Because of what you see in this picture, I have makeup on this morning.
Sophia was the engineer; Mckayla was cleanup control; and Gracie (not pictured) was the foreman, generally complaining and telling everyone what they were doing wrong. = )
Motherhood
An encouragement regarding children who aren’t inclined to work
If I’ve heard my husband say how he first noticed me once, I’ve heard it a million times.
“We were working at this camp together, and it was my job to give out the responsibilities. I noticed that this girl was always where she was supposed to be, didn’t mess around, worked really hard and did great at everything…”
Blah. Blah. Blah…little did I know in a few years he’d want me to have four kids in a row, take care of them, clean the house, make the meals… no wonder he noticed a hard worker! = ) Totally kidding!
A funny thought occurred to me a few weeks ago; maybe it was after hearing him begin that story for the bajillionth time.
I actually wasn’t a good worker at all as a kid.
My parents, who were very committed to teaching us how to work and be responsible, had to remind me constantly to keep working. I would daydream, do a half-hearted job, ask to go do something else, or just plain stop. We weren’t allowed to whine or complain at all, but I do remember not being very happy about working on the inside.
To their credit, my parents never really criticized me for this. I don’t remember any lectures or “No more, or else!” moments. They just quietly, consistently kept giving me jobs, talking about the value of work, and expecting me to do my part for the family. I don’t remember at all it being a negative memory; I just know that in my heart, I would have rather been swinging, reading, or climbing trees.
I do remember a big light bulb moment towards the end of high school. (Sorry, Mom and Dad that it took so long!) I literally remember thinking, They ask me to vacuum and wash the car every week! Why don’t I just do it before they ask me so it won’t be so annoying when they tell me to do it and I’m in the middle of something? Like I said, light bulb! I began to do it first thing every Friday and I was so much happier! By that time, I actually enjoyed the jobs that I did; and finally taking ownership of them was even better.
****
Now I remember what made me think about this: I was watching Hope do some little job and thinking, She’s just not a very good worker. Then I remembered, Oh yeah! Neither was I; for a looong time. Then I thought, Ha! Isn’t it funny that the “hard worker” character trait was one of the first things that Paul noticed about me.
So, the point is, if you have a child that’s not inclined to work, don’t despair. Even the worst of us can be reformed.
I’m proof. = )
(Now just don’t ask me about what happened to that stellar work ethic after I got married and pregnant!)
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The toilet paper stage
According to my estimation, there are three stages of your life with regards to toilet paper.
1. When you have no clue what it is.
2. When you think it’s a toy or a snack.
3. When you have (hopefully) moved beyond stage 2 and use it for it’s intended purpose.
All four of my girls have now progressed through stage two, save one who shall remain nameless in this sentence. And every time they reach that point, I’m reminded again of how annoying it is.
Okay, at first it’s cute. They come waddling down the hallway with a long train of their new found treasure; and it is kind of cute. Or least the huge smile on their face is.
But then, after you pick up 479 pieces of ripped up toilet paper a day; it’s not cute anymore, and you finally say “Enough!”
Mckayla, I love you; and I promise to remember this stage with some measure of fondness… once it’s long gone!
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Every home should have a two-year old
Okay, maybe that’s stretching it a little too far, but I have decided (after three of them), that two is by far my favorite age.
I wouldn’t characterize any of our girls’ years as “terrible,” but I personally found three much more challenging than two.
So.
Bear with me while I tell you why I love two-year olds so much.
For starters, they are fun, cute, silly, amazing, ridiculous, endearing, and playful. (to use a few adjectives that came to mind) And if that doesn’t make my opinion clear, here are a few other thoughts.
A year of exploration.
All of my girls could all walk by the time they were two, but other physical abilities seemed to snowball. Jumping and running, turning things on and off… I know that these can cause hazards and stress, but it’s also so heart-melting to see the excitement on their little faces and hear them proudly proclaim, “I run!!!”
A year of awareness.
Let’s just say, the conversations start picking up. As they begin to observe the world around them and ask questions, you have the awesome opportunity to fill their little head with knowledge, ideas, and enthusiasm. If you tell them lightbulbs are amazing, they’ll think they’re amazing, too; if you tell them bugs are gross, they’ll think they’re gross, too; if you tell them that storms are exciting and interesting, they’ll probably believe you; if you tell them that the road is dangerous, they’ll probably adhere. What better time than then to start shaping the way they view their body, other people, history, education, science, art, music… it goes on.
Wow! I didn’t actually intend for this to be inspirational, but as I’m writing, it’s like… yeah! Two-year olds are amazing! What an opportunity!
And for my very favorite thing about two-year olds, it would definitely have to be…
The way they talk.
Oh my goodness. They start to learn more words and put them together coherently, and then they get so excited that they begin talking faster and faster, and before you know it, it’s back to babble. After they catch up with themselves and you can understand again, it’s amazing. I love watching their faces darken or light up following the path of their topic; many times the girls have gotten to nap time way later than scheduled because they were carrying on while going potty and I just couldn’t help but listen and listen and listen. (and maybe egg them on a little bit, too = ) Then, there’s those conversations that take a serious turn and you’re feeling Wow, this is so cool; that was a great question they just asked. This is so meaningful; they’re going to remember this forever! and then… they say, “Does Daddy have a belly button?”
Okay, I thought of one more super fun aspect of two-year olds (or at least ours):
A year of stages.
Not developmental stages, but the they’re-doing-this-one-really-funny-thing-over-and-over stages. I think those have brought us more laughter than anything. The repetition of little jokes and games that they learn is so hilarious, maybe even more so than than the individual events or outbursts.
****
Well, this is all very opinionated indeed, but I just have to say that as I’ve watched Gracie during these past months (after I realized that my favorite age is two), I’ve tried super hard to cherish this time with her more than ever.
The thought has often crossed my mind, “Every house should have a two-year old.” They’re just so fun and entertaining and precious… but maybe that’s just me.
Do you have a favorite age/stage for babies and children? Has your two-year old experience been totally different from mine? Thank you so much to all my readers and followers for your looking, liking, and commenting; I love it! Because you all are so kind, I wish you a house full of two-year olds. = )
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Why you really should eat a good breakfast while you’re pregnant, part 3
So there you have it, my sob story. I blacked out at a funeral and had to be carried off stage from the piano because I hadn’t eaten enough that morning, or any of the previous mornings.
People began to ask me what I had for breakfast that morning. My reply of “cheerios and grape juice” was unsatisfactory.
Now before I say what I’m about to say, know this: the people in that church loved me dearly and everything they said to me was out of genuine care and concern. However, I was descended upon with advice, rebuke, and exhortation; and it stung. I clearly remember one lady telling me, “You shouldn’t go two hours without eating! Even if it’s a handful of peanuts, you’ve got to eat.” Her advice was spot on, but the way it was said still hurt.
It all was completely overwhelming and discouraging. I felt like they thought I was purposely neglecting the care of the baby; if only they could realize, I really didn’t know. I was the baby of the family, had no relatives that I lived near while they were expecting, grew up in a church where there weren’t too many people having babies, and basically had no idea about anything related to having a child develop inside of you.
I remember crying in the car next to my husband, trying to explain how I felt. He was so loving and patient.
****
This story will probably not relate to a large percentage of young mothers. But maybe, just maybe, someone who needs this will find their way to this post.
If you’re discouraged, confused, overwhelmed, I can totally relate.
You’ve got to change how you think about eating. A sweet friend told me (sweetly!) after “le deluge” that when she became pregnant she started eating three full meals a day.
This was helpful! I knew what three full meals were; hadn’t been in the practice of eating them for awhile… but it was a goal I could work towards. Think enough food to fill a dinner plate with the major food groups represented.
Also, I figured out that you really do have to snack between meals. Peanuts, trail mix, and granola bars were my go to.
****
It was awhile ago now, that this all happened. But I can still remember the fear and the embarrassment. Would I be able to care for this precious little thing inside me?
Little by little, I learned. But it all started here…
…when you are pregnant, you have to eat.
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Why you really should eat a good breakfast when you’re pregnant, part 2
This morning (the morning of the day that I would be totally humiliated) had to be different.
There was a funeral scheduled for late morning and I was to play the piano. That meant I had to be up, showered, dressed, made-up, beautified, practiced, and fed. Yes, fed. I was so proud of myself when I sat down to eat my breakfast of Cheerios and grape juice. Wow, I was really taking care of myself. This morning I knew I had to have all of my energy and strength at top-notch.
Little did I know that in less than twenty-four hours people would be chastising me for eating this meager breakfast that at the time I was so proud of.
Everything was going completely fine with the funeral. Maybe, maybe, I felt a little tired, hot, and thirsty; but seriously, I don’t think I thought of any of this until it was too late.
A soloist got up to sing “The Old Rugged Cross” before the message. Somewhere during the second or third verse, the darkness and stars started to invade my vision. That’s weird. I had passed out before in high school so at least I was familiar with that sensation. Oh well, I’ll be fine; I know how to play this song without looking.
By this time all I could see was complete black, but I could still hear the man singing and my playing sounded okay… until it stopped sounding okay. Wait, that’s not right. I’m supposed to play a B flat chord here. I remember still not being worried; I know where that chord is; but I kept searching for it and couldn’t find it. Wow, this sounds bad; this sounds weird.
At that point, I stopped having thoughts. I just knew that whatever I was playing was not right.
People in the crowded auditorium started to wonder what was wrong. The soloist began to wonder if he had made a mistake; he kept coming back in, trying to find where he was supposed to be. My mom, who was in attendance, told me later that she was thinking, “Someone better get up there and do something.”
Thankfully, my knight in shining armor realized I needed help. Paul came up to the piano and put his arms around me (which was good, first because I always love his arms around me, and second, because this particular time it kept me from collapsing on the ground)
“Hey Bud, are you okay?”
“No.”
“I’m going to help you walk off.”
“No, you don’t understand; I can’t see you. Everything’s black. You’re going to have to carry me.”
So there I went, off the stage, carried in my husband’s arms.
There went the little girl everyone had watched grow up. There went the girl who had played the piano for everything that had happened in that church for the last who knows how long. There went the person who had never needed anything. There went all that pride. Wait, actually, I think it stayed on the piano bench.
This would begin my realization that pregnancy is different from normal. Something wacko is happening with my body, and I better figure out what to do about it.
Seriously, Christie, why did it take blacking out at a FUNERAL?????
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Why you really should eat a good breakfast while you’re pregnant, part 1
When I got married I knew how to part-write pretty well; I could analyze preludes and fugues; I could sightread about any piece of music that you could put in front of me. I could wash and wax a car until it gleamed; and that’s about all. (Notice I didn’t say anything about cooking, preparing food, knowing what a well-balanced meal was, etc.)
When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I would need some help. So I drove my husband’s little white truck to our little local library. There I checked out as many books as I could regarding pregnancy, went home, read them, and became extremely grossed out at the pictures.
At our first doctor’s appointment, the nurse went through a very specific list of foods and drugs that I could not eat and also a few items that I could take, just in moderation, or after so many weeks, and whatever.
Everyone I knew expressed their deep happiness over our coming baby. I got oohs and ahs and hugs and pats and well-wishes ’til I could not contain anymore.
But in all of this, I missed out on something very important. Either I failed to read it in the library books, or didn’t hear it in the doctor’s appointment. I definitely did not receive any advice from friends or family regarding it; perhaps they just didn’t understand how ignorant I was about it all.
But I learned. Oh, did I learn.
When you are pregnant, you have to eat.
There’s another little person in there, and they’re hungry, too. Even if you’re as sick as a dying goldfish, you have to eat.
Because if you don’t, your body will take whatever sustenance it has stored and give it to that new, sweet, deserving little person.
And that will leave you with nothing. And when your body has to run on nothing, it isn’t pretty.
Case and point:
With my first pregnancy, I was sick at night. About seven o’clock I would begin to feel just awful. The thought of eating would make me groan. Even lying down felt awful, and it would be late before I could get to sleep.
For this reason, it was very hard to wake up in the morning. I would stay in bed ’til the last possible minute and then rush to get ready to go teach piano lessons. Most mornings, I went without eating. (Remember the whole not knowing anything about food part? Well, I didn’t know at all how to stock a pantry, or even buy groceries; so most of the time there wasn’t even anything to eat in the house.) If I grabbed a granola bar or an apple, I thought I was doing good.
But then it came. The morning of the day that I would be humiliated…
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Extending grace to your children, graciously
I don’t know how many times I have heard parents say, “This is grace, kid!” (or been tempted to say it myself)
Today, we had a long morning at the Social Security office and got home for lunch about an hour later than normal. When we pulled into the parking lot, I thought to myself, “Lord, please help me patient with these girls. They have been so good, but I know they’re going to have tons of energy when we get in the house and with my headache and rushing to get lunch on the table there’s bound to be some trouble.”
God gave me the grace to just smile at their louder-than-normal pitch as they rambunctiously played while I prepared a hasty lunch. I even thought of something to feed them that I knew they would like and consume quickly.
To my surprise, Gracie did not eat her food well. (If you knew her, you would think this was surprising indeed) I didn’t pay too much attention, or ride her about it as I had already decided that everything except complete rebellion was going to slide because of the crazy morning.
The other girls finished well, and I offered them applesauce for a treat which they loved. Of course, Gracie wanted applesauce, but it’s a pretty hard and fast rule at our house that you don’t get anything extra after a meal unless you’ve finished all your food.
I went around the corner to get the other girls treat ready and pulled out a bowl for Gracie, too. It would be okay if she didn’t finish her lunch this once. I wanted her to eat something before naptime, and for that matter, I just like her and wanted her to enjoy some applesauce.
“All right, kid, this is grace!”, I thought. At least this time I didn’t actually feel that way. But I did start thinking about how we give grace to our children.
When God gives grace, it’s free and loving and without a rebuke or a reminder that, “You don’t really deserve this, you know. Just remember that.” How many times am I guilty of that graceless attitude?
The grace I receive from God is so lavish and unassuming that very often I completely miss it. It is above my childish understanding; I just go on assuming I deserve all good things. At least a two-year old genuinely doesn’t understand.
When we extend grace to our children, it should be patterned after how God extends grace to us.
“Here’s your applesauce, Gracie.”
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A personal triumph
As of tonight, my kitchen counter is completely cleaned off and clean.
And yes, I will probably post about it every time that happens.
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The Patience Store
Have you ever said something to your children that came back to bite you; or convict you?
I don’t remember the exact circumstances surrounding this event, but I do know that Sophia was having trouble being patient.
I oh-so-lovingly-and-gently said, “Sophia, you need to be patient.” She replied unsatisfactorily a few times before I again insisted, “Sophia, you must be patient.”
Her response was classic. “But I don’t have any more patience!”
An idea popped into my head. “Well, you’ll just have to go get some.”
“Where?” she asked suspiciously.
“From The Patience Store.”
“But I don’t have any money.” This kid didn’t get off the boat yesterday.
I continued my thought, “It doesn’t cost anything; it’s free; you just have to go and ask for it. There’s as much as you need.”
I’m not sure if she was just completely amused at the idea, or decided to be more patient, or whatever; I don’t remember at all any further happenings regarding her and that conversation.
But I do remember that a few days later, I was having trouble being patient. Caused I’m sure by circumstances ordinary to any mom: needy kids, overflowing housework, not enough sleep, not enough devotion to Jesus. I was huffy and grumbling in my mind and tired of it all.
These words ran through my head, “You need to go to the Patience Store. There’s as much as you need; you just have to ask for it.”
Big sigh.
It really is that simple isn’t it?
Since that day, I’ve even thought about it further when pondering writing this post. James says that God gives to us liberally without asking why we keep coming back. He gives when we ask for wisdom. This wisdom we ask for is in direct response to the many, various and sudden trials of life. Why can we have joy in these trials? Because they produce that beautiful, precious, high-value virtue… patience.
It’s abundantly available.
I probably need to sign up for the frequent shopper card.
small steps, big picture 