Confessions of an Imperfect Mom

I woke up this morning with a cloud of guilt hanging over my head.

Last night was Ben's weekly basketball league, which meant I had the torture privilege of managing dinner time, bath time, and bedtime all by myself.

I've been working on the mantra of "set the bar low" for a while now, and it's helped my normally Type A personality take a backseat, and go with the flow a little more.

Well, usually it helps.

But sometimes my human nature gets the better of me.

Yesterday we had a great appointment at the GI specialist. Josh had put on enough weight for the doctor to give us reprieve for 6 months before the next visit. I couldn't have been happier or more relieved.

You'd think the news would have bolstered me enough to make it through the cold, snowy afternoon stuck inside with the two kids.

Not so much.  I had been up late working the night before, and my oldest makes it her life's mission to wake me up promptly at 6:30 every morning. By the afternoon I was crabby and unmotivated.

4:00 rolled around and my daughter innocently asked, "Will the chili be ready soon?"

Crap. I totally meant to put that in the slow cooker as soon as we got home from the doctor. 

I hadn't done anything about dinner, and with the clock ticking, I had to act quickly.

I threw together a few cans of beans, some canned tomatoes, carrots, and onions, making quick work of a "vegetarian chili".  I put it on the stove and cranked up the heat. Within a few minutes the chili was bubbling, filling the air with a delicious fragrance, and while not quite the same as a slow-cooked chili, crisis had been averted.

Meal times are always some of the most stressful moments in my current life. Especially when I am flying solo. Around 4:00 my daughter starts whining, "I'm hunnnnngry! I'm thirrrrsty! I need FOOD!" as though she has been starved all day long and might drop dead if I don't feed her in that exact instant. My son, on the other hand, takes more physical measures to get his point across. As I am racing around the kitchen, trying to get the food cooked as quickly as possible, he wanders into the kitchen, intent on attaching himself to my legs, hanging on for dear life in his own sort of "sit in" making it clear he has no intentions of letting go until I feed him.

Is it any wonder that some nights I shred up deli meat with my fingers and toss some veggie sticks at them and call it dinner?

Last night was no different. The temporary glory I reveled in upon creating vegetarian chili at a moments notice was quickly overshadowed by the melodramatics of my children.

I spooned out the chili into their bowls. "I want the blue bowl!" my daughter screamed. I nodded. "WAIT! I WANT THE ORANGE BOWL!" Close my eyes. Deep breath. Put some chili in the orange bowl. "STOP! WAIT! I WANT THE PURPLE BOWL." Lord, have mercy on me.

Having dispensed the chili into the the appropriately colored bowls, I ushered both kids into the dining room. I hoisted my one year old, Josh, into his booster seat, strapped him in, and handed spoons to both kids as Abby settled herself next to Josh. Both kids dug in ravenously as I ran back into the kitchen to grab their drinks.

Suddenly, I heard a crash, and my son saying his most favorite words, "uh-oh."

I had been gone for .0002 seconds. Even before I walked back into the room I knew what had happened.

Lately my son has decided that it is way more fun to throw food than to eat food. And I don't mean just casually toss his bowl on the floor. Oh no. My son does everything with gusto. You build a block tower, he will run at it full speed, screaming as loud as he can and mow that whole tower down in two seconds. You give him a ball? He's not going to toss it back gently, he is going to windmill his arm five times, pull back as far as he can, and chuck it back at you full force. So when it comes to chucking his food, you can imagine how he might approach that.

I walked back into the room, breathing slowly, telling myself to just be calm. I walked into what looked like a crime scene. Red everywhere.  Up the walls, on the floor, all over the table, all over my son's face. His arms look like he took a bath in the chili before throwing it. Beans were splattered in all directions.

I don't know how he did it. I didn't even give him that much in the bowl. AND I had rinsed off most of the tomato sauce prior to giving it to him. And yet he had managed to throw chili into the far corners of the earth.

The problem with 20 month olds is, it is very hard to discipline them. They are just starting to grasp language, and while they understand the concept of "no", the ability to regulate their impulses and practice self-control is sporadic at best.

So I grabbed the bowl, pointed to it, and said in a very angry stern voice, "NO! We DO NOT throw food! That was a very bad choice."

My son looked innocently up at me and said, "uh-oh."

I closed my eyes and took a minute to calm down.

Now, here's the tricky part about Josh. Normally, with another child, I might have just taken him away from the table and put him in a timeout, and said too bad you missed dinner for this bad behavior. But because of Josh's struggle with weight gain, every meal is really important. And often he throws food for the fun of it, even when he is still hungry.

I walked back into the kitchen to get him another bowl of food. I brought it back in, put it in front of him, and he started eating happily again.  I surveyed the chili massacre that was still all over the room.

I wiped down the wall with a wet rag, scooped the beans into small piles on the floor, and wiped down the table as best as I could. However, I needed a broom to pick up the piles of beans and vegetables still on the floor.

I eyed the laundry room, where I keep the broom.  It is about 10 feet away from the dining room. If I'm ambitious, I can get there in two huge leaps. (ok, I'm really short, maybe three leaps).

I looked back at my son. He was still shoveling food into his mouth, intent on eating his new bowl of chili. Then back at the laundry room. I could see the broom hanging there.

I decided it wasn't worth risking another disaster. So I pushed Josh's bowl of chili into the middle of the table. He screamed in protest, as I darted from the room to grab the broom.

It was at this point I made a critical error. I didn't tell Abby what I was doing.

I figured I would be out of sight for a split second and it wouldn't matter.

As I reached out my hand and clasped my fingers around the broom I heard "CRASH!" again from the dining room.

I walked back in.

Yup. He had done it again. Chili. Everywhere. Walls. Floor. Table. Furniture. Covered in chili.

Apparently, in the nanosecond it had taken me to get the broom, Abby, taking pity on her brother, had pushed his bowl of chili back to him.  And Josh, I assume in protest to me taking it away from him, gave full vent to his feelings and threw the bowl hard enough for it to ricochet off the wall, the chair, and land on the other side of the room.

And that my friends is when I lost it.  The calm, patient, forgiving mommy left the building.

I started screaming like I had gone and lost my mind. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!!! DO NOT THROW FOOD!!!!! BAD! BAD! BAD!!!!!!"

I yelled so loud and so long that both kids burst into tears, afraid of the monster that had taken over the body of their mother.

I grabbed Josh, who was covered in red, and literally undressed him down to his diaper right there in the dining room. I was so angry, I hauled him upstairs, dumped him into his crib, and left him there in the dark.

I came downstairs to find my very teary three year old who told me, "Mommy, you can't say those bad things. Don't yell at us."

I could hear my son yelling upstairs in his crib.

Sigh. I sat down, head in my hands.

I took a few minutes to sit quietly, to calm my racing heart and slow my fast breathing.

I slowly began cleaning up the room. Again. My daughter watched in silence.

After I was finished, I took her upstairs, got Josh out of his crib, and got them both into the bath. Josh was reluctant to let go of me.  He was shaken up by how angry I had gotten and how loudly I had yelled.

I felt terrible.

As the two kids started to play in the bath, I saw their bodies relax. Soon they were both giggling, splashing each other, and slurping water from washcloths.

And just like that, the storm had passed.

Watching them play, and turn to me with big, wide smiles, hoping I was watching their antics, I realized how quickly they had forgiven me.

As I dried off my son, rubbing lotion into his skin before bed, dressing him in his warm fleece pajamas, I breathed in his smell and forgave him too.

I rocked him to sleep, watching his eyes flutter closed as he snuggled in close to me.

As I woke up this morning, I couldn't help but feel regret about last night. Mom guilt is a special kind of guilt. It defies logic, placing the blame squarely on the shoulders of the mother despite who else might have been involved, and is the hardest kind to shrug off.

It's also universal to all mothers.

I can't tell you how many mothers have talked to me since I started this blog. Sharing their own stories of failure, success, ups, and downs. A common thread with almost all of them?  Mom guilt. The mother who tells me her daughter is struggling in school, and she wonders if it's because she hasn't spent enough quality time with her. The mom who wonders if her son has allergies because she stopped breastfeeding after only a few weeks. The mom who wonders if her daughter has self-esteem issues because she herself hasn't modeled enough self confidence.

Mom guilt. It's powerful. It can make you think that you are responsible for all of your child's struggles. And that if you aren't responsible for causing them, that you are definitely responsible for fixing them and preventing future hurts. If you aren't careful, it can hold you hostage and rob you of the joys of the crazy roller coaster called raising children.

I struggle with it as much as the next mom. And when I fail, I have a hard time forgiving myself.

I've found that the only antidote for it is grace. Grace for ourselves and grace for our children.

My son woke up this morning, laughing in his bed. I could hear him on the monitor, getting up, walking to one end of the crib, throwing himself down face first in a sort of free-fall, squealing in delight. I walked into his room, and he jumped up. His face broke into a grin upon seeing me and he yelled out gleefully, "MAMA!!!"  He jumped into my arms, and nuzzled his face into my neck.

Grace.

One of my favorite movies growing up was Anne of Green Gables. In the movie Anne says, after a particularly awful day, "Tomorrow is always fresh. With no mistakes in it."

My children understand grace better than anyone I know. They give and receive it freely. They wake up each morning, hardly remembering yesterday, and ready to start over.

Squeezing my son into me this morning, I vowed to do the same. And to give myself grace, knowing that many failures lie ahead in this chapter of motherhood.

So moms, reading this, know this: Motherhood isn't about perfection. It isn't about how long or if you breastfeed, or if you've perfectly modeled self-confidence, or whether or not your kids eat shredded deli meat a few nights a week. We're all in this together. None of us perfect, and all of us need grace. Just keep loving on your kids. When they throw chili around the room TWICE in five minutes, you might totally blow a gasket. It's ok. Tell them you're sorry. Then forgive yourself. They will learn more from watching you do that than from anything else you could try and teach them.

And remember: Tomorrow is always fresh. With no mistakes in it.  Yet....

You are more than Mommy

I've been feeling a little depressed this week. Tomorrow I was supposed to run my very first half marathon. 13.1 miles through the city of Philadelphia. My family was going to come and cheer me on as I accomplished something I absolutely never thought was possible.

But I won't be running tomorrow. In fact, I haven't gone running in over two months. A few months into my training, I started to get some intense pain in my right knee. After a few disastrous runs, and getting picked up by my husband on the side of the road after my knee gave out,  I went to see an orthopedic specialist.

Long story short, I had some torn cartilage behind my kneecap. When the doctor went in to fix it, he found a lot of cartilage deterioration and some arthritis. During my follow-up visit he told me that distance running would be a bad choice for me, and that if I continued with long mileage runs, I could be looking at a total knee replacement before I'm 50.

In some ways, that news was devastating to me.

Those of you who don't run might think that sounds crazy. Is it really the end of the world to be told you can't run more than 3-4 miles at a time? A year ago, I would have said no, but not anymore.

See, for me, running has become so much more than running. It's given me back a part of myself that I had forgotten about.

Sometime in April, around my son's first birthday, a few ladies in my church started talking about running the Philly Half. Somehow I got included on the list of people in the email that was circulating, asking who would be interested in running together.

I remember reading the email and thinking, "Did they send this to the wrong person? They can't possibly think I could run with them."   I told my mom about it a couple of weeks later, laughing, and saying "Run a half? A half of what? I'll run halfway to the fridge you meet me halfway."

But a half- MARATHON? Impossible.

I'd run a couple of 5ks since having my kids. By a couple I mean two. Two 5ks. That's it. And those 5ks felt like pretty incredible accomplishments for me. As a mom of two who rarely, if ever, sleeps a full night through and usually eats half eaten chicken nuggets for lunch, it takes an incredible amount of energy to make time for running.

A half-marathon? There's no way.

But... what if?

See, there's this thing about motherhood. It's kind of like a big black hole that can completely swallow you up if you're not careful. These wonderful, sticky, sweet-smelling, exasperating, and totally helpless tiny humans can literally take every single ounce of soul out of you.

For a long time now I've been living in this state of ambivalence. 

Ambivalence is defined as the coexistence within an individual of positive and negative feelings toward the same person, object, or action, simultaneously drawing him or her in opposite directions. 

If ever the dictionary were to sum up the state of my life in one single word that would be it. 

The love I have for my children and husband is deeper and wider and more intense than I could have ever imagined it to be. 

And yet the daily task of wiping snotty noses, cooking meals morning, noon, and night, and doing laundry that, for the love of God, NEVER ends is enough to drive me completely insane. 

And it's enough to make me forget that I am more. 

I am more than a mom. I am more than a wife.  

I am me. I am JUST me. The person who was created and existed before I ever took on the roles I have right now.

I'm not just a mom. I'm competitive. I'm creative. I'm adventurous. I'm sarcastic. I'm infuriating (ask my husband). 

For some reason, a lot of the "mommy encouragement" out there focuses on the fact that we as moms are doing some of the most important work that there is to be done. Raising children, loving them, nurturing them, teaching them. The encouragement focuses on reminding us moms that the work we do day in and day out matters.

And it does. But I already know that. 
I know that what I am doing matters. 

What I want to hear is, YOU ARE MORE THAN MOMMY. And your importance and impact on this world reaches farther than the mothering you do, even if in this season most of you is given to your children. You are not just a mom. You are YOU.

I lost part of myself somewhere along the way. And along with that I lost some of my confidence.

Mothering? I can do that. It's hard and I question myself plenty, but deep deep down in my soul I know I'm giving my kids the best of me. 

But what about the rest? Do I have anything else to offer? Do I have talents and abilities that are really worth something?

That's where I found myself as my son turned a year old. And that's when I got that email, asking if I would be interested in running with a group for 13.1 miles on a cold day in November.

Turns out, the email was meant for me. 

I sat on it for a good three weeks.  I went back and forth. I couldn't imagine actually having the time and energy to put into training.

Someone started a Facebook group for people who were interested in running the half. I messaged them all and told them my dilemma. How would I possibly have enough time and energy to do this? 

Translation: I am afraid to fail. 

A fellow mom wrote back, whose life in some ways is way more stressful than mine, and she said this. "If you want to do this, you will make the time."

Her words hit me hard. If you want to do this, you WILL. You will do what you have to do.

I signed up for the race that night.

I told everyone I knew that I signed up so that they would all know about it and so that I would be way too embarrassed to quit and have to tell them all that I was a quitter if I didn't follow through.
There is no better accountability than embarrassment. 

And then I started running. At first, I could barely make it a mile without walking. For weeks, I would go out after Ben got home in the evenings, before the kids had to be bathed and put to bed, huffing and puffing, putting one foot in front of the other, working my way up to three miles. 

Can I just tell you, it totally sucked. I was so out of shape.  I was sweaty, smelly, breathing hard, convinced I was going to have an asthmatic attack, and my muscles burned. 

But I wasn't going to quit. 

There were days that I made up excuses. I was too tired. The kids hadn't slept well. I felt a cold coming on. Ben didn't let me get away with it. Gently, he'd remind me that harder runs were ahead, and I needed to keep going if I wanted to make it. So I'd lace up, tell him how much I loathed him, and head out the door.

Suddenly, weeks turned into a month, then two months.

I was still running. 

Then, I don't know when, but one day three miles wasn't so bad. And I realized that instead of dreading my runs, I was looking forward to them. I began to embrace the burning lungs, aching legs, and total freedom that I felt out on the road. 

As a mom of two little ones, I don't get much, if any, time to myself. But out on the road, running into the sunset, there were often times I didn't even listen to music. I simply enjoyed hearing the sound of my own lungs taking in air. Inhale. Exhale. Deeply breathing in the moments alone.

I've always been a competitive person. I don't get much opportunity to exercise that during the day. But running, I found myself coming up with new challenges with every run. Could I sprint to that next tree? Could I push myself a mile further that night?

I remember the first time I ran 8 miles. I was euphoric. 8 miles?! It felt like I was on top of the world. I literally almost cried.

And that's when I realized. I could do this. I could run 13.1 miles. 

Suddenly, it felt like the world opened up to me. I'd been hiding for a few years behind the shield of motherhood, afraid that I had nothing else to offer. 

But here I was, running 8 miles at a time, and feeling great. It gave me a confidence that I hadn't had in a long time. 

What does running have to do with real life?

Nothing. 

And everything. 

The week after I ran those 8 miles I saw an ad in the newspaper that I had seen every month for a few months in a row. It was an ad for a newspaper reporter. They were just looking for someone to cover monthly municipal meetings.  I'd looked at it many times, thinking I could do that. 

But always the doubts would creep in. Do I have time? Are my writing skills too rusty? Could I really do it?

I was afraid to fail. 

The week after the 8 mile run, I applied to the paper. I sent in my writing samples, crossed my fingers, and didn't tell anyone for fear I would be turned down. 

Almost immediately I heard back from the editor. Not only did she want me on the team, she was offering me one of the biggest features in the paper: Hometown Living, a full page of the newspaper every month. I get creative license to come up with topics and take pictures to go along with it. 

Really? She doesn't even know me. She's giving me this feature on the spot? I cannot explain how mind boggling that was for me. Do I really have that much to offer the paper? Were my writing samples really good enough? 

The answer is yes. I do have something to offer. Something of myself that has nothing to do with being a mom to my kids. 

I have always, always wanted to be a writer. But I have never felt confident enough in myself to put my words out there. To take a risk and ask someone to give me a chance. 

But this time I did. I am so excited for this new opportunity. It is a small, hometown newspaper. It isn't the book I dream of writing one day, but it's a step closer. It's an opportunity to write, to have people read what I have to say.  Because I do have something to say. 

Shortly after the 8 mile run, my knee began acting up. By early October, I was having knee surgery. I thought the surgery would fix the problem, and allow me to continue with my dream of running a half marathon.  Instead, it revealed a chronic condition that isn't going away. In the doctor's words, "Running might not be the best choice" for me. 

Not the best choice...

The doctor doesn't know it, but running was one of the best choices I ever made in my entire life. It gave me back a confidence that I had lost in the business of mothering. 

It might sound trite and corny, but running is just like life. It isn't about the destination, it is about the journey. There are ups and downs, setbacks, and euphoric victories.

I'm not walking away with a finisher medal this weekend. I'm sad about that. I wanted it so badly.

But I've come to realize I am walking away with something so much more valuable. 

I am walking away with the confidence that I am more than mommy. I have something to offer the world that has nothing to do with my mothering abilities. 

I'm walking away with the knowledge that taking risks and setting goals that seem impossible often comes with incredible rewards that you would not see had you not taken the risk.  

I'm walking away knowing that sometimes failure teaches you more than success. 

And I am walking away knowing that, though I love being a mom more than anything in the world, being a mother isn't the sum total of who I am. 

The Roller Coaster We're On

A week ago today was my son's 18 month well check-up at the pediatrician.

When it was his turn to be seen, we took him to the exam room, undressed him down to his diaper, and, despite his many protests put him up on the scale. Red-faced and screaming, he did everything in his power to jump back off into my arms. The nurse turned to me, and, seeing my pensive face, assured me that he would be fine.

She didn't realize that I wasn't worried about his desperate attempts to get off that scale. Instead I was focused intently on the long black bar of numbers that shows how much he weighs. As she moved the weight down the scale, I prayed for a good number.

22 pounds, 10 ounces.  31 and a half inches long. Around the 30th percentile for both height and weight.  I felt tears of happiness and relief spring to my eyes.

You might think it's funny. A mom crying in the pediatrician's office over the fact that her son is now in the 30th percentile.

You'd understand if you knew just how hard we've fought for every ounce of that 30th percentile.

Up to this point, I haven't shared the struggle we've journeyed through the last six months. I think deep down I was really afraid of how it would turn out. I was afraid of dealing with a barrage of advice that well meaning people would give me, not knowing that I was already overwhelmed with advice from doctors and specialists. I was afraid that we wouldn't find an answer.

Beginning around my son's six month check-up, the pediatrician started noticing that, instead of progressing along his established growth curve, he had started a slow decline. Not wanting to overreact, she said they'd keep an eye on it and that it was probably just a lull before the next growth spurt. Being that he is my second child, and I assumed things would work out just fine.  They always had with my first baby, so I didn't think too much of it.

Then we had his nine month appointment. His weight, which had always been around the 50th percentile, had dropped to around the 20th. His height, which had been closer to the 70th, had dropped below the 50th. He had barely grown in 3 months time, and hadn't gained any weight.

I could tell that the pediatrician was concerned, but I could also tell she didn't want to alarm me.  She encouraged me to try and feed him as much food as possible throughout the day, so that she could determine whether he just needed more calories, or if something else was going on inside him.

I remember going home in tears. I was worried. I knew it wasn't normal for a baby not to grow at all in three months. I felt sick to my stomach, feeling like somehow it was my fault. Was I not paying enough attention to how much food I was offering? Was I too distracted by my three year old to take good enough care of my baby? Was something much worse wrong with him?

It's crazy how when you become a mom, suddenly you take the weight of the world on your shoulders. And it's crazy how much guilt I can pile on myself even when I have no control over the situation.

For the next three months, my entire life revolved around feeding Josh. Morning, noon, and night I tried finding ways to stuff him as full as he would let me. Rice cereal mixed with Gerber food in the early morning, followed by a snack two hours later. Then more cereal and meat at lunch. Then a full second lunch when he woke up from his nap. Then another snack, and then as much dinner as I could convince him to swallow. Then we'd wake up the next morning, and repeat.

As worried as I was that somehow this was my fault, friends and family commented on what a good eater he was. No one could deny that Josh could pack away even more food than his three year old sister. I crossed my fingers and toes that the next check-up would be better.

By this point, I had begun noticing that Josh's diapers weren't normal. To be blunt, he had a lot of diarrhea. It added to my worry and I suspected it was more than just not enough calories. 

We went in for the 12 month check-up, and I don't even remember what they told me he weighed. I just remember that, unlike the previous appointments, they didn't give me the little paper that told me what percentile he was in. It's never good when they don't give you that paper. Instead, we were sent home with a lab script. I took him the next day to have seven vials of blood drawn, and then we waited.

A few days later, I got the call. The doctor, speaking gently, told me that we needed to make an appointment with a children's hospital to see a specialist. The truth was, Joshua hadn't really grown since his last appointment, and now was only in the 2nd percentile for weight. The lab work was inconclusive, and needed the opinion of a pediatric GI specialist.

I felt like I had failed him. And I didn't know what was wrong. I was scared for my baby.

We immediately made an appointment with A.I. Dupont Children's Hospital. We met with the doctor, a man with kind eyes and a warm smile. He spent a lot of time with us, going over each and every test result, reassuring us that they would do everything in their power to find out why my baby had stopped growing. He talked us through the possibility of Celiac disease, food allergies, parasites, enzyme deficiencies, even the possibility of cystic fibrosis. At that point, the tests didn't show much of anything. All we knew was that he wasn't growing like he should be.

The diagnosis that day was "failure to thrive."

When he said those words, this hard lump formed in my throat. Failure to thrive. It might has well have been a sucker punch right to my gut. As a mom, literally, my life's work is spent helping my children to thrive. If I could summarize my one heart's desire it would be that my children grow and thrive. It's a cold medical term that really just means "we don't know what's wrong." To me, it felt like I had failed my son.

I walked away feeling a jumble of emotions. Ben tried to remind me of all the positive things the doctor had said. But, somehow I  only remembered the negatives.

The next few weeks were spent meeting with a nutritionist, keeping a food diary of everything I fed him all day long. I remember the nurse telling me, "Don't feel like you have to fill up the page, some parents think they have to add more than they really fed their child. Don't worry. We know you're feeding him."

But I still felt like I was on trial. Like they were looking at me under a microscope. I felt like they were thinking, "What is she feeding him? Is it healthy? Is it enough? Is she really taking good care of him? Is she a good mom?"

After I completed the food diary we met with the nutritionist. Her eyes grew wide at how much I had written down. She asked, "Wow! Does he really eat all of this?"

"Yes!" I replied. "He eats all the time! I don't understand why it's not translating to him getting bigger."

She sent us home with instructions to try and maximize his calories at every meal. What that meant  was cooking everything in butter, heavy cream, and adding oil wherever I could. It went against every "healthy" instinct I have in me, but I forged ahead, trying to fatten him up. We also had to start giving him Pediasure several times a day. The stuff stinks like chalk and the list of ingredients is anything but organic... but I had to do it to help my baby.

We embarked on a round of blood tests, stool tests, a test for cystic fibrosis.  I was a certified wreck. I remember the morning the doctor called after the cystic fibrosis test to tell me Josh had passed the test with flying colors and did not have CF. I let out a breath that I realized I had been holding for days. I was so relieved, but desperate for an answer. None of the blood or stool tests showed much of anything either.

Except for one test.  The test showed he had extra sugar that he wasn't processing. It could be any type of sugar (lactose, sucrose, etc), that was not being absorbed properly. The doctor told us to try a lactose-free diet for a couple weeks to see if that helped. I prayed with all my might that it would help. It would be such an easy fix. Two weeks in to the lactose free diet, and we didn't see much change in the diaper department. I remember we went out for ice cream as a family at the end of the two weeks. Since Josh was still having some messy diapers despite the change, I let him indulge in the ice cream. Ben's mom took him home that night. Unfortunately, his body reacted pretty strongly to the ice cream and he lost it all at Grandma's. We went right back to avoiding lactose, and slowly his diapers began to improve and look more normal. Never did I think I would have to pay so much attention or have so much emotion over someone else's poop!

For a couple of months Josh began improving. His weight and height started to slowly climb back up the charts. I became the lactose police, making sure nothing passed his lips that had even a trace of lactose. The doctor was encouraged by his progress and we were allowed to space out our appointments to every four months.

Then, about a month ago, the diapers started getting sporadic again. I hoped it was a fluke, or that someone had fed him lactose when I wasn't looking, or maybe he had a virus. I was on the fence about whether to let the GI doctor know. We went to the 18 month pediatrician appointment and heard the fantastic news about his weight gain. I was so relieved, and yet still holding my breath.

After his appointment he had 7 straight days of diarrhea. The poor boy.

I'm so relieved he is growing again. But I'm worried about what is wrong with him.

I spoke with his GI doctor tonight. We're headed for another round of tests, looking for allergies, viruses, bacteria. Anything that will give us a clue. I'm so incredibly grateful for the care that AI DuPont has provided to us. I had a full length conversation with the doctor over the phone and did not have to even drive in for an appointment. His goal is to do every non-invasive test available before resorting to an endoscopy. The relief that gives me is indescribable. He reassured me that the most important thing is that my Joshua is growing again, and growing at a fantastic rate. He also reassured me that he knows I'm doing everything I possibly can to help Josh.

God knew I needed to hear that from him tonight. That I'm a good mom to my baby and that despite the setback with these diapers, my little boy is growing again. It doesn't drown out the sound of my worry, but it does give me reassurance.

It takes a lot for me to put this out there. I still don't have the answers and I still don't know the end of the story.

But I decided that I've been carrying this pretty close to the vest for six months, and I could use some prayer. 

Pray that we can find a definitive answer. Pray that we can get off this roller coaster. Pray that people don't say insensitive things to me because my mama heart just can't take it right now.


And pray that my little boy keeps growing and thriving.

Preschool: Opting Out

This past week as I sat at my computer each morning, drinking my coffee and gearing up for the day ahead, I scrolled through my Facebook feed. It was flooded with pictures of kids dressed up for their first day of school, holding homemade signs that said what grade they are entering and what they want to be when they grow up. Countless friends lamented their "babies growing up" and posted throwbacks to when their children were smaller.

It's a parental right of passage. Sending our children off to school for the first time, taking the obligatory "first day" picture, remembering how small they seemed only yesterday. I loved seeing the joy and excitement on the faces of the youngest kids and the feigned annoyance of the older ones. Back to school is an exciting time of year!

This year was a little different, however. Many of Abby's friends and peers headed off to preschool for the first time. I'm not sure about you, but where I live, preschool is almost as expected as the sun rising in the morning. It's not a matter of if I will be sending my child, it's more just a matter of where.  I can't tell you how many times I've been asked where I am sending Abby to 3 year old preschool this year.

To answer simply, I'm not sending her to preschool.  Usually when I tell people this, they raise their eyebrows and say, "oh, well you still have another year before kindergarten." It's like they have to compensate for the unexpected answer and rationalize my decision. I suppose they find comfort in the idea that as long as I send her next year, things will be fine. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I'm not sending her next year either.

 If you had asked me a few years ago if Abby would attend preschool I would have said yes without thinking. Everyone I knew sent their children and it seemed like the best decision to make. But then, I started thinking. And researching. And growing in confidence as a mother.

When Abby was born, I made the decision to stay at home full time. While this meant I got to witness every milestone and every "first" it also meant changing the way Ben and I handle our finances. After Josh was born, it meant stretching one income to support four people. It's a decision I have never regretted, but it brings its own set of challenges. It also means I don't make financial decisions lightly.

Here's the thing many of us don't want to admit. Preschool is a financial decision. Now, moms reading this and thinking "oh my gosh she has no idea what she's saying and how dare she minimize the rewards of preschool", just relax. I think preschool is wonderful. But it is also expensive. And the cost of preschool is out of reach for many one income families.

I remember when I first started thinking about keeping Abby home instead of sending her to preschool. I told another mom friend what I was thinking and her response was one I will never, ever forget. Her eyes grew wide and she shook her head as she said, "Wow. I don't think you know how important preschool is. I used to be a kindergarten teacher, and I could ALWAYS tell you the kids in my class who had not been sent to preschool. Believe me, it is an investment in Abby's future, and it will be a huge disadvantage not to send her."

Wow. Talk about a punch to the gut. I went home thinking, "I am a horrible parent for even considering keeping my daughter at home and I have to do whatever it takes to send her to preschool." That mom didn't know it, but she had struck at the very core of who I am as a parent. We all want to do what is best for our children. And I don't know any parent who would willingly put their child at a disadvantage. I had a lot of guilt and started questioning my own judgment. This mom didn't mean any harm, she felt she was looking out for me. And she wasn't the only person to respond that way. But it shook me and rattled my confidence.

Thankfully, God has been gracious enough to put some absolutely wonderful friends in my life. My friend Sarah, who I have known since I was just a teenager, has four children of her own and has made the decision to homeschool them. I have often marveled at her ability to raise four boys, run a household, and homeschool at the same time! As she shared her own road that led to that decision, she encouraged me to stay true to myself. She shared the joy of hearing her oldest read by himself for the first time and how deeply satisfying it was to know she had taught him how to do that.

With her encouragement I began looking into homeschool preschool. And what I discovered was that I am more than capable of preparing Abby for kindergarten right here at home. I discovered that education is not a "one size fits all" and that there is more than one way to invest in my child's future.

The cost of preschool is roughly $2,500 a year. That is a big investment. And what will my return be? Abby will have fun, learn her letters and numbers, get some classroom experience, and have peer interaction. All of those things are wonderful, but are there other ways to get the same results?

Think about it like this. If I were able to come up with $2,500 "extra" a year and decided, instead of preschool, to invest that money in Abby's 529 college savings plan, it would be worth over $7,000 by the time she is ready to enroll as a freshman in college. And when I think about it like that, I would venture to suggest, that if given the choice, Abby would probably choose to have that money for college instead.

Here's the thing. I personally don't believe that sending Abby to preschool will make or break her education. Kids, by nature, are learners. They are sponges. My daughter is only three and she can explain the full life cycle of a butterfly, how bees pollinate flowers, and what makes a rainbow. She knows how to measure ingredients when we cook together and how to be responsible for her own daily chores. She is curious, creative, and always learning.

This year Abby will attend dance once a week, church on Sundays, and play groups every now and then. She and I will learn letters while reading her favorite stories, develop scissor skills while making crafts for Daddy, and count chocolate chips while making cookies. She will be learning, interacting, and having fun.

I often think back to what that mom said to me. It used to make me worry. I worried that Abby would be that child. The one the teacher knew didn't go to preschool. I thought that would be a bad thing.

But as Abby has gotten older, I have learned to trust myself a little more. I have learned that I can make good decisions for my children, despite the perceived popularity of those decisions.

I have absolutely nothing bad to say about preschool. I think it is WONDERFUL. I one hundred percent support the parents who make that decision for their child. Not every parent out there has the means, interest, or opportunity to do preschool at home. Preschool provides a fantastic environment for children to learn and get ready for full-time school.  I just don't think Abby "needs" it. And I am simply not in a position to pay for it.

I hope that in two years when Abby gets to kindergarten that the teacher does notice right away that something is different about her. I don't think it will be the kind of difference that mother alluded to a few years ago. I think it will be Abby's kindness, curiosity, manners, and genuine love of learning that will stand out from the rest. Because that's what I am focusing on here at home. I think the teacher will notice a child who is dearly loved and whose mother genuinely wants to give her every advantage that she possibly can.

So for now, we're opting out. Swimming against the tide. I'm following my instincts and learning to be comfortable with my voice.

I don't suggest that the decision to send a child to preschool is a wrong one. If money were no object, perhaps I would think differently. But that's not the world I live in.

I think my experience speaks to how we interact with one another as parents as a whole. I have run into moms who applaud my decision. Others respond less kindly. I don't think we always consider that another parent's financial situation might look different than our own. I don't think we always consider the motives behind parenting decisions. It is easy to make a quick judgment and blurt out blanket statements. I think as parents we just need to work a little harder at encouraging one another in our decisions. We need to remember that we all want the same things: our children to feel loved, find success, have opportunities. We don't all get there the same way, and that should be okay.

So, preschool mom who just sent your son/daughter for their very first day, I pray that your child will have a wonderful, fulfilling, fantastic school year. I applaud you for taking steps towards furthering your child's education and development. I trust that you know what is best for your child and your family. I have the same goals that you do, I'm just doing things a little differently. I ask for your support and kindness in return.

And finally, I might be doing things a little differently than you are, but even as a homeschool mom, I can't help but share a picture of my beautiful baby on her first day of preschool-at-home. Where has the time gone?

What Comes Next?

There's a question that keeps coming up in my life. Often it happens when I meet someone for the first time and I tell them that I am a stay-at-home mom. But lately even in my own house, in discussions between my husband and me, it keeps reappearing. 

Do you think you will go back to work when your kids are in school?

It seems like an innocent question, right? A simple yes or no would probably suffice for now. Yet I find myself unable to answer simply.  Perhaps it is because deep down I am a thinker, who hates to give an answer that hasn't fully been birthed, so when I hear this question my stomach twists sharply and I find myself holding my breath instead of answering.

I simply don't know what I will do. 

Here's the rub. I do love staying home with my children. But I don't think that's all I want to do forever.  Really, I want to someday have a fulfilling career without compromising my flexibility to be with my children when they need me. But as far as I can tell, that is nearly impossible to achieve. 

Lately my husband and I have had a lot of discussions about the budget. I majored in English, and I am not ashamed to admit that just thinking about numbers makes me feel like I need to take an Advil.  So you can imagine how much I look forward to our monthly family budget meetings. The numbers start to swirl around me and I get stressed thinking about how I shouldn't have bought that new dress when we're working hard to save a little every month. Just like any other family we have lots of goals. We'd like to save money for retirement, for our children's college fund, for our next home. We'd like to save for a vacation to Disney World and have money to give to people in need. They are fabulous goals, but how do we achieve them on one income and still have some money left to enjoy life right now? 

And that's when the talk of work tends to come around again. What are my plans for after our children are in school? What would I like to do? What makes the most sense to do? Our children, even when in school, will have sick days, inservice days, and summer vacation. 

I started thinking about the possibility of teaching English as a professor at a community college. I'd have to get my Master's, but the schedule would certainly work for me. And it is a job that I could get excited about. But then I did my research and realized that the job market for professors is terrible. At best I'd get an adjunct position that pays next to nothing, and would have all that school debt to pay off.

We've tossed around ideas about getting my teaching certificate and becoming a grade school teacher. But confession time? I don't think I really want to teach kids full time in the public school system. That's why I wasn't an English Education major. 

I don't really want to do something that is just going to be "work". I was fairly unhappy during my time in corporate America, and I'd be hesitant to try and jump back in there. I'd like to do something that has meaning for me. 

So the question of will I go back to work once my all my children are in school? It's complicated. I don't really have anything that I would be "going back to." Really, I'd be starting over. And I don't have much clearer of a picture of what that would look like than the day that I graduated from college. The sheer number of possibilities and scenarios is daunting. 

I guess the other side of the coin is, if I don't go back to work, is that ok? I'm sure there are a lot of stay at home moms who face this question, and perhaps the judgment that follows if they don't go back to work. People wonder what you do all day while your kids are in school. 

Being a mom is really complicated. Where do I find my value? Who determines what my potential is? How do I balance it all?

I suppose for now, I have to trust that I am where God wants me to be. And I must keep reminding myself that "to everything there is a season." I am in a very special season right now, home with my young children. My days are long and simply getting all the laundry done is an achievement for me. But there are cuddles, and kisses, and laughter that won't be here forever. I do believe that God has a plan for me, and that He will make the way clear for me as the seasons change. It's easy to forget that when I get stressed about money and our future. 

What will I do when all our kids are in school? I don't know. But I pray and hope that as long as I stay true to myself it will be good. 

Coming Home

I remember when I was a teenager my mom gave me a book called Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. It was the mid nineties, and the "Chicken Soup" book series had just taken off. There was a "chicken soup" book for just about any soul out there: Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work, Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul, even Chicken Soup for the Dog and Cat Lover's Soul.  Each book consisted of a collection of short stories and personal essays.

I remember rolling my eyes at many of the "teenage" stories, finding them fairly cliche and trying not so subtly to teach me life lessons. Although, looking back,  I probably felt that way because I was fourteen years old and rolled my eyes at just about anything.  But I do remember one story very clearly. It was written by a girl who had just entered high school. She found herself lost amongst the hundreds of other students.  She was unsure of where she fit in, unsure of who she was becoming.

Until one day at lunch, she rediscovered her "kindergarten crew." Somehow, in the chaos of the cafeteria, a group of kids that she had gone to kindergarten with had formed their own lunch table, finding comfort in familiar faces, and free to be themselves with the people they shared a common history with. It felt like family at that table.  

I remember this story resonated strongly with me. My family moved from New Jersey to Pennsylvania when I was thirteen years old. It was only an hour move across state lines, but it might as well have been to the other side of the world. During some of the most difficult middle school years, when girls are just starting to figure out who they are,  I had to start over. No one knew who I was or where I had come from. And although it didn't take long to make new friends and start a new life, I always deeply missed my kindergarten crew. I remember going to sleepovers,  my friends talking late into the night, remembering that funny first grade teacher or who beat up who on the elementary playground. I was never able to join in those conversations. My memories with them only started at 7th grade.  And while I loved my new home, I always felt like an outsider, with a longing to reconnect with my own kindergarten crew.

It's always amazing to me how even our unspoken dreams matter to God. If you had asked me a few years ago if I wanted to move back to New Jersey, I would probably have shrugged and said no. Not because I didn't want to, but because I'd learned how to move on. Throughout our lives we all experience chapters. They don't last forever, but they are etched for eternity in our hearts. Moving from high school to college, and from college to a first job, getting married, having children. Time is always moving us forward. Rarely do we get a chance to go back.

But I have been given that chance. Right out of college, Ben took a job in New Jersey. After we got married he made the hour long commute from PA to NJ for over a year. But once we discovered I was pregnant with Abby, we both agreed it would make more sense to be close to his work since I would be staying home full time.  We looked at houses for months, starting our search in Delaware. But nothing felt like home.  We decided to try moving our search to New Jersey.  I remember walking into a realty office, and sitting down with a realtor who asked us where we wanted to focus our home search. I hadn't been back in New Jersey for 15 years. I had no idea where to look. The realtor told us to just "drive around" some areas and get back to him.

Ben and I walked out of the office, having no idea where to drive. So... we just started driving. I don't even remember where we ended up.  But "just driving around" wasn't getting us anywhere. So, I decided to take Ben to the one place that I knew how to get to.

Home.

The house I grew up in.  The house that welcomed my newborn brother and sister. The house where I learned to read, and ride a bike, and sit in the summer sunshine falling asleep as my mom read me The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  As we drove into the neighborhood, I suddenly realized that I was coming home. I turned to Ben, and he said, "I could see us living here."  I took him to all the places I had loved as a child. We drove past the soccer fields, the school playground, the houses my friends grew up in.  Some things had changed in 15 years, but it still felt like home.

Within two weeks we bought a house. It's right across the road from the house I grew up in. When people come over, I point across the street and say, "That's where I grew up."

Moving back, I had no idea what it would mean to me. But there is just something about taking my children to the library that I frequented as a little girl. Watching my daughter play on the same playground that I did. Taking walks through the same streets I rode my bike on. I start to remember who I was, how far I've come. I start to dream big dreams for my children, and I have a newer, deeper appreciation for the childhood my parents gave me.

Right after moving back to New Jersey, I was nervous that I would run into people I had known when I lived here as a child. I was afraid they would see me in the grocery store and wonder why I was back. I suppose I felt nervous, wondering if I would live up to whatever expectations they might have of me.

But one day, as Ben and I were walking Abby through the woods behind my elementary school, I spotted a girl running down the trail in front of us. Almost immediately I recognized her as one of my very first childhood best friends. She didn't see me at the time, but I later connected with her through Facebook. She was surprised, and happy to know I had moved back.  Shortly after, we organized a small book club with a few other girls still living in the area.

Three years later, we're still meeting every month. Just a small group of us. We call it a book club, but we usually don't talk about the book we've chosen. Instead, it's a few hours every month to connect with people who have known me from the very beginning. And I've known them. And it's amazing how being away for 15 years couldn't change the bond that we all have, just from simply growing up in the same neighborhood. Sharing classrooms, field trips, sleepovers, memories. It's almost like these girls recognized my essence right away, the part of me that is eternal, and never changes. I believe that no matter how old we get, and no matter how we change, there's something about us that always stays the same. The kindergarten crew gets it. They can recognize it. They accept you in whatever form you've become and they can help remind you of who you really are.

Memories are just one sided stories until you share them with the people who lived it with you. Then the memories come alive. They become more real, more tangible, funnier, better. A few months ago at book club we broke out an old yearbook from our elementary school. We went through every picture, telling stories we hadn't thought about in over a decade, wondering where people had ended up, remembering those we miss. I remember sitting at the table across from my friends, feeling so grateful that God has brought me back here. It was unexpected. I never thought I would get this chance. To sit around with my friends and reminisce. But it's like part of me has been made whole that I didn't realize needed to be.

I've come home. Starting over as a full time stay at home mom has been a difficult transition at times. It can be lonely. It can make you question your identity. But God is so good. He knows what I need before I even express it. He's reconnected me with the people and places that helped build the foundation of who I am today. He's given me back something I thought I had lost. And no matter how long or short this chapter here turns out to be, I am eternally grateful.

What's Holding Me Back

I've been really sporadic about blogging. Since the creation of this blog, I've had so many ideas come to me, and just as quickly get lost in the mess of life. As I sit here today, my children are upstairs, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the utter relief that I call the "synchronized nap." The windows are open next to me, the warm spring breeze is softly blowing in, and I can hear the birds singing to each other outside. And for the first time today, I can take a slow, deep breath. I can hear myself think. I have a moment to write.

Since I was young, I have always felt a calling on my life to write. I know that's not a unique or especially rare dream. I can easily think of ten people that have told me they want to write a book someday.  I think perhaps it is part of human nature to want to express our unique set of adventures, to publish them into a sort of collective experience that allows others to feel with us, dream with us, connect with us. But for me, it's not just a pipe dream. It's what deep down in my soul I feel like I was created to do.

Write. Something beautiful. Something meaningful. Something that will connect my soul to my reader's soul and move them.

And yet, I don't know what I am supposed to write about. Or what exactly I am supposed to write. I keep waiting for it to "come to me." I keep hoping that one day, I will wake up, and I will know exactly what it is I am supposed to write about, and how I am going to do it.

But every morning, I wake up, and instead of feeling inspired, I feel tired. At 5am I sleepily change my son's diaper, feed him a bottle, and lay him back down in his crib, tiptoeing softly out the door, praying fervently that he will sleep for another hour. Most days, though, as soon as I lay my head on the pillow again, I hear my door creak open, and my daughter comes in to tell me good morning demand breakfast.  Her brother's cries have woken her up, and there's no convincing her that going back to sleep would be better for everyone. Because, while she may have inherited her looks from my husband, she most definitely inherited her morning disposition from me. Which means a lot of scowling and grumpiness until food makes its way to her belly.

And so my day begins, and continues, with diaper changes, and meals, and cleaning, and the overall feeling that I'm really a waitress and servant instead of some glorious Mother figure.

And then the writing gets lost. By the time the whirlwind of playdates, nap times, zoo trips, time outs, and cleanup is finished, I've got nothing left.

I don't want you to think I am complaining. I love my children with a deeper love than I could have ever imagined existed. I would not trade one second that I have with them. They are funny, warm hearted, generous, loving and kind.

But the twenty four hour on-call nature of parenting is exhausting. And it leaves little energy for creativity.

I'm not sure what the writing process is supposed to look like. I'm not sure how to get there. I'm not sure I'll ever have any more energy than I have right now. And when I start thinking like that I begin to wonder if I'll ever really write something. Something of significance. Something that will mean something to someone.  I'm afraid that I won't. That at the end of it all, I'll just be another person with a dream that never came true.

I suppose that's what's at the heart of all of this. Fear of failure. Fear of never living up to my potential. Fear of not using the talents that I have been given to create something of meaning. Fear that being a stay at home parent will be the sum total of my contribution to this world.

And, if I'm honest, that's probably what keeps me from writing more often. My role as a stay at home mom to two young, vivacious children is certainly an obstacle. At times a towering obstacle. But that's not the real reason I'm not writing. I'm afraid that I'll give it my everything, and it will come to nothing.

I'm not sure how to work through that. But as the old cliche says, "Admitting it is the first step". So here goes. I'm admitting it. I'm afraid to fail.

Now what?

Josh Turns One

Today was Josh's first birthday party.  How is it even possible that an entire year has gone by since I gave birth to him?

I remember this time last year, waiting for him to come, wondering what it would be like to add another child to our household. I remember savoring the last few days before his birth, playing in the backyard with Abby, getting her a special playhouse to celebrate becoming a big sister. I wondered how much life would change once our baby was born.

I remember the first few days after we brought him home. I'd rock Abby in the glider before bedtime, barely able to get through our nightly song without breaking into sobs. I had a whole mix of emotions. Joyful to have my new baby, but feeling so guilty about taking attention away from my firstborn, and so unsure of what the "new normal" was going to be like.

I remember feeling nervous about bonding with my new baby. How could I possibly love him as much as I loved Abby? For two and a half years my heart had belonged only to her. We hadn't known if we were having a boy or a girl before he was born. I wondered if loving a boy was as easy as loving a girl?

And here we are, a year later. It's impossible to capture that year in one blog post. I wish I could find a way to communicate how full my heart is. I can honestly say that every single day I have at least one moment where I look at my children and wonder how in the world I could be so blessed.

This year has been harder than I expected. But more rewarding than I could have imagined. Abby has grown into a caring, compassionate, generous, and loving big sister. She doesn't mind when her brother pulls her hair with all his might. She just laughs and says "Oh Joshie" as she delicately removes his hand. I catch her whispering to him when she thinks I'm not listening "Joshie, you're my best friend."   But she's also struggled with sharing attention, toys, and time. Sharing is no easy task for a three year old, and sharing with a "grabby" baby who doesn't understand taking turns is even harder.  It often feels like there's not enough of me to go around. The kids inevitably need fed, changed, or bathed at the exact same time. Or there are the times they both throw a show-stopping tantrum together, and it's like a chorus of wailing, and I just want to lock myself in the bathroom.   But then, moments later, they both crawl into my lap and we all cuddle, and the whole world is perfect for those few minutes.

Josh has grown so much this year. I wasn't sure what it would be like to have a son. Now I know it's the most wonderful thing in the world. Now that he is a year old we're starting to catch glimpses of his incredible personality. He's a fierce little man. We call him "the tiger" because he's always growling at something or someone. He often has a "thoughtful" look on his face, his brows furrowed. I think he is going to be my thinker. His hair is totally out of control. It stands up on end like he's stuck his hand in a socket. He's not afraid of much, and chases me around the room as I vacuum trying to catch it. He's vocal about what he likes and doesn't like, and he loves his sister with a depth that you'd be surprised at. His whole body smiles when she comes into a room, and he's noticeably mellow when she's away. Their bond is something I never expected, and yet it's probably one of the things that has brought me the most joy since he was born. When I watch the two of them, I worry less about their future, because I know they'll always have each other.

As my children grow up, I always have mixed feelings about birthdays. I am filled with such joy at the people they are becoming. And yet I always have a twinge of sadness that the time is flying by so quickly. I have to always remind myself that they are only mine for a time, and to try and soak up every minute that I have.

Happy birthday Little Man. I never knew I could love you as deeply as I do. When I look into those deep blue eyes, my heart belongs to you. Your laughter fills our home and brings me unspeakable joy. Watching you learn and grow is a privilege that I try never to take for granted. I love who you are and who you are becoming.

Faith Like a Child

My three year old daughter has been asking me a lot of questions lately.  From questions about the reason we have weather to questions about how flowers grow.  It's as though when she turned three she woke up and realized that there are reasons behind everything, and she needs to understand all of it right now.

"Mommy, why is it raining?"

"Mommy,  why is the sunshine still up when I go to bed?"

And just the other day, "Mommy... how do babies get inside your belly?"

That one took some quick thinking. Thankfully,  answering "God tells us when the right time is for a baby to be in there" with some additional muttering and changing of the subject was enough to satisfy her.

But it's her questions about faith that have been surprising and challenging me the most.  Ben and I have been taking Abby to church since she was born, and we read the Bible to her every night before bed. We've taught her some praise songs and how to say some simple prayers. But lately, she has been much more interested in the songs and stories, and really wants to understand what it's all about.

Just last week Abby and I made a new calendar for the month of April. We do this every month, using a large piece of paper from a sketchbook, and we draw out a new calendar. This year April is special for two reasons. Her little brother is turning one, and Easter also falls in April this year. As we started to mark the special days Abby asked me, "Mommy, what's Easter?"

I answered her, "It's when we celebrate that Jesus died and rose again."

"Mommy, what's died?"

Ok. That's a hard one.  See, three year olds have no concept of death. The only way that Abby understands death right now is when she sees a dead bug on the ground and we call them "goners." So explaining to her about death and resurrection is well... complicated.

Then she asked me, "Why did the people hurt Jesus? Why did they rip his shirt? Were they bad people? Where did Jesus go when he died?"

Wow! I had no idea she had been listening that closely! But, I have to be honest, sometimes it's hard to find ways to answer her. Were the people who hurt Jesus bad? Well, yes and no. They shouldn't have hurt him, but they're no worse than the rest of us. Where did he go? Well, the creed says he descended into hell and then rose again... how do I put that in three-year-old terms?

 I have to take what she knows, and then explain a concept that people have struggled to understand for thousands of years in a way that she is able to grasp. I talked to her about how we all make bad choices, and how just like when she makes a bad choice at home and I have to give her a time out, that when she makes bad choices God also has to give her a time out, but that instead Jesus took the time out for her. She understands the concept of making a bad choice and receiving a punishment, but the idea of someone taking a punishment FOR her is difficult to grasp.

I don't always satisfy her with my answers. Sometimes she looks at me doubtfully, clearly wondering if I know what I'm talking about. But, just when I think she's getting discouraged,  she asks another question. "Mommy, is Jesus alive right now?"

That's the part that impresses me the most. Even when she doesn't get an answer that she completely understand, she still keeps listening and thinking and wondering. She keeps trusting me to tell her the truth.

And when I look at her, I think I finally start to understand what childlike faith is. What Jesus was getting at when he said, "I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it." (Luke 18:17)

I've heard lots of sermons on this verse. Messages about how we should be as trusting as a small child, simply believing blindly the way that a child does. But I don't think it has anything to do with a blind or overly simplified faith.   My daughter isn't blindly believing anything. She's listening,  processing, and asking questions. She believes that there are answers, even if she doesn't understand them fully right now. She trusts that I will tell her the truth. And she never lets a complicated answer deter her from asking her next question.

And her pursuit of the truth has me looking in the mirror at my own faith.  Hers is the kind of faith that I want to have. I think that's the kind of faith that God wants me to have. He wants me to ask the tough questions, even when I don't like or don't understand the answer. He wants me to come to him and ask him why children get cancer, why mothers lose their babies, why tragedy is allowed to happen despite the prayers of thousands.  

See, that's where my faith struggle has been lately. I've taken it on faith my whole life that God is good. But then I read about a four year old boy, diagnosed with brain cancer just a few weeks ago, given no hope for a cure. Or about a baby girl born with a heart condition, waiting on a transplant, and despite the prayers of thousands, passing away before she ever received that new heart. And I start to ask, is God really good? If he is, why does he allow these tragedies? 

My gut reaction as an adult is to turn away from Him. To pretend that I don't have those kind of questions. I find myself skipping my devotion time and avoiding prayers. Instead of drawing closer to God, I put distance between us. I worry that maybe there aren't answers to the kind of questions that I have. 

But that's not the faith of a child. That's not what my three year old daughter would do. When she wants to know or understand something, she just keeps asking. Over and over. For as long as it takes to get an answer. 

I think that's the kind of faith I need. 

I may not always understand His answer. I may not always agree with His answer. But I have to keep asking. I have to keep turning to the One who made me, who knew me before I was born and who laid the foundations of the earth. The kingdom of heaven belongs to those with the faith of a child. A faith that asks the hard questions, seeks to understand, and trusts the One who has the answers. 

Set the bar low

Just before Ben and I got married, I remember his Uncle John pulling him aside to give him a piece of relationship advice.

"Ben, set the bar low."

Now, you have to understand, Uncle John is the youngest of three siblings, and a dad to four kids of his own. If anyone knows how to instigate, it's him. And he takes the job of giving bad advice to Ben very seriously. After all, what's an uncle for if it's not to get his nephew in a little trouble?

"No, really Ben. You've gotta set the bar low. You think you need to get her flowers and candy on your first Valentine's Day? Forget it! Don't even mention that it's Valentine's Day.  You think you need to take her out for a nice birthday dinner? No way. Get her a card if she's lucky. It would be even better if you just ignored her birthday all together.  Trust me. Years down the road, you'll see it start to pay off. After all those years of disappointment, she'll be thrilled just to have you remember the day. If you start off too big, you're just setting yourself up for failure."

I remember Ben telling me about this "advice" shortly before our wedding. I rolled my eyes and told Ben, "You'd better not even THINK about following that advice." I knew it was only a joke, but I was still annoyed. 

Set the bar low. At the time it sounded like the worst advice I'd ever heard.

Then I had kids.

There's that old cliche "having a baby changes everything." Well, to say that that's true doesn't even do justice to just HOW much EVERYTHING changes. I remember when Ben and I first got married, we moved into a little one bedroom apartment in West Chester. 900 square feet all to ourselves. I used to have Mondays off from work, and would spend the day cleaning our apartment from top to bottom. All it took was an afternoon, and all of the laundry, vacuuming, and organizing was finished. I remember feeling a distinct peacefulness settle over me once everything was clean and in its place.

Fast forward five years, and now I've got two kids ages three and one. My house is a wreck. Everywhere I go I'm tripping on baby dolls, crayons, princess dresses and pacifiers. As soon as I clean up one room, I go to the next and the kids are already in the process of taking out every single toy they own and throwing it haphazardly around the floor.  Or, I'll take out a load of clean laundry, and as I start to fold it my one year old will dutifully take every folded piece out of the hamper as I put it in, gleefully flinging it over his shoulder.

I can't win. For the first couple of years, I tried to fight against it. If vacuuming made my daughter cry, I'd hold her on one hip for a half an hour getting the vacuuming done till my arm ached and my back was out of joint. Even if I'd had little to no sleep the night before, I'd drink an extra coffee during nap time so that I could clean the dirty bathrooms. Ben would tell me I was crazy, and that I needed to go easier on myself. But I couldn't. I'd go to play dates where the houses were immaculate, and it looked like no child ever left a toy laying out. I'd work like a slave the night before hosting friends, making sure no trace of our real life was left out by the time the doorbell rang.

And I found myself unsatisfied. Unsatisfied with our house. Unsatisfied with how much Ben pitched in. Wishing I had money for a maid. Wishing the kids would just stop playing with all these toys so my house could look put together!

And then... one day... out of nowhere.... Uncle John's words came back to me.

Set the bar low.  

Suddenly, the advice didn't sound so bad. I decided to give it a try. Over the next few weeks and months, I just simply started to clean less. I didn't pick up all of the toys every night before bed. I didn't hang up all of the kids laundry in perfectly matching outfits in the closet. I'll admit, sometimes I went more than two weeks without turning on the vacuum. The other morning I came downstairs and our dinner was still sitting on the dining room table, with half eaten food on the plates.  It wasn't my proudest moment... but you know what? I didn't really feel that bad about it.

I realized that all that time spent cleaning and worrying and making my house look "just right" was time and energy wasted, when I could have been spending it actually living my life and enjoying the people that I love best.

Most days, if you drop by my house, it will look like a hurricane came through and tossed every single item that I own onto the floor. There are laundry piles, and sticky floors, and a messy kitchen. But... I'm not yelling at my husband anymore. I'm not yelling at my kids over toy messes anymore. I'm a lot happier.

I've set the bar low. If I have a few minutes and enough energy during nap time, sometimes I'll clean the bathroom. But if I don't... who cares? The world will not come to an end over a dirty bathroom.

Now, understand... I still wish my house were clean. When I get a room totally cleaned up, I still get that wonderful sense of peace that settles on me and makes me feel good deep down in my soul. But... I've set the bar low. If the room stays that way for 30 seconds, that's a good day. If I can actually walk out of the room and back into it, and it is still semi-clean... that's an even better day. But  I'm no longer expecting to actually live in a clean house. So when disaster strikes in the form of an overzealous toddler, I shrug my shoulders and join in the fun.

I recently bought a new piece of art for my wall to help remind myself of whats really important. I look at it every single day and read it like a mantra:

Someday my house will be clean. And there will be no toys to trip over. And my floors won't be sticky or muddy. My fridge won't be covered in artwork and fingerprints.

And that's the day that I will miss my kids with all my heart and wish that their childhood hadn't flown by so fast.

So for now, I'm setting the bar low. I'm expecting just a little, but receiving so much more. I wouldn't trade this part of my life for anything.

So thanks, Uncle John. I actually think you had it right. Aside from the whole forgetting my birthday and anniversary thing...