Carry On, Mother of Little Ones

You tuck your hair back in a ponytail. Your hands have memorized the familiar flip, flip, flipping of the hands as you tie your locks back.

You feel the familiar weight of the laundry basket on your hip and your back pulls slightly the other direction to compensate for its heft. Just like it does when you pick up your 23 pound baby girl.

When you pick up the phone, your grandfather or father or father in law grumbles that medical costs have risen. He refuses to go to the doctor even though there is a questionable spot on his arm. He wonders if he can take a photo of it and send it in the mail to you. Maybe one of your nurse friends could tell him what it is.

You put the baby down (she cries) for just an instant so you can use the bathroom. Someone has filled the sink with water and put all the towels in the water. You smile tiredly at your resident preschooler who uses the entire world as her classroom. The toilet paper is gone. The toilet is plugged with what appears to be 172 facial tissues; another science experiment by aforementioned preschooler. And someone is beating on the door, asking you for juice during your 30 second bathroom break.

The dishwasher is full.
The washing machine is full, as is the dryer. And the hampers bulge with complaint.
All the trash cans in the house are full.

You're not sure why you were placed on planet earth, but dusty photos of a beaming bride and groom remind you that at one time you felt energetic and hopeful and alive.

So you go into autopilot because its your safety mechanism. Your reasoning is: If I don't feel anything at all, then I won't feel the tiredness as much. Or the sadness. Or the defeat. I'll just keep step, step, stepping.

But that reasoning doesn't work for long because you are a creative, intelligent human being. You just forget what it feels like.

It's time to regroup. This is what you are going to do.

For starters, turn off your media. Just for now. Quiet your mind because you're going to brush away some cobwebs to remember who you are or who you were. Start there.

Each day you are going to do something good for yourself. Not because you're selfish. But because an empty watering can cannot give drink to flowers.

You're going to ask yourself what makes you happy. What makes you tick with joy?

Have you read the latest New York Times Bestseller Novels? (Hello, library!)
What's for breakfast? A sausage and mushroom omelet, of course.
A 15 minute walk each morning? Yes, please.
A favorite magazine? Joy upon joy.
An online course? I've always wanted a masters degree.
Learning an instrument? Strum, strum, strumming my guitar.
Do it.

Next, you are going to set boundaries for yourself and your children. And, if necessary, your spouse. You are going to set aside time for this activity. And you are not going to be interrupted. This might require some planning. Or babysit swapping. Or bribing another human being. But do it. It might involve turning on a TV show for your littles for an hour. Do it.

And if it's a daily activity, it's best to do it at the same time every day. A little routine helps the mind.

Then, you are going to redefine success.
Success is not how much laundry you do or how much you liked your children today.
Success is how brave you are. And you are brave, I know you are.
How you listened to your body when it needed to nap.
How you unplugged your phone.
How you stopped to pray when your mind wanted to sort things out on its own.
How you chose to eat an apple instead of fourteen Oreo cookies. That's bravery.

You are going to learn to help yourself.
Don't listen to those thoughts in your head about not having enough help. Prune things from your life that don't matter so that the things that do matter will be respected.
Your mother doesn't live next door? That's okay.
You just moved into a new town and you don't know a soul? One step at a time.
It will take time. To make friends. To make margin. To create space. To create rest. But don't give up. It will come.

Today you will walk. That is all.
You will take one step. You will speak only respectfully about yourself.
You will plod on through the rain.

Because one day the chaos will subdue. And you will want to look in the mirror and see that your muscles haven't totally atrophied. That your mind is nimble-ish. That you can wear a hair style BESIDES just a ponytail. And that because you took those little steps each day, you accidentally ran a marathon without even knowing it.

Carry on, beautiful mother. Carry on.

Two Thousand Fourteen

The bottom of the year is such a funny juxtaposition to January's fresh slate. December is when we eat too much, spend too much and force vast amounts of symbolism and cheer down our gullets. In January we are more prudent and wise, eating more things with the color green, vowing anew to watch our budgets and replacing nostalgia with modernism in the form of gym memberships and new workout music. It's the cliché we all endure but struggle to resist.


Nevertheless, I do love a good set of resolutions to welcome in the new year.

For me, I want to live a life observed.

To me it looks like this:
I want to chew on new words I learn from new books I read.
Which means I should read more books. Probably more than one.
And probably not children's books; opting instead for the kind with multi-syllabic words.

I want to focus on artistic endeavors.
Hone subject matters. Sharpen my illustrating skills.

I want to begin writing a slender book which I have in mind for my daughters. A book about love and life and communication and dreams. And how to listen to instinct. Just for them.

I want my endeavors to be in balance with flexibility and grace and sacrifice.
I don't know any well-minded person who doesn't want this.

I want all the bad theology in my mind to be scrubbed.
I want to be brave. To know God in new ways. To ask questions. To improve in prayer. To start each day sitting in grace and end each day laying in it.

And I don't know a soul who wouldn't mind releasing the heartbreaks of yesteryear so they could enjoy the blessings of today and the twinkly dreams of tomorrow.

These goals will require a little reworking on my part.
Each morning I tiptoe past the bedrooms of two sleeping children for a few minutes of breathing and thinking and praying before the day begins. Within minutes a very loud five year old demands oatmeal and a very barky puppy also enters the chorus. Mentally this is a very important juncture: I will either yield to the chaos of the morning and stay in my jammies for far too long or I will steel myself to my goals and turn on the treadmill or start the laundry. Truthfully, I do the former more than I like. Jammies have a way of not starting the day.

To start the new year, the one thing I really wanted was a book. And that book, I am convinced, is going to change my heart forever. The book is called "Surprised by Hope" and is written by N.T. Wright. I borrowed it from the library but found that I wanted to underline things and write things in the margins (which I RARELY do to books) because I loved it so much.

And the reason I need this book is because of an ugly truth: I have a (metaphorical) hole in my heart. It comes from too much repetition. From folding too many clothes and unloading the dishwasher several times each day.  From being tired. From doing important tasks with too much efficiency and speed and roboticism, resulting in a disease I call "What's-the-Use-itis." A good shot of Wright's book should do the trick.

So this year I am starting January differently:
I'm choosing the words that will go in my mind and find their way into my actions.
I can DO a lot of things this year. I can create a heap of goals. But unless I have my head and heart in the right place, none of those things matter.

May your new year be similarly blessed. May you live less like "the mass of men who live in quiet desperation" and more like "the charming few who live with truth and inspiration."

Now off you go. Auld lang syne and all of that.