paradigm shift

I’ve been telling a story for over a decade, now. I tell it from memory, emphasizing the wrongs done to me. Friends listen and empathize: “That’s terrible!” they say, “How insensitive!” I think in the telling, the story gained momentum. Instead of becoming less angry, my anger grew, feeding on itself and taking root in my heart. I felt justified in holding onto this resentment; after all, this person was wrong. Insensitive.

Last weekend I spent some time cleaning out my office, and found an old box of pictures and letters. (Remember letters? What a treasure!) Reading through these old letters, I found one from this person, sent fifteen years ago. In the letter, this person acknowledges their insensitivity and asks for my forgiveness. They recognized the damage done to our relationship and sought restoration.

And I had completely forgotten about it.

In my hurt, I’m guessing that I just tossed the letter aside. I honestly can’t remember receiving it, but obviously somewhere along the line I chose to hold onto my resentment rather than forgive. And my resentment grew. For fifteen years, it grew.

I finally sat down and responded to this person with a letter of my own—a letter of apology and forgiveness. I pray for reconciliation.

Oh, how we need grace. We all so desperately need grace.

first steps

Baby b. stood up in the middle of the floor, like he’s done a dozen times in the past week. But instead of sitting back down, he toddled across the room. Not to me, or his brothers, or his dad, but to our cleaning lady.

It brought a tear to my eye.

And not because our child finally walks, but because in order to truthfully recount this story, I have to admit that I pay someone to clean my house twice a month. So there it is. Judge me if you will. It is what it is, people. And today, it’s a beautiful thing! (And, for the record, our cleaning lady was thrilled to share this moment with us.)

the list

A good Wife and Mother…keeps a tidy house; prepares home cooked meals for her family, preferably organic; spends quality, one-on-one time with each of her children; keeps up with the laundry; volunteers in her children’s classrooms at school; builds relationships with her neighbors; volunteers in her church; opens her home to friends; brings meals to new Moms; has endless patience; reads to each of her kids for thirty minutes a day; spends at least fifteen minutes decluttering her home a’la Flylady; gets plenty of exercise and takes care of herself; never has a headache; always remembers the soccer snacks; the list goes on and on.

And if you’re a working Mom, your list is even longer.

Ladies, is it any wonder we get tired? I don’t know about you, but according to “The List,” I’m a miserable failure. My meal plan includes the words “frozen pizza” at least once a week, and my laundry pile is endless.

I am on my knees this morning, praying for the strength to get through this week. Praying for situations that are hopeless unless God shows up. And I am reminded that God has not called me to be perfect, He has called me to be faithful. So today, I am wondering aloud, “What has God called me to do today?” I will pour my time and energy into those things, and let the results go. I suppose that’s the hardest thing for me. I can spend all day cleaning my house, and at the end of the day it’s still a mess. I can pour myself into my boys, but how do I define success? It’s not tangible.

What’s on your list today?

oh gross

I cannot believe I just did that. It happened so fast, before I could even think about it. And there was really no question—I had to do it.

I just put my hand in the toilet.

Let me explain.

It’s really hard to buy underwear for the noisy boys. They have super skinny frames, so they wear an extra small size. The problem? They prefer just plain white, and the super small sizes all have Thomas or Blue’s Clues or some other “baby” thing on them. Which brings me to today’s toilet crisis. I was picking up their dirty clothes off the floor when a brand new pair of GAP, white undies dropped into the toilet. What could I do? As usual, it had been the only pack of plain white XS underwear on the shelf. And there was one pair of three, soaking up toilet water.

So I had to do it.

Now, dear readers, please tell me I’m not alone in my grossness. What have you done for your children that you thought you’d never do?

two wheels

“Look at me go, Mom! Look at me go!” Twin B. shouted from his two-wheeler bike. The look on his face? Ecstatic. Proud. Triumphant.

A few days ago, my husband encouraged him to take his training wheels off and try again. “I think you’re ready,” he told Twin B. It took some coaxing, but he finally agreed.

And he took off like a shot.

I couldn’t be prouder. Go, B. go! You’re ready.

music - WFMW

It’s five o’clock. I don’t know about your house, but at my house, we fondly refer to this time of day as “the witching hour.” I’m tired. The kids are tired. The baby is whiny. And I’m usually trying to make dinner.

My husband travels frequently during the week, so I’m often on my own. And since I’ve given up my five o’clock double martini, the witching hour is by far the most difficult part of my day. Recently, I found something that makes it more bearable. Music! At five o’clock when everyone is melting down, I pop in a worship CD while I cook. It doesn’t work magic, but it does smooth out the rough edges and give me the oomph I need to be a good Mom for just a few more hours.

And while the kids have no problem whacking each other while singing “Lord, I lift your name on high,” I find I’m less prone to resort to yelling and screaming when I’m singing praise choruses.

Upbeat worship music during the witching hour…works for me! Check out Rocks in my Dryer for more great tips!

soccer

I don’t like sports. I don’t like playing sports and I don’t particularly like watching sports. So, suffice it to say, I’m surprised by how much I enjoy watching my children play soccer. Like, I’m really into it.

The noisy boys are on the same team, and have a game every Saturday. They are adorable in their uniforms, and I love sitting on the sidelines cheering them on. The team is comprised of eight Kindergarten boys and one very patient coach. His own son is on the team, and on Saturday when this boy ran the length of the field kicking the ball the wrong direction, he said, “Buddy, you went the wrong way. But good job dribbling!”

God bless that man.

I do wonder what the kids on the field hear while they're playing. A loud chorus of parents shout, “Go, Johnny! Go after the ball! Kick it!” for an hour while the kids run around, fall down, and routinely lose shoes.

Now, is there any better way to spend a Saturday morning? I didn’t think so.