I wasn’t ever a childlike kid, I was an adultified kid.

It’s not a bad trait –this grown-up kid mentality, but when it comes to child raising it makes a big difference in  attachment and children feeling connected and cared for by their parents(according to my Yoda-like counselor).

So, to sum up my counselor’s theory, my kids don’t really care how many books I complete this year, or about my husband’s heavy workload…they just want us to play blocks and chase and Barbie.  That’s so un-adultlike of them. 

My lackluster game skills have never really been an issue before now.  My oldest teen son is pretty mature (AKA another adultified child) and the baby has my husband to play with, but my middle girl child has become rather demanding.  And now it’s come to a crux, because it’s partly my fault. 

Apparently “play” is Faith’s love language and that’s just awesome, because I stink at it.  And, though I excel at sophisticated grown-up play –Vegas and cocktails, wit and politics, this kiddy frolic stuff sails right past me.

Vegas anyone?

So, I can continue to justify my lack of folly and claim my parents didn’t play little kid games all that much with me either (which is fine, I mean they had jobs to do and they did lots of cool stuff with me it’s just they weren’t five-year-old companions) or I can choose to own it and figure out how to be more silly in a childlike way. 

Ummmm….painful!  But do I really have a choice if I am to move towards my girl with love?

And so I am now entering a challenging season of being more intentional with my darling middle munchkins (and just for the heck of it, I’m throwing in some pre-school hijinks for the baby too). 

For the last few days, I have played Matchbox cars, painted ceramic magnets, used crayons, tried not to punch Mr. Potato Head after I put his arms back in for the forty-fourth time, cut-out paper icicles, decorated sugar cookies, and watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse over and over and over.  I also played in the Jacuzzi with the baby, chased Faith and Kolby around a fountain until Kolby barfed (all over my shoes) and have read an endless stack of baby books.  I have listened to toddler music until my head hurts and made Barbie do the splits about a hundred times.

I wish I could say it was easy.  Sometimes I actually find myself hoping someone (anyone) will walk in and see me on the floor playing so I can get props and hear, “well now aren’t you the loving mama!”

And I’ll be so demure and bat my eyelashes…”You know, I am really into crafts and being an organic mother.  I even make my own baby food.”  I’ll say this as I pull my fourth baby out of his sling as I simultaneously play puzzles with my toddler and make macrame necklaces with my tween.

And then my nose will grow like Pinocchio because I am a big fat liar.

I envy the earth mothers.  It is so hard for me to just sit and play.  It’s like someone is taking away my efficient identity and things that need to get done are falling through the cracks.  We already have one playful person in the family -epic funmeister Tim, so somebody has to keep us track, right?

But I’m learning (very slowly and awkwardly) that being present with my children is not about checking tasks off a list –it’s about getting rid of the list.

Nothing enormous has happened since I began my big “PLAY” effort last week.  My daughters and my teen didn’t fall on their knees and thank me for my efforts.  But, what I have found is that I feel closer to my kids.  Faith smiles more.  Kolby loves having a new playmate and I feel better knowing that I am making an effort to engage my kids in a way that speaks to them and in a language they can discern.

And sometimes love means ripping out our selfishness and cutting it off at the knees…and somewhere in all this pruning, reconnecting with our lost inner child. 

Game on ♥

Do you have a hard time being present with your kids?  Do you know your kid’s love languages?  What can you do today to see the world from your children’s perspective?

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Waffle Irons and Black Friday Ninja Skills

“That’s my mama,” says Kolby, pointing to me as I drive while talking to her sister.  My toddler’s burgeoning vocabulary makes me chuckle and I glance at them in the rearview mirror.

Faith smiles at Kolby.  “Yes, that is Kolby’s mama,” she agrees.  “But its Faith’s mama too.”

Kolby narrows her gaze into a territorial sneer, “No Faith.  That’s Kolby’s mama.  Not Faith’s mama.”

And so Faith volleys back and the next thing I know the car is filled with the wails of an almost two year old and her ten year-old sibling bickering over who has claims to me.

“Mine.”

“Ours.”

“No Faith, mine mama.”

It was funny at first –this cuteness of a toddler ensconced in a world where everything belongs to her; where sharing is optional and highly overrated (in Kolby’s opinion). 

But as we move into the holiday season and I reflect on our culture, I don’t know if the world operates much differently than an entitled baby fighting over her mama.

Last week’s Black Friday headlines have left me scratching my head and wondering what the hell is wrong with our country?

And even though I love Target and Wal-Mart, (as much as the next women out there who can pick up power tools and Goldfish all in one store) I have to wonder what kind of ideology I am buying into when the Target add on TV depicts a woman training for the super athletic event of shopping. 

After this year, maybe next year’s ad could show the woman training with weapons, like the lady in Walmart who pepper sprayed a group of shoppers to get to an X-Box? 

Or they could show her at the gun range learning how to protect her loot, maybe jousting with a waffle iron, or learning ninja smart phone skills to take down those pesky people who get their grubby hands on your goods.

Mine. Mine. Mine,

How about practicing the art of the trample?  There’s a nice pastime to usher in the Christmas spirit (and yes this is pure sarcasm because I know I will get a comment or another blogger posting Samantha Keller advocates trampling.  I do not nor have I ever trampled…just to be clear!)

But I am appalled at the greed and inhumanity Black Friday reveals about the state of our hearts.  Clearly, some Americans feel so entitled to a get a good holiday deal they will even kill for it. Really? 

We now have two holidays that have mutated. What are we going to lose next?

Halloween –dress like a slut day and Black Friday –act like an animal at the mall day.  (Use violence if necessary)

I’m taking a stand and reclaiming this Christmas. 

It’s not about Santa or the “Christmas Spirit”, the lights (though they are fun), the presents (which are grand) or the food (even though I sure love pie). 

Christmas is about a baby, born in a manger and a big God who made himself small to be with us.

And this Jesus is mine. And yours. And ours. 

Buy less stuff!  Instead of “Go Big or Go Home,” how about “Go Small and Go Home (and be with your loved ones.)

 

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