Category Archives: My name is Mommy

I pull down the D. 

Oh God.  Breath catches. Eyes fill. Why is this so hard?

This was what I hoped for, for them ready to have their own space, for this next step. In a world that hurries childhood and pushes independence prematurely, I didn’t want to. Why not let them be little? They loved sharing their small room, both beds squeezed in and their own messy-lovely artwork Scotch-taped all over the walls. So often I’d asked if they were ready to move on and their response was always, “Never! We always want to share a room.” I knew when it was time we would know.

And now they’d initiated it–maybe Dutch could have the guest room? Dutch, 8, suddenly shifted into boyhood and his “Pattersonian lab” and sprouts growing along sills and telescope perched precariously and waist-high stack of encyclopedia–more and more he craved a special space just his own. A place to sit quiet and read and dream and think.

I get it. A room of one’s own. 

But now it swirled all around me, how much they’ve grown. Already. And as I took his letters down from the wall, one by one, D-U-T-C-H, I remembered how I’d made them almost 8 years ago, mod-podged the paper on to look like ocean waves.

I carry the letters into his new room and find him lost in thought, carefully putting all his favorite things in place. Up until now, I’ve arranged his room. Decorated it.

Up until now, he was really just a little boy extension of me. But now he’s something else.

He is his own man-child self, apart from me.

I stop in the hall, silent, just to watch him. The ceiling of his small room slopes down low on one side. That must be why he looks so tall, I think to myself. But I glance down at his high-water sweatpants and smile.

Nope.

He looks tall because he’s getting tall. And he’s in this room because he’s growing up. 

That night I go out with some girlfriends and one of them is planning her son’s 18th birthday and his graduation party.

I think about pulling the D off the wall. I know I’ll blink and be in her shoes. How do you do it? we ask her. How do you handle the letting go? 

“Grieve every stage,” she says. “At every single stage, embrace it, enjoy it, celebrate it, then when it’s over … grieve it.”

Yes. Isn’t that it? Inhaling every season, soaking in it, savoring it, living wide awake to it, then grieving when it’s gone, eyes wide open for whatever glorious good the Giver will gift us with next.

Later, late, I slip back into the dark house and quietly creep upstairs. There at the end of the hall, in his new room, his reading light is still on, an encyclopedia still open, but he’s sound asleep.

I lean down, close in, and kiss his sleeping face. Forehead, cheeks, chin, and silently say goodbye to yesteryear, asking God for grace to grieve each glorious phase and bravely, joyfully, embrace each new one as it comes. I look up and Jeff is standing at the door, smiling.

I pull Dutch’s quilt up over his shoulders, tuck it under his chin, switch off the lamp. Jeff takes my hand in the darkness and we tiptoe back to our bedroom.

I’m glad for sleep, and for living wide awake. 

{Thanks for reading.}

Next to When God Broke My Heart, I get the most comments from people referring to “that post about milkshakes.” It seems that we as women are always bombarded by the needs around us and constantly need wisdom on how to navigate it all. So, for all of us, as we head into the new year and consider who and what will “get straws” in our lives, here is “that post about milkshakes” (updated):

I didn’t mean for it happen, the dates just all fell together. Seven speaking engagements in two weeks.  Sprinkled among these was the preparation for a 3-week roadtrip to visit family, Jeff gone 3 days attending The Resurgence, and then the regular stuff of like, homeschooling and church-planting and breathing and bathing and eating and what not. Oh and then–surprise!–“Julie” is back in our lives (Hooray!!).  And during times like these I always remember a little something … (Or at least I try to remember. When I forget, this whole walking-out-on-my-family thing happens.) I try to remember this:

Something about milkshakes and straws. 

See, my kids love their daddy, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that if we’re all really honest, everyone in the family thrives on Mama’s milkshake.

Everyone’s got a straw and they all want me. 

And you know what? That’s perfect. I am the perfectly flavored milkshake for my family and I love that they all want a taste. I love that I can nourish their souls and care for their bodies. I love that God made me to feed these two little lambs and this one terrific man.

It only gets complicated when I start passing out straws to everyone else. 

Good people. They deserve a straw, right? Maybe …

A friend recently read me this quote, from Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gifts from the Sea:

With our pitchers, we attempt sometimes to water a field, not a garden.

God has graciously given us a pitcher that is just the right size for all that He intends us to water.  In truth, some of our pitchers are bigger or smaller than others. My friend with seven children has a bigger pitcher than me.  Her milkshake is just much bigger than mine. But whatever the size of our pitcher, we just have to be careful we’re only watering our garden, not the field next door.

We were made a milkshake just the right size.

Who gets a straw?

We have to use discretion, don’t we? Must hand out those straws with caution that takes courage.  

Whenever we say yes to someone we say no to someone else, right?

Looking back over our busy-season, I don’t doubt that all our commitments were “of God.”  I do believe He called us to each and gave us the strength for each one. But I also believe that part of His purpose was to remind me to be so careful about to whom I hand a straw. 

Who is in your garden, the place you were meant to water?

And you, delicious milkshake that you are, who will get a straw today?

Might I suggest, to you and to myself, to hand them out with the caution that takes courage?

There’s only so much of delicious you to go around.

{Another bit of this truth has something to do with strawberry lemonade. 😉  Enjoy! Thanks for reading.}

“I love you, Mommy.”

It comes out of nowhere and when I look down (not very far down anymore!) into his wide blue eyes, something catches inside and I can’t breathe. Oh, my boy.

This weekend we are entering 8. Eight years ago I called Jeff at work, “It’s time, babe.” And we stopped and got snacks at the store (!) on our way to the hospital, and as I walked in smiling wearing my oversized sweatshirt the nurses thought I was there to visit not deliver. The whole thing seemed way too simple. Bringing him into the world was so easy, relatively speaking.

But that was the last easy thing about this kid. *tearful smile* Each year as I type a birthday letter to this boy, I inevitably find myself saying, “I’m so sorry, Son.” He challenges me so much, as I look over the past year I always feel he deserves an apology from this ever-failing Mama of his. *sigh*

No need to retell all the tales about this Thursday’s Child but I’ve thought this kid might be the death of me, with his Spark-mind and steel-will and COMPLETE lack of conformity to any sort of social norms. Potty-training almost put me in an asylum and I’m still finding remnants of Boudreaux’s six years later.

But the truth is the way God’s made Dutch has been the death of me, in all the most glorious ways:

The death of my ego. The death of my people-pleasing. The death of my keeping up appearances. The death of my controlling spirit. The death of all that really needs to die.

The truth is, dear Dutch, you have brought life to my soul. You have taught me so much in your eight short years. You have blown away my expectations and showed me new ways to see the world. You have challenged me deeply and made me so happy.

I am fascinated by your brilliant mind. You speak the truth in profound (shocking?) ways. Your thirst for knowledge, for truth is astounding and inspires me every day. Your love for your sister, despite your vast differences, is so tender and sacred. One of my greatest hopes, dreams, prayers for you and Heidi was that you would deeply love each other, and you do.

So much has changed this past year, as you’ve transitioned from Mama’s boy to, so appropriately, Daddy’s boy. In so many ways you have shifted, and it makes my heart soar to see you and Daddy cement that sacred father-son bond. The hours you spend in the yard together, the projects and battles and science experiments. In a lot of ways I’m already left behind. But I love it. And the fact that you still write me love-letters, and still sneak into my bed for snuggles when Daddy’s working late, that you still sit with me for hours and teach me (patiently!) about science, encourages me that our heart-strings are held tightly together.

Every year, on your birthday, I am so keenly aware once again that I am in way over my head with you, my boy. You are a glorious wonderment, and I am so incredibly under-qualified to be your Mama. But I always go back to wise words spoken to me at your baby shower:

“God has called you to be the Mama to this child. He will perfectly equip you and enable you to be the best Mama this boy could ever have. Rest in that.”

So I will. I will stay on my knees and stay in God’s Word and stay by your side, and keep trailing along behind you handing over PB sandwiches as you search the world over for more knowledge, more truth.And I will keep praying daily that all your quests find their end in Him. He is what I want for you most. Above all, I pray you hunger and thirst for Him.

I love you, son. Happy, happy birthday. I’m so thrilled to be with you entering eight. 

{Thanks for reading}

I had only been gone 5 minutes when it happened. Onions were simmering for soup. Christmas music floating through the house. Dutch intense over Legos. Heidi happily coloring. I ran out to Jeff’s office to discuss church business, ran back in to stir the onions again. I didn’t see Heidi.

Stirring the onions, I saw her come from around the corner, head down. She wrapped her arms around my leg.

“Hey, babygirl. What’s up?”

Head stayed down.

“Heidi, what’s up Sweetie?”

She finally looked up. Her eyes wide, stricken. I lowered down to look in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” She turned and pointed, then took my hand and led me into the living room. Around the corner, she pointed.

A long line of pink marker down the wall.

“Oh.” I looked down into her wide eyes, her mouth started to twist, eyes filled, stricken by the pain of guilt. Tears spilled over her eyes. Oh I know that feeling, babygirl. That feeling of Oh, What have I done?

I scooped her up, ignoring the sizzle of onions behind me, and took her, crushed, crying, to her room. We slide down into the rocker. We rock. She grieves. I’ve been there:

Godly sorrow, it’s good–got to let it do its work. 

This girl’s only 3 but has a spirit opening, like a flower, and I never want to miss an opportunity, thinking she’s too young.

“Heidi, does your heart feel sad and yucky inside when you do something naughty?”

“Yes,” she sobs.

“Me too. Mommy does naughty things too sometimes, and it makes my heart feel so sad and yucky. It’s a terrible feeling, I know.  You know Mama does naughty things sometimes too, right?”

She nods. (A little too readily, if you ask me.)

“Do you know what those naughty things are called?”

She’s on it: “Sin.” She says it like she knows it, hates, it, hates the feeling of doing it. How early on we are acquainted with it!

“Can I tell you something wonderful?”

She nods.

“Do you remember why Jesus died on the cross?”

She’s recited it a hundred times: “To take away our sins!” but now, in the midst of her own sin, she can’t remember.

That happens to me too.

In the midst of my sin, I forget why Jesus died on the cross. I can’t see it. Don’t know it. Just can’t remember. Can’t think straight because the frustration and darkness of my selfishness eclipses the light of His love.

“Can I tell you again?”

She nods.

“Jesus came as a baby–at Christmas–and died on the cross, because He loves you so much He wanted to take away ALL your sin–even writing on the wall–and forgive you and take away all the sadness and yuckiness from your heart and make you all new and clean on the inside. Do you remember that?”

She nods.

“Mama forgives you, babygirl. I’m proud of you for showing Mommy your sin instead of hiding it. That’s the same as confessing. And now we’re going to pray and then go clean up the wall together.”

Now she’s stricken again. “But Mommy,” she sobs, “I tried to clean it up, I can’t. I tried with my finger and I can’t. See?” She shows me, pink ink smudged on the pad of her pointer finger. She looks down, now hopeless again.

I smile. “But this time, Mommy will help you. Do you believe Mommy can do it?”

A glimmer of hope: she nods.

After praying, we walk together to the living room, hand in hand. She shows me how she tried to get it off. How the pink just smudged and got bigger, worse.

Again, I ask: “Heidi, do you believe Mommy can do it?”

She nods.

I grab the spray cleaner and a little doggy-puppet wash cloth. She’s laughing as puppy makes silly voices and gets soaked with cleaner.

“Now, Heidi watch. Do you know what Jesus does with our sin? Watch carefully.”

Her eyes are wide. I spray the wall, and in one smooth action, wipe with doggy-puppet-washcloth and all trace of pink-pen … is gone.

Her face is light.

And I’m reminded, why Jesus died on the cross.

~

{Remembering this from three years ago, as we begin the Advent season, watching and waiting for Christ. Thanks for reading.} 

“Some people are more sure of everything than I am of anything.”

Robert Rubin, former US Secretary of the Treasury

Quandary #1: They crawl in early.

Really early. I don’t know how their internal clocks know it, but sometime between when I wake up and when they should wake up, they shuffle, sleepy-eyed, into my bed and curl up under the heavy warmth of our comforter. They sleep, doze, or just watch me read my Bible, pray, and write.

And I, wanting to do do the right thing, ask myself every morning: Should I be letting them do this? 

I do, of course, believe children should have boundaries. We have plenty of structure in our days. But so many advise that children should stay in their rooms until a certain time in the morning, and while I think this is a fabulous idea, I just can’t make myself implement it.

The truth is, these early morning snuggles are sacred to me. Sure, it interrupts my writing a little. But I always remind myself that this post was written with Heidi on my lap, and this post after sacrificing my alone time in order to snuggle away her fears.

My point: Parenting principles sometimes don’t apply.

Because children are people. And we are in relationship. And while there some hard and fast rules from our Heavenly Father, aside from that He deals with each of us differently. He gives different convictions, different freedoms. He, the perfect parent relates to us not on the basis of rules but the basis of relationship.

And that’s why parenting is so messy. Why right now my bed is messy because two monkeys are in it as I type these words. And that’s ok with me. Today I’m saying yes to messy.

And speaking of messy…

Quandary #2: He hates spelling.

His handwriting is so messy. Despite the fact that he can read adult encyclopedias and chapter books and is excelling in so many subjects, he detests spelling and handwriting and everyday the stress rises when we get to that blasted red workbook and he struggles and I struggle and all too often we end with him discouraged and me fit to be tied.

Do I keep pushing him? Do I try something else? Do I say to heck with it, he’s only in 1st grade?

One phenomenal book says one thing, another phenomenal book says something different altogether.  I agonize over it, like every mom has at one point or another. And so I choose, again, to fall back on relationship. To my relationship with God.  To prayer and fasting and seeking my Father to ask Him what He’d want for my son. And we pray to God together so he can see: When we don’t know what to do, we throw ourselves into the lap of God, and trust in His loving care and guidance.

And I scrap spelling for now.

Quandary #3: Do I take a day away each week for writing and speaking prep, believing that is best, or give all my time entirely to my children and trust God that the early morning margins will suffice for study?

There is no right answer etched in stone. And although I don’t sense a clear answer in prayer, I lean one way in my heart, and it takes a scary leap of faith to erase that  slot from my schedule and trust that these dark early mornings will multiply miraculously and give me just the time I need …

I leap. And guess what?

He provides abundantly. 

What’s the point of sharing my personal quandaries here? Surely you don’t care about the minutiae of my life. I share because we ALL have quandaries. Areas of indecision. And often I look around, and think along with Rubin, “Some people are more sure of everything than I am of anything!”

And so I look at these little quandaries and they teach me this, when faced with indecision:

1. Let relationship be our guide.

2. Seek God’s wisdom through prayer and His Word (and sometimes fasting).

3. Leap out in faith. 

And over all of this, let us not be afraid to admit our indecision. Our quandaries. Nowhere in Scripture are we called to have all the answers. God alone is wise. Let’s live small, ok with our indecision, and trust His loving leadership to guide our steps.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.                                                                                 In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your path.” Prov. 3:5-6

{Thanks for reading.}

*Thank you, sweet Lacey Meyers, for capturing these photos. You are such a gift to me!

My house–and life–is officially full. Dear Julie moved in two weeks ago, (clean and sober 6 months!) making The 1601 home to three last names and six sacred souls ranging from 4 to 60 years old.

I can barely close the cupboards. Food prep in the kitchen sometimes require a dance of sorts. There is much laughter in the air and mud on the floor. There is never a shortage of words.

Each soul in our home is truly a gift to me. Many days I am literally teary-eyed with joy, reflecting upon the honor of housing such exuberance and spiritual vitality. Such love and peace and growth and joy teeming within our walls. But some days, oh some days … let’s just say the house is teeming with a different sort of energy altogether. Or at least it is in the hidden place of my heart.

And so, in the midst of homeschooling and church-planting and house-sharing and speaking and writing and loving and leading I am finding one truth to be of utmost importance right now. It is this:

I am the decisive element. 

“I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make life miserable or joyous.

I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration, I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis is escalated or de-escalated, and a person is humanized or de-humanized.

If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.” -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

May you receive your sacred mission of making the mood of your house one of life, grace, joy, peace. May you pray daily for the shalom of your home. May you draw from the deep of God’s living water, for the strength to respond to chaos and criticism with unflappable calm. May you quench anger with forgiveness, melt moody iciness with the warmth of your love. May God give you the power of His Spirit to be His instrument of inspiration in your home today.

{Have a blessed week; Thanks for reading.}

I can feel my body tense up as I say the words with forced enthusiasm:

“Ok, time for school!”

They say what I know they’ll say: Do we have to? And if I’m honest, that’s exactly what I’m saying in my own mind. Do we have to?

It’s December and I’m tired and my feet are cold and there is absolutely nothing inspiring about Saxon math right now. I want to sip cocoa and snuggle under a quilt and read stories to them.

All day.

The unschooler in me says, “Go ahead! Embrace the season! All of life is school!”

The classical voice in me says, “Press through! Persevere in discipline and they’ll be better off in the end!”

The delayed-educator in me says, “Do you really even need to be doing school at all right now? They’re so young!”

Then, as if my multiple personalities weren’t confusing enough, I add comparison into the conversation:

“So-and-so’s daughter is already doing such-and-such. Dutch is falling behind.”

“Well, Dutch’s reading is several grade-levels ahead. Forget the math and let him read all day. Focus on his strengths.”

And all this internal monologue makes me want to crawl back in bed.

We all have days like this, right?  If you haven’t, you’re not allowed to comment on this post. (Smile) I think we all have days where enthusiasm dips or uncertainty sets in or we’re tired or sick or it’s that time of month, or for whatever reason we just don’t want to do school today.

What do you do when you’d really rather allow Christmas break to last until, say, June?

Here are a few ideas for the winter-weary mom in the midst of the mid-year slump: {Read the rest here…}

Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace,Wednesday’s child is full of woe,Thursday’s child has far to go, Friday’s child is loving and giving, Saturday’s child works hard for a living, But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

~

He was ten months old when it struck me.

This kid might be the death of me.

I’m a strong girl, ok? Embarrassingly enough, I set the wall-sit record for my high school–for over an hour. People, I know how to persevere and hold my ground!

But this boy. 

He would stand up in his crib, and I would lie him back down. He would stand back up. I would lie him back down. He would do it again. A hundred-and-some-odd times. For hours.  I remember, then, in desperation, trying to rock him to sleep. He cried, fighting against my arms, for two hours. I was drenched with sweat and in tears myself by the end. At ten months old he climbed out of his own crib, falling down on the floor without a cry, then opened the door and crawled out of his room.  We worked at potty training for months. You name it, I did it. Drink, rewards, games, discipline, cheerios in the toilet. He’d then proceed to go poop in the corner behind his bed. 

Teaching him to read had me in tears. Taking him to church had me in tears. Disciplining him eight-thousand times a day had me in tears. I’d shake my head at the end of the day and think, I can’t do this. I’ve met my match. 

And while I don’t believe in fortune telling whatsoever, I often thought of my sweet boy, Thursday’s Child and thought, Yes, he has far to go. 

We’re only seven years in and I have cried more over this child than anything else in my life. Hands down. He is incredibly intelligent, incredibly strong-willed, and doesn’t give a rip what anyone else thinks. Peer or social pressure carries zero weight with him. This is good, he’s no approval-addict, but it means that all discipline and character needs to truly come from the inside out–out of a submissive, obedient heart, a love for God and us, and a desire to do what’s right. I can’t rely on him wanting to appease people. He doesn’t.

So often, so often, I have cried at night, looking over all the struggles of the day and thought, Oh, he has far to go. 

And then, this week, something is slowly shifting and I realized, 

YES. He DOES have far to go. 

i.e., HE WILL GO FAR. 

As I watched him consciously submit his will to my commands. As I watched him obey cheerfully, even though I could see the inner struggle. As I heard his tender voice after visiting a particularly unpleasant place, “Mommy, I’m glad we did that.”  As I watched him do his very best at writing, which he hates. As I watched him devour his new Bible, reading for hours on end. As I watched him gently hug and kiss his sister, even when she was moody and pushed him away. As I watched him exercise self-control, keeping his eyes away, when I told him not to look or read the tabloids at the supermarket. As I watched him play kindly and calmly with five little girls. As I watched him up late, every night, reading his encyclopedias by the low light of his lamp. As I watched him pray, “Dada God, please help me to obey.”

Oh my boy. You DO have far to go. You will indeed go FAR. 

You will go far for the Kingdom. You will go far to bear the good news of the Gospel. You will go far to love others. You will go far to provide for your family. You will go far to work for justice.

You will go far, for the glory of God.

This I believe. And now, as you turn seven, I confess to God my own weakness, and how often I fall short in raising and training and loving and nurturing you as I should.

But I commit afresh, to go far.

I will go far for you.

Far beyond my tiredness. Far beyond my impatience. Far beyond my natural abilities. Far beyond my comfort zone. I will go far for you, my son, because I believe you will go far for God.

Happy birthday, Dutch. I love you so much. 

And now, off to make cupcakes… 😉 Thanks for reading.