|yes, you never know when you will need a paracord bracelet or a First Aid kit as you throw your tantrum.|
Phoebe was halfway wearing her coat, halfway not. The halfway not part was because "I AM TWO, MOTHERRRRRRRRRR! AND I WILL ASSERT MY INDEPENDENCE AS I SEE FIT!"
The "seeing fit" this time was, well, refusing to wear half of her coat.
I walked in, 5 minutes late, happy that more than half of the people that go to my church are late every Sunday. It's a laid-back, Jesus-lovin' church and the people there are crazy good at giving their hearts to other people.
One of my favorite stories is about a guy who was at Burger King and asked some hungry looking people if he could buy them their food. The manager came out later and asked, "Why'd you do that?" and their response was, "Well, we just saw he was hungry, I guess."
then the manager said, "What church do you go to?" and the guy told him, and the manager said, "I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU WENT TO THAT CHURCH!"
What a thing, right? To be associated with a movement where someone sees a good deed done in the name of love and says, almost accusatorily, "I KNEW you go to that church!"
See, that's the thing. I feel that passion in my heart for the broken, lost and abused. I want my children to have it, too.
I desperately want them to have it, too.
|probably a Vietnam vet, if anyone would care to know|
Sometimes I go to sleep at night with my heart beating fast in my chest. Lucy is eight, nearly nine, which means that we are nearly half of the way done raising her.
This freaks me out. It makes me want to barf.
Every Christmas makes me want to consider NOT being a parent, or at least farming out the gig to my sister-in-law for the month, who homeschools and looks like a J. Crew model (so do her kids, for the record.)
|my brother and his family, only that's not my brother and his family. My brother isn't that muscular and they only have three kids. Just use your imagination.|
I can't keep up with the pace of this life. I can't keep up with the Elf on the Shelf, the lighting of the advent candle while someone barfs in the corner and my two year old cusses at me in baby language for not changing her poop-load of a diaper fast enough.
|ummmmm...CREEPY MUCH? I can just imagine our foster daughter telling the social worker that she has to look for toys in Mommy and Daddy's shower.|
I shoulder the knowledge that my kids are THAT generation, the generation that doesn't even know the first verse to "Silent Night" because no one really sings it any more. That's MY KIDS.
I want to give them the gifts of the magi - one practical, one learning-related, and one fun. Is that right, you people who do that? Is that how it goes?
I guess I'm just not very well-versed on how to be a Christian mom in my mid-thirties teaching my kids the basics of my (and hopefully their) faith.
In so many ways, my own faith flounders, dead on the rocks, alive in my spirit when the dire need of my own humanity presents itself.
I don't know that I'm the best one to lead these children in matters of faith, and the clock is ticking.
Today, the elf on the shelf was hanging from a ceiling fan.
I read the first part of the advent story to them out of a decrepit book in our basement while they fought over fruit cocktail:
Yes, my floor is dirty. Remember, however, that Jesus was born surrounded by horse poo, so I find it hard to believe He minds.
So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'm viewing this Advent with a little more levity.
|what you don't see is the bottle of Budwesier (Bud Light Lime, no less) sitting on the floor by the chair, AND HIS DESPERATION TO GET THEM TO BED, LIKE, FIVE MINUTES AGO!|
Wasn't the whole point of that miracle to bring grace for all of our shortcomings?
When am I going to get that?
When am I going to get that the "magic of Christmas" is just a cheap and hopeless facade covering up the ribbons of love streaming down from heaven,
right to me?
I could weep with the beauty of it; the juxtaposition of His love and grace for me over my self-loathing and doubt.
So, you can keep your perfect Advent season, your perfect Christmas, your perfect plans that work out just how you wanted them to.
For the rest of you Mamas, rest in the arms of Jesus. Rest in arms that carry you and allow you to see beauty where before you saw only chaos.
Rest in arms that bring you redemption,
in the form of unexpected, blurry, messy moments.
Don't miss 'em, Mama.
Don't miss 'em.