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...