Preschool: I changed my mind (sort of)

I can hardly believe it. It is 2:00 in the afternoon and I am sitting here surrounded by.... silence. My son is upstairs napping. The dog is snoring in her crate. And my daughter... is off to preschool!

Yes, that's right, my little girl is off to pre-k for the very first time! A lot of you remember my post last year about opting out of preschool.  I made the conscious decision last year not to send Abby to a traditional preschool, but instead to homeschool her myself. We had a wonderful, flexible, fun year.

We learned all kinds of things at home last year. We worked on learning the days of the week with a simple calendar from the school supply store. We practiced motor skill development by cutting out shapes from construction paper to "decorate" the house. Abby learned to write her name by practicing writing "letters" to her friends and sending them in the mail. And the best part (at least for me anyway!) was that it didn't feel like "school."

I'll be honest, I didn't set a "schedule" and we didn't purposely work on a skill every day. But we did read a lot, and had a lot of fun playing together. And in the end, I think it was the absolute best decision I could have made.

And I would have made the same decision this year as well. In fact, I was fully planning on keeping her home with me again this year.

But then...

Life happened.

My husband got a new job. We moved almost 2 hours away. I don't know anyone here. And neither does Abby. She misses her old friends from the neighborhood, and church, and dance class. We miss our community.

So I was faced with a totally new situation this year.

I'll admit, I felt a little pressure to homeschool her again. Mostly because I felt like other parents would ask me, "Wait a minute, I thought you were all about keeping her at home? Did you change your mind?"

And, well, I suppose, yes, this year I did change my mind. There were a lot of factors to consider. Putting Abby in a traditional preschool program meant that she would have instant friends. It also meant I would meet some moms in the area. And it would provide a much needed structure to our life that has been in upheaval for the past three months.

One huge (and wonderful) surprise is that preschool here costs HALF of what it did in our old neighborhood. So I can (almost) afford it. It is still a stretch, but one that I am able to make this year, unlike last year.

And I suppose my change of heart this year is part of the beauty of parenting. You do what works for your child, in your circumstances, one day, month, year at a time.

I still see a lot of value in doing homeschool preschool. And it is very likely I will do that for at least a year with my son. But the program I chose for Abby is pretty darn wonderful, and the teachers clearly share my learning philosophy. As they put it, they "sneak in learning" while the kids play. They might learn about the letter A, and magically the classroom is filled with all kinds of apples for the kids to play with. And they might put out a scale next to the apples, and as the kids play with it, they might ask them to think through what object is going to make the scale go up or down, and why. No pressure, just play. Because children learn best through playing.

I have actually gotten a lot of questions about changing my plans for this year. But, surprisingly enough, no one has judged me for it like I feared. Instead, every single parent has said, "It sounds like you are doing exactly what Abby needs this year."

Yes, that's what it's about. Doing what my child needs when she needs it.

May you be encouraged this year to follow your parent gut. No one knows your child like you do. And no "philosophy" is more important than your child and his or her needs. So be brave. Whether that means making an unpopular decision, changing your mind, or going against the grain, I am cheering you on.

Moving is Hard

If you hadn't noticed, there has been some radio silence on this blog for a couple of months.

A lot has happened since I  last posted.

My husband got a new job.
We got a puppy.
The new job started mid-June, so Ben had to leave and start that while I was home managing two kids and a puppy for two months.
We sold our house.
We moved two hours away from New Jersey to Pennsylvania.

That's the short version.

The long version is filled with a lot of ups and downs and goodbyes and emotions.

I told my friends usually it's during those kinds of times that I'm blogging and reflecting, but that this time I just couldn't figure out what to write.

They told me I was too busy just trying to handle my daily life, and that the words would come later.

They're starting to come.

Moving is hard. Really hard.  I miss my house, my friends, my family, my memories. I miss knowing where all the best playgrounds are. Where the groceries are located in the grocery store. I miss knowing how to get anywhere without Google maps. I miss knowing which friend's house to drop by when I'm having a rough day.

I miss being comfortable.

I know God is in this thing. I know He has a plan. But there is nothing comfortable about this.

I am thankful for a lot of things. We have a beautiful new house. Lots of kids in the neighborhood. Ben loves the new job.

But this whole moving thing is really hard for me. And right now I am daily battling the struggle of feeling guilty for feeling so sad when I know there is much to be thankful for.  I'm trying my best. If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook you'd probably have no idea how much I am struggling with this. That's the funny thing about social media. You can paint any picture you want.

I'm an introvert. Naturally I am very shy. It takes me a long time to let people in.  If you're reading this and that surprises you, it's because I've become really good at faking it over the years. I can put on a smile and talk all the small talk in the world, and you'd have no idea how uncomfortable I am and how hard I am trying to make a good impression.

I hate being in situations where I don't know anyone. I hate having to make conversation with a bunch of new people. I get drained having to put on a super friendly face and act like everything is just wonderful.

Basically, living in a new neighborhood, that's what I have to do every day right now.

I'm the kind of person who prefers to have a few close friends, not a whole bunch of acquaintances. But real friends take time to make. And energy. And putting myself out there to meet them in the first place.

I know I have to give it time. And I will. But the in-between is rough. And lonely. And scary.

I cling to the promise of Romans 8:28, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

For now, it is just one day at a time. Counting my blessings and believing that God is working this out, not just for the good of my family, but for me too. 

I have so many more blog post topics on my mind, but I had to say all of this first. And just be real about where I am right now so that the rest of the words can come. 

Broad Street Through the Eyes of a First Timer

**Note, I wrote this 2 weeks ago, but as life would have it, I haven't had a chance to finish it up until today**

This time last week I was experiencing the thrill of a lifetime: running the Broad Street 10 Miler for the very first time.

There is a lot of hype about Broad Street. It's THE largest 10 mile race in the country.

I marked the day in numbers as I went along.

40,000 people
10 miles
1 road

If you read my previous post you know what this race meant to me.

So, I wanted to give you a glimpse into what it was like to run 10 miles for the very first time in my life.

The alarm clock rang at 5:15am. I'd been awake since 4:30. Butterflies having a dance party in my stomach. Restless legs just waiting, waiting for the moment when they could be unleashed to do what I'd been training them to do.

I got up, quickly showered, went downstairs, could not eat a thing. Way too nervous.

I drove to my friend Stephanie's house in Gibbstown. She works for Shriners Hospital for Children. It happens to be located right on Broad Street, and she was leading a cheer section outside the hospital this year. She has run the race before and had offered to drop me off at the start line so I could avoid the subway.  She was my saving grace that morning. She kept reminding me that I could do this. That I would do this!

She dropped me off a block from the start. Her sage advice: get in line for the porta-pots immediately. And when you're done, go back around and get back in line and go again.

Genius.  I got in line three times.  I'm 30 and a mother of 2. 'Nuff said.

Already by 7am there were thousands of people milling around. I walked past the start line to find my corral. I went a block... still not there... went another block...  still not there... then another block....only then could I see the pink flag of my corral off in the distance.

Back of the pack baby.

I jumped into line with the rest of the pink corral. I looked around, marveling that I was surrounded by 40,000 other people and didn't know a soul around me. Stephanie had encouraged me that I would make friends in my corral.  I had laughed at her. In case you didn't know this about me, I am an introvert. Small talk ain't my thing.

But I noticed two girls standing awkwardly near me. They were wondering if they were in the right place. I saw the pink color on their race bibs and assured them that they had found the right spot. It was getting close to 7:30 and they still hadn't gotten in that crazy porta-pot line. We needed to be in our spots by 7:40.  I told them they better get moving. The lines were at least 30 minutes long at that point. I asked them if they'd brought toilet paper. A look of realization dawned on them.

40,000 people + 300 porta pots= not enough toilet paper


I had read about ten or so Broad Street blogs and articles ahead of time. They all said you make friends when you bring your own toilet paper. I still had some left in my clear race bag and offered it up to them. One of the girls said, "Thank you! You are my savior today!"

2 friends made.

As the time drew closer for everyone to get in their corrals the space around me started to shrink. As I looked around I saw people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ability. My heart beat faster. As far as I could see ahead of me and behind me were people.  News helicopters hovered overhead, getting ready to cover the race.

A group of girls my age stood next to me. One of the girls had a shirt that read Running slow isn't a character flaw. Quitting is. 

I was totally in the right corral. These are my kind of people.

We waited in our corral. The race was supposed to start at 8am. I shifted my weight back and forth from foot to foot, getting antsy. It was breezy and I was glad I had brought a fleece to wear. Stephanie had told me that people wear old shirts to keep warm and then throw them on the ground as the race began. Race volunteers would collect the clothes and give them to a shelter after the race.

8am came and went. I was so far in the back I have no idea if the race started then or not. All I know is I didn't move an inch.

8:30... 8:45... still not moving.

Finally just before 9 we began to inch forward. A large roar from our corral filled the air as we knew our moment was coming.

I was close to the front of the line. I stood just under the start line, looking ahead at the runners who had already begun. The moment I had been waiting for was just seconds ahead.

7 months to the day of my knee surgery. 
3 months of training
Years of dreaming about doing this

The gun went off and we started running. Suddenly, all the nervousness I had been feeling standing in my corral evaporated.

One foot in front of the other. The sun was shining, people were cheering, music grooving in my ear.

Stephanie had told me she would be between miles two and three.  Typically in my training that is my hardest mile. My legs usually feel heavy and I wish I were sitting on my couch stuffing Doritos in my mouth. I don't hit my groove until after 4 miles.

Not today.

As I ran that first mile, gratitude like I have never felt washed over me. My whole body tingled with excitement and that phrase "my cup runneth over" couldn't be more accurate.

That morning a friend had given me the advice to take some time during the race to look around and just take it all in.

I looked ahead of me. A sea of runners stretched out as far as my eyes could see. Heads bobbing up and down. William Penn off in the distance. I looked to my left, people lined the streets clapping and cheering.

Tears came to my eyes.

I'm running Broad Street.   

I'm really doing this. 

I'm here. I made it. 

Suddenly I passed the 2 mile marker.

What? Two miles already?

Ok, only a few more until I see Stephanie.

I moved over to the left side of the road where I knew she would be standing.

I saw her before she saw me. I raised my hands over my head, waving. A broad smile came across her  face as she gave me a huge hug as I passed her.

There's something about seeing someone you know cheering for you with all their might.

I kept running. Suddenly I passed mile 3.

3 miles already?! Usually I hate mile 3! It felt like nothing!

I felt my phone buzz. My texts hadn't been working that morning because of the overload of people in one place. But I'm so glad I got this one.

Ok. Starting mile 4.

William Penn is getting closer. He's at mile 6.

I'm coming for you William. 

Mile 5. It's getting hot now. The sun is beating down. I stop at my first water station. A volunteer hands me a cup. Instead of drinking it I dump it on my head. She laughs and asks if I want the whole jug dumped on me. I smile and tell her yes. I lean back and she pours half a gallon on my head.

I get back out there. I'm getting closer to City Hall. I'm feeling it a little bit in my legs, but the excitement keeps me going.

But I keep cruisin'
Can't stop won't stop movin'
It's like I got this music
In my mind , saying it's gonna be alright.

Suddenly I'm at City Hall. The crowds are picking up. The streets are lined with fans. I feel like a professional athlete. There are funny signs everywhere.

An old lady stands in the middle with a sign that says, "Gram's here!"

A row of girls holds up signs that say, "Run like there's a hot guy at the finish!"

Someone else's says, "Your feet hurt because you're kicking so much ass."

Oh yeah that's right. I got this!

We round City Hall and I realize that I've left William behind. I'm already headed to mile 7. Running a strong 11/11:30 minute mile. Pre-knee injury that would have been slow for me, but since the surgery, my knees feel the best when I keep it at an 11 minute mile.

In the weeks leading up to the race a lot of people had asked me, "Are you running for time or running to finish?" I'd had a lot of setbacks so I said without hesitation every time, "Running to finish." But let's face it, I'm always trying to best myself. I really wanted to finish in under 2 hours. It looked like I might actually do it!

Mile 7 arrived. It was one of the miles with a chip timer on the road laid flat like a line across the road. I knew Ben was tracking me real time, and had gotten updates at miles 3 and 5 already.

As soon as I saw the mile 7 marker in the distance I sprinted with all I had and stomped on that chip timer as hard as I could. BOOM! 7 miles. Done.

I only found out later that the mile 7 timer was acting up, and he never got that update... and was hoping my knees hadn't given out and that I was still running.

Miles seven through eight are a blur. I was starting to get fatigued. I turned my music up even louder and tried to focus on the beat and the lyrics.

Sometimes I change lyrics as I go to make them about running.

We're a thousand miles from comfort, we have traveled land and sea
But as long as I am running, there's no place I'd rather be
If you gave me a chance I would take it
It's a shot in the dark but I'll make it 

This is my chance. It's a shot in the dark but there's no place I'd rather be.

I cross the mile 8 marker. Just after I cross I get a sharp pain in my left knee. The one that I did not get surgery on. The one that I have not had a problem with before.

As I keep running, the pain worsens. My knee tightens up. It's having a hard time going through the range of motion. I start to worry that it's going to give out on me. The pain is identical to what I had in my right knee before I got surgery.

Up to this point I had not walked in the race. I'd been alternating a jog with a faster sprint as I neared the mile markers. I knew at this point I would need to slow it down and really make the goal to finish in one piece.

I slowed to a walk. I counted to 60. My knee loosened up a bit. I started back at a slower pace. I was limping.

Mile 9 approached.

Half a mile to go before I get to see Ben.

It was the distraction I desperately needed.

People around me were dropping like flies. They'd come to a full halt in the middle of the road, as though they couldn't take another step.

Keep going. One foot in front of the other.

I was approaching the overpass, and knew he was in the crowd somewhere. But there were so many people, I ran along the left edge of the road scanning the crowd over and over. I stopped thinking about my knee.

Suddenly, I saw him, standing at the top of a hill. I started waving like a wild woman, a huge smile across my face.

This was the moment that had kept me going through months of training.  On the runs when I was tired or sore or hot or cold, I would imagine seeing Ben on the sidelines, cheering for me.

Suddenly I was supercharged with renewed energy. I sprinted towards him and gave him a high five.

Only half a mile to go!

I was really going to finish!

The Navy Yard sign glistened in the sun ahead of me. A beacon of hope. Only a quarter mile to the finish.

As I approached the finish line, my throat closed in, my eyes welled up in tears. I threw both hands up over my head in victory.

10 miles.

1 finish line

1 impossible goal achieved

I looked down at my watch.

1 hour and 56 minutes.

I had done it. I had really done it.

I made my way through a sea of people and got into the line for my finisher medal.

As I hung it around my neck my whole being filled with gratitude. I soaked in the moment, feeling a sense of pride I have never experienced before.

Ben met me shortly after in the Navy Yard, beaming with pride. It's a pretty fantastic feeling when you make your husband so visibly proud of you. Months of cheering me on, watching the kids, and kicking me out the door when I was too tired to train. I'm a lucky girl.

We went out for lunch to celebrate, and then home for a long, long nap.

I could hardly walk down steps the next day. And even now, a week later, my knee is still giving me trouble.

But it was worth every ache and pain. I wish I could run it again today. It was that thrilling.

I don't know what my running future looks like. Don't know if another surgery is on the horizon. Don't know if I will ever get to run 10 miles again.

But this time I did it. And it was incredible.

Thank you to my friends who encouraged me during my training. And a huge thank you to the city of Philadephia, the incredible fans,  especially Stephanie and Ben who made the day unforgettable.

Broad Street Run... what's the big deal?

If you follow me on Facebook you know I've been blowing up my own newsfeed with updates on my training for the Broad Street Run. My running friends have been posting tips, articles, and encouragement. If you're not a runner, you might be thinking, "what's the big deal?"

Let me explain.

This race is a defining moment for me.

Scratch that.

This whole experience: the training, the failures, the successes, all of it has been a defining moment for me.

If you're not familiar with the Broad Street Run, it is the country's largest 10 mile race. 40,000 runners will follow a course straight through the heart of Philadelphia on Sunday, May 3rd.

I'm one of the 40,000. In fact, my race bib is #39450. I don't know if I was one of the last 50 to get into the race or if I'm one of the 50 slowest. Either one is a strong possibility.

This is my first 10 mile race. In fact, it is the first race I have ever entered that is longer than 3.2 miles.

A lot of people have been asking me when I tell them I am running it, "Have you always been a runner?"

Every single time I hear that question I laugh out loud. Sometimes I wonder if what they really mean by "have you always been a runner" is actually "so is this easy for you... you know, like second nature?"

The answer is a resounding HELL NO.

I have never before been a runner. In fact, in high school I played field hockey, and the thing I hated most about the sport was running. I only ran because I had to get in good enough shape to play. Running was a necessary evil.

So what changed?  A lot of things, really. I had my first child in 2010, and I was unhappy with the extra baby weight. I heard about a 5k coming up in the spring that a group from church was running, and I thought hey, I think maybe I could do that. I trained for 3 months, I lost most of the weight, and I completed the race.

Running became an opportunity to get outside without my kids, listen to music with lyrics I'm not allowed to play in the car (Meghan and Katy I'm talking to you), and an opportunity to push myself. I started to think maybe there was something to this whole running thing.

A few months after my first 5k my dad, sister, and brother were diagnosed with muscular dystrophy. It is a genetic disease that is progressive. It takes over your whole body, weakens muscles, and causes extreme fatigue. My dad had been showing symptoms for a while, but for years no one was able to diagnose it.

My dad used to be a marine. He could run 15 miles with a 40 pound pack on his back. He used to fly planes, play tennis, was an avid skier. This disease has changed all that. It's taken away a lot of what he loved to do. I've watched the progression of it and I've felt helpless to do anything about it. I can't cure it, can't change it, can't make it go away.

But I can run.

What's the connection?

For me, when I am out there running I'm feeling my heart beat fast, my lungs burn, my legs ache. And I feel alive. I think about how I am the only one of my siblings who was spared the disease, and I think I run because I can. I run because it's hard. I run because with every single step I feel like I'm fighting for my family. I'm doing something hard because they do something hard every single day.

After my son was born in 2013 I set a huge goal for myself. To run a half marathon. 13.1 miles. About 6 weeks before the race I injured some cartilage in my knee and ended up having knee surgery.  That was October 3, 2014. I was crushed that I had spent so many months training only to fail at my goal.  The day I went in for surgery the doctor asked me if I was ready. I remember looking him in the eye and saying, "I'm ready. I'm running Broad Street in May."

After the surgery the doctor said he'd found arthritis already starting in that knee. He said in the big picture, running long distances probably wouldn't be the best idea for me.

I spent almost 3 months in physical therapy to get my knee strong again. I wrapped my mind around the fact that I would need to adjust my goals and accept my physical limitations.

But Broad Street was still calling my name. It was the impossible goal.

I started back into some short runs. My knee was feeling pretty good. Sometimes it would hurt because I was so paranoid about whether or not it was going to hurt. I was afraid to push it too hard.

Then in January, I saw that they had announced the day of the Broad Street lottery. It would be held in early February. It was now or never. I had to decide then and there if I was going to do this thing.

I signed up. I held my breath. The day I got the email that I had been accepted into the race I was both excited and terrified.

What if I failed? What if my body failed me again?

And see that's where things started to change. I realized that my fear of failure was not stronger than my determination.  I also realized that whether or not I actually finished the race wasn't the biggest point. The point was to put myself back out there, push my limits, take a risk.

I started telling everyone who has ears that I was running Broad Street. Some of you might think I'm bragging. That could not be further from my motivation. In fact, I told everyone I knew so that whenever I thought about quitting I'd remember the sheer number of people I would have to face and admit that I had quit. It was my insurance policy to keep going.

I trained for 3 months. In that time I had to take off a week while my husband was away and my kids refused to stay in babysitting at the gym. Then I had to take off another 2 weeks for bronchitis.

My training hasn't been what I'd hoped.

But isn't that life?

We plan ahead. We set goals. We hope for the best. And sometimes life doesn't cooperate.

But I am wiser this time around. I'm listening to my body more. I'm reminding myself that just the fact that I didn't give up in the middle of this training is a win.

That's the great thing about running. I've always been a competitive person. I'm in it to win it. But with running, even though it is a race, I'm not racing anyone but myself. I'll never be an elite runner. I am the back of the pack, last corral, 11 minute mile and proud of it girl. And with every single mile I clock, I've won.

For that mile, I have silenced the demons of doubt, discouragement, fear, and negativity. For that mile I have proven to myself that I am stronger than I thought I was. For that mile I am truly alive. 

Tomorrow is race day. It is exactly seven months to the day from when I had my knee surgery. It is going to be the culmination of a long journey filled with disappointment and some failures.  But mostly, it is going to be the moment when all of my hard work and refusal to give up is rewarded by the satisfaction of knowing I have just done something I literally thought was impossible. The  big shiny medal around my neck is just a plus.

I looked up the definition of bragging. It says that it is saying something in a boastful manner. One synonym is "swagger."

You know what? I do have a little bit of a swagger. And it is not the "I'm better than you swagger." No, it's the I just did what I thought I could never do swagger. And I am owning it.

That is the other great thing about runners. I never used to call myself that, but let's face it, I am one now. The running community is full of people who are doing something they never thought they could do. And they love to celebrate each other. I have friends who could LITERALLY run Broad Street twice before I even finish it once. And you know what they're saying to me? Jenny, I am so proud of you! You are amazing! I have a friend that ran it in the past, and whose time I could never come close to. And you know what she said to me today? Jenny, I am so proud to know you.

 It doesn't matter how fast you go, how far you go, what races you actually complete. We're all in it together. We're cheering for each other.

I saw a snarky Facebook post about "runners just shut up" today. It was funny, it made me laugh. It probably does get annoying when people post all day about their runs. But clearly the author doesn't get it. I know that's cliche, but really he just doesn't get it. We're not posting because we think we're better than you. We're posting because we just feel so alive. We are doing what we didn't think we could. We're not judging you. We're not saying you should do it. We're just so grateful for the experience.

Tomorrow is a big day for me. I am incredibly nervous. I literally tear up every single time I think about it. It might be corny. I don't care. This IS a big damn deal.

I'm running for my dad. I'm running for me. I'm running because I can. And I am really, really, proud of what I have done.

When I feel like I'm failing at life...

When I hear the term "working mom" I usually think of moms who work full, or nearly full time outside the home. I think of moms whose children are cared for in a daycare setting or by relatives. I hold them in the highest regard and often wonder how in the world they juggle so many responsibilities.

If you were to ask me if I work, my response is typically, "Not really. I have a couple part time jobs, but I stay home with my kids full time."

I guess I respond that way because I don't consider myself in the same category as moms who hold down a full time career, and that they are the ones with the really hard balancing act.

I just started working last September. I report for the newspaper, two articles a month. I also coach writing for middle schoolers in an online writing school. This year I have nine students.

But what I am starting to realize more and more, is that I am a working mom. And that being a working mom, regardless of what your hours look like, is really hard.

I started working for two main reasons. First, the added income has been really helpful for things like family vacations, birthdays, and Christmas. And second, I longed for something I could do that had nothing to do with my children.

I have blogged many times about this place I find myself in. I love to be with my children, I feel called to stay home with them full time,  and yet I long to pursue some of my other passions, such as writing. I long to participate in the world in a way that is separate from being mommy.

It often feels impossible to do both.

Take the newspaper for example. I was given the opportunity to write the Hometown Living feature every month. It's a full page article with pictures. I've written about local people doing awesome things: bringing awareness to scoliosis, raising money for a disabled child's service dog, the impact of the community garden.

But those stories take time. Time to figure out a topic. Time to connect with people before the interview. Time to conduct the interview. Time to write 1500 words of a cohesive story after the interview. And all of this happens in the middle of mothering. I'm on the phone with an interviewee while my two year old screams that his sister took his train. I'm emailing my editor while my four year old pulls on my arm so hard I almost fall out of the chair because she needs a cracker. I'm writing my 1500 word story while falling asleep at the computer after a long day of diaper changes, laundry, sibling arguments, making breakfast, making lunch, making dinner.

And I'll wonder if it is worth it.

Then, after the story is published, I'll receive several notes from readers thanking me for what I have written and explaining the personal impact it had on them. And I'll say yes this is worth it.

And then the next month rolls around and it all happens again and I am pulling my hair out.

Today for example. I had an interview set up last minute with the Historical Society. My deadline is Friday. Today is Wednesday. My only chance to get this done is today. I have no childcare because this is last minute. So, I arm myself with a bag of kid-friendly-entertain yourself stuff. And I put the two year old in a carrier strapped to my back. And I haul myself and the kids over to the Historical Society to do a story on their latest museum exhibit.

At first, things are fine. Kids are happy. Then, my two year old son starts screaming and frantically pulling on his pant leg. My four year old daughter tugs my arm and says, "I think Josh has a big problem." I nod, but I'm not really listening, I'm frantically trying to take notes on the history of asparagus farming in Gloucester County. I finally pick him up and notice his pant leg is soaked. His socks are soaked. His shoes are soaked. He smells like pee.

Oh no, in my rush out the door did I somehow forget to put a diaper on him?

I check. No, his diaper is intact. And dry.

He has somehow managed to pee himself without getting his diaper wet at all.

I look at the men talking to me and wonder if they realize what has occurred. There is some wetness on the floor. They just keep talking about asparagus. But now I'm not listening. I've ignored my poor son trying to tell me he peed himself. Now I'm ignoring these gentlemen who literally opened the museum this morning JUST FOR ME so I could do this story. And I am trying to high tail it out of there as fast as I can.

I tell them thanks for their time over my son's screams. They say, "Wait, you haven't seen the rest of it!" I don't think they know I'm desperate to get out the door and take off my son's wet pants. They probably think I'm not interested enough in their work.

I apologize profusely, take a cursory glance around, and say, "I am so sorry. Two year olds are extremely difficult humans to manage."

And there you have it. The dilemma of being a working mom. The fact that no matter how separate you can try to keep things -professional career over here in this little cubby, motherhood over here in this other cubby way across the room- no matter what, the two always manage spill over into each other.

I always end up feeling guilty about either not being a good enough mom or not doing a good enough job at my jobs.

I came home and sat in the driveway and cried. Like the full on ugly cry. Not just about the pee in the museum. About all of it. About the fact that before I had kids I had my crap together. About the fact that now that I have kids I want to just focus on them and give them all of me, and I often feel like I'm not doing that well either because I am distracted by these other things. I'm rushing my daughter up to her nap so I can get my grading done for my students. I'm rushing them to bed so I can finish the newspaper story. I'm short tempered because all my free time is spent working and my house is a mess.

I made the decision today to resign from the feature story. My editor was more than understanding. She took on her role as editor of the paper when her first child was 6 weeks old. She makes it a point to hire moms to help give them an opportunity to stay sharp with their writing and keep a connection professionally. She knows how hard it is. I've been thinking about giving up that piece for a while. It's just become logistically too stressful. But I'm sad about it too because I hate to quit things. Especially because I love writing. I love giving people a voice in my articles.

This coming year is the last one before my oldest goes to kindergarten. My son turns two tomorrow. I think maybe it is time to start asking myself some hard questions. I'm never going to get back this time with them. What do I want this next year to look like?

I don't have a good conclusion for this blog post. Maybe because there just isn't a perfect answer. Parenting is all about sacrifice. We sacrifice time with our children when we work to provide for them. We sacrifice our professional careers when we take time away from them to be with our children. There is simply no perfect balance. At least not one that I have found.

I suppose, as with anything, we take the good with the bad. And like today, sometimes we give up something important to us in order to make more room for something more important.

How Do I Look?

I sat around a table with a group of moms today, drinking coffee, swapping stories of our children's antics, sharing struggles of sleep deprivation, commiserating and laughing in our shared experience of motherhood. It's these gatherings that help keep me sane. They remind me that, although there are many days that I feel alone in this season of diaper changes, sleepless nights, and temper tantrums, that really, I am part of a sisterhood. A sisterhood of women who, day in and day out, give themselves to the daunting task of raising little people to become all that they were created to be.

All of us moms are different. We come from different backgrounds, have different talents, different passions. Some of us had our children young, others later in life. But I think we all struggle with the same questions. Now that I'm a mom, who am I? Where do I find my worth? Am I good enough?

There are so many changes that take place once we have children. Suddenly, our lives feel like they are not our own anymore. I look back at my life before children and I had so much time. So many plans.  So much energy! Where did it all go?!

They say when you are pregnant that your body is not your own for nine months. That's true, but it doesn't tell the whole story. Any mom that has breastfed for any amount of time will tell you that as long as you are nursing an infant, your body really isn't yours during that time either. And ask any mom who, despite sheer exhaustion, has had to get up with a child multiple times in the middle of the night because they are ill, or thirsty, or their blankets just aren't right, and she will tell you that her body really doesn't feel like hers then either.

And for many of us, after having our babies, all it takes is one look in the mirror to remind us that our bodies no longer feel like they belong to us. In fact, sometimes, looking in the mirror, it feels like I am looking at someone else.

When did these circles under my eyes get so dark?

Will I ever get rid of these love handles?

When did my neck get so saggy?

I'll never see my abs again. 

I remember shortly after having my first baby I signed up to run a 5k. I thought it would be the perfect way to motivate myself to lose the rest of the baby weight that I had put on during my pregnancy. I signed up and then posted on Facebook, "I just signed up for a 5k! Can't wait to get my pre-baby body back!" I remember clearly that within a few minutes a mom friend had commented on my post. She said, "I don't want to discourage you, but you don't get back your pre-baby body. Even when you lose the weight, your body will still be changed forever. You've got to learn to love your body for what it is now." Almost immediately other moms chimed in, agreeing with her. I felt a wave of emotions come over me. I felt embarrassed, like maybe I had said something stupid. I felt determined to prove them wrong. I wondered if they were just making excuses for the way their bodies looked. I deleted the whole post. And pretended like it never happened.

But here I am four years later. I've since had another child and gone through the weight gain and the weight loss again. And I've discovered something in the process.

They were right.

My son, even in the womb, was determined to have things his way. Despite my, and the doctors, best efforts, he presented in the breech position on the day that he was born. Because of that, he had to be delivered by c-section.

I remember after the surgery the doctor told me to look at my incision. He said I needed to know what it looked like so that if it became infected I would know the difference.

I refused to look at it. I made my husband look instead. I literally could not bring myself to look down at my scar. A scar that just the day before hadn't been there. A scar that would now be there forever.

I read stories of moms who said they wore their c-section scar like a badge of honor. It showed that they had brought forth life from their own bodies.

I didn't feel that way.

I resented my scar. I resented that no amount of working out, or eating right, or plastic surgery would ever get rid of that jagged red line just below my belly button.

For me, the scar represented the fact that my body was permanently changed. I was no longer who I used to be. The scar was a physical reminder that I would never be that person again.

Sitting around the table with the moms today, the topic of plastic surgery popped up. There's something called the "mom makeover," that promises to give you back your pre-baby body. Tummy tuck, breast lift, liposuction.  All done to give you back the body that you gave up when you had children.

Listening to the moms talk about what they would change if they could, I realized I'm not the only one who struggles with who I used to be and who I am now.

Moms, we all have those scars.

I don't want to get on a soapbox, or make any other mom feel judged in any way. But I also want to be honest. Sitting there, listening to the moms talk, I felt an incredible sadness come over me. Sadness that we as moms spend so much time hating parts of ourselves.

I am no different than these women. I hate my muffin top. I hate that I am saggy in places I never used to be. I don't like how I look in a bathing suit.

But as I looked around the table at these kind, compassionate, selfless, beautiful women, I'm distressed that we as moms feel like we have to be something different. I can't help but think that there is something deeper happening here, that there are lies we're believing.  Lies that tell us we aren't good enough. Aren't beautiful anymore. That if we can somehow turn back the clock on our bodies that we will regain something inside of us that tends to get lost in motherhood.

But I don't think we can turn back the clock.

We're different now.  Just like my c-section scar, we're different in ways that no surgery will ever change back.

The magazines that tout the latest celebrity who gave birth three hours ago and already has her pre-baby body back only make the lies louder. The weight loss spokespeople who say they feel younger than ever before feed into the frenzy. The plastic surgeons who promise to turn back time make it seem like the answers are just an operation away.

But here's the thing. No matter what we do to ourselves to change our physical appearance, one day we're going to have to look down at that scar. One day we're going to have to wrestle with the internal questions that right now our external body distracts us from.

Questions like:
Am I beautiful?
Am I good enough?
Am I all that I was meant to be?
Am I worthy?

There is a difficult truth that I personally don't like to accept: my body is temporary. It is not meant to last forever.

What does that mean?

It means that one day, no matter what I do, I am going to have wrinkles. All my parts are going to sag. My hair will turn gray. My body will get weaker. My memory won't be as sharp.

And unless I start to remind myself of the Truth, amidst all the lies that are so easy to believe, I will still be asking those same questions.

What is the Truth?

For that I look to God. The author and perfecter of my soul.


For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down (that is, when we die and leave this earthly body), we will have a house in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands. 2 Corinthians 5:1

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. Psalm 139:14

 But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
    but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Psalm 31:30


These verses remind me of who I am. Who God created me to be.

I am so much more than my outward appearance.

I can only imagine what I would think if one day I overheard my daughter talking to herself in the mirror, saying the things that I say to myself in my head almost daily. What if I heard her saying she hates her thighs, wishes she had a flatter stomach, hates the roundness of her face?

My heart would break. Because she is mine, and she is beautiful.

I imagine my Heavenly Father feels that way when he hears me too.

I'm not here to judge anyone for any surgery or anything else they've done for or to their body. Plastic surgery is a completely personal decision and what I am saying is not a stand against it. If you've had it done, you're probably the one of whom I am jealous of your perky boobs.

But what I am saying is, moms, you are beautiful. Yes, your body is different than it used to be. Mine is too. It's not as firm, as thin, as toned as it used to be. I don't look like I used to.

But we're forgetting something. We aren't those people on the inside anymore either.

That skinny, toned and tan person didn't know the feeling of holding a baby close, breathing in that sweetness that only a baby's breath has. That person didn't know the euphoria that comes with five hours of sleep in a row. That person didn't know what it was like to give away the last piece of chocolate cake to the chubby cheeked child begging for just one more bite. That person didn't know what it felt like to hear a tiny voice singing "Mama Mama, Mama" lovingly in their crib. That person didn't know the depth of love that is possible for one person to have for another.

We aren't who we used to be. We're different now. Our bodies will continue to betray us as time marches on. But it's our souls that matter. Our souls that have learned the real meaning of sacrifice, patience, and love. That's what's going to last.

Moms, you are beautiful. You have great worth. You are deeply loved. We need to remind ourselves and each other of this, to drown out the other voices that tell us otherwise.

It's only been in the last year or so that I've started to look down at my scar without wincing. Often my daughter notices it when I'm getting dressed in the morning, and she'll ask, "Mommy, what's that red line?" I tell her, "that's where Joshua came out." She'll ask me, "Does it hurt?"

Truthfully, yes, sometimes it hurts. It hurts to know I'll never have that same body that I used to have. Sometimes it hurts to put aside my old self to give my new self to my children.

 But more lately, as I've started to remind myself of God's truths, I can tell her honestly, "No, it doesn't hurt. It's part of being a mommy."

I'm not the same person I used to be. I'll never be that person again. But I'm getting used to this new body. This body that knows love like it never did before. And truthfully, even if I could turn back the clock, I'd do the same way all over again.

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....