Tag: Relationships

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Menopause vs Air Conditioning

Split image: left teal striped banner with bold title 'Some Like It Hot. I Used To. Menopause vs Air Conditioning', right photo of a smiling blonde woman in a white shirt.

There are a few things in life that simply belong together.

Peanut butter and jelly.

Coffee and quiet mornings.

Beach sunsets and fish tacos.

And if you’re a woman over 50…

…air conditioning.

Gentlemen, gather around. This is the public service announcement no one gave you.

I need to explain something to my darling (and yes this is an apology).

You see, he lives in one of those charming old Southern California beach houses. You know the kind. Original windows. Tons of character. Ocean breeze. Not a single air-conditioning vent in sight.

To be fair, when the house was built, nobody really needed one.

I grew up in Seal Beach and Huntington Beach, and we maybe had one week a year where everyone collectively complained about the heat. Usually Labor Day. That was it.

One of my favorite childhood memories was when my dad would declare the annual “escape the heat” campout at his optometry office. We’d haul sleeping bags across the waiting room floor because—wait for it—it had air conditioning.

It felt like checking into the Ritz-Carlton.

The carpet smelled faintly of contact lens solution, but I didn’t care. It was sixty-eight glorious degrees.

Life was simple.

Fast forward forty years.

Now it’s late July, and Southern California apparently wants to audition as Phoenix.

The beach house doesn’t cool off anymore. It just…holds heat. Like it’s emotionally attached to it.

He has tried.

Bless his heart, he has tried.

Two portable air conditioners.

Approximately ten fans.

I’m fairly certain one afternoon we achieved tropical storm-force winds in the living room.

The fans were blowing.

The blinds were blowing.

The dog was blowing sideways.

I was still hot.

Because here’s what no one tells men.

Menopause hot isn’t the same as regular hot.

Regular hot is, “Gee, it’s warm today.”

Menopause hot is your body deciding, completely unprovoked, that it would like to recreate the surface of the sun.

It’s like being waterboarded…but with heat.

It comes in waves.

You’re perfectly fine.

Then suddenly your internal thermostat says, “You know what would be fun? Lava.”

Within seconds you’re peeling off layers like you’re competing in an emergency striptease.

Someone asks if you’re okay.

No.

No, Brad, I am not okay.

I’m currently roasting from the inside out.

Cooking dinner?

Absolutely not.

Why would I willingly stand over an open flame while already experiencing spontaneous human combustion?

The oven is now my enemy.

The stove is suspicious.

Even unloading the dishwasher feels like a personal attack.

The worst part is that heat changes my personality.

I’m not naturally grumpy.

Ask anyone.

I’m generally easy peasy squeezy. Optimistic. Happy. The person who says, “We’ll figure it out.”

But add eighty-three degrees inside the house and suddenly I’m drafting passive-aggressive speeches directed at the sun.

I don’t want to be cranky.

I simply no longer possess the emotional bandwidth to sweat through my own eyebrows.

My poor guy keeps trying to fix it because that’s what good men do. They solve problems.

More fans.

Different fans.

Better fans.

Fans that oscillate.

Fans that promise “turbo circulation.”

Sweetheart…

At this point we’d need a weather system.

So if you’re married to—or dating—a woman somewhere north of fifty, understand this:

When she says she’s hot, she isn’t being dramatic.

She isn’t high maintenance.

She isn’t trying to ruin your adorable vintage beach house aesthetic.

She’s simply asking for the one luxury that now ranks above jewelry, flowers, and romantic dinners.

Cold air.

Turns out menopause and air conditioning are exactly like peanut butter and jelly.

Some things just belong together.

And if loving me means occasionally sleeping next to what sounds like a small aircraft taking off because every fan in Orange County is pointed at our bed…

Well…

That’s probably cheaper than replacing me after I finally melt into the spanish tile floors.

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Staycation Lessons

person sitting on the pool float

Everyone talks about staycations.

I’ve always secretly thought they sounded like the participation trophy of vacations.

Why stay home when there are passports, tiny shampoo bottles and overpriced airport sandwiches?

But then I realized I live in Southern California, where “staying close to home” still means beaches, harbors, mountains and one of the best climates in the country.

Bonus points: I can still use my Ralphs rewards number to pick up some sunscreen.

So maybe I’ve been doing staycations wrong.

And there was one place I’d never really explored.

San Diego.

I’ve been there dozens of times for dance competitions, where my entire experience consisted of parking garages, convention centers, and wondering why every teenage dancer requires three Stanley cups and seventeen costume bags.

So, my sweetheart and I decided to do something different.

We booked a few nights at an older hotel on Shelter Island in the San Diego Bay.

Not fancy.

Just fun.

The kind of place with lush tropical landscaping, a pool bar, plenty of retirees, families tossing beach balls, and enough Hawaiian décor to convince you Don Ho might still be checking people in. On Friday night the Creedence Clearwater band was playing in the concert venue on property, which meant the average age dropped from seventy-two to sixty-eight.

Vacation had officially begun.

Until…

Three days earlier, my daughter had managed to lose a fight with the Pacific Ocean.

The waves at Doheny have been huge lately. As she was bringing her surfboard in, one knocked her straight onto the rocks. Her leg looked like she’d auditioned for a zombie movie. Her foot was the worst of it.

Unfortunately, she’s a dancer.

And unfortunately, it was her turning foot.

We had planned an entire day at the Safari Park.

Then beach time.

Then pool time.

Instead, we had a sixteen-year-old with half the skin missing from one leg who wasn’t allowed in the water.

Time for Plan B.

We rented her an electric scooter for the Safari Park.

The horror.

She begged us for a regular wheelchair instead.

“Please just push me.”

Absolutely not.

That park is basically a mountain disguised as a zoo. We ended up walking over seven miles. There wasn’t enough ibuprofen in Southern California for that plan.

So there we were.

A perfectly healthy-looking sixteen-year-old cruising around in a mobility scooter usually reserved for retirees recovering from hip surgery.

The side-eyes were immediate.

Little kids stared.

Parents looked confused.

You could almost hear them whispering.

“Seriously?”

But here’s the funny thing about amusement parks.

Everyone starts the day as their best self.

Then it gets hot.

The lines get longer.

The toddlers melt down.

The YMCA camp kids become surprisingly aggressive around the platypus exhibit.

People who began the morning saying, “After you,” are now using elbows to secure better giraffe viewing positions.

By about 3:45 that afternoon, something magical happened.

The judgment disappeared.

People weren’t looking at Kolby anymore.

They were looking at her scooter.

With envy.

She was gliding effortlessly from exhibit to exhibit while the rest of humanity dragged themselves uphill, sweating through sunscreen and questioning every life choice that had led them there.

She started the day embarrassed.

She ended it feeling like royalty.

Funny how quickly perspective changes.

The next day was slower.

Kolby stretched out beside the pool while the sunshine worked its magic on her scraped-up leg. My sweet man and I floated around, played football in the water, and somehow did what people used to do before phones.

We talked to strangers.

We met a recently retired doctor and his friendly wife.

Another couple about our age.

Within an hour, we were laughing like old friends.

Somewhere between floating aimlessly and discussing whose kids were the most awesome, the conversation turned toward this season of life.

Between my boyfriend and I, we have seven kids.

Most are grown.

Mine are almost there.

And one of them said something I’ll probably remember for a long time.

“Welcome to the Fun Zone.”

I loved that.

Because for the first time in twenty-seven years…

…I can actually see it.

Kolby drives herself now.

Just writing that sentence feels strange.

For years, I spent hours every day in the car. Football, Cheer, Soccer, Dance. School. Friends. More dance. Somehow my vehicle became both an Uber and a therapy office.

Now?

The driveway stays quiet.

Two of my kids are fully launched. Careers. Families. Their own lives.

My youngest is almost there.

She’s still my baby. She still needs me. But less every month.

I wouldn’t trade those years for anything.

They were loud.

Expensive.

Chaotic.

Exhausting.

Beautiful.

But somewhere along the way, motherhood quietly did what it was always supposed to do.

It worked.

It raised independent adults. And while I’m a devoted Mimi to my grandbabies, I definitely have more downtime than I used to.

As I watched Kolby’s leg slowly heal over the weekend, I realized maybe I’m healing too.

Not from scraped knees.

From letting go.

Slowly.

One tiny piece at a time.

In two years, my last chick will fly off to college.

I’ve dreaded that sentence for years.

Now…

Maybe I’m starting to get curious about what comes next.

Maybe there’s another chapter waiting that isn’t smaller.

Just different.

Apparently, they call it the Fun Zone.

And for the first time, I think I’m ready to find out what all the hype is about.

–Samantha

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When Relationship Advice Backfires

a couple having breakfast on the floor

It’s funny how the best of intentions can go terribly, hilariously wrong.

I follow this guy on Instagram. Let’s call him Mr. Love.

Mr. Love gives advice to women about how to treat their man. And honestly, most of it is pretty solid. At this stage in my life, I actually go out of my way to love people in their love language. Which means I have to keep up on the latest guy research.

Because apparently men have their own emotional dialect and I’m still a student trying to become fluent.

So Mr. Love posts a reel that immediately grabs my attention.

He says,
“Do you want to know the sexiest text I ever received from a woman?”

I’m like, hell yes I do.

He goes on to explain that he had recently helped a woman he was dating with a business issue. Later she sent him a text that said:

“Thank you. You always take such good care of me, (insert full name).”

Mr. Love went on and on about how appreciated he felt. How respected he felt. How the full name made it land differently.

I’m thinking, Oh wow. Look at this little nugget of relationship wisdom.

Can’t wait to implement this baby.

So a day or two later, my boyfriend does something awesome for me–as usual–and I launch my carefully crafted text.

Thank you. You always take such good care of me, (full name).

Nailed it.

Or so I thought.

About ten minutes later he walks in the door and I can immediately tell something is off.

The vibe is… tense.

Hmmmm.

He casually asks,
“Did I do something wrong? Your text seemed kinda sarcastic.”

I blink.

Confused.

He continues,
“Why did you use my full name? Am I in trouble?”

Oh no.

Abort. Abort.

He adds,
“I liked the part where you said I take care of you. That was nice. But the name part threw me off.”

And suddenly it hits me.

Of course.

When someone uses your full name, it usually means you’re about to get grounded.

Or fired.

Or yelled at by your mother.

Dying inside, I have to confess what happened.

Through flaming cheeks and uncontrollable giggles I try to explain the Instagram relationship experiment I just attempted on him.

I’m laughing so hard I can barely get the words out. Tears streaming. Completely busted trying out my new sexy text method.

I finally hang my head like a sheepish puppy.

He walks over, lifts my chin, and smiles.

“The best part of all this,” he says, “was watching you tell me the truth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh that hard.”

So maybe the text was a fail.

But his delight was completely genuine.

And honestly?

That might be even better.

And maybe that’s the real takeaway.

Relationships are not an Instagram formula.

You can study all the reels.
Take notes on the experts.
Try out the latest “sexy text strategy.”

But love isn’t a marketing campaign where you plug in the right script and get guaranteed results.

It’s messier than that.

Sometimes the text lands perfectly.
Sometimes it accidentally sounds like you’re about to send someone to their room.

What actually matters isn’t whether you executed the technique flawlessly.

It’s whether you show up honestly.

Because authenticity beats perfectly curated advice every time.

Real connection isn’t built on clever wording.
It’s built on laughing until you cry in the middle of your kitchen while confessing you just tried an Instagram relationship hack on your boyfriend.

And if you’re lucky…

He’ll laugh with you.

And that’s a lot sexier than the full name text anyway.

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Gracefully Removing Yourself from a Dumpster Fire: How-to

a hand holding a mug near the wooden table with letter board

There comes a moment in most women’s lives, usually somewhere between the group text meltdown and post-dance mom competition, when it hits you:
“Wait… are we just… gossiping right now?”

And then there’s the slow horror of knowing it’s your turn to say something. Or not.
You feel it in your stomach. Your conscience is squirming. Your inner people-pleaser is sweating bullets.
You want to shut it down.
You also want to avoid sounding like a total jerk.

Because let’s be honest:
Most of us don’t want to be that girl.
(You know, the one who starts quoting Proverbs mid-convo while everyone’s still passing guac and chips.)

But you also don’t want to sit there and give approval while someone verbally sets fire to another human being’s reputation.

So what’s a grown ass woman, with decent boundaries and a heart for Jesus, supposed to do?

First off: It’s going to feel weird, and that’s okay.

Standing up to gossip feels uncomfortable. Especially when it’s subtle. When it’s dressed up in concern. Or half-whispers. Or Christianese.

No one hands you a script. No angel shows up and says, “Speak now, O daughter of the King!”
It’s just you, your conscience, and your internal dialogue freaking out:
“Do I say something? Do I fake a bathroom emergency? Do I order another drink and hope this goes away?”

Here’s the good news: you don’t have to make it awkward. You just have to make a choice.

Here are my 5 Favorite Ways to Shut It Down

1. The Casual Pivot

“Oh wow. Hey, have you tried that new taco place by Target? So yummy.”

This is your smooth redirection, like you used to do with your toddlers when they wouldn’t give up a friend’s toy. Your emergency exit. Bonus points if it’s a totally unrelated topic like gluten-free muffins or microblading your eyebrows. No one will know what hit them.

2. The Unexpected Compliment (my personal favorite)

“You know, I’ve actually seen her handle that really well. She’s been through a lot.”

It lands softly, but it hits hard. You just quietly reminded everyone there’s a whole human behind the tea.

3. The “It’s Me, Not You” Move

“I’m working on not repeating stuff I didn’t hear firsthand. Could we change the subject?”

It’s the modern vibe of “Girl, you do you, and I’ll do me.” You’re not calling them out. You’re owning your own growth. No shame. Just a quick shift of gears with a side of maturity.

4. Poof! Gone

“Be right back!”
(This is where you hide in the bathroom)

You’re allowed to leave the conversation. Even mid-sentence. Even if it’s your mom group, small group, or carpool crew.

5. Stop and Pray

“Let’s pray for her.”

Depending on your audience, this may bring things to a halt. Or it may get awkward. Real awkward. But hey, sometimes, doing the right thing isn’t easy. At the very least, it plants a seed and shifts the topic.

The Harsh Truth

“A gossip betrays a confidence; so avoid anyone who talks too much.”
— Proverbs 20:19

Look. This doesn’t mean ghost your friend for life because she shared something she shouldn’t have.
It just means, don’t match her energy.
Don’t pick up what’s not yours to carry.
Don’t toss logs on a fire you weren’t called to ignite.

A Few Reminders

  • You can be wise and warm.
  • You can protect peace without preaching a 3-point sermon.
  • You can excuse yourself from the table without making a scene.

This isn’t about shutting people down. It’s about not letting someone else’s verbal diarrhea suck you in.

You’re not the gossip police.
You’re just trying to honor truth more than drama…and that is more aligned with the heart of Jesus.

Reflect

  • When was the last time I sat in a gossip-y conversation and said nothing, but felt awful?
  • What would it look like to leave one of those moments with quiet dignity instead of regret?
  • What phrase should I keep in my back pocket to pull out for next time? And I promise you, there will be a next time. With women…there always is.

Keep fighting the good fight.

—Sam

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Holy Hush: Silence Is a Spiritual Practice

A minimalist beige graphic with the title "Holy Hush: Silence Is a Spiritual Practice" in bold black serif font. Below the title is a simple black line drawing of a teacup with steam rising. At the bottom, it reads, "Day 2 of the Gossip Detox Series" in warm brown text.

 (aka: When in doubt, don’t blurt it out.)

There’s this thing I’m learning–slowly, stubbornly–that silence can actually be holy. Not awkward. Not passive. Not weak. Just… quietly powerful.

And I’ll be honest with you: I haven’t always been great at it.

Ever let an errant thought slip out that you immediately wanted to reel back in like a rogue balloon at a toddler’s birthday party? Yeah. Same.

I’d love to say I’ve never entertained less-than-charitable thoughts about people–but that would be dishonest. Shocker: I’m human. People can irritate me or get on my nerves and sometimes I don’t even know why? (but that’s a whole different blog)

But what I’ve realized over time is this:
-Not every thought needs to be shared.
-Not every person is a safe person to share it with.
-And not clapping back? Sometimes it’s a spiritual discipline–not just a social one.

Let me explain..

🥴 The Drunk Neighbor and the Moment of Clarity

A while back, I was at a party at a close friend’s house. You know, a casual backyard thing–easy vibes, lots of laughter. I felt relatively safe there. I’d shared a lot of my life with this friend. As in, deep-heart felt stuff. The kind of stuff you don’t throw around lightly. 

Thoughts. Dreams. Fears. 

And then one of her neighbors sat down next to me. Let’s just say she was… a little past tipsy. (Okay, she was hammered.)

And right there, in the middle of the party, she started giving me unsolicited relationship advice–based on every personal detail I’d ever told my friend. Not vague stuff. She knew things. Things I’d never said out loud to anyone but my friend.

Cue that sick to your stomach stomach feeling.

In one sad, uncomfortable moment, it all clicked:
-My friend wasn’t a safe space.
-My story had become someone else’s narrative.
-And gossip? Yeah–it doesn’t need a microphone to burn everything down.

🕊️ Jesus Didn’t Always Use Words

One of the most powerful examples of holy silence in the Bible? Jesus before Pilate.

“But Jesus made no reply, not even to a single charge–to the great amazement of the governor.”
 – Matthew 27:14

He was accused. Mocked. Misunderstood.
He had every right to speak up, to defend Himself, to lay it all out.
And He chose silence.

Not because He was weak. But because He focused on  the end game and a higher goal. His silence wasn’t passive–it was intentional.

And if Jesus could stay quiet in the face of false accusations… maybe I can hold my tongue when I’m tempted to vent in the group chat.

 Why We Always Feel the Need to Fill the Space

If you’re anything like me, silence can feel… uncomfortable. Like you’re letting something slide or giving up ground. But most of the time, when we feel like we have to speak, it’s coming from a place of:

  • Wanting to be understood
  • Wanting to be right
  • Wanting to protect our image
  • Feeling awkward
  • Or just needing to fill the space

But the older I get, the more I’m learning this:
Just because you can say something doesn’t mean you should.

🧠 A Simple Challenge for Today: The 3-Second Rule

Before you respond–pause for 3 full seconds.

Ask yourself:

  • Is this true?
  • Is it necessary?
  • Is it kind?
  • Will I regret saying this later?
  • Would I want this shared at a party by a tipsy neighbor?

If you’re unsure? Choose the hush. Let the Holy Spirit say what you almost did.

🙏 A Prayer for Day 2

Lord, teach me the beauty of silence.
Remind me that wisdom doesn’t always need words.
Help me to resist the urge to explain, defend, or control how I’m perceived.
Give me discernment to know when to speak–and grace to stay silent when silence is sacred.
Heal the places in me that feel like I have to say something to prove I matter.
I want to be known for peace, not noise.
Amen.

💡 Reflect & Reset

  • Has silence ever saved you from regret?
  • Who are your safe people–the ones you can actually trust with your story?
  • Have you ever gone public with something that maybe… should’ve stayed sacred?

Coming Up: Day 3 – “The Mouth Mirrors the Heart”
 (It’s not just about words–it’s about what’s simmering under the surface.)

Subscribe to get the rest of the Gossip Detox Series

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Keller, I had a Crazy Dream

Poker-Titl.jpg (500×334)“Keller, I had a crazy dream. I dreamed we got the old poker gang back together,” Dan shared with my hubby Tim.

Don’t you just love crazy ideas?

It seemed an impossible feat. Over the last ten years the group of single thirty somethings (now forty somethings) had moved and married, divorced and proliferated, faced health challenges, job transitions and relational crisis–basically the gritty basics of life assaulting us.

My husband shook his head in disbelief, but his wide grin revealed his excitement at the possibility of reconnecting with old friends.

“Yeah, let’s do it! Tim replied.

Dan worked hard to pull the event off and surprisingly it seemed to all fall into place until the house he rented for the party flooded at the eleventh hour.

Seriously?

Opportunity or Disaster?

Just as I was walking out the door to take Kolby to an audition the call came in. “Keller, we need a place to hold the party.”

I looked at my husband and sighed. I knew the answer immediately. “Offer up your house Sam,” God nudged at my heart.

Come again? My dirty messy house. The one that overwhelms me and reminds me of my failure to balance work, kids, endless sports, ministry, and a husband who fills our house to the brim with his knack for thrifty bargain hunting.

I look around and see clumps of dog hair in the corners, textbooks and laptops everywhere, Lego’s, Emoji’s and American Girl chaos in competition for biggest disaster area. I know the toilet in the guest bathroom looks like a pack of truckers stopped by and the dishes are piled high.

And my heart aches because my house is like a snapshot of my soul–me at the end of my rope, reaching out for rescue like a small child with arms held high. Hold me Jesus. I’m struggling to wade through this wonderful, exhausting, roller-coaster life.

Choosing The Best Mess

“Let’s do it here.” I say.

“No, I’ll look at the clubhouse.” Tim pipes back.

I know my husband will fight me tooth and nail because my heart is acting cranky again and I’m supposed to be on a diet of low stress–whatever that means because I clearly suck at it.

I immediately start stuffing clutter in cabinets as if  tidiness can hide my brokenness. And then I just stop and release, “Ok God, I get it. Messy is Ok.”

My husband protests and I bark back, “Just have the party here. It makes sense. God gave us this house to bless others. Just clean up a little, please?”

My husband gives me the crazy look, but I know this crazy is the right crazy.

Letting Go

I grab my little girl and we hit the road for a two hour drive, extended by an additional thirty minutes after my GPS sends me in the wrong direction. After I quietly berate my phone, I settle down and pray, reminding myself that in the big picture relationships matter more than a clean house and being on time in LA is a suggestion.

After the audition (which my baby nailed), I call to check in with Tim who is happily hosting the party–my darling extrovert in his element.

And I feel a sense of peace and strangely enough, rest. Not because my life is anymore less chaotic but because God revealed himself to me in the center of the mess.

A Message

When we arrive home later that evening, the roar of laughter hits my ears as I open the car door in the driveway. I open the front door and am enveloped in hugs. No one cares about the floors or the toys. I see beautiful faces and I am so glad I said “Yes.”

But then I sense something more–an undercurrent of restoration. Things are happening. Strained relationships are mending. Friends who let time elapse too long bond again. The old jokes and ridiculous names they call one another are music to the soul.

I sense the bigness of what’s going on. I’m just an observer but even I know this is more than a party, it’s a redemptive offering. I can’t believe they all showed up. I can’t believe a crazy dream led to this night.

I retire early and fall asleep with the party still in full swing, snuggled up next to my little girl, content in the sounds of laughter and revelry downstairs knowing that old friends are making new memories and hearts are full. 
What crazy dream do you need to say yes to?

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Why Dodge Ball Matters

dodgeball-blog-jpg_180529_zps6e2f5270A ball whizzed by my nose. I squealed and jumped out of the way protecting the tiny infant in my arms from the rocking Dodge ball game on my neighbor’s lawn.

Holding my neighbor’s baby in the middle of a pint sized ball war wasn’t safe but it sure was fun.

As both our families fought to gain control of the ball and escape the pounding of hard rubber, my daughter Faith mentions how much fun it is to play the “real” game instead of the watered down version she was forced to play in school.

“What game did you play in Jr. High instead of Dodge ball?” my neighbor and good friend asks.

“Evasion ball.” Faith replied.

(My friend and I subtly give each other the WTF look…)

What’s Evasion Ball?

“It’s like Dodge ball but no one gets out.  Once you get hit you become a goalie.”

We look at each other in disbelief.

Let’s get this straight.

No one gets out.  No one faces the wrath of the ball or the pain of getting picked last.  Everyone wins and no one loses.

Now I certainly don’t like adversity or suffering, no one does at the time, but there are certain rites of passage that help us move into maturity and grow up.  Mastering the rules of the playground and how to survive helps a child navigate the ups and downs of life.

Who doesn’t remember the thump of the red ball on the face?

Why, why, why are we teaching our kids to “evade” reality?

kwdEe4TBy taking away the trials and avoiding the struggles we are raising a generation of kids unprepared for the harsh realities of the world.  When we remove loss and pain and disappointment from our children’s lives we also remove the ability to cope with loss and pain and disappointment.  And when those painful emotions inevitably hit, our kids (overwhelmed and unequipped) turn to drugs and sex and unhealthy self-soothing methods because they can’t process losing and sadness.

As a mom with a senior in high school. One of the recurring themes I hear over and over from colleges is that kids today are not “emotionally prepared” to handle life on their own. 

Well-meaning mama’s, you are not doing your kids any favor by doing all their laundry, dishes and chores.  Stop paying for their speeding tickets, stop doing their homework, and stop rescuing them when they get in trouble.

Be with them when they get their hearts broken.  Don’t call the parent and do an intervention.  Take them to a movie and buy them an ice-cream cone and help them process not avoid the pain.

Ground them when they come in late.  Have the balls to say “no” occasionally.  Also, have the balls to say “yes” even more than “no” and let them screw things up.  It’s far better to let them make a few mistakes under your roof than get hauled off to jail later.

I hear the martyr mom’s brag about their devotion and how spoiled their kids are—as if the mama’s who actually train their kid’s to function as future adults don’t love their kids as much as they do.  I say baloney!

Have we forgotten the goal is to LAUNCH these kids—not enable them to live on our income or sofa?

So I am raising the gauntlet…

Let’s teach our kids how to rebound and get back up after they get smacked by a ball.  Let’s let them suffer a little. (I am not advocating child abuse here, just natural consequences)

Let’s make our kids work for the trophy and for grades and even for relationships. Nothing good ever bloomed from apathy.

A long long time ago in grade school, I got punched by a bully, who then ran away and hid after I smacked him back. It was both traumatic and empowering. Was I scared? Heck yeah!  I cried as I fought back, but, he never messed me with again. Maybe he even respected me?  Gasp!  Thirty-five years later we are friends on Facebook.  That’s the dance of life.  It’s about confrontation and resolution, not evasion.

Sometimes getting whacked by the ball stings.  It hurts our pride and makes us cry.  But finding the courage to get back in the game and play says far more about our kid’s character than avoiding the game altogether.

I think Dodge Ball matters.  Bamm.

—Samantha

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I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 42

IMG_457562890

Truth–every time Taylor Swift’s song “22” comes on, I crank up my radio, sway in my seat, drive a little faster and sing along with gusto.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22 42.”

Yep, I change the words…mainly because it rhymes, it’s fun and I’m 42. Except now I’m not 42–today’s my birthday, now I’m 43.

I guess I need a new song.

My son gives me a card this morning and it says “Happy 29th for the 15th time!”   It’s supposed to be funny, but I secretly wince.  How come 29 + 15 sounds old too?

So here are my thoughts on 43…

1.  It SOUNDS worse than it is.  It’s actually not that bad.  Last week, I traveled with my son.  He looks far older than his 16 years–probably about 20ish.  I could pass on a good day for mid to late 30’s.  After, multiple days of people assuming we were a couple, I felt like a total perv, I told my son I was getting a t-shirt that says, “I’m the mom (not a cougar)”

2. Ok, I do miss the energy of youth (and maybe my perkier parts)…but that’s about it.  A few wrinkles seems a small price to pay for all the benefits of maturity.

3.  I have time now to enjoy my life.  When the big kids were small, when I was a single working mom, when we started the church and I was trying to get my writing going…all I did was hustle, hustle, hustle.  There was constant rushing and scrambling.  Now–I can relax a little bit and appreciate all those years of wiping snotty noses and working late.

4.  I treasure the wisdom I’ve gained over the years.  You couldn’t pay me to go back to my twenties.  All the emotions and turmoil of youth fade in light of parenting all the emotions and turmoil of my own teens.

5.  I’m getting way more nostalgic.  I used to set goals for myself for every birthday.  Each year was a litmus test of  accomplishments–the great grading scale of the American Dream.  Graduate college. Get married by 25.  Have babies by 30.  Finish masters degree.  Start church.  Develop ministry.  Blog.  Write book by 40. Start women’s ministry. Run marathon.

Boy have things changed…

I forgot to include divorce, and career change and loss–and all the tragedy and circumstances that mold and shape us into people of depth and character.  I never finished my graduate degree and I never ran that marathon, and truthfully, I could care less.

My yearly round-up is much simpler now.

I thank God I get to crawl into a toddler bed every night with my little girl and read her favorite books and growl and do all the voices of her favorite monsters and animals.  I thank God for letting me go back East last week on an Ivy League football recruiting trip with my son.  I will never forget laughing our butts off on the mountain roads of Vermont as we almost floated away in a hurricane in a rental car.  I thank God for my lovely daughter Faith who will be a cheerleader next year in high school (just like her mama) and has the sweetest most loving spirit in the world.  I thank God for my second marriage to a beautiful man, for the glorious redemption of having a family again and the ability to write and do what I love.  I look at the people around me and pinch myself for the blessing of friends and neighbors and family.

I guess 43 is filled with perspective.

Here’s mine–Each day is a gift.  

Fortunately, Taylor Swift is now 23–maybe we can get a new rhyme for 43?

What’s your perspective on middle age?

 

Posted on

A Dad’s Best Investment

KolbyK_selects_007

About a year ago my husband Tim came home from a soccer meeting bubbling over with plans to join an Adventure Princess tribe with our youngest daughter Kolby.

(FYI…Adventure Princess used to be known as Indian Princess, but apparently “Indian” is politically incorrect now)

All I know is that it’s a daddy daughter group that includes games, monthly meetings, harbor cruises, camping and money invested in the process of all these grand adventures.

I confess I was INITIALLY excited for them, until I saw the schedule of trips and the fees—then a part of me felt slightly resistant and maybe a little jealous.

Where’s my eight trips a year?  Can I spend the same amount of money bonding with our other kids?  Faith and I like to shop—just saying.

So my husband embarks on this new endeavor with Kolby and they join the “Wolfpack” circle.  The first meeting they return home with purple sweatshirts and patches, crafts and fringed vests.  Kolby acquires the ability to howl and Tim seems to truly enjoy time with the other wolf dudes.

Kolby is now known as “Sparkling Unicorn Princess” and Tim is “SOARING FALCON.”

They camp, they bond and I take it all in—mildly skeptical.

It doesn’t help that a friend tells me some gossipy things about the Ladera dads and their excuse to get away and party after the kids go to sleep.  In general, I try not to listen to second-hand-info, but because it’s a group I’m NOT invited to, the juicy tidbits create a little more distrust in my spirit.

I grill my husband when he returns from his first trip but he assures me all is well.

Hmmmmm…

Unfortunately, halfway through the year my husband has emergency spine surgery and the Wolfpack activity is put on hold until daddy recovers.

And now it’s June, and the last meeting of the year. But Tim is out of town on a football trip with my son Kyle, so the pack leader suggests I bring little Kolby to the meeting.

Come again?

The Wolf Dudes want me to bring my five-year-old girl to a pool party meeting with men?

Now I’m really feeling VERY AWKWARD but my baby girl wants to go so I acquiesce.  I bring Faith with me as backup and a good book.  I wear a modest bathing suit and put on my pastor’s wife game face–the “no funny business” one.

I show up at the pool leery.  I have visions of Animal House with the little girls in a corner doings crafts while the dad’s deal cards.

But to my surprise, the first thing I see is a big jolly guy with a huge smile in a neon orange shirt schlepping water toys down to the pool with two adorable little girls.

He introduces himself as the leader and invites me to join them.  This man is like Santa—he’s so good-natured and affable.  The girls run shrieking for the pool and the leader guy jumps in and plays water games with ten little girls attached to him for the next hour.  The other dads stand around quietly talking and catching up.

There is no alcohol.  No crazy stuff.  No strippers.  Just pizza and maybe a little too much sugar with the brownies, juice and otter pops—but that’s the extent of the shenanigans.

After the pool games wrap up, the men and girls gather in a circle and each child introduces herself and her dad and they share a small story.  It’s hard for some kids, but the dad’s encourage and guide them.  I help Kolby and although she is the youngest in the group she is brave and speaks up in a small sweet voice.

Then the girls run off and play—jacked up on sugar—and the dad’s talk “ADULT BUSINESS.”

“OK.  Now it’s coming, I think.  I tense up.  This is the juicy stuff my neighbor warned me of.

Except what happens next is the dad’s get serious about planning the next camping trip.  They talk food and grills and the architecture of sailboats and sandcastles.

And I am left in my seat for a very long hour—both humbled and ashamed—as I watch these kind good men take the time to invest in their daughters and create lasting memories.  

Yes-these man boys are a little competitive and some of the wild stories of paddle board races and stormy nights scare me because of my over-protective mama bear tendencies—but I also know that a little rough and tumble adventure with a dad is what every little girl needs to feel loved and cherished and empowered to believe she can make it in the world all on her own.

I sit in my seat and pray—and ask God to forgive me for judging that which I have no understanding of.  I confess how easy it is to listen to the “bad things” instead of “believing the best” about people.  And a tear runs down my face as I think about my husband and his desire to father and love our children to the best of his ability.

Boy, I can be a real schmuck sometimes—God help me!

Kolby and I Face Timed Daddy that evening night and told him about the meeting.  I apologized for my doubts.  Of coarse, my sweet husband forgave me and I could see his relief that I was now a supporter instead of a skeptic.

Ok, so I was wrong.  (BIG GULP)

The Wolfpack rocks.  And today my husband is camping with our little girl while I write this.  On the sand, with a hurt back–probably dirty and cold.  And those two monkeys are probably loving every minute of it.

As Father’s Day approaches, and I desperately miss my own dad in heaven now, I think about how important the love of a father is.

I think about my own distrust towards men and how is husband is changing my heart AND MY DAUGHTERS one deposit of love at a time.

And I am grateful.

–Samantha

What could you do to create lasting memories with your child?

Posted on

Spiritual Band-Aids

Band-aid My hands move fast, busy about the kitchen.  I cut, prep and toss bits and pieces of veggies and spices into the pan to make chili.  Frank Sinatra croons on the radio and I strain to hear Kolby’s giggle on the swing out on the front porch.  Faith is doing her homework in the next room and Kyle is about to arrive home any minute after football practice.

It’s my normal fast-paced evening as I pull double-duty with three kids while daddy works late.

Suddenly, something red catches my eye on the bowl in my hand.  It’s a bright crimson, almost like strawberry juice—a smear of blood perhaps?

I stop in my tracks.  I slow down and peer closely now.

I gasp.  The red is everywhere.

Panic rises up in my throat.  I think of dead bunnies from Fatal Attraction, psychos and ex-boyfriends.

Why is there blood all over my kitchen?

The white cabinets have streaks of sticky red on the doors on the cabinet pulls.  The china plates on the table are hit.  The fridge and the dishwasher and the cabinets all reveal stains of red.

I look down at my feet and gasp.  Red splotches leave a trail from the stove to the table and back again.  Ooooh gross…I’m walking in it.

The calm side of my brain finally takes over.

“Ok, Sam, assess the damage.  Where is it coming from,” I tell myself.

(I also look for the knives in case I need a weapon)

Am I hurt?  I don’t feel anything.

I do a body check and notice my left hand is covered in blood.

WHAT?

How did I miss that?

I run my hands under cool water and the gash appears on my index finger.  It’s deep and bleeding profusely. I grab a paper towel and make a Viva tourniquet, putting strong pressure on it.

Finally, finally…the pain comes—an intense throb, then sting and the relief of knowing there wasn’t a stalker hiding behind my cupboard.

About an hour later, after dinner, it stops bleeding and I’m able to bandage the wound.

……

My finger boo-boo is constantly on my mind—probably because I’m typing with a bandaged finger, but mostly because I am shocked that I was so oblivious to an injury on my body.

It seems a little crazy; here I am I imagining scenarios that had nothing to do with reality.  I walk around and drip, drop, drip blood and yet assume it’s something beyond me and my person because I didn’t feel the sting.

And then I think of how often I do the same thing in other areas— in matters of the heart—not physical, but spiritual wounds.  Someone hurts me and I either ignore or avoid the pain.  I gloss over it and pretend it’s no big deal—until it starts seeping out in other areas.

I get sick or I withhold from the person who hurt me.  I get defensive or shut down my heart in self-protection.

The wound finds a way of making itself known even when we don’t acknowledge the pain.

……

My husband and I sit in the counselor’s office and we talk about an issue.  It’s maybe my least favorite thing in the world to talk about but my husband digs in.

I’m uncomfortable.  I squirm in my seat.  I hate pulling out this muck from my soul.  I stall and stutter and finally he pushes hard enough and I blurt out, “It’s because you said this “thing” on our honeymoon and it made me feel ashamed.”

Bamm.  The words are out there.

The counselor looks at me wide eyed.  Tim shakes his head in shock.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.  “I had no idea.”

And suddenly I’m back in the kitchen and I’ve found the wound.  Only it’s been years and years of marriage that I’ve been seeping out the blood.

Now I’m ashamed even more for unconsciously holding onto my pain like a prized medal to beat my husband up with.

And as my husband apologizes and holds me as I cry, I finally rip off the spiritual band-aid and start to heal.

……

It’s been seven years of marriage for Tim and me—seven years of figuring this “uniting into one” stuff out.

Can I just say it’s hard?  Clearly marriage is not for the uncommunicative or the martyr—both attributes I exhibit at my worst.

But the more we dig into the cues and wounds of old—the more we can find our triggers and how to move past or avoid them altogether.

Two steps forward—one step back. A daily dance of beauty and intimacy as selfishness hovers nearby just waiting to intrude.

……

I meet a young woman at a party.  She is bitter over a divorce. 

Her words are harsh, “I married potential, I divorced reality.”

I’m shocked at first, but if I’m honest I recognize myself in her.

I have the potential—with God—to be all that he created me to be.  And I have the potential—in my own strength—to fail miserably

I will never get it all right.  But I pray my husband can see both—the good and bad—and love me in spite of it, choosing every single day to stay on the same team and believe the best about one another even when we act our worst.  

……

I know so many of you are hurting and in pain.  You are in the storm.

The blood is all over the kitchen.

And I’ve been there with you.  I’ve walked through the hell of divorce.  It’s a relational death like no other.

But I’ll tell you a secret.  It won’t be easier on the other side.  You will still take “you” into the next relationship.

And if “you” are anything like me, you still need some fixin up and hard edges polished.

Band-aids need to be ripped off so you can heal and be the best you.

I know it’s hard work. And it means letting go and forgiving beyond yourself.

But I believe God won’t leave you in the mess if you are willing to do the hard work and find the wounds.

Christine Caine puts it this way, “On the other side of every disappointment is a God appointment.”

And sometimes the greatest pain is simply a mercy in disguise.

–Samantha

Where have you stuck a band-aid on a wound in your relationship that needs healing?

 



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