Messy Motherhood

My kids are awesome.  I mean, I realllllly like them.

 

 

I like my kids when we jump on the trampoline together, all bounces and giggles, hair flying every which way with static, clothing rumpled and mussed-up with leaves and twigs.

I really like it when people are blown away by my oldest boy playing music on the piano.  In that moment, I'm utterly proud, and can't imagine anything better than being a mother to this kid.
 
I like it when I watch my older daughter snuggle my friend's one-year-old - comforting him and connecting with him in a uniquely heart-felt way.

I like when my 6 year old randomly looks up at me with big, innocent, blue eyes and says "Mommy, you're pretty!" in his hushed, raspy little voice.

I like watching my kids climb trees, do gymnastics, talk to our elderly neighbors, draw pictures, pray cute little prayers, sing songs, read to each other, and be imaginative, creative little people.

Those are the times when my heart bursts with gratitude, and I feel
"This is what parenting is supposed to be" and I am content with my role as Mommy.

But sometimes I don't like them.

Peanut butter, meet the Tablet

For example: when they fight, complain, make messes, fight, whine, argue, rub peanut butter all over the tablet, disobey, fight, run away when I'm calling them, break my favorite earrings, spill crumbs everywhere, push each other, spill juice all over the floor, act obnoixiously in front of our friends, and whine the whole time we try to put them to bed at night.

Then I begin to wonder and question:
"Why am I doing this!?" and I think
"I must be doing this all wrong since they act like this A LOT!" 

Sigh...

I know mistakes are normal.  I know that perfect children are abnormal.

So I'm guessing that feeling like a mess as a mom must be normal, too.  

The turning point for me was a few days ago, when my 4 year old yelled at me: "You're a bad mommy!"

Although I knew that this was the wailing, emotional, unrealistic assesment of an overtired child, it still made me a little bit sad.  Especially after having a day filled with frustrating moments with my kids.

Yet, this time, instead of feeling frustrated and angry - instead of thinking "I just don't enjoy this parenting thing!", I actually felt love in my heart.  It was strange, really.  It should have been one of those "throw in the towel" moments where I calmly shut his door, walked away and then screamed into my pillow.  But instead of feeling like I was dealt a bad hand of cards, and my kid was just unlikeable - in that moment, what welled up within my heart was LOVE.

I realized that no matter what mistakes happened or will happen in the future, I was made to love this child.  It's foolish to think that LOVING means always liking.   Certainly the goal of a loving relationship is compassion, kindness, and loads of patience.  But it doesn't mean that things are going to work perfectly.  It doesn't mean that you will always say or do the right thing as a parent.  It most certainly doesn't mean that you will always FEEL the "right" way.

More important than liking my kids all the time, is loving them - messes and all.  I can love them even when they say childish things to me.  I know, deep down, that I love them even though they make messes, cost me lots of money, and take up most of my waking hours.

Love covers a multitude of sins.

I realized that even if I'm not feeling it, even if I don't have warm fuzzies towards my kids due to their immature, age-appropriate behavior, it doesn't make me a bad mom or mean that I shouldn't have chosen this as my profession, or that I'm not qualified to raise them.

Once in a while, when my husband is dealing with one of our older children's outbursts, in the midst of their emotional diarrhea spewing out towards him, he'll just pause for a moment, smile, and say "I love you!"  I really admire this about him.  It's as though he can cut to what really matters - and that this moment, this lapse of restraint and unlikeable behavior will pass.

What remains even if the house is in shambles and we didn't have a perfect day is relationship,
family,
and love.

Redeeming Christmas (and recognizing the grinch inside me)

Joy!

I've been a bit of Grinch.

In my effort to avoid this culture's tendency towards commercialism in a season that is supposed to be about hope, joy, anticipation and giving, I've become a miser and festivity-extinguisher.

Because, if I'm being entirely honest, the Christmas season has the ability to highlight my insufficiencies as a mother - lack of time, lack of patience, lack of joy and one of the big ones - lack of CASH!

I found myself annoyed a little more each year when the Christmas carols would begin to play on the radio.  To further amplify this attitude, we had the opportunity to get to know our family better and shared our home with my husband's younger brother, wife and kids for a little over a year.  The thing about my little brother-in-law is that he is the KING of Christmas music.  Apparently, the Christmas season begins the day after Halloween... when everyone is hung-over from a sugar over-dose.  So when I had an opportunity to smile and enjoy his child-like delight in one of the most important events on the Christian calendar of events, instead I was grouchy and informed him sternly "In MY house, Christmas doesn't start until December!"  So the Christmas DJ was dethroned for the rest of the month... at least when I was at home.

Probably my biggest argument for putting a damper on Christmas is that I hate the commercialism of it!  I hate how worked up kids get in their desire to GET more and more stuff!  Even if I had tons of money, I still don't want to engage in the chaotic, hectic shopping marathon required to appease the greediness of the green-eyed monsters (...I mean munchkins) who just want more and more!  My thought was that if Christmas has become about anticipating what amazing present you'll get this year, then I'll work in the opposite spirit and minimize the emphasis of gift-giving altogether!

At church on Sunday, one of the pastors and his wife shared about the season of Advent and how we can bring into our homes the true meaning of Christmas.  I found myself totally nodding my head in agreement with him as he mentioned how he was the "Christmas Grinch" of the family, and had to undergo a change of heart over the past couple years in order to really experience the hope and joy that the Advent season can bring.  So I really owe this post to the honesty and openness with which they shared.  (Listen here, it's the Advent message dated 12/10/13)

This Christmas, my family is in a unique situation.  We're in-between moving.  Our house is in-between being sold and having the new owners taking possession.  We have a temporary tiny little basement suite in the city we're moving back to. (I think we have about 100 square feet per person in our family!)  It's complicated....

At any rate, despite our confining, challenging environment I have hope and expectancy that this will possibly be our best family Christmas ever!

What makes things so different for me this year?

Instead of focusing on all that is wrong with Christmas, I'm determined to focus on what is RIGHT about it. The season of Advent, is about hope, expectation and promise.  I long to bring a sense of worship and wonder to my home as we anticipate a time of feasting and celebrating Jesus, incarnate, born to redeem all mankind.

However, just because I'm trying to focus on the spiritual and more meaningful message of Christmas, it doesn't mean that I should be a religious miser and put a damper on the festiveness of the season.  That's where I've been floundering - caught in the wrestle of emphasis - and wondering how we can maintain the true value of this holiday without being wrapped up in selfishness.

Then, on Sunday morning, I heard a quiet whisper in my heart regarding our family's holiday season.  Though Christmas has often seemed to be a busy, expensive season that overflows with obligation, this year it could be different.  In my heart, I felt the assurance and soul-quenching message: "God gives good gifts!"  While I've been focused on all that I've had to do and to give, God wants me to focus on His goodness and provision for me and my family.

In my effort to squelch the materialism of Christmas, I've been imparting an unhealthy attitude that causes joy and generosity to deteriorate in my children's hearts the way osteoporosis weakens bones and causes collapse.  Conversely, my kids will learn about and experience the goodness of God through my generosity and intentionality as a parent. 

As this realization blossomed in my heart, I pictured a Christmas where I delight in blessing my children.  I envisioned family-time that was filled with laughter and celebration - and realized that even the smallest of gifts could be a gesture that sparks anticipation and joy in their hearts.  And it most certainly isn't the price tag that matters, instead it's the thoughtfulness and meaning that is behind the gift.  Also, "good gifts" don't have to be defined by being items bought in a store, but can be experiences - moments of joy and words of affirmation that warm the heart.  Most of all, the gift can be found in slowing down, and enjoying a season that celebrates what really matters - relationships, both with our Savior and with our families.

Part of what this looks like for my family this year is what I'm calling the "5 Days of Christmas".  We've been incredibly blessed with an opportunity to have a mini-vacation in Montana for 5 nights and so, with some planning and intentionality, we're celebrating the idea that God gives us good gifts.  Each day, the kids get a tiny gift to open at breakfast time - and then we've planned fun activities and games we can do as a family.  All along the way, we're pointing out how God has blessed us and given us so many good gifts - like friends to go sledding with, beautiful scenery to enjoy and a family to cherish.

So far, the redemption of this season has been a success.  

Our hearts are tuned into the goodness that God has for us and the gifts He's given us as a family. 

We have so many reasons to celebrate, and we've only just begun.  With hope and expectation, as we journey together towards Christmas Day, we will enjoy and experience gratefulness... not grinchy-ness!

Worms, Ice Cream, Sleeping In... It's Summer!

For probably four days in a row, I've sat down and typed a few paragraphs only to find that my thoughts were incomplete and I didn't have the heart to finish a blog posting.  It may have something to do with the warm embrace of summer that calls for me to slow down, take it easy and throw the restraints of schedules and obligations out the window.  Of course, it might also have something to do with the fact that I seem to cycle through emotions like a beach toy floating on the open sea - waves toss me up then down and occasionally I feel myself paddling frantically for some sense of solid, secure grounding.  Those are thoughts for another day, however.

Summer is a time for homemade ice cream, digging for worms and drinking lemonade on the new deck (that my awesome husband built for me)!

Summer is a time for sleeping in after long days playing in the sun.

Summer means eating lots of fresh fruit and having picnics in the backyard.

Summer is a time for my naked baby to waddle around and splash excitedly in the kiddie pool, in our backyard. 

Hot, humid summer nights are perfect for watching the dark night sky light up with streaks of white that come in rapid succession and make you feel like the paparazzi is outside your window!

Summer is a time for answering machines that say:

"I'm sorry, but I'm having far too much fun relaxing and resting to answer the phone right now.  Please leave a message after the beep, and I might get back to you... on a rainy day... or when the season changes..."

Although I do have some deep thoughts rolling around in my head these days, I have a feeling they won't be posted today.  Instead, I'll dwell on the light, airy, happy summer thoughts... all which happen to be thankful thoughts:

I'm thankful for kids who tenderly care for each other, as a tiny hand holds onto one that is even tiny-er... and they explore the beautiful world together with wonder...

I'm especially thankful for how my children teach me JOY.  The world is wonderful and unspoiled to them, and they appreciate simple things.  Every moment is made to be savoured.  I could do well to learn from their prompt inclination to humor and delight.

I'm thankful for clean water....  As I prepare to go on a mission trip later this year to India, specifically to visit children who live in slums, I can't help but feel gratitude for the bounty we experience here in North America.  My kids play freely with water from the hose, spilling it on the ground - and others die for lack of clean drinking water.  I don't mean to put a damper on this cheery, thankful post, yet I must acknowledge the marvelous blessing of health, food, water, safety, a home and a happy, loving family.

This brings me to my last grateful thought. I'm thankful for beauty...  I am the proud parent of 3 beautiful girls, although one of my girls is well on her way to being a young lady.  And I think she's gorgeous.  The best part is that she is beautiful both inside and out.  She's generous, polite, caring and considerate to those around her.  Did I mention how beautiful she is?  Thank goodness Daddy has his Firearms license and can own a gun!  Ha ha!

It's a good time to be thankful.  If anything, we can be grateful that we're not shoveling a foot of snow off of the sidewalk... Well, just wait another 5 months and I'll have to figure out a way to be thankful for winter.

What are you thankful for today?

Mayhem in Montana - July 4, 2011

I can now add "stunt-double" to my list of accomplishments when asked to provide a resume for any future employer.  Seriously... I believe I have earned for myself a badge of accomplishment as far as being involved in a crazy (though fairly unnecessary) stunt and remaining mostly intact and, most importantly, alive!

I must admit, all my life I've been a stickler for pain and punishment.  As I've mentioned in other posts, I've been quite a tom-boy most of my life; the type of girl to pick at my scabs, run in the rain despite having pneumonia, hunt in sub-zero temperatures, and, more recently, live in an extremely unfinished home with my newborn and 5 other kids!  Give me a challenge, and I'm apt to face it head on and try to make it more challenging, somehow.  Case in point, I'm racing in my first half-marathon (22 km or 13 miles) on Sunday, after just about a year of getting into running.

Something seems to draw me into difficult situations, like wasps are drawn to a spilt slurpee on the sidewalk.  I don't like being told "you can't do that" and I do enjoy being seen as someone who can do almost anything.  Yes, I admit there is a measure of pridefulness that I should be more repentant of, and if it wasn't for my stubbornness and trying to prove my point, I might not do so many crazy things.

This recent "stunt", however, was not something I willingly submitted myself unto, and it revealed something within me that was surprising.

It was a notorious Fourth of July evening, on a beautiful, crystal clear mountain lake in Montana.  The previous day, we had stopped in a nearby city to purchase food and fireworks to compliment our celebratory days at the lake.  Every couple of miles, we'd see another trailer (or two) full of fireworks for sale, set up alongside the main roads of the city.  After shopping for food we stopped at a "wholesale fireworks supplier" amid all the other patriotic Americans who were stocking up for the big day.  I don't think my husband would be embarrassed to admit this, but he was like a kid in a candy store.  He strolled up and down the length of the trailer, scanning the shelves for the ideal explosives - the kind which are not available back on our tamer, more regulated Canadian soil; the kind which are responsible for emergency room visits from daring (and probably cocky) individuals who derive great pleasure from blasting and burning and blowing up things.  To give even more perspective on this wonderful, tantalizing yet calamitous event, I found the following statistic on the University of Rochester Medical Center website:

It’s a daunting statistic: More than half of the 11,000 annual injuries associated with fireworks and grill fires occur within the first week of July, according to the National Fire Data Center.

Yay!  What fun!  This wonderful holiday season in July was the most fantastic excuse ever for my pyromaniac husband to get himself into a competitive atmosphere of destructive, explosive spectacles involving gunpowder and FIRE!

In all honesty, I quite enjoyed the sparklers and pretty colors of the smoke bombs and various smaller fireworks.  I didn't care quite so much for the noisy firecrackers that blasted loudly and repetitively and succeeded in making our toddler cry in fright.  Later on in the evening, however, I tucked our youngest (18 month old baby) into bed, hoping that the cabin walls would be enough to deaden the sounds of our raucous celebration.  (Thankfully, he slept soundly through the night!)

As the dusk covered the mountain sky, the displays of fireworks became greater, louder and longer all along the homes of those who lived and vacationed at the lake.  We happened to be celebrating with a fairly young crowd, including a group of guys with obviously dangerously high levels of testosterone; as testified by their daring behavior.  One of the 'coolest', yet clearly audacious things they would do, was to light a smaller firework in their hand, then, at the right moment, throw it out over the lake so it would explode mid-air, shining and sparkling over the water!  Of course, right among that crowd was my wily husband - although for most of the evening he was occupied with lighting smaller, tamer fireworks for the kids - firecrackers, smoke-bombs, "bees", and "UFOs" to name a few.

I was happily toasting myself near the bonfire with a bunch of the children and the 'more sane' of the adults, when a commotion drew my attention to the dock.  I heard my husband yelling "Oh shoot!" and could vaguely see several of the guys scrambling frantically away from the dock.  There was a sparkling, newly lit firework in progress where the guys were, and suddenly the sound of booming explosions began.

"Ruuuuuuunnnnn......" yelled one of the guys - and a stampede of onlookers, in a state of panic, began to turn from the glorious sight of bursting fireballs, and run towards safety.  In that instant, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong, as the fireworks were blasting not up into the sky, but parallel to the ground, towards the spectators!

My adrenaline surged and I had but one thought: escape!  Amid the noise and chaos, I ran a couple of feet towards the cabin, only to stumble headlong into a Powerwheels jeep - slamming my knees into the frame and landing across the metal roll-bar with my ribcage while jarring my already sore wrist (which I had hurt the previous week while learning to rip-stick).  At that moment, this could have been mistaken for a Hollywood set - only the colorful fireworks should have been plain white; emulating the blasts from grenades and bombs as the soldiers and innocent civilians (me) dove for cover from enemy fire!  I literally had the air knocked out of me, and felt lightheaded as I untangled myself from the jeep and crouched on the ground.  There were a few more blasts as the final explosions took place, and then, when it became apparent that the crisis was over, there were loud guffaws and nervous laughter as the guys reveled in their survival of a potentially perilous extravaganza of masculine entertainment.

I sat in a bit of a daze, feeling slightly miffed at the event and wondering who was the brains behind such a obstinate act of disregard for the safety of innocent bystanders.  Then my mind suddenly cleared as I heard the voice of my 3 year old calling for me and I realized that I had plunged to cover with no regard for my darling children and the potential threat to their well being!  What sort of mother was I?  For those moments, I became purely instinctive, allowing the adrenaline to direct my body in panicked self-preservation.

My son came over to me and cuddled onto my lap as we sat on the grass.  "That was loud, Mommy!"  he proclaimed.

I slowly caught my breath and found myself strangely tired and feeling weary at the idea of more fireworks and festivities.  My husband came jogging over to me, and with a gleam in his eye, exclaimed:  "Did you see that!?  I was in the middle of exploding fireworks!"  He had a maniacal sort of grin on his face, and went on to profess excitedly: "That was crazy!"

Then he noticed that I was dull, quiet and seemingly shell-shocked.  "What's wrong?"  he asked, puzzled at my lack of jubilation.

I sighed... not entirely wanting to be a spoil-sport, but needing to be honest about the situation.  "I ran for cover and fell and hurt myself" I explained, lamely.

"Oh...I'm sorry" he apologized.  He went off to join the guys as they searched for the rest of the surviving fireworks available to explode, completing the evening's show.

I felt a growing sense of disdain for the careless young guys who foolishly caused terror and mayhem (resulting in me getting hurt)!  As much of a daredevil that I am, this situation had been out of my control and I was left feeling guilty for my lack of care and concern to my children in a time of danger.

Not too much later, everything that could have been exploded had been lit up and there were no more noisy combustibles left to deploy.  I herded the children off to the cabin, to tumble in contented exhaustion into bed after a long, exciting day and evening outdoors.  I was more than willing to tuck myself in as well; easing my battered and bruised body onto the soft mattress, and tentatively resting my sore, swollen wrist on some bunched up blankets beside me.  We survived the fourth of July...

The next day, after counting my bruises and deciding that they made decent war-wounds to commemorate our active vacation, my husband and I were discussing the previous evening's events.  As I listened to his colorful description of the "disastrously amazing explosion", I suddenly came to the realization that it was my husband, not one of the juvenile hooligans who had been the cause of my suffering and near-heart-attack!  With a sigh, and a sense of resignation to our lifestyle of adventure and danger, I found myself slightly proud at his antics, while maintaining a hint of anger, considering the wounds which I had suffered.  Apparently, he had innocently tried to light one firework, when some sparks flew and lit some of the other fireworks next to it.  In an attempt to stop a disastrous situation, he tried to push the sizzling, sparking tube off of the dock and into the water, but only succeeded in knocking it sideways so it was aimed at the crowd on shore.  This was when the explosions began, and the only option left for the guys was to run (and scream at the crowd to run for their lives)!

"Well, I'm glad you had fun."  I consented to him, trying not to encourage this sort of behavior, yet not wanting him to feel guilty, either.

That concludes the story of our Mayhem in Montana.  I'm not sure if I learned much of a lesson from our short stint of celebrating with patriotic Americans.  As I said before, what surprised me the most, was realizing that in the face of panic and danger, concern for my well-being outweighed concern for my children.  I've often engaged in that sort of "every man for himself" attitude when it comes to sports, and it's no surprise that I prefer solitary, endurance-related activities.  Perhaps I need to work more on a sense of partnership and team-spirit - especially when it comes to my family!  Anyway, I guess not everything I write about needs to teach a life-changing lesson.  At least I'm left with a life-long memory...