In response to the request for “mommy comments,” I’d like to share one with you:
My servant attitude sure has been challenged recently. Especially with the addition of another little one with so many "needs". I have even caught myself rolling my eyes when a little one dares to utter the word, "Mama". I know alot of my attitudes are from lack of sleep and the constant "neediness" of being a mom. Trying to adjust/correct my 'tude, but also trying not to beat myself up during this season of my life. It's all a balancing act.........but that has left me wondering, does it ever balance?
Sometimes I wonder the same thing...and I’m a grandma! Since we’re into true confessions here, I’m sharing an email I sent several months ago to the girls I’ve mentored for the past four years. It was an honest moment.
Girls: I want to clarify something I said this morning: I felt really convicted when I got home about my comment regarding not enjoying my little ones! That was so LAME! I should never have said something that diminished the awesome, amazing, marvelous blessings that God entrusted me with, both our children and our grandchildren.
I realize now that what I should have said is how much I dislike MYSELF some of the days that I am with little ones...my lack of self-control, my impatience, my ingratitude to God for precious, healthy children whose lives I have a chance to help mold. I'm so ashamed of myself. Please forgive my for being too transparent. (I prefer for you to think I'm perfect. )
Chuck Swindoll said in his book entitled Parenting, “Guilt is a by-product of mothering.” With that thought in mind, I want to share a blog that summarizes the attitude we should all adopt as mothers. Here it is:
http://www.theblazingcenter.com/2012/10/dear-moms-jesus-wants-you-to-chill-out.html
Carry on, Young Moms! You're the best!!!
Hello You Moms!
This is a good time to let you all know that I’m finally doing what I’ve talked about for at least ten years: I’m writing a book! It scares me to say that because, oddly enough, I feel like a poser, not a writer. Somehow it seems a person isn’t a writer until they have name recognition and a platform.
Here’s where you come in! This is the beginning of exposing my desire to connect with other mothers...particularly young moms who struggle with some of the same things I did as a young mom. I've had the privilege of mentoring numerous young women over the last 10-15 years, and I find many of the same concerns common to them. Years ago I read a quote in a women’s magazine that said, “A woman can stand anything, as long as at least one person knows what she’s going through!”
I think that’s true, and I think it applies especially to parenting. The truth is, most women feel isolated in their motherhood endeavor. Every mother I know, who wants to be the best she can, struggles with feelings of guilt and inadequacy, regardless of her child’s age.
My thinking is, if we have an on-line dialog (a blogalog?) about our concerns as mothers, it might be helpful. I chose the blog rather than another social networking system so that anyone who wishes to can remain anonymous.
So, how about it? Wanna talk about your issues, your challenges, and—although I hate to say the word—your worries?
Your thoughts?
Just so you know, the idyllic photo you see has nothing whatsoever to do with the subject of this post. I just thought you’d enjoy seeing what I'm seeing from our back patio as I’m thinking about what I want to say. I might never move from this spot!
Here’s where you come in! This is the beginning of exposing my desire to connect with other mothers...particularly young moms who struggle with some of the same things I did as a young mom. I've had the privilege of mentoring numerous young women over the last 10-15 years, and I find many of the same concerns common to them. Years ago I read a quote in a women’s magazine that said, “A woman can stand anything, as long as at least one person knows what she’s going through!”
I think that’s true, and I think it applies especially to parenting. The truth is, most women feel isolated in their motherhood endeavor. Every mother I know, who wants to be the best she can, struggles with feelings of guilt and inadequacy, regardless of her child’s age.
My thinking is, if we have an on-line dialog (a blogalog?) about our concerns as mothers, it might be helpful. I chose the blog rather than another social networking system so that anyone who wishes to can remain anonymous.
So, how about it? Wanna talk about your issues, your challenges, and—although I hate to say the word—your worries?
Your thoughts?
Just so you know, the idyllic photo you see has nothing whatsoever to do with the subject of this post. I just thought you’d enjoy seeing what I'm seeing from our back patio as I’m thinking about what I want to say. I might never move from this spot!
Looking at the back yard.
Do-overs
This morning I realized that there is something comforting about returning to the Familiar. I discovered this in an unexpected place: looking for a recipe in an old cookbook that belonged to my mother. As I searched the index for a very basic recipe, I found myself re-living memories that had been forgotten, and as I did, I felt my blood pressure dropping and the feeling of slipping into a comfortable spot coming over me. I found myself attracted to the recipes which began with the words “old-fashioned,” such as “Old- fashioned Boiled Custard” and “Old-fashioned Peach Cobbler.”
It was the same feeling that came to me when I visited the house where I grew up, referred to in Southern vernacular as the “old home place.” Going inside the house provided me with a therapy that I didn’t know I needed. It was like discovering that some things were right where I’d left them. Yes, the house did look somewhat different. The old kitchen had become the new laundry room, and the long enclosed porch is the now the kitchen/keeping room, complete with modern appliances and a comfortable sitting area. (Why didn’t my parents think of that?). But the atmosphere was the same peaceful one that had always been there. Somehow knowing that some cosmetic work and a facelift had not destroyed the personality of the house, just made it more appealing, gave me a sense of comfort as I left. I smiled to myself as I drove away because I could hear my mother’s words ringing in my memory, “Hold on tight when you come down the stairs.” I remembered how I had been annoyed growing up because it made me feel like a child. Today, I could face the fact: I was a child at that time…and a very happy and secure one.
It also made me realize how deeply engrained childhood memories are. What a wonderful thing when those memories are good; what a tragedy when they are not. The young couple in the house now has a new baby girl. I pray she has the same sense of love and safety that I had. I thought about my own children, who are now grown men. I know they have good memories. I also know there are probably some bad ones that I might never hear about. Hopefully those have been resolved if necessary, and the feeling they get as they drive back to their “home place” evokes good emotions. Everybody needs to experience a place of peace and security and unconditional love.
There are a lot of things that lend themselves to “do-overs.” Houses, yes; manuscripts, yes; sometimes even faces. But childhood doesn’t allow repeats. As Thornton Wilder so eloquently demonstrated through Emily, the main character in his wonderful play, Our Town, we can’t go back. Knowing that challenged me as a mother when our sons were growing up, and maybe motivated me to make good choices at times when I was on the verge of making bad ones. I might have some “do-overs” at times, but it won’t be my family. Thankfully I don’t feel the need.
Last Day at the Beach
Tomorrow ends our month-long escape to the beach. We haven’t actually stayed here the entire month; I have been back at home twelve of the 28 days; Burt has been back twenty! However, we both have done exactly what we wanted to do. His trips home have involved checking on things at the farm (once a farmer, always a farmer), and our trips home together centered around the grandchildren. (I’m not complaining!)
My time here alone has helped me refresh, refocus, and recalibrate. I’m going home with a sense of new direction. I’m resolved to finish my book for our daughters-in-law, and for any other young mothers who wish to read it. I’m also going to write a book for our sons...a bit more personal to them. It’s amazing how, in reading my journals over the years, I see how much I’ve forgotten. And yet...how much I remember. I came across something I wrote several years ago when our boys were growing up, and just because I enjoyed it, I’m printing it. So here goes:
It’s a perfect morning for sleeping. The bedroom is cool and I’ve found the warm cozy spot as I snuggle under the covers. There is just enough weight at my left side to give me something to nestle against. The smell of coffee comes wafting by me and the sound of a bird’s cheep, cheep is somewhere in the nether land of my dreams. It’s a late Fall morning…I hear the sound of a pick-up truck cranking. I stretch.
As I force my arm over my head I realize how cold the room actually is and I gradually start to recognize that I what I don’t hear is the usual heat pump noise. I also am becoming aware that I can’t roll over because the weight pressing next to me is a very wet- diapered three-year-old who is trying to get warm. Reality overtakes me as I see that the insistent cheeping is coming from the alarm that is set for 4:45 a.m. and the one responsible for that is driving off in his truck, heading to his deer stand. Furthermore, the reason for the chill is because the heat is not working.
I’m almost coherent as I struggle against the weight of the covers and the sleeping bundle resting against me. I brace myself for the draft of cold air that is going to hit me as I rise to slap the alarm into silence. It is at that moment that I almost stumble and fall over the two sleeping children who have managed to sneak into our bedroom sometime in the night and set up camp on the floor beside our bed. The six-year-old and the four-year-old are almost indistinguishable from the mound of stuffed animals that are piled around their heads as they slumber in contentment.
The rest of the morning rolls over me like a tsunami. Bowls and glasses are everywhere, a pile of hunting gear is in the corner; binoculars, flashlights, caps, and gloves are covering the kitchen counter, and to my disbelief, it is lunchtime and everybody is hungry again! Thankfully, I have done something ahead of time, and I pull out from the refrigerator the pot of chili that was made the day before. By the time this meal is finished, there is not a single clean bowl left. There are saltine cracker crumbs covering the table, but the guys don’t notice because the next order of events is to get to the dove field for a bird shoot.
I stand at the window and watch them, dressed in camouflage from head to toe, pile in the back of their dad’s pick-up truck, laughing and joking with each other. By this time, there are a few other dads and sons who have congregated in our front yard, and they leave together. The younger boys have elected to stay at home and play, content to have the basketball goal and the yard to themselves without the interference of the older ones. I return to the kitchen to address the disaster left in the wake of their invasion.
With the clean-up complete, I’m finally able to collapse in front of the fire and enjoy a few moments without interruption. As I sit, I can hear the sound of happy, healthy children along with the thump of the basketball and the grinding of riding toys’ sandy tires on the concrete driveway, and the pounding of feet as children chase each other around the outside of the house.
I know it won’t always be like this: a blend of mud-caked boots at the front door, footballs scattered on the lawn, strewn towels left from half-washed hands, shotgun shells scattered on the floor, shotgun pellets in the carpet, sometimes runny noses and wet beds, but always spontaneous hugs and aura of contentment.
I’ll miss this one day...
My time here alone has helped me refresh, refocus, and recalibrate. I’m going home with a sense of new direction. I’m resolved to finish my book for our daughters-in-law, and for any other young mothers who wish to read it. I’m also going to write a book for our sons...a bit more personal to them. It’s amazing how, in reading my journals over the years, I see how much I’ve forgotten. And yet...how much I remember. I came across something I wrote several years ago when our boys were growing up, and just because I enjoyed it, I’m printing it. So here goes:
It’s a perfect morning for sleeping. The bedroom is cool and I’ve found the warm cozy spot as I snuggle under the covers. There is just enough weight at my left side to give me something to nestle against. The smell of coffee comes wafting by me and the sound of a bird’s cheep, cheep is somewhere in the nether land of my dreams. It’s a late Fall morning…I hear the sound of a pick-up truck cranking. I stretch.
As I force my arm over my head I realize how cold the room actually is and I gradually start to recognize that I what I don’t hear is the usual heat pump noise. I also am becoming aware that I can’t roll over because the weight pressing next to me is a very wet- diapered three-year-old who is trying to get warm. Reality overtakes me as I see that the insistent cheeping is coming from the alarm that is set for 4:45 a.m. and the one responsible for that is driving off in his truck, heading to his deer stand. Furthermore, the reason for the chill is because the heat is not working.
I’m almost coherent as I struggle against the weight of the covers and the sleeping bundle resting against me. I brace myself for the draft of cold air that is going to hit me as I rise to slap the alarm into silence. It is at that moment that I almost stumble and fall over the two sleeping children who have managed to sneak into our bedroom sometime in the night and set up camp on the floor beside our bed. The six-year-old and the four-year-old are almost indistinguishable from the mound of stuffed animals that are piled around their heads as they slumber in contentment.
The rest of the morning rolls over me like a tsunami. Bowls and glasses are everywhere, a pile of hunting gear is in the corner; binoculars, flashlights, caps, and gloves are covering the kitchen counter, and to my disbelief, it is lunchtime and everybody is hungry again! Thankfully, I have done something ahead of time, and I pull out from the refrigerator the pot of chili that was made the day before. By the time this meal is finished, there is not a single clean bowl left. There are saltine cracker crumbs covering the table, but the guys don’t notice because the next order of events is to get to the dove field for a bird shoot.
I stand at the window and watch them, dressed in camouflage from head to toe, pile in the back of their dad’s pick-up truck, laughing and joking with each other. By this time, there are a few other dads and sons who have congregated in our front yard, and they leave together. The younger boys have elected to stay at home and play, content to have the basketball goal and the yard to themselves without the interference of the older ones. I return to the kitchen to address the disaster left in the wake of their invasion.
With the clean-up complete, I’m finally able to collapse in front of the fire and enjoy a few moments without interruption. As I sit, I can hear the sound of happy, healthy children along with the thump of the basketball and the grinding of riding toys’ sandy tires on the concrete driveway, and the pounding of feet as children chase each other around the outside of the house.
I know it won’t always be like this: a blend of mud-caked boots at the front door, footballs scattered on the lawn, strewn towels left from half-washed hands, shotgun shells scattered on the floor, shotgun pellets in the carpet, sometimes runny noses and wet beds, but always spontaneous hugs and aura of contentment.
I’ll miss this one day...
MY FAVORITE PLACE
Today finds me at my second favorite place in the world (the first being the little piece of Paradise we call home): the BEACH. For years I’ve fantasized about spending a month at the beach during the winter. This year, when I found the perfect spot with great off-season rates, my sweet husband (who literally lives to make me happy...and yes, I do know how blessed I am) agreed to come. Many times I’ve had the urge to run away, to get free from exhausting circumstances, or just the challenges of the day’s demands, but this time it was different. This time I felt the unrelenting desire to come away to be alone with the Lord. If I were not married to a godly man who understands, it never could have happened.
I’m experiencing the magnificence of God’s presence as I sit on the small balcony of our condo, covered by the most beautiful blue sky. The strong winds of the past two days are gone, leaving only an occasional laconic wave in the fans of the palm trees.
I couldn’t sleep soundly last night, so I got out of bed at 4:30a.m., put on my headset and listened to worship music. I was so blessed. I felt like the voice of the Savior was whispering in my ear. This morning, He showed me what He wanted me to see.
On the road in front of the condo is a bike path, well used by all ages. I recognize a couple of joggers from earlier in the week. The cyclists are reveling in the beautiful weather and the soft breeze. All styles of bikes go by: narrow tire touring bkes, old-style cruisers, hybrids, even 3-wheelers.
Then I saw it: a tandem bike. In front was a little girl, probably about 10 years old.Wearing a bright pink wind breaker, blond hair waving beneath the bike helmet, she pedaled confidently. Behind her rode her father. His towering body loomed over hers, their strides in perfect sync. The little girl couldn’t see her dad behind her, but he was the force propelling the bike forward. In a flash, I saw what the Spirit was showing me. I was like the child on the bike, working my legs and enjoying my ride. Jesus was the Man behind me, providing the momentum and doing the work. For several hours I’ve comtemplated that picture. Riding my bike in tandem with Jesus.
I’m at the stage of life that causes me to look at the abilities of youth I’ve taken for granted: physical capabilities, years ahead to accomplish everything desired, assurance of bring equipped to handle all challenges. Now I was beginning to wonder if those things are slipping away from my grasp. There exist in their place some pains and discomfortants, some doubts about handing new challenges in life. The tandem bike is my sermon and my promise. Regardless of the situation, Jesus is promising me He’ll be the force behind me. I won’t see Him, but when the hill before me seems too steep to climb, I’ll make it, because His power will be the reason.
Permission to Retire
This morning I’m reflecting on an event I attended last night: my 50th high school class reunion. Gathered together were 60 sixty-somethings. (Some of us tried to change “sixty” to “sexy,” but it was hard to pull it off!) Instead we repeated “you look so good!” without adding the implied “...for your age.”
Truthfully, it was good to see everybody at approximately the same point in the race. We all know how old we are;why pretend?
I was amused at the responsibility we assumed for granting one another permission to enjoy this stage of life. Several times I overheard, or participated in, one of these conversations:
“I’m ready to do some traveling...see the world.”
“Well, you should!”
Or...
“I’m done with travel. Seen everything I want to see. Ready to watch it on the Travel Chanel.”
“I don’t blame you! Stay home and rest!”
Or...
“I want to do something funky with my dining room. Like make a light fixture out of old mattress springs!”
“Why don’t you?”
Or...
“I have a house full of furniture I’ve saved for my children, and none of them want it. I’m ready to dump it all and simplify my life!”
“And you should! Why hang on to things?”
Or...
“Where are the antique stores? I love collecting memorabilia.”
“Yes, we need to cherish the familiar.”
You get the idea. It’s like we need to give each other permission to do whatever our heart is telling us. At one time I felt challenged to do what others my age did: exercise, travel, paint a picture, take up ballroom dancing, garden, etc. Now it’s okay if some of those things simply aren’t “my thing.”
It’s okay if I want to linger in bed on Saturday morning, even when the plants need watering and the suitcase from my last weekend trip needs unpacking. When I get up and go with my husband to clean spider webs from the dock, it’s okay to come back and sit for a bit and do nothing.
When I sat to put these thoughts down on paper—that is, computer— the cat wanted to settle in my lap for a long nap. I shooed him away because he made me lazy with his warm, furry body curled into my belly and his sonorous purring lowering my blood pressure. Suddenly, I realized something. It’s easier to give someone else permission to do what they want than it is to do it to ourselves.
I’ve lived sixty-something years doing what needed to be done, meeting deadlines and others’ expectations. So now, if I want to lie on the couch for a while, blaming the cat because I haven’t checked off everything on my list, so be it.
And I’ll bet if I share this notion with one of my classmates at tonight’s function, somebody will give me permission!
Morning Observation
This morning I was gazing out the window of our sunroom in a languid Saturday-morning mood when something caught my attention-- the reflection of a doe at the edge of the water at the pond. As I focused on her, a little fawn came scampering out of the woods and ran up and down the bank, cavorting around. It reminded me of a scene last night when Burt and I met our son and his family at Bass Pro. Our 3-year-old granddaughter doesn't know how to walk; she only knows how to run! (At least that's the way it appears!) I took her to use the restroom and on the way had to apologize to four people she almost collided with. She delighted in having wide aisles with shiny floors to barrel through. My grandmother instincts kicked in and I thought how dangerous it would be if she chose to run across the parking lot when we left. "What's wrong with holding my hand?" I wondered. Thankfully the parking lot wasn't an issue because her parents trained her to wait at the curb, but seeing the little deer this morning gave me a fresh picture of youth and the exuberance of being high on life! The mother deer was placidly sipping water from the pond, yet alert to any suspicious movement or sounds. Her baby reveled in the freedom to cut loose and play.
Isn't that what God wants us to do? If we truly lived in Psalm 91 mentality, wouldn't we be enjoying His peace, knowing His presence and awareness of us is covering us continuously? My prayer this morning is that I learn how to embrace the Presence we have with us at all times.
Thanks for being my outlet this morning. I just had to get this written and for some reason, I wanted to share it with you...whoever and wherever you are!