Blast From the Past

In the still of the night I am a more gentle, compassionate, patient, and tender parent than I am otherwise. And I can say that now as the mother of a six year-old and a three year-old, who – for the most part – are good sleepers in their own beds. So I beg the pardon of any new parents who are slugging through some of the hardest days I’ve ever encountered; your plight is blessed and almost intolerable. Chris and I have had some of our most heated exchanges in the wee hours of virtually sleepless nights. I also ask the forgiveness of any who have little ones who don’t sleep well. I can only write this post because it is a fairly rare occurrence that my beauty rest is disturbed.

And I only make this observation because it is so counterintuitive, especially given how much I treasure my sleep. But with this mystery malady (fever, cough, runny nose, hurtin’ tummies) the girls have contracted, there has been increased nocturnal activity around our house. And I love to swoop in as the midnight superhero to hold and snuggle and reassure and comfort. Campbell has nightmares, and I find great pleasure in wrapping myself around her to make her feel safe and secure. She slept on top of me on the couch for a portion of last night. Carson awoke in the wee of the day feeling puny, and I savored tucking her in right beside me to help her settle back into the rest her little body needs. There is something about the innocence and vulnerability of their sleepy, puffy faces wet with tears and their preciously unruly bed hair. The mischief of the day is gone; the defiance has drained away and is replaced by pure dependence and need.

I, in some half-awake way, enjoy scooping them up in the grey of our scantily lit house and pouring out love and security and safety the best way I know how. And I think this is such a dear time to me because I vividly remember many nights – during all seasons of my life – where I was unable to sleep and felt some of the most acute loneliness and fear that I’ve ever felt. And they’ll experience that too, but it won’t be on their momma’s watch…

And I am struck by my own dim understanding of His tenderness toward us when we approach with tear-stained dependence and vulnerability, all defiance having faded away…

In honor of Father’s Day, here’s my June submission for She…

We don’t shop as a family. That’s a no-no for us; it’s just too nutty with a six year-old and a three year-old. Some families do it masterfully, and they make me want to run over them with my shopping cart. In the interest of our sanity, we just abstain from family shopping. So, one Saturday we whizzed through the drive-thru at Chick-Fil-A. I inhaled my lunch, so I could run in to Dick’s Sporting Goods to buy a birthday gift while Chris and the girls finished lunch in the car (restrained eaters can be a good thing). In the store, I dashed around, searching for the gift, hoping all was well outside.

When I crawled back into my seat, everything seemed peachy. No one was crying; lunch was done; each daughter was playing with her kid’s meal toy, and Chris looked calm – a little glazed over – but nothing major. I had the gift, the last of its kind on the shelf, and our mission was successful and complete.

There was more, however, to the story than I, or even Chris, had been aware of. As we were driving home, Carson began to elaborate on the events that transpired in the car while I was shopping. “Momma, while you were in the store, Campbell snatched my toy and wouldn’t give it back.”

“So what did you do? Did you tell Daddy?”

“Yeah, I tried to, but he didn’t do anything. I called him and called him, but he wouldn’t pay attention. I finally yelled, ‘What’s a parent good for?’ and he still didn’t listen.”

I swallowed a smile and glanced over at Chris, who was hearing all this for the first time too, and commented to her, “Well, you guys must have worked it out okay, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My husband’s ability to tune out the noise generated by the sassy women in his life is an attribute that probably serves him well. It has probably evolved as a defense mechanism – his psyche’s way of protecting his sanity. ‘Cause he’s the lone male in a house with three girls (two little, one big – all bossy).

He is our protector, provider, our resident comedian and fix-it man. He bears sole responsibility for anything we deem man-related like pets, grass, leaks, light bulbs, oil, trash, tires, wires, insurance, retirement, plants, and so much more. Little stuff like affirming our beauty, reading our minds, rolling with our mood swings and contradictions, pacifying our whining, speaking reason and peace into our lives, looking courageously into the face of pure, full-blown female meltdowns, and surprising us with tokens of his affection. We’re not an easy crowd, I know.

So what’s in this arrangement for him, you might ask. He is adored by us. Our daughters dig their daddy. He was just away for two weeks, and Carson cried every day. Campbell was ticked at him for leaving, and I was somewhere in between those two reactions.

They love to climb on Daddy, attack Daddy, tickle Daddy, and slide down Daddy. They like to pretend to be baby jaguars and Daddy is the zookeeper. They like to pile on the couch and pretend they’re on a boat in a terrible storm where crew members and supplies keep falling overboard. They like to play Roly Poly car where they drive this car and make lots of imaginary stops on their journey to nowhere. They stand on their princess picnic table in the back yard and chant a gazillion times, “Go, Daddy, go!” as he competes in one volleyball game after another. They invariably say, “I want to go show Daddy” when we’ve done something different with their hair or when they’re donning some new duds. They’ll just run and stand before him without saying a word, and he perceives how tickled they are with themselves and understands that they are awaiting his admiration. And he gushes – much to their delight. They like to date him, dance with him, and devour his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (I am not allowed to make them if he is anywhere on the premises).

We have a plaque in the girls’ bathroom that reads, “My prince did come…His name is Daddy.” And he is just that. So, though his life may be filled with more prissy and pink than he might prefer, there’s no shortage of female adoration either.

Earlier in the school year, Carson was sharing about a flirtation between two classmates that was blossoming during recess on the playground. I stifled the urge to rant against romance in 5K, and quizzically asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

My heart sank when she replied, “Yes…..” in a coy tone.

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

Totally unprompted and never having had this conversation before, she replied very confidently, “Daddy’s my boyfriend.” And I breathed a grateful, grateful sigh of relief…

Yesterday we attended Hebron Baptist Church to hear Chris Reeder preach (He did a great job, by the way). And both of my girls have always been “slow to warm up” in new situations, especially when it involves being left in the care of new people, so my Chris and I planned (with great fear and trembling) to keep them in big church with us. We pledged promises of reward (“You can pick out something from Target this afternoon if you’re good”) and punishment (“If I have to take you out of the service, you will not get a new toy, and you will get a spanking”). I know, I know, that’s not effective parenting. I agree, but I was desperate. Now I knew Carson would be fine, she’s been to big church before and that girl would’ve held her breath and stood on her head the whole service if there was a reward involved (I know, I know, external rewards decrease intrinsic motivation). “Momma, I’m not gone take my coloring book and crayons in because I’m gonna try and listen,” she says as we’re getting out of the car. Yes, we came well-stocked with a coloring book, a notebook, and a pack of crayons for each child. And, yes, I insisted she carry her items in, just in case…

Campbell, on the other hand, had me shaking in my boots. This was her debut appearance in big church, and I had little to no hope that this was going to go well. In fact, in her three years of life, I have had no indication that she knows how to be quiet or even whisper (I mean really whisper not the exaggerated whisper of a toddler that is really loud in reality). And that’s not to say that she’s a super loud child, she’s just….three. So I was fully prepared to hang out in the car for the rest of the service when things started going south. But she was a hoot.

It turns out she really does know how to whisper, and she thought this gig was pretty cool. She was a big girl in big church. As the choir entered, she sat up very tall in the pew with legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. When we sang, she held the hymnal, very solemnly and stared at the page in all seriousness. When we prayed, she leaned her forehead against the pew in front of us, put her palms together under her nose, and closed her eyes. All business. Chris and I had to bite our bottom lips and avoid eye contact to keep from laughing. It was too sweet and too precious, and she was too reverent to be three. She never once had an outburst or spoke in her normal speaking voice, but she did have somethings to (excitedly) ask and share in an appropriate whisper:

For those of you who do not live in the Pee Dee and for those of you who do but haven’t gotten the May issue of She, I am posting below my Mother’s Day article:

Madness, I Say

Today I have been in the business of motherhood for six years, but I’m still just a neophyte, feeling way over my head. I seriously feel like I need a psychology degree to effectively handle the most basic scuffles. That and a dependence on the Lord like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

Take this scenario for example. Last week I was showering when Carson, my oldest daughter, came to tattle on her two year-old sister. With great pleasure, she informed me that Campbell was peppering the coffee table with milk from her sippy cup, and in my mind’s eye I could see her doing just that as she circled and sprinkled the table with joy. I instructed Carson to send Campbell to me, and she came in, head low, wearing the guilty look. I inquired; she confessed, and I promised a spanking when I was clean and clothed. As I was dressing, both girls marched in to announce that they had cleaned up the spilled milk. I was baffled. What was that? Carson ratted out her sister and tried to save her hide all within the same episode of Dora. “Uh…, good, Carson. I’m proud of you for helping your sister. Campbell, good job cleaning up the mess, I think…” Clemency was granted more out of my confusion than the generosity of my heart.

There are a few issues to camp out on here. First, they take full advantage of the whole wet and naked factor when I’m in the shower. There was another day when Carson came to tell on herself while I was showering. She revealed that she had kind of, sort of, accidentally on purpose pushed Campbell off the kitchen stool. Even more concerning was the fact that Campbell would not speak to her. I instantly deflated and felt nauseous as I imagined Campbell contorted and unresponsive on the kitchen floor (I have a hyperactive imagination in the shower these days). I tore out of the shower and through the house, leaving large puddles in my wake. I found Campbell tucked under the counter, completely miffed with her sister. Thankfully she was unharmed, but there I was wet and naked nonetheless.

Secondly, the paradoxes of motherhood are really more than I can wrap my brain around. I am a mom who needs time alone, time away from my children, but I immediately miss them. I don’t get it. If Chris and I go on a date and see a family out with their children, I get a lump in my throat and have to fight the urge to sprint home for a squeeze and a kiss. I am also a mom who strives to teach my children to be independent yet I am unsettled and weepy when it seems they need me less and less. I am a huge proponent of teaching my children to dress themselves at an early age, but I wince at their fashion choices. “Oh, that’s an interesting ensemble. You have really chosen so many different colors,” I say. Just ride by our house on a Saturday morning to see what might be skipping down our driveway. Color, I can promise. Sibling rivalry. Tattling. It really all just twists my brain and my heart into knots most of the time.

And it’s not just the overwhelming complexities of being a mom; it’s the daily, simple madness too. It’s Campbell as a newborn screaming at such a high pitch that she set off the glass break sensor on our security system. It’s Carson decorating my life with 5000 stickers I bought at Sam’s – stickers permanently adhered to the drum of the dryer, stickers affixed to the soles of all our socks, Chris attending an engagement party with a sticker stuck to his rear end (5000 stickers. I know, what was I thinking?). It’s Campbell with a piece of Honey Smacks cereal stuffed up her left nostril (thank the Lord she sneezed it out after about five minutes of futile nose blowing). It’s Carson waking me up at 3:47 this morning crying because now she is six and can’t play on the mats at the gym anymore (that made me want to cry too).

I told you I am way over my head, right? But in all seriousness, I find being a mother scary and joyous and confusing and draining and a lot of fun all wrapped in one. I do ask God for a lot of wisdom because I bring none to the table and for a lot of grace because I mess up so often. I try to take every opportunity to point them to their Perfect Parent in light of my own inadequacies as their earthly parent, and I pray toward that day when they will know Him as the One who does not disappoint or goof up.

As for my parting advice, I say buy cereal too large to fit in a child’s nostril (although that would probably make it a choking hazard), shower with caution, and lobby against the production of insane sticker books – they’re of the devil!