*Warning* Poopy Mom post to follow. Don't say I didn't warn you.
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The morning started out much the same as any in the life of a Mom with 5 precious humans to get ready and out the door for school. It was smooth, lacking tears, screams or general angst. All backpacks we're packed. All shoes found and tied upon the correct foot. We were on time leaving the house. We were smiling and laughing. We were winning.

The first indication that something was amiss was an odor emitting from just behind my seat as we pulled into the school parking lot. "That's pretty foul." I thought as I found a place to park to walk the 4 older girls to their classes before heading to work with my youngest. I confirmed through the sniff test, performed by a voluntold older sibling, this was a big one. The eagle had landed.

As I grabbed the diaper bag to begin my task, I was struck by the sudden horror of a wipe package with two lonely wipes at the bottom. This was the beginning of the horror that would take the next thirty minutes of my life and three fourths of my soul. The car seat, the clothes, the child; all covered in a thick layer of peanut butter-consistency poo.

It was at that moment that my hero arrived. A woman who I from this day on will aspire to be like in both organization and mom life living, Hero Mom pulled into the parking lot and kindly gifted me with a full package of wipes.

Equipped with my newfound strength and wiping abilities, I attacked.
Stripping pants and onesie from the wriggling, slick, one year old on my leather car seat, I wiped, I scooped, I swiped with all my strength and agility. Sadly, I was not quick enough and a poo-covered foot struck me in the chest, leaving behind the perfect imprint, heel to toe in the center of my shirt, foul and perfect, a mark I will not soon forget. "Are you serious?" I asked her as I grabbed the foot and cleaned between toes.

Once the bottom half was mostly clear, I moved up, recalling the fact that this was three days worth of poop and cursing myself for ever feeding her bananas. I sat her to happily play with the steering wheel as I wiped her neck and hair. She giggled and I cooed at her, feeling the twinge in my heart and remembering why I love this Motherhood gig. That's when I noticed, she wasn't giggling out of adoration for her poo-covered Mama but out of maniacal cruelty. She peed. She peed in the poo. The poo on my seat. She made pee soup.

This is when I lost my mind. I began laughing. I laughed hysterically with poop on my chest and tears in my eyes. Naked baby in the pee soup on my leather seat clapping her hands in joy. We laughed together and I wiped some more. I soaked up the pee with the souled onesie and tossed the outfit into the trash with the wipes and useless diaper and moved on.

Half a container of wipes and one full Mommy mind later, she was "clean enough" to drive home and promptly fell into a content snooze in her still damp seat. And here I sit in my car, stinking strongly and laughing still. Poop on my chest and love inside. Wondering if PPTSD (Poo Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is actually a thing and looking forward to when she wakes up and we can do it all over again.

I sure do love this stinking life.

Dear Younger Me

I remember the days well. Though, perhaps not as well as you. Things have a haze over them now. A fog that leaves them without clear detail, fuzzy around the edges. The sleepless nights nursing by the glow of a muted tv, the incessant, persistent screaming of a baby incapable of being comforted, these things are just foggy flashes now. But I know they were real. I remember crying almost as much as that sweet new baby girl. I remember staring out the window and feeling the world caving in around me. I remember it all. I remember it because I lived it. I lived it and made it through.

Dear younger me, you're not alone. Though it seems like you have no one who understands, no one who comprehends the constant pain and loneliness of having a high needs newborn, I'm here to say you'll be ok. The fears that are a barrage late at night, the ones that whisper, There's something wrong with her. There's something wrong with you. You're failing. She's suffering because you're her mother. Shame on you. Those will fade. Not completely. But I promise you, as that sweet baby grows and blossoms into a rolly, chubby, fun loving baby; into a tenacious, bright, energetic toddler; into a diligent, kind, compassionate child; you will find relief. You will know that there are victories in motherhood.

And, can I let you in on a secret, younger me? You'll see the greatest success because of the hardships you now face. You'll know victory when you see that she is a wonderful friend, because you prayed friendship over her so diligently. You'll know happiness when you hear her tell you and her Daddy how she loves you, when you hear her soft, clear voice reading and singing and laughing so much more than screaming, because you pleaded with God for the screaming to stop. You'll experience the most explosive sort of love when you see what an amazing big sister she is to your two younger girls, because you prayed kindness and love over her.

She is equipping you now for bigger things ahead. She is stretching your patience so you'll have a large well to draw from in years to come. She is increasing your faith for the times ahead when you'll need to cling to God for your life. And one day, there will be incredible joy in motherhood, where now you only see confusion, incompetence, and pain.

So, younger me, I pray you'll keep your chin up. I pray you'll find a way to cherish the moments that are good. I pray you'll tuck each smile into you're heart. I pray you'll memorize the feeling of that velvety soft head pressed into your shoulder. That you'll never forget that delicate hand against your chest. These moments are more than fleeting. They are a breath that passes when you're not paying attention. Hold tight, younger me. Hold tight to today and have faith in tomorrow.

There, but by the grace of God, go I.

As a mother of young children, I find my news feed continuously filled with horrific articles, most often with kids around my own babies ages ending up hurt or killed. I'm not sure the reason or cause of this, something about cookies or Google tailoring articles to little ol' me, but I find myself opening the articles, reading them, and feeling my heart break.

It breaks for these little ones, lives cut short or tragically altered, but sometimes, it hurts more for the parents. The mother I imagine holding her baby's blankets, laying in their beds, smelling their smells and weeping. I think on how they will go on, knowing their babies won't be there tonight to put to bed or tomorrow to wake up, bright-eyed before dawn. I ache for them. I cry silent tears for them. And, as I close the article, somehow I then end up on the comment section and I am shocked to find that, somehow, my feelings of pain and empathy for these parents are often in the minority and opinions of fault and blame over the parents' actions are covering the feed.


The headline reads:

Three Year Old Killed in Car Accident
And instead of heartache, sympathy and compassion I see:
Was this child properly restrained? Maybe if she were rear facing...

Child Hit by Vehicle
Where were the parents? Idiots. I'd NEVER let my child get into the street...

Infant Left in Hot Car
These people don't deserve to by parents! I couldn't forget about MY child!

Toddler Attacked by Animal
These parents deserve to die! How could they be so stupid?



Comment after comment, steeped in cruelty, anger, and harsh judgement. These parents, facing the empty room of their baby, living the nightmare that each of us as mothers and fathers dread with every fiber of our beings, they face public shame on top of the horror of moving on without their little ones. My heart more than breaks for them, knowing that one moment, one incident, one mistake, misstep or miss judgement has just ended their lives in the most dramatic of ways. And as I grieve for them from my noise-filled home, over the sounds of little feet and bursts of giggles, I am filled with a sense that none of us truly know how very close we are to experiencing the same kind of pain these parents are feeling.



There, but by the grace of God, go I


I remember that time her sweaty, little toddler hand wriggled free from mine in a busy parking lot, but I caught her before she ran too far...


There, but by the grace of God, go I


I remember when I heard the loud screen door creek and slam and realized with sudden horror that my two-year-old figured out how to unlock the deadbolt and let herself outside. But, what if I was in the shower, or vacuuming, or listening to music while doing the dishes and I'd missed it...


There, but by the grace of God, go I


There was that time, the first week of her life, when she had to go to the doctor to be weighed every single day, and I was so very tired and her sister was only two and she was potty training and had wet herself as we were heading for the car and I was running late and I got everyone ready and in their seats and as I pulled out of the driveway and my mother looked at me and asked, "Where's the baby?" and I realized with horror that I had left my newborn sitting just inside the house. Alone. In her car seat. And I burst into tears as I ran inside wondering how long it would have been before I realized I'd forgotten my child...


There, but by the grace of God, go I



Each of us tries. We cut up our kids' hot dogs and buy them expensive car seats. We plan out daily schedules and trips to the zoo to teach them as much as we can while they are still young enough to love to learn from us. We hold their hands. We tuck them in. We check on them as they sleep, smooth back their hair, kiss their plump, firm little cheeks. We are the good parents. The ones that try. And yet, we are tragically and profoundly human. We are flawed. And, it is only through the grace of God that we are able to wake up at the crack of dawn every day with our beautiful babies and witness them laugh and cry and grow and change. And, we are each kidding ourselves if we think we are too good for tragedies to strike, for our mistakes or oversights or missteps to be fatal.

So, instead of pointing fingers, let us join hands. Let us pray for one another and encourage one another. Let us step off of our perfect parents platforms and remember There, but by the grace of God, go I.

Muddy Roads and Floodwaters

We've all seen the signs. Shining luminescent yellow and black, "Road May Flood," they warn. Sometimes there are flashing lights and barricades, sometimes sandbags secure the sign at its post, a foreshadowing of the storm that is to come. Most often, we fly past the warning, turning up our radios and bopping along, dangerously and blissfully unaware of what lies ahead: the coming months of storms, the days and weeks of down-pouring. The way that, sometime sooner than we expect, the skies will open and all around us will be engulfed in floodwaters, at the mercy of the Lord and our limited preparation.

The road we live on is gravel. Well, it used to be gravel. But living amid cedars means that every year many of the fronds turn rusty-brown and fall to the ground, covering anything stationary in a layer of what will soon be earth. I'm convinced that all dirt in the entire world comes from cedar fronds, the way they break apart and decompose so quickly. It's like camping everyday living here, they stick to your boots and are soon ground into a fine, fertile and moist, deep brown dirt. Dirt that covers the roadways, the floor of the car, the steps leading into the house, the rug and the carpet, your baby's diapered little booty as she scoots around.

Needless to say, the formerly-gravel-now-mostly-dirt road is often a little formidable to traverse. Dark and narrow as it winds through the woods, it's pocked with pot-holes large enough to make you spill your grande latte all over your lap if you're not carefully braced against the abrupt dips. It weaves through the cedars and closes in like a tunnel near the end, turning and blinding you just before it opens up and the light shines again over our tiny, wooden cabin sitting on the edge of Cedar Creek.

It's easy to see why, in a secluded area like this, located in the very wet and wintry northwest, we would need to be prepared for flooding. When the rains come, we fill sand bags and get out flashlights. We tune into a news station and stand in the kitchen, carefully analyzing the water level of the creek, taking note of the forecast and all the inches of rain to come, knowing waters that rise too high can overtake the bridge and cover the road. And while there isn't much we can do about a rising creek, it is the road we keep safe and clear. Filling pot-holes with more gravel, dragging tree limbs out of the way, ensuring that our path will be clear while the storm rolls through.

And storm it does. With visible vigor, we watch the creek swell and grow both in depth and strength, gathering our babies closer and shutting locks against our fear. When our oldest daughter turned two and began to discover that she could turn locks and open doors, we installed deadbolts 6 feet up, hopeful that they would keep her from the creek and out of the soon-to-be flooded narrow and winding road. Safe inside, where waters don't rush and roads don't get swept away.

Little did we know, floods come in other forms. You don't need to be standing on our earth-covered road during a severe storm to be overtaken. You don't need to be wading through the fast rising creek to have your feet swept out from under you. It can come through a phone call or a knock on the door in a dark hour. It can come in a doctors office or a school yard. Floods are so sneaky that way, they come when you least expect them. Even when you have signs and forecasts, some storms are impossible to prepare for. And despite all the warnings, you are sometimes still shocked at the intensity of the flood you find yourself engulfed in.

Jesus spelled it out clearly for us. "In this world," He said in the NIV, "You will have trouble." There was no "maybe" in that verse. There was no "some" or "a little bit of." He told us plainly that we would experience pain and sorrow. That tribulation and misery would be a part of this existence here on earth. Like a bright yellow sing, He warned us of what was ahead.

So, why are we so surprised when it happens to us? Why do we scream at the sky and grind our teeth, kicking and wailing at the profound unfairness of it all? I suppose, it's because trouble hurts so often. Maybe it's because we haven't even finished scraping the muck from our roadway yet when another storm hits. Perhaps it's because we don't think our tiny cabin on the creek can take anymore. We are afraid the roof will cave in and our hearts along with it.

I am facing trouble. The lights on the flood sign are flashing and the sandbags are barricading the door. The phone keeps ringing, the door keeps opening to friends and family hurting and neck-deep in the raging rivers and the muck and mire of floodwaters and tribulation. Doctors keep bringing bad news. People keep making bad decisions that hurt and kill and destroy those I love. And I am at a loss in the flood.

And then I read on, "But take heart," He tells me, " I have overcome the world." And there is the peace. There is the beacon in the storm. There is the relief that I need, the Soldier with the red cross on His arm to rescue me from the tempest. He has overcome.

Sometimes when the road is flooded and the mud is deep and the pain is overwhelming, the only hope I find is the knowledge that this is all temporary. That the road will one day be clear and dry again, easy to traverse and safe to walk with my little girls. Even if it isn't until my road is no longer made of gravel and dirt from the cedar, but of pure gold. I can rest in the promise that I have a Savior who is mightier than any tribulation and who has walked over floodwaters in a storm. And that is enough to hold on to. That is enough to survive through the storm.

The Worst Mommy: A How To Guide

To preface: Our oldest has become a serious electronic addict. Anywhere we go and everything we do she asks, "Can I play on your phone?" "Can I play Wii?" "When can I get on the laptop?" It's all gotten a bit out of hand. Especially once sharing the games and speaking politely when interrupted from a game became an issue. So, I made the leap into the No Electronics camp today. It is not something I intend to do everyday forever, but it's what's right for us for now...I hope... This blog is a satirical little something that came from a small glimpse into a typical day here beneath the cedars.





Have you ever wanted to be the worst Mommy ever? Do you wake up in the morning and say to yourself, "Today is a good day to torture my offspring!" If so, please follow these step-by-step instructions and you too will be The Worst Mommy.



Step 1: Wake up. Think about coffee. About hot black coffee in a hefty mug. Now, roll over into a puddle of someone else's urine. Forget about coffee. Get out of bed, pull pee-soaked, screaming, angry child out of your bed. Strip bed, yourself, and tiny, angry human. Wash all, thoroughly. Think about coffee again.

Step 2: Brew coffee. Make breakfast for still angry but now whining and brooding tiny human. Pour coffee in mug. Inhale rich aroma. Hold breath and listen intently to shrill squeals of toddler which somehow slept soundly through entire urine ordeal but has most certainly awoken due to the sound of your impending relaxation. Think long and hard about ignoring said squeals. Sigh and set down coffee.

Step 3: Retrieve toddler. Wrestle toddler out of pajamas and wet diaper. Get in a little morning cardio chasing naked toddler throughout house. Feel the burn while attempting to diaper toddler that is now spinning like a crocodile that's just taken down a gazelle. Finish diapering toddler. Lay on the ground and attempt recovery whilst toddler uses your mid section like a trampoline. Recover enough to make toddler breakfast. Tiny human is now hungry (again?) as well. Notice 3/4 of tiny human's breakfast remains untouched and now unrecognizably soggy. Debate running, screaming from the house. Make tiny human snack. Make toddler snack because...toddler. Remember coffee. Pick up now tepid to ice cold beverage. Chug like the beer your now need more than coffee.

Step 4: Choose clothes for children. Listen to tiny human cry about the summer dress you rudely forbade her to wear...in February. Lay on toddler. Attempt to wrangle toddler into tights. Decide to never EVER buy tights for toddler again (tights are stupid and absolutely impossible to force onto someone who has adamantly decided to become a nudist...which you are now fine with). Throw tights away. No one needs that in their life. Decide toddler looks fine in disheveled hand-me-downs. At least you got them on. Turn back to tiny human, still crying over sundress. Make idle threats. Raise voice, which has somehow stayed at a reasonable decibel until this point. Feel instantly guilty at your horrible parenting mistake. Calmly dress tiny human in appropriately warm winter attire. Never hear the end of the torment you're subjecting her to. Usher children into bathroom to brush teeth and hair. Spend 45 minutes in this attempt. Leave with at least half of these tasks incomplete.

Step 5: Leave the house. (This should take no less than 40 minutes.) Make sure to forget Blankie. Turn back for Blankie. And also a snack because...toddler. Yell as Goldfish fly throughout the backseat. Feel guiltier. You are the Worst Mom. Grit teeth in self-loathing. Smile at children in parking lot of grocery store. Apologize for your short temper. Gently touch tiny human's soft cheek and tell her how much you adore her. Take tiny human out of carseat. Immediately field questions about what she may or may not buy at store. "No candy. No donuts. No ice cream. No. Stop it. We aren't even in the store yet!!!" Grab tiny human by the hand. Go around car to retrieve toddler who is now spitting half-chewed goldfish all over her hand-me-downs. Don't even bother to brush them off because...toddler. Dodge swinging hands and feet as toddler angrily protests being unbuckled. Wrestle toddler into grocery cart. Frantically search for tiny human. Realize after 2 heart-stopping seconds, she's behind you. Go into store.

Step 6: *One horrendously long and torturous hour later* Leave store with two crying children. Decide to entitle today: "Grounding Your Child From Electronics- A Guide To Masochism" or "Your Four-Year-Old Can PMS- Right Along With You!" Vow to never ever shop again. Everyone can just starve from this point on. Wrestle children back into car. Blare Frozen at 11 until home. Stew in guilt entire ride as Elsa serenades you in the great wisdom of Let It Go. Take deep cleansing breaths. Decide to start fresh. Smile and act jovial while unloading groceries and children. Experience small heart attack while toddler runs into street. Drop groceries. Chase after and restrain toddler. Carry wriggling, screaming toddler halfway to house. Drop toddler. Curse avidly. Pick up toddler along with wailing tiny human. Listen as tiny human professes great truths such as, "This is the WORST DAY!!!" and "You're ALWAYS mad at us!" Revel in feelings of failure and inadequacy.

Step 7: Place children safely in house, making sure to secure toddler in high chair. Wonder if straps and buckles will be enough. Hear honking from parking lot. Notice neighbor's driveway is blocked by spilled groceries. Kindly wave and apologize while stooping to pick up said groceries. Feel holes being drilled in back as neighbor glares angrily. Hurriedly fill both arms to breaking point with roughly 30 bags. Slam trunk with leg. Congratulate self on flexibility and ingenuity. Hear screams from house. Hustle into house without mistake or injury. Drop all 30 bags in doorway in time to catch toddler hurling herself off of kitchen counter as tiny human cowers in fear for her sister's life. Collapse onto floor in relief. Realize you are now sitting in a puddle of almond milk. Think heartily about running from the building.

Step 8: Clean up milk. Cook lunch while simultaneously corralling kamikaze toddler, comforting over-tired tiny human, and putting away what groceries have survived. Feed everyone lunch. Or suggest they eat. (They don't really eat...) Usher everyone upstairs. Listen as tiny human cries about not being allowed screen time and toddler screams and chucks stuffed animals in protest of nap time. Remain strong in today's No Video Games rule. Walk away feeling defeated as screams grow in volume and intensity. Seriously question parenting, sanity, and life as a whole. Sit down amid piles of laundry with the firm knowledge that you are the Worst Mommy Ever.

Step 9: *Two gloriously peaceful nap time hours later* Start all over again with a renewed perspective and patience as fresh as the laundry you've just now finished folding. You might be the Worst Mommy, but you're quite certain you're the best at it.

Her and me and SPD.

I don't think you understand, she never stops crying. It isn't normal, is it? When I turn on the light in her room, she recoils, like she's in physical pain. Whenever we go for a ride in the car, she throws up. Her Dad coughs and she jumps, like she's afraid. Trying to get her to eat anything is a huge, huge struggle. She screams when it's time to get dressed. And she cries and she cries and cries. She never stops. It's more than crying. It's life-halting, room-clearing, ear-piercing, screaming. Everything overwhelms her. Everything. I don't know what to do. I don't know what I did wrong, but I must be doing something horribly, horribly wrong.

Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD, formerly known as "sensory integration dysfunction") is a condition that exists when sensory signals don't get organized into appropriate responses. Pioneering occupational therapist and neuroscientist A. Jean Ayres, PhD, likened SPD to a neurological "traffic jam" that prevents certain parts of the brain from receiving the information needed to interpret sensory information correctly. A person with SPD finds it difficult to process and act upon information received through the senses, which creates challenges in performing countless everyday tasks. Motor clumsiness, behavioral problems, anxiety, depression, school failure, and other impacts may result if the disorder is not treated effectively. --SPD Foundation

My daughter was recently diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder. I’ve known (or suspected) that she had sensory issues for a very, very long time. From the moment I brought her wriggling, screaming, uncomfortable little body home from the hospital, I had a gnawing feeling deep down in my Mommy gut that something was just a little off. It's not usual for babies to sleep in 15 minute increments for months. It's not typical for children to refuse anything but breastmilk beyond a year. Bathing and dressing and walking and just, everything...it wasn't normally like this. There were signs, but it took me over 4 years to get the nerve up to take her in and get a diagnosis. Why did it take so long?

Because I was afraid.

I was afraid of what they would say about her. That she’s different. That she’s not “normal.” That people would find out what she has and focus on that instead of seeing her for the wonderful and brilliant little human she is, in all her pink, sparkling tutu'd glory. That they would hear she was diagnosed with SPD and automatically judge me. I've heard people say it's not a real thing. A name for what people used to call "spoiled rotten," a brand that reflected more on poor parenting skills than on a child in a constant state of overwhelmed chaos.

I was afraid of what I would think of her. What would it look like if we found out, indeed she did have SPD? From that day forward, would I treat her differently? Be too soft on her to make allowances for her difficulties? Be too hard on her to force her to overcome obstacles that most 4 year olds don't face? Would I be too focused on fixing her to recognize how wonderful she was just the as she was? Maybe my biggest fear: what if there's nothing wrong with her and I'm just a horrible Mom...

I was terrified.

But one day, after a particularly difficult morning on a loud, hot and overwhelming soccer field. After yet another epic meltdown that had me fuming and cussing and wishing I'd never been born (much less birthed this glorious creature into the world). After more crying and screaming and helpless feelings than I'd ever like to admit; I'd had enough. THIS. WASN'T. WORKING. It wasn't working for me and it really wasn't working for my precious, sensitive little girl. 

So, I pulled on my big girl panties and made the call that I'd been dreading for years. The very next day we were in with the OT and literally 3 minutes into testing, the kind girl looked me in the eye and said, "I can already see some sensory issues. We will get you the official results after testing, but yes, we will recommend she start therapy."

Justification. Disappointment. Relief. Anxiety. Guilt. It was all there. 

My thoughts swirled and I talked myself up and down, praying through the emotional roller coaster: Yes, my little girl has SPD. Yes, she will always have SPD. No, things will never come as easily for her as they do for other kids. I am not a failure as a parent. I couldn't have prevented this. People will think what they think and we will have no control over that. And she will be fine. We will be fine. We will gain the tools we need. She will be successful. She will be capable of having deep, meaningful relationships with friends and peers. She will rise above the added challenges that she is faced with. She is a conqueror. She is a tiny woman of Christ.

And it is a blessing to know. Now that we know, we can see these "overreactions" to seemingly average life circumstances are not just naughtiness or the result of poor parenting. We can finally get the tools we need to help her through life without the screaming and kicking and emotional hardship. We can aid her to a life of success. (That's the hope, anyway!)

Because, you see, there is nothing really wrong with my little girl. She is brilliant. She is intuitive. She is kind. She is compassionate. She just feels deeply. She is sensitive. Sensitive to everything. And sensitivity is a treasure, not a disability. 

But we need to prepare her for a world that doesn't have an extra half hour to talk her out of a panic when a train passes by and it is too loud and she falls to the ground in a heap. Acceptable at four, perhaps. Never at 44. The world doesn't care that she gets physically ill from the smell of coffee brewing or a public restroom. The world doesn't care that the sounds of children playing and laughing and squealing make her anxious and therefore, she would rather just play alone. The world sees anything aside from normal as weird. And the world doesn't have time for weird. The world is hard on us all, and as a Mommy, it's my job to make sure she is ready.

So, here's to being brave enough to admit that my little girl has SPD. Here's to being brave enough to admit it out loud, to others, but mostly just to myself. Here's to being ready to leap over hurdles that often seem too high and too wide and too impassible to even begin to run at. Here's to hours of occupational therapy and to gaining "frustration coping skills". Here's to patience neverending. Here's to sore knees and dewy eyes and years and years of prayerful parenting. And here's to celebrations over little victories like 4 bites of chicken (even though the white part is stringy).

And thank the Lord for little victories that make life so much easier as she get's older. Nothing makes me happier than glimpses of a future where Rosaline's heart and her desires can overcome the chaos of her confused senses.

"Rosaline, please sit down and eat your breakfast."

"Mommy! I can't! I'm too uncomfortable!!!"

"What's uncomfortable, Rosaline?"

"My back!" "Ok, it's a new shirt and it is just the scratchy kind. Should we change your shirt?"

"No, Mommy. I love this shirt. It's just so uncomfortable."

"Would you like to be comfortable or would you like to wear the new shirt?"

"I want to wear it."

"Ok, but no more tears. Let's eat breakfast."

"Ok, Mommy."

Victory.

A Prayer for Rew

My oldest is four. Newly four this March. She's brilliant. And I'm not just saying that because I'm blinded by a Mother's Love (not that I would know, since I'd be "blinded" and all...) but I think she's especially bright. She is observant, witty, and gut-bustingly hilarious. She's sensitive and emotional. She's outspoken and never shy. She will tell you like she sees it. (And she's usually right.) I told her the other day that it isn't nice to tell other people what to do. Her response:
"Why not?"
"Because sometimes people like to figure out things for themselves and they don't need our opinions."
"Well, what if they're wrong?"
"They still won't like to hear you tell them."
She thought about that for a long moment and replied, "I think I'm going to tell them anyway."

That's my little Rew. Strong. Bright. Witty. But painfully and brutally hard on herself and often times overrun with emotion. And it hits a little too close to home. And it breaks my heart.

I worry for my little Rew. I worry that she will always be so hard on herself, she will be afraid to try new things because she will be worried that she won't have them perfected the first time. I fear that the shame of self-disappointment will leave her feeling undervalued. I know all too well the frustration that comes from pushing yourself and pushing yourself and still falling short of some unattainable goal. And it hurts. And I don't want that for her.

And, oh, her sweet, tender heart. She is emotional. She is like looking in a little mirror sometimes. Everything affects her. She feels everything deep down to her soul. When she is happy she is happy from the tips of her toes to the ends of her golden hair. And when she is sad, disappointed, frustrated, ashamed, surprised, embarrassed, angry...well, she's a mess. She's on the floor in pieces. Inconsolable. Flailing and screaming these screams that have every head within a 500 yard radius turning and looking and judging. She can't form words. Can't form thoughts. She's out. of. control.

And it hurts even more. Because I know that she isn't bad. I can honestly say she is the least malicious child I know. I know that she is sweet and caring and sensitive and brilliant. I know that she is probably crying because she tried hard to get something right and she is feeling upset at herself--like the other day: I found her under the kitchen table covering her head and screaming hysterically. I ran up to her and pulled back the chairs. I crawled in beside her and wrapped my arms around her and said, "What? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Tell me what happened. Tell me!" And she just screamed and pointed into the living room. I scoured the room, looking for something out of place. Did she drop something and break it and now she's ashamed and afraid she'll be punished? Did a toy she was playing with fail to cooperate in her make-believe game? Is she out of juice and screaming instead of calmly asking for more? Every option was highly viable. But I couldn't see it. I couldn't see a problem. The toys were exactly as they should be. Her juice cup was full. Little Anna was sitting on the floor, staring wide eyed at the scene unfolding before her one-year-old eyes. After a solid four and a half minutes of hysteria, I ran out of patience. My quiet voice all used up. My ears ringing with shrill screeches. I raised my voice, "Rosaline! Stop it now! Use your words and tell me WHAT IS WRONG???" She looked at me with shocking blue eyes and screamed back, "SISTER!" as she pointed to the quiet and calm little creature at my feet. It was then I noticed, she had tried to put her sister's shoes on her pudgy little feet and accidently gotten a few of the toes stuck on the outside of the sandal strap. Clearly, little Anna was unhurt and really unfazed by the entire event. She idly chewed on her dolly's hand while I removed the shoe. I climbed underneath the table again and scooped up this shaken and emotionally spent four-year-old and rocked her as I calmly showed her how to unstrap the sandal first and place it on Sister's foot properly. Her sobs subsided as I rocked her slowly and she held me tight. "Why were you crying, Rosaline?" I asked. And finally she could respond, "Because I couldn't put Sister's shoe on right. I thought I hurt her foot. I thought four-year-olds could do big girl things on their own. And I can't."

And my heart broke all over again. Because no one told her she had to be big enough to put Sister's shoes on. And no one is pressuring her to be perfect. And Sister wasn't hurt or scared or even upset, but the fear of those things sent my sensitive little girl into a panicked fit that took half an hour to recover from. A fit that recurs every few hours or if we are lucky, every few days. She is just so so sensitive that it is physically painful for her. Her emotions are so acute that her heart breaks over matters that are seemingly inconsequential for most people.

And it scares me. Because I know the world will not have the patience for daily (or hourly) meltdowns. I know that her peers and teachers and coaches will not be in tune with her like I am and they will misunderstand her outbursts as tantrums or naughtiness and not cries for understanding and patience. But my job as a Mom is not to follow her around for the next 85 years and explain to everyone around her that she isn't being bad, she's just feeling really big feelings and she's not sure how to process them. My job is to prepare her for a world that, sadly, doesn't care how she feels. If I could go out and change the world for her, I would. But I can't. So, I need to give her the tools that she will need to get through this life thriving. And I don't know how to do that. I'm at a loss. I'm ill-equipped. I have a tough enough time harnessing my own feelings, much less managing someone else's. I feel like I don't have any answers as to why she is wired the way she is wired, high strung and emotionally volatile. I don't even know if there are any answers this side of heaven.

So, I pray.

Lord, thank you for my little girl. Thank you for creating her to be strong and wild, intelligent and capable. Thank you for instilling in her a strong work ethic. Thank you for giving her a sensitive spirit. I am so blessed to be her Mommy. I ask now that you would grant me wisdom as I raise her in You. Continue to fill me with patience, because too often I feel like I've run out. Grant me forgiveness when I fail her and endurance when I feel I'm about to. Please bless our home with peace and happiness. Let the words that come out of my mouth be uplifting and encouraging to Rosaline's little heart. Give me the tools I need to teach her how to be a woman of Christ. Help me show her, through my actions and words, how to be filled with sensitivity and compassion as well as self-control. Speak your kindness through me during the long nights and loud fits. Guide me and show me how to better love her everyday. Give me peave and comfort during these seasons of relentless doubt. Thank you again for the precious gift of motherhood and for the brilliant little lights you've placed in my life. I love you, Jesus. Amen.

And I pray again a verse over my sweet girl. To be my mantra during the shrillest moments with her:

"Grow in the grace and knowledge of Jesus Christ. And to Him be the Glory Forever. Amen." 
2 Peter 3:18