So I’m driving to work, shooting up some popcorn prayers to the big guy, when I turn my head and see these cool signs. I roll down the window, grab my iPhone and snap a shot.
I’m transfixed. There’s a sign that says ONE WAY with an arrow that got a wee bit cut-off in the picture and another sign proclaiming WRONG WAY.
It’s like God is whispering to me (maybe because he knows I’m attracted to danger).
Sam-You can go down the wrong way, the long way and the hurts like hell way to find me or you can jump straight into my arms baby girl.
I sat at that sign until the cars honked behind me.
Each day I get to choose between life and death, beauty or destruction, love or selfishness…
Choices, decisions, judgements…
I can choose to make the extra effort and snuggle into to my husband’s arms tonight or pretend to be asleep. (Yes…I’m referring to sex for all of you scratching your head about what snuggling means)
I can bite back my critical comments when I come home to a ginormous mess after a long day at the office and instead simply say, “Hi there kiddos, I missed you.” (Breathe in peace, exhale bitchy mommy)
I can make the effort to call my friends when I’m sad or I can park my butt in front of a basket of chips, salsa, and a skinny margarita nursing my emotional boo-boos all alone at Casa Ranchera (Not that I would…just saying I might).
I can choose to take baby Kolby to the park, rub Faith’s back, or listen to my son Kyle go on and on about expensive blue Nike’s until my head spins or I can check my Email and be distant mommy.
I can choose to not launch back verbal abuse to my co-worker after he has just asked me to cut up his steak for him at an office luncheon. (Ok, maybe that’s too much to ask of anybody?)
I turned my car towards the ONE WAY sign. At least for today, I’m heading in the right direction.
It was the second day of school when my fair maiden Faith scurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. The baby was parked on my feet, double fisted with sippy cups of juice and milk, whining to watch Yo Gabba Gabba. I danced around her little body, trying not to step on her while packing lunches and making breakfast.
A blur of dark golden hair and an extensive length of thigh whizzed past me. “Stop and turn around.” I demanded.
Faith looked at me like a deer in the headlights, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “What mom?”
“No way are you wearing that outfit.” I stated firmly. “Did you really think I would let you out of the house in that?”
Faith turned and looked sheepish, then flounced away in her skimpy, spaghetti strapped polka-dot sundress. As she turned to stomp up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of her pink panties.
(I could just see the mom’s at school gossiping, “Yep, that’s the pastor’s daughter, the one over there in the hootchie outfit.”)
‘But mom, its soooooo hot outside,” she whined from her room.
“You’ll be cold in that outfit” I shouted up to her.
A few minutes later, as I poured a (much needed) strong cup of coffee, in she traipsed again, now wearing her most prized and overpriced jeans with a grey cowl necked sweater. I put the cup down and looked at her in bemusement. “Faith, it was over a hundred degrees yesterday. Don’t you think you might be a little too hot?” I suggested.
She shook her head and looked in the mirror admiring her outfit. “I’ll be fine, mom.”
“Try again,” I said, shaking my head in exasperation.
She gave me the “whatever” look combined with a loud sigh and rolling of the eyes, then ran up the stairs once again.
Somewhere between little girl and all grown up...
As I heard her feet clomp down the stairs for the third time, I got a wee bit apprehensive. I could feel a headache coming on from all the drama and my son hadn’t even appeared yet with his rapper crap, (I mean the cool gear) he tries to pull off so nonchalantly.
But then Faith appeared and a wave of relief washed over me. She had on denim shorts (that actually covered her bum) and a pink diaphanous blouse that was a light cotton but still modest.
All of a sudden the Three Bears came to mind. It had been her favorite fairy tale as a munchkin.
“You look just right Goldilocks. Not too hot, not too cold, you are just right- sweetheart.”
And my fair maiden smiled and everything was the way it should be for at least five minutes (until my son came down wearing a sombrero the size of an inner-tube).
In our home, we have two distinctions for withholding the truth. One version is called a secret (or a lie). Secrets are bad and we heavily discourage this type of sneakiness (except for mommy’s little beauty secrets, and those are between her and God). We have serious consequences in our family for telling lies of any kind.
The other type of truth withholding is a surprise. Surprises are good. In this case, the intention of the truth withholder is to simply bless the recipient, with zero malice on the agenda.
Now our daddy is the king of surprises. Tim loves to play tricks and create outlandish diversions to illicit a joyful response. But, sometimes he takes it a little too far (though he usually has the best of intentions) and by the time we are actually surprised, we might also be slightly pissed off.
Labor Day was a day for surprises. Both Tim and I wanted to create a memorable family day with the kids to celebrate the end of summer, thus the element of surprise was essential. We lounged around the house in the morning and finally got the whole family ready and into the Expedition by 10:00am. The kids knew food was on the agenda because we didn’t feed them breakfast, but this was the extent of their knowledge regarding the day.
About twenty minutes into the drive, I realized my husband was not taking the freeway to our Newport Beach destination, but was instead taking the scenic route along Pacific Coast Highway, a gorgeous drive, but double the amount of travel. I looked in the backseat and the kids seemed happy (for now) but I wasn’t too sure what would happen over the next hour without food.
Kyle started in on the complaining first. “Where are we going? How long is it going to take? I’m starving!” he whined.
Then Faith joined in, “My tummy hurts! How much longer?” she asked.
Tim just kept on driving and driving and ignored their comments. An hour and twenty minutes in to the drive and my own tummy was growling, but I knew we were close to the ferry and our destination on the Balboa Peninsula.
But Kyle was getting frustrated. “Where are we going?” he demanded frostily, devoid of any fun or frolic in his voice.
Tim (now cranky himself) shot back, “We are going to Long Beach and it will be another hour! Just stop your whining or I can let you out and you can walk from here.”
Both Kyle and Faith went quiet, but our sweet little baby Kolby piped in from the backseat, “F… You!”
Tim and I looked at each other in amazement. Then again we heard her little voice ring out even louder.
“F… You!”
At first we weren’t sure if we were hearing her correctly, but she continued her diatribe louder and with more intensity.
Tim and I, than Faith and Kyle burst into laughter. We laughed until our insides hurt and then we laughed some more.
Now generally we discourage foul language in our home. In fact, I’ve only heard my husband swear once or twice in our whole marriage. If a bad word flies out, it’s probably mommy that let it slip, but the F word isn’t really one I use. (If the baby had said the S word, everyone in the car would have called me out)
We think she might have been trying to say “off shoe” but we aren’t really sure.
Maybe baby Kolby simply had enough of daddy’s tricks and wanted to eat brunch? Either way, the truth is, she articulated what we were all thinking, maybe not in that vulgar of terms, but we were all pretty much done with daddy’s surprise of the day. We just wanted to eat.
So maybe surprises can go a little too far sometimes. And maybe we should keep an eye on our verbal (i.e. sailor mouthed) baby. She seems to be taking after her mother.
I sat transfixed; eyes focused on the head coach, listening to him describe the prestigious football program of his private high school and all that it offered to my son. The moment seemed surreal.
I glanced around at the plush meeting room of the athletic department and tried not to pinch myself. It was a gorgeous facility, well-appointed and filled with the trophies and titles of students past- a tribute to the blood, sweat and tears of dedicated coaches and athletes.
In the middle of the room, directly in front of the coach, perched my boy and his best friend; looking impossibly mature for their thirteen years. The boys leaned in, hungry to hear every word of the coach’s vision, so eager for the opportunity to pursue football glory. A passel of parents surrounded them, including my husband, ex-husband and Kyle’s step-mom.
The baby and I sat on the floor near the edge of the room. After an extensive tour of the academic facilities, we were now into our third hour, and the baby’s patience was wearing thin. Naptime had long come and gone and baby Kolby was near the end of her tiny toddler rope. I tried to distract her with a pen and a brochure I picked up along the way, but she whimpered and wiggled by my side scribbling on the paper while I tried to focus on the coach’s words.
I thought it would be so easy picking the right school for my son to attend. Let’s see…what district are we in? I guess he’ll go there. But I didn’t anticipate birthing a crushing tackler. It seems to have changed the whole ballgame.
Coaches from random schools come up to me and ask to shake my son’s hand. Seriously?
It reminds me of a delicate dance of courtship. Schools, much like a suitor, present their facility in pomp and circumstance, displaying their grand academia and illustrious sports programs. My son and his buddy, the belles of the ball (or stud athletes in this case) are fiercely protected by their mammas and daddies, who want to make sure their beloved boy has the best chance of success on and off the field.
And while there are no football scholarships for high school, there are opportunities with great programs that will give our son a better shot at garnering one in the future.
But all this wooing and playing hard to get, this unspoken ritual of team building, had me all worn out.
Then all of a sudden I felt the head coach’s eyes on me. I turned to look at the baby and a hush went around the room. Kolby had moved from drawing on the paper to applying masterful pen-strokes to the athletic office walls with her ball point pen and in the blink of an eye destroyed a section of crisply painted walls. They were big black marks swirled in a pattern of childish delight.
I pulled the pen away from her hand and turned with remorse towards the coaching staff. “I’m so sorry; I’ll pay for the damage.” I groaned.
The head coach raised his eyebrows.
I wanted to crawl in a hole and hide from embarrassment. “So much for remaining aloof and noncommittal,” I whispered to the baby.
Tears of humiliation stung my eyes and threatened to leak out.
(I just know they think I’m a terrible mom)
The room remained quiet and everyone held their breath.
I looked up at the head coach, and he smiled back and shook his head, silently communicating not to worry about baby’s graffiti. His eyes twinkled with empathy, even levity, and I relaxed and finally smiled again.
And I knew, in that exact moment, this is where I want my son to go to high school.
This man’s grace towards a bumbling mother spoke volumes about the integrity of his program and the condition of his heart. I knew he would take care of my son, not only in football but in life as well.
And now that we’ve already left our mark on their wall, maybe it’s a sign.
(Of course, a large inheritance would also be a good sign to help foot the bill)
The late summer sun was setting by the time my son’s football practice wrapped up. While the boys grabbed a quick snack, a group of moms lingered nearby chatting and catching up. I tried to appear engaged in the conversation but couldn’t stop big yawns from sneaking out of my mouth.
“I need Starbucks bad,” I said.
My friend Page looked at me like I was nuts. “Sam, it’s 8:30pm, you want coffee now? Do you have some work to catch up on tonight or something important to do?”
I nodded my head, “Well, sort of-my husband.”
As soon as the words came out, I groaned, because the ladies all started laughing. And then I had to join them. Because the truth is, by Friday night I’m ready for bed at sundown.
With three kiddos, one being a baby who still wakes me up, work, writing, ministry, kids sports, and so on…I’m barely holding my head above water at any given moment.
I blushed and then admitted to them, “Ok, who am I kidding? If my husband is going to get some action tonight, I need a triple Americano, thank you very much!”
***
A recent study by the Edinburgh Sleep Centre asked both men and women if they had to choose between a night of passion or a full night of sleep, which one would they pick? The answer, not surprisingly, was sleep.
The study, of more than 8,500 people, saw 79 per cent admit they preferred the thought of extra sleep to a night of passion. Only 12 per cent of those surveyed said they got eight hours sleep most nights, even thought 40 per cent believed they couldn’t function properly without it.
Personally, I think it’s the wrong question to ask. The human condition has a natural hierarchy of needs; food, water, shelter, and then sleep. A person can survive without sex for awhile (my husband excluded), but they won’t make it too long without sleep. And the reality is, most of us, in this country and in Britain are running so hard and fast that we are ridiculously exhausted and clearly sleep deprived.
So, it’s not that we don’t like sex, but we’d like our sex so much better if we weren’t zombies when we had it. And if we got more sleep, we’d probably feel like having more sex.
(Which brings me back to caffeine, an important job to do, and big yawns)
I went ahead and ordered a tall Americano with the best of intentions, (I mean I really do love my man) but by the time we got home after going out to dinner, put the kids to bed and finally made it to the bedroom, both of us were snoring within two minutes.
From somewhere deep within dreamland I hear the distinctive cry of my eighteen month old baby,” Maaaaaa Maaaaaa.”
I rouse and stumble to her room, pluck her out of the crib, and gently lay her down on the changing table for a fresh diaper. Slowly we make our way down the stairs to the fridge.
Kolby desperately cries and moans, “milka, milka, mama,” over and over. I grab her sippy cup and pour the kiddie liquid gold. She claps and squeals in delight. Then I put her on the counter and we grind the beans, and make fresh Starbucks coffee.
The house is quiet. It’s a stillness so fragile, soon to be broken by the clambering steps of the older kids and daddy down the stairs.
With my treasured cup of coffee in hand, I hold Kolby close as we move to the sofa for morning snuggles.
I take my first sip…”Ahhhh” while Kolby slurps her sippy cup in delight.
I look at her and crack up at the absurdity of our morning addictions. I need my coffee and Kolby craves her milka milka with a fierceness that border lines cranky. We are two peas in a pod, grasping our cups like they are a life force.
But today Kolby has a treat for me.
She places her chubby little hands on my face and cradles it. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Happy… Kolby happy mama.”
Did my tiny little girl just tell me how she felt? (I know right? The kid is brilliant and reflective no less)
It took me about thirty years to be able to articulate my feelings and express them. Quite frankly, I am still an emotional stuffer. And now here’s my verbal toddler teaching her mama to stop and smell the roses.
And then it hits me, our morning ritual is far more than milk and coffee, it’s a snapshot of our relationship.
A stolen moment of bliss between a mother and her child.
Kyle-“Sorry dude! I can’t come over until I finish the laundry.”
Nate-“Just put some music on and bust it out!”
Kyle- “I can’t. My mom won’t let me listen to music.”
Nate- “Wow! Really?”
Kyle- “Yeah, and she said I have to stay here until 3:00p.m.”
Nate-“Bummer”
Kyle’s mom sounds like a real B…. (Oh wait, that’s me!) To my almost thirteen-year-old there’s nothing more embarrassing than a parent, even when the parent is ridiculously cool like me. (ok, maybe not so much)
I know my son adores me, but in his defense, I’m also the biggest obstacle in his pursuit for independence. One day he needs me (usually for food or money) and the next day he pushes me away. Bagging on his mom in a text is a great example.
It gives me such an indescribable thrill when my son rips on me with the same phone I pay for every month. This would be on his new latest and greatest phone he was so excited about last month when we bought it for him. Oh wait, I remember, that’s the day when he said I was the best mom ever.
Sometimes it feels like my kid is one of those passive aggressive dogs that licks you in the face and simultaneously pee on your foot.
So how come Kyle conveniently forgot to mention the details in his text dialogue? Like the reason he’s doing laundry is because he acted like a jackwaggon on the last day of school.
Kyle came down to breakfast with his pants sagging halfway down his posterior and his yellow boxer shorts predominately displayed. My husband Tim caught a glimpse and sent him back upstairs to change.
When Kyle came back downstairs, Tim asked him, “Did you change?”
Kyl e replied, “Yep!”
In the car on the way to school, Kyle started wiggling and squirming in his seat. I asked him what was wrong.
Kyle gave me a defiant look, “Mom, why does it matter what I wear? Now, I’m totally uncomfortable.”
“Why are you uncomfortable?” I asked.
Kyle lifted his shirt to reveal his boxer shorts still on, with the addition of a pair of boxer briefs over the top. Of course it was uncomfortable! It looked like he was wearing a leotard over his shorts and underneath his jeans.
I shook my head in disbelief. Really? It must be mentally draining to come up with moves this smooth.
Dishonesty, in our house means extra chores-thus Kyle got to do the laundry. I guess he forgot to tell his buddy that part.
Then there’s the music reference. Yes…we do allow our kid to listen to music, even good music. But we don’t allow him to blow out the speakers on booty smacking, boots with fur, getting slizzard like a G6 gangsta rap.
When I read Kyle’s text message log back to him he chuckled and admitted he had indeed been rather harsh with his mom. Honestly, I don’t even think he realized his disrespect until I pointed it out.
I’m convinced puberty causes brain damage and the only cure is growing up, moving out, and paying for your own stinking phone.
Why do we say our teens are grounded? Who came up with this expressive idiom? The true definition has little to do with how American parents apply the word.
Was it a sixties hipster who got mad at his kids and used some sort of druggie lingo? “Dude, don’t get high like me. You need to be near the ground.” Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Or maybe it was even earlier, way back when planes first took to the sky and mischievous pilots like Maverick and Goose from Top Gun were grounded from adventure?
Since, I’m pontificating here and have done zero research, besides Googling the word, I think this makes the most sense.
My little Maverick (Kyle) and his pal, we’ll call him Goose, are the cutest teens on the block, but every now and then, they too need a reality check.
Now Kyle, if you recall, was restricted from attending the teen dances he deeply treasures (which I’m guessing some hot girls attend) until his Social Studies and Global grades perked back into the A range.
On Friday, he came home and declared, “I aced my finals and I want to go to the dance tonight.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Slow down there tiger. Final grades don’t come out until next week.”
“Mom, it’s in the bag. I’m going to the dance.”
“We’ll see what dad says,” I responded.
Well, dad said “no” to the request and Kyle fell into a melancholy gloom. His usual smile disappeared and for a full twenty-four hours he looked on the verge of tears.
He claimed we were the strictest and meanest of parents. In fact, all his friends think we are the worst and no one wants to come over because we don’t have Call of Duty in our home, which is a fate worse than death to a Jr. High Boy.
My parental self-esteem was plummeting, that is, until Monday night when we drove his buddy home and his mom came out of the house with guns blazing. Apparently, Goose had a little explaining to do as well, regarding a certain grade issue. Mmmhhh!
Maybe, I’m not the meanest and strictest parent alive? Maybe other parents ground their kids too? Gasp! Shock! Horror!
Kyle sat in the car and somberly watched his buddy get zinged while a big smile crossed my husband’s face. He drove off and heard his friend’s mom say, “You’re grounded,” as he pulled the car out.
I love it when this stuff happens! And, I really loved Kyle’s sincere apology. So at least for today, I’m not the worst mom ever, now his friend’s mom is!
We almost had to file a police report. Our jovial and loving pre-teen son seemed to have disappeared. And to make matters worse, the perpetrator replaced my darling child with a defiant, sullen, and entitled kid with a decided mean streak. So, we called for backup and fell to our knees begging God for the return of our son.
I also pulled out Boundaries with Teens, by John Townsend and cracked the cover. I bought it a while back, anticipating such a time as this and knowing I would need all the help I could get(I know, I know, there are moments where I seem a little less blonde).
As far as rules go, we try to keep it simple in our home. There are three biggies we enforce religiously that best define our family’s values. This is not in some pastor’s manual, it’s simply the Keller’s trying to figure out how to be parents and not screw up our kids.
The Rules are: respect, honesty and obedience.
If the kid is disrespectful, they lose a dollar out of their allowance. If they are disobedient they get fifteen minutes of extra chores and if they lie, we take away dessert for two weeks or skinny jeans depending on the child. So far, the baby has only had a time-out but we expect great things from her spunky and independent little spirit (translation: strong-willed child).
But Kyle was blowing through all the biggies in minutes. Something had to be done. So, for the first time we implemented the full grounding of said child. No friends, no social engagements, no phone, no texting, no Mac, and no fun for a solid week with an option for two. We also took away the teen dances he loves to attend, indefinitely, until his two B’s find their way back into the A range. This is not because we are Tiger mom and dad, but because we know he is capable.
And something amazing happened…our son has returned home. It took a few days, but he seems to have come around (at least for now), and I am happy to report the book works! I am hoping(and praying) as Kyle re-enters society he will not turn into Mr. Nasty again, but I am more than willing to put him back on restriction again(less driving him around, more help around the house…the benefits could go on and on). I’m sure this is just the first of many battles and it scares the spit out of me if I dwell on it too long.
I think the biggest lesson from the book is that freedom is earned and respect is a non-negotiable. To give our son boundaries is truly a gift for the both of us. He enjoys newfound responsibility and we have an amiable son navigating the path to adulthood.
Tone matters. Demeanor matters. When I watch kids treat their parents like morons my heart aches. I don’t believe it has to be this way.
Most of all, seeing his smile again matters to me. And at least for this week, I’ve got my boy back again.
My First Baby is officially, as of May 23rd, a double-digit midget (translation-Faith turned ten-years old). Now that might be confusing to some because it makes absolutely no sense if you know the birth order of my kids.
Faith Whitney is my second child (out of three) and now carries the middle child banner after almost a decade of being the baby. After that long, you would think the middle child traits would be nominally apparent, but jealousy is such a strong emotion and even the most secure kid gets rattled when their role is replaced.
I’ve noticed Faith fights to claim her place, postures for attention and vacillates between big girl and lisping baby talk–all symptoms of a classic middle child. It’s tough being the sandwich kid in between the studly athletic older brother and a ridiculously cute toddling baby sister. I think of Jan Brady and her silly wigs, just trying to fit in and find her place.
So, as chief mother and encourager of my little tribe, I have decided to break with tradition and give her a new nick-name, First Baby. For many years Faith was indeed my baby, and instead of taking on the bitter and sassy middle child identity, I have decided to give her a new title, allowing her the distinction of feeling treasured instead of lost among the birth order.
Now, while this might sound coddling to some, I do confess a certain degree of parental guilt when it comes to juggling three kids. My position recognizes the recurring nagging feeling of mommy guilt because I haven’t been able to give my middle child the attention she craves now that there are three. The truth is I am outnumbered and Faith has genuinely lost some time and attention from the mommy bucket.
But, even though my hands are full, as all moms know, my heart has an endless amount of love for my little girl. So one of the things I decided I could do was to give her a special name. And when I hold her in bed at night as we cuddle and say prayers, I sense my effort is appreciated.
Clearly she is still the middle sister. Faith’s role has not changed, but her title has been tweaked a bit to boost her security as my beloved child. It’s a beautiful picture of what God does with us. The world calls us certain labels and He in turn tells us we are chosen, redeemed, and cherished. The circumstances in our lives don’t change, but the image imprinted on our heart, (if we choose to believe what God says is true about us) begins to define us more than the other titles. We operate differently because we are secure.
A recent story in the news caught my eye about a family who has refused to announce the sex of their child. The baby named Storm will be allowed to pick its own gender. On a million levels this disturbs me but mostly because we are created in the image of God, male and female he created them.
Little Storm will grow up without labels, without a gender even. His family, in an extreme effort to avoid the world’s identification and labels, has created even more insecurity for the child. In my opinion, this seems like another misguided attempt to play God and redefine the created order into some PC perversion of an alternative reality.
I understand the desire though. It’s the same reason I go out of my way to make up silly nick-names because I love my kids. It’s the yearning to experience the paradise we were created for. Something deep within our spirits strives to recreate that which was lost. Of course not being God, we distort in our effort to recreate beauty or in this case a world without labels.
Strangely enough, I imagine in about a year or two, the last thing Faith will want me to call her is a baby. And Storm in a few years will probably figure out his or her sex, despite his parent’s shroud of secrecy. Hopefully, both will find their true identity in Christ alone and ultimately that will be enough.
