Target Practice

Each morning when I awake, a swarm of thoughts awaits me.

The thoughts come in truck loads full.
The thoughts are about doctor visits and decorating ideas.
They continue with joy or concern for my friends.
Sometimes they contain leftovers of difficulties from the day before.
They threaten to undo me.
It's a marvelous morning cocktail of cares.

Each of these concerns is probably valid and important. They can't be dismissed as evidenced by the way they weave their way into my day. They must be addressed. And they will be. Just as soon as I file them and let them know my priorities.

This morning when I awoke, the thoughts threatened to bombard me. They do that on Monday mornings, especially on Monday mornings that follow a 5 day Thanksgiving weekend in which other people help feed my children and clothe them and give them raspberry kisses. On those Mondays I feel very alone.

So this morning I started my thoughts with target practice. My target this day, if I'm living the way God wants me to, is to love. That's my target: love.

If I don't see love as my target, then making the 12 millionth peanut butter and jelly sandwich becomes a task suitable for robots. It leads to numbness of heart and mind.

My washer did something funny this morning. It wasn't "haha" funny, more like *groan, rolling eyes* funny. I felt the day trying to unravel me so I told Dan over coffee. In his true "forest for the trees" way of thinking he reminded me that we're commanded by God not to worry. Forbidden.
Not allowed.
Ain't in our vocabulary.

Zing. There went the arrow straight to the target.

Some contractors came at 8am and let me know something was wrong with the dryer. I filed that under my "no worries" folder and continued to plunge in my morning routine.

Another arrow flew. Bulls eye.

Later this morning I'll go grocery shopping. The goal on that trip will be to get groceries, but as any mother of young ones knows, there are ample opportunities to show love to your children in grocery store settings.
Like when they sit on a pile of paper towel rolls to see if it will hold their weight.
Or climb the shelves.
Or when they announce their dislike for their seated situation.
Or would like very much to put every item in your cart on the conveyor belt by themselves complete with the phrase, "I do it."

There's acres of opportunities for target practice there.

I can't say I'll hit the target all the time, but if I shoot my arrow in the general direction and arm myself with prayer, coffee and some practice, I might just make it.

Zing.

I Have A Rolodex

My name is Emily and I have a Rolodex.

If that causes you to conjure images of an insanely expensive watch worn by celebrities, then you'll be disappointed when I tell you that you are thinking of a Rolex. I'm talking about a rotary file, an office accessory.

I have a Rolodex.

My Rolodex is one of the deluxe models. I got it for free because --flipping my hair for effect-- I used to design for a company called Sanford and helped design on the Rolodex team. I'm sure I just went up a notch in your estimation. Autographs later, please.

In any case, my deluxe Rolodex has the wheels on the side for whirling about my world of contact information. With a flip of my wrist, I can summon specialists, recall my library information and call my favorite flooring company. The cards flip magically around the rotary file as I watch the alphabet pass by dizzily. I can see the entire alphabet is 3 seconds flat. It's fun AND functional. It's FUNctional. (Oh c'mon... laugh.)

I'm not the only one who thinks the Rolodex is fun. My preschool daughter is quite taken with it. In a manner of minutes she discovered most of the features of the Rolodex.

She likes how the cards flip around and around, piling on top of each other. She delights in taking out the special Rolodex punched cards and shoving them into new parts of the alphabet or, more creatively, jamming them in the back of the file. In a final climax of creativity, a family of glitter stickers has appeared now and again in various parts of the Rolodex alphabet. I find myself smiling while I see a happy bear sticker appear in the "R" section and groaning as I realize that the "G" section has disappeared altogether.

My Rolodex is a micro example of what my home is like.

To keep things orderly, I have managed to acquire vast amounts of plastic tubs and all manner of organizing paraphernalia. I close my eyes when the Container Store catalog comes in the mail because, quite honestly, I'm afraid I'll become OCD and start organizing on a sub particle level. Organizing makes me feel like I have control over some part of my world. It's false security but I treasure it just the same.

Enter young children.

My children do not share my admiration of orderliness. In fact, I have been doing an unofficial study and I can tell you that children are 99% more likely to play with toys if they are put away in bins. If toys are strewn upon a floor, children are less likely to be interested in them. Moth, meet flame. The children prefer the toys that are put away so that they can "un-put" them away. The irony.

But as I reflect on my home/Rolodex parallel, I realize that without my little muffins running around wrecklessly in their galoshes and my high heels, I wouldn't have the bling, the glitter stickers.

I wouldn't have the fierce squeezes known as hugs.

I wouldn't have the compliments. "I wike your neckwace."

I wouldn't have that extra something that makes me see the world 100% differently than I did 8 years ago, pre-children.

My 8 year old daughter will take a pack of markers and attack a white sheet of paper with great confidence. She will turn a blank canvas into art in 5 minutes flat and hang it on our art board. She inspires me to stop fretting, love life and just DIG IN! (As an aside, when I'm working on a design for something and get hung up on a part of it, I'll ask Morgan what she would do. Her ideas are always fresher.)

Eve will be 3 in one month. She belts out songs unabashedly. Sometimes when we're home along I'll sing a silly opera version of her Veggie Tales song and we'll dance. We hold hands and say "Shimmy, shimmy" as we push and pull each other's arms. She's pure life.

Some days I don't have this perspective. On those dark days I feel frustrated and want to scrap the whole thing. Nothing ever really feels done but then when I worked in the corporate world nothing ever really felt done there either. (Am I right?)

On those days, I take a deep breath, return the "G" to my Rolodex file and replace the jammed cards. With a new perspective I realize that I don't need a new Rolodex; I need more glitter stickers.

MOPS

On the ala carte menu of motherhood, I distinctly remember ordering a cute, energetic and sweet offspring. I knew they would still fall in the "sinner" category and that my life would be altered irrevocably forever after, but the cuteness of the child would help me see beyond life's bumps.

When I discovered that some bumps in life almost become debilitating, I can't tell you how much I appreciate being a part of MOPS. (Mothers Of PreSchoolers.)

I am in a MOPS group right now that is rich with amazing moms, women who are in the trenches of motherhood. These are women who put on a happy face for their 2 year old even though they are going through deep waters of life: cancer, joblessness, marital trouble, financial woes. These women stand up every Monday morning, put on their "work boots" and continue to nurture, pray, have faith in God's provision, hope.

These are the women who spurn everything that would erase the strong spirit God has placed in them and remind themselves that they are made in God's image, loved by God.

In hospital rooms they don't want to be in, they are reminded that God is there.

In marriages where tenderness is threadbare, they lock their identity in God.

When they look down at their boots and wish they could have a new pair for winter, they look expectantly to God.

I am so blessed to be part of this group. I initially came to MOPS for the crafts, the food and the free childcare. (Hey, you would too if you saw the amazing dishes these ladies bring!) But now I come for other reasons. I come to be in the fellowship of their honesty, to laugh at their joys in the life, to ache for their frustrations.

I come because I don't have the answers to all of the curve balls of motherhood. Somehow, by linking arms with other women who love their kids, who look to God, I am strengthened.

In our MOPS group, we have this amazing swap table. You bring things you don't want anymore... like clothing your child has outgrown... and you take whatever you want. You don't have to bring anything in order to take anything from the MOPS table. It's complete grace. I can't tell you how many times I have needed something for my children and *voila* right there on the swap table is... a new pair of size 10 winter boots for girls... a toy that my daughter would love... an adorable shirt. It saves me a shopping trip; so thankful.

The giving is just as fun. When my daughter Eve has outgrown her clothing, I love to see people take a bag home of her clothes. It gives me such joy to know they are going to be useful once more.

This Friday is our next MOPS meeting. We're slotted to hear a speaker on the topic of humor in motherhood. A throng of week-weary women will come to hear this speaker. The women will come quietly into our meeting room, cradle their hot coffee and sit down. They'll ask each other about their week. They'll nosh on some lovely egg casserole. And then, as the room warms up, and their minds unwind, they'll share their hearts.

I, for one, can't wait.

Marathon, Baby!

I need to rest. Desperately. Not just physical 10-hours-a-night rest. I'm talking unplug the brain and let wisps of wind run through my hair rest. I'd settle for a twenty minute bath. Alone. With no one talking to me. I did too much and it's all my fault. Ugh.

Motherhood is a marathon. It's a long haul. Some parents take it like a sprint and that's where they get into trouble. I know because that's how I started. I reveled in those books about how to keep toddlers busy and how to cook with your child and how to enjoy every living moment with your offspring by your side.

Now that I'm older, tireder and more "get to the point-er", I have developed my own philosophies on raising children. If you don't agree with me, well, then you can't be my friend anymore. Until tomorrow.

Behold my Manifesto:

Firstly, I find that children need a balance of time spent playing with others and playing by themselves.

If a child spends too much time being told how to play, it will render them useless when they get to college and need to write a dissertation on something important, like hair follicle stimulation or how to get Playdoh out of carpet. Children need to learn to use those dark recesses of the brain now that will ignite the creativity they need to even ask those questions in the first place. I can tell an "overly calendared" child from a mile away. Their attention span comes in neat 10 minute increments and they have songs for every transition in life.

That being said, I currently have a child upstairs who is *supposed* to be having a quiet time and it is a far cry from anything quiet up there. She wants to interact; once I get my senses about me, I will let her interact with me and let her roam like the free range child that she is.

As an aside: I find that God likes to give children in batches of "opposites": One very social child will follow a very introverted child in birth order. He does this to keep our minds sharp and flexible. And perhaps to get a laugh.

Secondly, a mother who makes motherhood her entire world will find that her world is portable and will leave her one day.

This is not a case for being a stay at home mother or for being a work away from home one. This is a case for showing your children that, while they are endlessly entertaining, there is a world vast and amazing that goes beyond their gorgeous, pleading doe-eyes. I am the worst offender at this because I yo-yo between showing my children perpetual attention and then have a slight of tongue in which I accidentally tell my 2 year old to "go away" and that's the ONLY thing she remembers I ever taught her. *sweet mercy*

Plus, I feel that children whose parents hover too much feel insecure. Yes?

I recommend that parents should read books, learn about opera or try a new workout to broaden their horizons. I don't do any of these things, but I thought you should have somewhere to start. None of these rules apply to me.

Rest, for heavens sake. Rest.

I have a friend who joked constantly about stay at home mothers watching Oprah and, truth be told, I can't say that I ever have time for television. First, I don't particularly like television but more importantly, television causes my children to rise up and called me unblessed things. Like "mean". Plus-- let's be honest-- all of Paula Deen's recipes are the same: Start and end with butter.

There was one day last year when I forsook a nap and watched an amazing hour long Masterpiece Theater show. Afterward I felt amazing. I was smiling. My mind was stimulated. I felt rested and strong and had energy. Energy! It's like crack for mothers!

It was such an amazing day that I *still* remember it fondly and hope to do it again in a year.

Allow margin.

I cannot take credit for this. This is purely from my sister Noel who, at one point, had 4 children 4 years old and under. She still has the four children but now they are maturely at ages 8, 5, 3 and 3. (Yes, twins.) As you can see, she has all the time in the world.

My sister has always told people that one of her secrets for keeping her head screwed on correctly is to allow for margin. When she decorates for Christmas, she gives herself one hour to do so and then puts the rest of the boxes away. She naps almost every day. In the event that her children disagree with her assessment to nap, she has ear plugs so she can continue her part.

She allows for margin in her budget, her time and her energy. She is the ultimate in "cool headed momma" and when you meet her one day you will instantly like her and dislike her at the same time. But the former feeling will prevail. I promise.

It's all about love.

Can someone please tattoo this on my forehead?

Say "no" to others more than your family.

I find that I have 50% less friends because of this philosophy and I'm not hating it.

The other way to say it is "Find ways to say 'yes' to your children." I'm naturally a "no-no" momma, but I'm learning to say "yes, have a morning cookie" once in a while, just to keep them guessing. That being said, a good old-fashioned "no" is sometimes in order and perfectly fine, too.

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So there you have it: Thoughts on motherhood from a woman who doesn't do half of it well, but chooses to see the glass as half full.

Of coffee.

Safe Place

About 4 years ago when my husband and I moved to Aurora, we learned that despite our best efforts, unpacking was a relative term. We're still finding things to unpack or put on the walls. We plead "children".

On stock photography sites, if you look up the words "moving day", they'll show images of a young married couple moving to their first house. The couple will look happy, they'll be surrounded by corrugated boxes that will be labeled "living room" and they'll be sitting on a gleaming hardwood floor eating Chinese food. To me this is Moving Day pornography; it doesn't exist and should not be viewed at all. It's all a tease.

For us, unpacking from moving day was so ugly that we'll probably never move from this house, even if we have octuplets and need 7 extra bedrooms; we'll stay. The most memorable of unpacking boxes was the box which I tattooed "UNPACK THIS FIRST" with great big Sharpie letters. It contained toiletries for our first day of life in Aurora, including towels and some other essentials.

Upon arriving we learned very quickly that the "UNPACK THIS FIRST" box was already settling in nicely somewhere in the three levels of our house. Where it was was anyone's guess.

We took our first showers and used paper towels to dry off. If you can imagine what it's like to shower and then engage an entire roll of Bounty to absorb the effects, you'll question whether it's truly the "quicker picker upper". I was really ticked because it was the "one thing" that I remember doing right in our move. "If all else fails, at least we'll have that first box," I comforted myself.

In retrospect it was humorous and somewhat embarrassing; we never talk about it. It's like one of those occasions where you say, "Remember when..." and then the other person knows instantly what you're talking about and says, "Yeah" so quickly that you know they don't want to remember any of it. It's like that. Exactly.

In the weeks that followed, whenever my husband asked where something was I said, "I don't know where it is, but I know it's somewhere safe." I must have said that 324,765 times because to this day I continue to say it to myself. Plus, studies show that if you repeat something 324,765 times, it becomes habit.

"Where is my toothpaste," I queried upon opening my empty bath drawer. "Wherever it is, it's somewhere safe." And sure enough... there it was... picked up and given a new home by one of my helpers.

"Where is all my gum?"

"Where is my hairbrush?"

"Why can't I find my other shoe?"

"Has anyone seen my sunglasses? My cell phone?"

Safe place, safe place, safe place.

I worry 80% less now that I'm a mother because I know that if I pretend I don't really want to find the item that is lost, it will start to feel badly and resurface momentarily.

This morning I placed two clear rubber hair ties on the kitchen table in order to put pigtails in Eve's hair. Within seconds they vanished. I learned that Eve placed both holders in her cereal bowl and they were receiving a milk bath. See? Safe place.

My headbands are gone and a really cute second grader has surfaced wearing one of them.
Safe place.

My coffee mug has been missing since a very handsome man has deemed it worthy of his attention. Safe place again.

What's more, with so much sharing, things collect very little dust in our house. It's win-win.

So come on over. Bring your children, your pets, your in-laws. We're not sure what you came with, but we're sure that whatever you leave with will be relatively close to the same number you arrived with.

And if you leave things here, rest assured: They're safe.