Kelli Stuart's Blog, page 6

Because Creativity Wasn’t Meant to Be Lived Alone

We met for coffee on a balmy day. It was one of those Tampa days that makes you feel like maybe God loves Florida just a little more than any other place: 77 degrees, light breeze, salty air, and a few seagulls for effect – it was simply a lovely afternoon.

She drank her Americano, and I sipped my Chai Tea Latte, and we talked together about creativity.

I’m a writer; words are my escape from the world around me. Strung together, these words fill the canvas of my mind. They are my art, and I see the colors in each well thought out sentence.

She’s a baker. Her canvas is shortbread, and on it she paints with icing, creating images that are truly works of art, and that taste as good as they look.

We’re both moms, each of us trying to fit our art into our daily lives, and to figure out how to use these gifts of ours to the benefit of others.

“See,” she said to me, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses so that I could see the reflection of the palm trees behind me, “I didn’t always see what I do as being that useful.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I see what you do, how your words impact others, and it seems so valuable. But when I looked at what I was doing it all felt so…froofy.”

I smiled, because the word ‘froofy‘ is funny, and it should be employed more in the English language.

“I make cookies. Like, that’s all I’m doing. I see the value in great writing and music and art, but in a plate full of cookies? It just felt so silly.”

I nodded, and I blinked back a couple of tears, because there we sat, two creative moms, both of us trying to figure out how these things we loved fit into the grand canvas of this world.

We’re both so uniquely different, and yet we’re strikingly similar. And maybe you find yourself sidling up to the proverbial table with us.

 

There’s a unique Renaissance happening right now. Open up any online device, and you might notice it. Art and creativity are oozing through the internet’s pores, begging us all to see the world in different ways.

With the explosion of sites like Pinterest and Instagram, artists around the world have found a platform to showcase their God-given abilities.

And many of those artists are moms, showcasing their art from inside their homes.

They’re posting gorgeous pictures of their children, of their beautifully decorated homes. They make us drool over their spectacular cakes, and ponder life as we read their poetic words. We’re breathless at the photography, the paintings, the songs, and the beauty of it all.

My friend Wendy and I have watched this Renaissance explosion, and we’ve been entirely enamored by it. We started discussing ways that we could affirm these creative moms two years ago. Because while we see all the various forms of art displayed on our computer screens, we also know that it isn’t easy.

It’s hard to walk that line between art and motherhood. It’s hard to balance the need to create with the need to keep a house running smoothly. We see the beauty behind the photos where mom finds herself desperate for a few moments to dive into those parts of her soul that cry out for pretty things, and yet her time is limited.

So we wrote a book about it!

Life Creative: Inspiration for Today’s Renaissance Mom hits bookshelves September 27, and in it we dive deeper into this God-design of artistry and motherhood, and how the two melded together can look so messy and beautiful all at once.

As we prepare to launch this book into the world, we want to develop a community of women who celebrate one another. We want this to be a place where the cookie bakers and the photographers, the writers and home decorators, the jam makers, handmade shop owners, and artists of the world come together and rejoice in the beauty of art and motherhood all mashed up together.

This is a place for anyone who’s ever felt that maybe her gift was just a little too…froofy. This is for all moms, no matter what season of motherhood you’re in.

Wendy and I, along with our friend Alle McClosky, have launched an Instagram community specifically for those of you who are trying to fit the creativity into your life. It’s a place to be inspired, to build one another up, to share each other’s art, and to remember that God had a unique purpose in mind when He created you creative.

Will you join us there today?

If you long to know more about this developing community, and to see your part in this online Renaissance, then sign up in the little green box to the right to receive these posts directly in your email inbox. I’d love to walk this Renaissance path together! 

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The One Where We Win the Prize

We looked over at each other across the couch last night and offered weary smiles. He held up his glass, and I held up mine, and we lightly clinked them together.

“Well done,” I said with a grin. “You made it to today’s finish line. You win the prize.”

The flurry of activity at the end of each long day is enough to drive one to drinking…if I really thought that drinking would help. By the time we get home from evening practices, get everyone fed and showered, and then go through the rigamarole of getting them all in bed (and getting them to stay there), we’re exhausted.

Glennon Melton likens it to a game of whack-a-mole, and she’s not too far off.

Another drink of water? Whack!

Your stomach feels funny? Whack!

You just remembered you have homework due tomorrow? Whack!

Your toe hurts? Whack!

By the time the dust finally settles and the house quiets down, we are utterly spent. I’d love to tell you that we spend those last quiet hours of our evenings finishing up the day’s work, or reading rich books, but usually we’re so busy trying to recover from the trauma of bedtime that we find ourselves staring numbly at a wall.

Going to bed at night feels like a prize. I climb into my warm, soft sheets, and they greet me with a holy kiss. As I lay my head on my pillow, I hear it whisper, “Well done.”

Last night, Lee and I leaned our heads back on the couch after a particularly long evening (so. much. noise.), and we let loose a collective sigh.

“You think when we’re sixty-five we’ll look back on this and miss it?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I answered. “But probably not.”

Everyone tells you to enjoy it now because you’ll miss it. “You’ll miss the noise and the chaos when they’re all out of the house,” they say, but sometimes I’m not so sure. Maybe I will. But what if I don’t? What if I relish those quiet evening hours when they belong to me again?

Can I share with you one of the things that gets me through the never ending bedtime routines? (I hope you said yes because I fully intend on sharing it.)

I dream of the day when the children are all grown and out of the house.

In those future evenings, Lee and I will sit in our quiet house and perhaps we’ll feel a pang of longing for those bygone, hectic days. Maybe we’ll find ourselves blinking back tears as we remember her wanting to practice her recorder one last time at 8:30 pm, while he asks how to find the surface area of a cube, and the toddler screams in her bed, and the other boy wants to play indoor soccer with a hacky sack.

We’ll be past all of that, and maybe the silence will feel deafening. But then the phone will ring, and it will be one of our adult children, and in the background we’ll hear the screeching sounds of a recorder, and a basketball bouncing against the tile floor. There will be a baby crying, a dog barking, children bickering. All the sounds will greet our ears and we’ll duck our heads, the vestiges of parenting PTSD still lingering.

“This is so hard!” the grown child will tell us. “They won’t go to bed and I’m exhausted.”

We’ll nod and offer a few sympathetic words of encouragement, and then we’ll hang up the phone and look at one another with a smile.

“We did it,” I’ll say to him. “We did our time and paid our dues, and we won the prize.”

Then we’ll laugh maniacally on our couch inside our clean, quiet house.

Sometimes the only thing getting me through the endless bedtime hours is the promise that I won’t have to do this forever.

So it is with full acknowledgement that I come to you and tell you to hang in there. Every time you make it back to your bed, you’ve won the prize. That day’s game is through, and you’re on the other side.

And when it’s all said and done, your chicks having flown from the nest, you’ll sink into your soft, warm bed with the silence of the evening pushing in at you from all sides. Maybe the silence will hurt a little. Maybe it’ll bring a pang of longing, of nostalgia for the days when bustling life spilled through the room.

But it may also bring a pang of relief, and that’s okay, too. Because you made it. And as you lay your head on your pillow it will greet you with a holy kiss and whisper gently in your ear:

“Well done.”

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One Thing Every Day

I get a lot of comments these days saying something to the effect of, “I don’t know how you keep up with all the things you’re doing. You must be superwoman!”

While I do appreciate this sentiment, the truth is I am not superwoman. Actually, I’m not super-anything. I don’t have any super powers, unless you count my ability to sense when the toddler is up to no good, and I could never pull off a skin tight super hero outfit.

I am ordinary…and that’s okay.

Most of us are ordinary. Perhaps even all of us are ordinary (unless you happen to be the actual superwoman reading this, in which case I’m willing to concede that you are more than ordinary).

We’re all doing the best we can inside each of our unique circumstances.

I used to think that in order to be successful, one had to be constantly in motion. But the more I push my way through this ordinary life of mine, the more I realize that success comes in the quiet moments – those quiet pockets of time when the frenzy dies down.

A few years ago, I attended a conference that was designed specifically for moms. On the second day, a woman stood in front of us, and she acknowledged the obvious: Moms don’t have a lot of time.

“What do you do,” she asked, “when you want to build your business, but the children are clamoring at your feet, and the moments in your day are parsed out?”

I leaned forward, ready to accept her answer to this question that often left me befuddled.

“You do one thing every day,” she said. The room was silent as a hundred moms with dreams soaked in this freeing nugget of wisdom.

“You can’t do all the things when you’re a mom, but you can do one thing. So do one thing every day that helps grow your business, develops your ideas, makes you money – whatever it is you’re working toward, keep pressing on, one step at a time.”

Yesterday was one of those days that seemed to spiral out of control. Between homeschool and toddlerhood, and all the life that crept into the cracks of my day, I found myself antsy and frustrated.

There simply wasn’t any time yesterday for me to sit and work.

By 8:00, I felt panic beginning to well up in my chest. I just wanted the kids to go to bed so the house would grow quiet, and I could find a moment to complete a thought.

It was 9:30 before I found that moment, and by then I was so exhausted the thoughts were tangled together, and I just wanted to go to bed myself, but I knew that if I could do just one thing I’d sleep a little more soundly.

As a writer, I’m finding this process of marketing books in the new media age to be rather intimidating. I’m not good with video or images – I’m a word girl. Facebook is my happy place because WORDS, all the WORDS!

Instagram bores me, and Pinterest intimidates me, and don’t even get me started on Periscope. But I need to step outside of this little comfortable box of mine, and I need to learn how to better utilize these online tools. So before bed, I went to Pinterest and poked around a bit.

I added a few photos to some character boards I’m developing for my book launch, and I looked at what other authors are doing on that platform.

This didn’t take a lot of time, and it didn’t require me to formulate any ideas. This was my one thing and it was all I had, but you know what?

I slept like a rock last night.

Doing one thing every day frees us up to enjoy the bigger picture. This season of my mothering life doesn’t offer loads of free time. I’ve got slivers of time in each day, and so I have to utilize those slivers to the best of my ability.

I slept so well last night because I went to bed knowing I’d done one thing. I didn’t toss and turn all night, chasing down ideas or fighting bitterness at all the stolen hours of my day. I felt a peace knowing I’d done something – one something – to get better at my job.

There will be other days when I can conquer my to-do list; days when the house is quiet and I can do a slew of book-related things. But those days are not the norm.

So I’ll keep doing one thing every day, then focus my attention on the children clamoring at my feet. And in this way, I manage to  survive this ordinary, maybe even slightly extraordinary, life.

 

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How a Girl Tricked the Nazis and Redefined Bravery

She sat across from me, her mouth turned up into a soft smile. With eyes crinkled at the edges, and a gentle lilt to her words, she took me back into the recesses of her memory.

It was 2003, and I was in Vinnitsya, Ukraine. Elizabeta Yepifanova agreed to meet with me on a brisk, March morning, and over a spread of tea and chocolates, she invited me into her story.

 

Elizabeta was sixteen when the Nazis invaded Vinnitsya. Unable to enlist in the Red Army, she found herself stuck, forced to live under the invader’s imposed law, and unwilling to stand idly by while young boys with cropped hair took over her home. She wasn’t, of course, the only one left heated with indignant pride.

A group of young men and women like herself formed a quiet group. Meeting weekly in the hushed corners of the local library, this pack of partisans made it their mission to fight a different kind of battle with the Nazis.

“We fought a psychological battle,” she told me. The interpreter sat quietly by my side, whispering Elizabeta’s every word like it was a sacred secret, and perhaps it was.

“We wanted those boys to know that though they had physical might, they did not have the power to break our spirit.” She tossed me a mischievous glance. “And we won that psychological battle.”

Not content to subject themselves to the Nazi’s rules, Elizabeta and her comrades devised secret plans to keep the German soldiers ever aware of their own infallibility. “The Germans were afraid of us,” she laughed. “We were unpredictable and shrewd. They never knew where we would strike next.”

“I got very close to a Nazi once,” she continued. “It was the most dangerous mission I participated in. But I was successful. Of course I was successful,” she chuckled. “I’m here talking with you now!”

Late one evening in 1943, Elizabeta and her friend, Sophia, walked to a nearby market where German soldiers were known to congregate, and they openly flirted with two of the Nazis.

“We got those boys to come with us easily,” she said, eyes twinkling. “We didn’t speak German, of course, and they knew very little Russian, so most of the communicating took place with gestures. But if you can believe it, I was quite beautiful then, so it didn’t take much to convince them to follow us.” I smiled, because I could believe it. Behind the wrinkles and the grey hair, Elizabeta Yepifanova had striking features.

“We lured them to our safe house and had them take off their coats in the front hall. When we saw their guns, we pretended shock and fear, and those boys were quick to remove the weapons and lay them down. They thought they’d get something from us that night, but we were the ones who got lucky.” With a slap of the knee, Elizabeta let out a hearty laugh.

Read the rest of this story at The Huffington Post.

 

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Spring Break ’16 and I Am a Hot Mess

Have you ever had one of those pedicures where you stick your feet in a tank of water and let tiny fish nibble the dead skin off your heels and toes?

I haven’t either, but I watched friends do it and I’ve never quite been the same for it.

I find little appeal in letting small water creatures nibble away at my calloused feet. Can we just agree that that’s gross and call it a day?

Here’s the funny thing, though – sometimes motherhood feels like you’re living inside that tank being nibbled to death by tiny fish.

We’re on day one of spring break, and I’m already exhausted. We chose to stay close to home this year both to save money, but also so that we could host two players from the FC Liverpool team who are visiting the States for a tournament. Sounds fun, right?

Except I basically tortured my children today by forcing them to clean on their spring break. It seems I’ve obliterated my chances for that Mom of the Year title…maybe forever.

They scrubbed toilets, pulled weeds, cleaned gutters, and made a half-hearted attempt to help me get some of the fallen leaves out of the flower bed.

And they were NONE TO HAPPY TO OBLIGE!

In between these torture sessions chores, I forced them to turn off electronics and move their bodies. You know…interact with the real world. Enjoy the perfect Florida day. Anything that didn’t involve a screen.

By noon we were all basically sick of one another. I was annoyed with their attitudes, and they were devastated at what can only be chalked up to a loss of all their freedoms.

This was when I gave my mom speech. That super motivational tome about all their many privileges, and how disappointing it was to be met with such ungratefulness. A real pep talk. I laid it on thick, then let the words sort of hang in their air for a few minutes until one of them skulked over with a weak “Sorry, Mom.”

The other two followed suit somewhat reluctantly. And Annika went on screaming because it was past her nap time, and she doesn’t give a flying flip about my disappointment.

The rest of the afternoon found the children much sweeter, but it seemed my mom speech backfired somewhat as now all the children wanted to be with me. Like, physically on my person. They wanted to be held and snuggled and played with and SWEET MERCY I HAD THINGS TO DO!

Little by little, though, their “I love you’s,” and “will you play with me’s” wore me down. Like the fish in those tanks, they nibbled away at my frustration until they’d all but smoothed it out. (Well a couple of them, anyway. One of those kids of mine is more like a leech, latching on and sucking the very life out of me most days.)

So all that to say, spring break is off to a great start. This staycation thing was a super idea. Saving money is just so much fun.

My fingers might be dropping a little sarcasm right now.

The rest of the week should prove to be more enjoyable. We have plans – real plans. Actual plans that involve leaving the house!

And so I shall continue to swim in this tank of my life, being slowly nibbled at by all these small people living with me. It’ll either smooth me out completely, leaving me refreshed and renewed…or it’ll kill me.

Jury’s out.

Yay spring!

(Who else is on spring break right now? Are you having fun, or are you choosing to torture your kids like me?)

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On Being Brave

I sat in the middle of a long table, a spread of foreign food laid out before me. It was hot in there, bodies compacted together, unfamiliar syllables and consonants mingling with the smells to overwhelm my senses entirely. I took it all in quietly, not really sure of my place inside this boisterous bunch. After a few minutes of simple observation, the meal was served, and I finally asked the question burning in my heart.

“How did you do it? How did you survive?”

It was 1995, and I was Kiev, Ukraine, in the home of Maria Ivanovna. I knew her story, having been told by her granddaughter who served as the translator for our group. I knew that she’d been sent to Germany at the age of 14 to serve in a slave labor camp. I knew she’d survived starvation and brutality, and at least one severe beating.

I knew that when the war finally ended, she found her way back to Ukraine by jumping on trains, sometimes clinging to the outside of a train car for hours.

I knew that her father was one of the few who survived Babi Yar, the killing ditch where nearly 34,000 men, women, and children were massacred in two days time in 1941.

I knew all the details, but what I couldn’t wrap my mind around was how.

How did this little woman with the silver hair and hearty laugh survive those years with her spirit in tact? How could she sit before me and tell her story without slipping into the horror of those years again?

How was she so…happy?

I wish I could remember her answer. I asked this question as a sixteen year old girl, long before the thought of writing a book ever took shape. I was just curious, and I remember the room growing quiet as my question was translated into a language I did not yet understand.

While I do not remember her exact words, I do remember the way she looked at me. Her eyes were a smile, peace shimmering in the depths as she focused tenderly on my face.

Though I don’t remember the exact words spoken at that dinner so many years ago, what I do remember is how I felt when we left that night. Maria made me feel brave. 

I’d never really thought of myself as brave before that night.

Adventurous, maybe. Impulsive, gregarious, excitable. But brave? Not really. 

Like any sixteen year old girl, I battled insecurities on a daily basis. I found myself constantly fighting against the impulse to tuck into the corners of my life and reside in the shadows, because wouldn’t it be easier there? If I could minimize expectation, perhaps I could also minimize the threat of failure, of heartache, of any sort of emotional pain.

But there was something about Maria that made me feel like I could step out of the shadows.

It was the way that she carried her story, the way she so willingly gave her experience to me, like it was a treasured gift. There was no animosity, no bitterness, in her memories. She didn’t wear them like an albatross, walking victimized through the rest of her life.

Years later, I returned to Ukraine and I spent the afternoon with Maria’s granddaughter, Helen. Maria was sick and couldn’t take visitors at that time, but she took my questions over the phone through Helen’s translation. Even then, though grown and preparing to be a mother myself, I still wrestled with the cruelty and brutality of those dark war years.

I still didn’t understand how she did it – how any of the men and women who survived World War II did it.

But I’ve learned in the years since then that bravery isn’t something you’re born with – it’s something you learn.

Bravery isn’t something you’re born with – it’s something you learn.
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Bravery is birthed in the trenches of life, when we’re pressed from every side and hewn from the cloth of hardship. But where does it come from?

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9

If we truly understand the origins of bravery, then we just might see the potential waiting for us in the hard times. Bravery isn’t something that I can muster up on my own strength, though I suppose I could convince myself of that.

No, bravery and courage are most alive inside the power of the One who wove them into me in the first place.

The potential for bravery is knit into all of us, whether we see it or not. But the recognition of God as the author of that bravery unleashes a power far greater than any of us realize.

This is one of the many lessons I learned as a young woman in a foreign land. Bravery isn’t defined by rank or uniform, or even by experience. Bravery is simply lived and shared, and acknowledged in the hard places of life.

Be brave today, friends.

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The One Thing I Refuse

There’s a certain flaw in my personality. I know this comes as a shock to you, but it’s true. I am not perfect.

This certain flaw of mine resides firmly inside my stubbornness. I hate being told I have to do something.

Maybe you can relate?

Image Credit: Claudia Otte/Shutterstock.com

My first reaction to someone telling me I have to do something is to dig my heels in and say, “Nope. Not gonna happen. Thanks for asking, though.”

Now that I’m a grown up girl, of course, I’ve gotten better at controlling this impulse. I’m better at listening and receiving advice, and much more willing to concede the wisdom of others than perhaps I once was.

But I still don’t like being told I have to do something.

Writing books is a funny business. You think the book writing part is the hard part, and to a degree it is. As a writer once famously said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.” (This quote is most often attributed to Earnest Hemingway, but as it turns out, he wasn’t the one who said this. Thanks, internet, for ruining my morning.)

Once you get past the draining nature of bleeding onto paper (screen…whatever), you then get to enjoy the process of finding someone to validate your work. I thought that was the hard part, until I finally got set up with the agent and the publisher, and got back the first, second, and third round of edits.

Surely that was the hard part, right?

It turns out I was wrong about all of it. The hardest part of writing is the marketing and the launching and getting the word out there about all that bleeding you did on paper (screen…whatever).

THIS IS THE HARD PART!

When I’m not nursing sick babies (hello strep throat! You’re no longer welcome), homeschooling, shuttling from baseball to soccer to flag football to youth group to gymnastics, and trying to fit in conversations with my husband, I’m working on the launch plan for the books I’m releasing this year.

I’m not complaining about this – not in the slightest. It’s terribly exciting, and the process is invigorating, of only slightly overwhelming. But there’s one problem:

This process of launching books can take over your life.

Every spare moment I have – every quiet, free second when the kids are playing, or the baby is sleeping – I am working on my plan to launch these books. And the more that I feel pressured to do to make this a “successful” launch, the more I want to dig in my heels, shake my head, and say, “Nope. Not gonna happen. Thanks for asking, though.”

Here’s the thing: I see the wisdom in all these things. If I were to do everything that was recommended to successfully launch and market my books, I can quite easily see how it would work.

But I can also see how it can control a person.

It will be summertime when I launch my novel – the time of year when all my children are home all day every day. Those are short months we’re given each year in which we get to make memories – to enjoy one another as a family without all the pressures of life.

I refuse to be controlled by book launches. I refuse to sacrifice my summer, and my children’s summer, with marketing. So, what does that mean?

It means I have to be strategic. It means I’m listening to the advice of my launch manager who is helping me control my strategy so that it doesn’t control me. 

I’m working ahead of schedule as much as possible so that when summertime rolls around I’ve got a bulk of the work pre-done.

I’m listening to the words of wisdom, and I’m sifting through it, tailoring it to fit my life – the life of a mother with four young children who don’t necessarily need me to be a bestselling author.

They need me to be their mom.

Image Credit: jakkapan/Shutterstock.com

Do I want to see these books thrive?

Absolutely.

Would I love to hit a bestseller list?

Of course!

Am I will to put in the work to make that happen?

Yes…but not at the sacrifice of the people closest to me.

So I’m navigating these waters cautiously. I may not be doing as much as I should be. I’m dropping balls left and right (some of them here at home, and some of them in marketing).

But I refuse to be consumed completely.

Dreams are meant to be chased, but not at the expense of the ones I love most.
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Turns out that stubbornness of mine comes in handy now and again.

 

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Just Breathe

Motherhood sometimes feels like it’s trying to suffocate me – like it’s holding a pillow over my head and telling me softly, “Sshhh…this won’t take long. Stop resisting.”

The kids pull me into their rooms and whisper secrets, dreams, fears, longings for a change in trajectory, and I find myself feeling completely inept in my ability to guide them. So I listen and I nod, and I ask all the good questions. Then I leave their rooms with these sacred secrets tumbling around inside me all jumbled and swirly, and I wonder what it all means.

Before I can even begin to process it all, I find myself running after the toddler who’s got nail polish in her hand again, or she’s dumping out cereal boxes on the floor, or she’s pulling all the books off the bookshelf, or…

There’s so little time to process all the needs of the people living under this roof of mine.

I crawl into bed many nights a weary, tangled mass of nerves, and I set my alarm for early. I plan to pray into the dark before they rise, preparing myself for the onslaught of new issues and needs. But that alarm cuts through the darkness with an angry growl, and before I know it I’ve turned it off and drifted back to sleep.

So our days go, on and on. Always feeling just a little bit behind. Just a little bit incapable. Just a little bit unsure.

And I can’t really breathe.

But then…

The littlest wakes up cooing and jabbering in her bed. I walk into her room and sing “Good morning” as I pull open the shade, and her face splits wide into a grin. When I pick her up, she nestles her face into the crook of my shoulder, her hot breath tickling my neck. Her chubby arms squeeze me tight, and it feels like a deep breath.

After breakfast, the biggest leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning,” I murmur.

“Your mom has a good morning.”

I laugh because he’s into ‘Your mom‘ jokes. The laughter is another deep breath.

When the second and third borns wake up and stumble sleepily into the kitchen, Annika lets out a squeal of delight and tackles them with a hug around the knees. The sisters tangle themselves up together in a hug, and I get all weepy at the sight.

And there’s another deep breath.

A few of those moments a day begin to add up, and all of the sudden I can breath again. Or at least I’ve enough life-sustaining breaths to get me through those times that feel weighty and too much.

Motherhood is a series of question marks broken by the occasional burst of exclamation points.
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Today is another new day, bringing with it a slew of new challenges. My feet hit the tile this morning, and the crazy won’t stop until I crawl back into bed tonight.

So far we’ve had stubbed toes, spilled milk, a few tantrums, and math lessons that make no sense. But when I picked the fourth grader up from her music class, she jumped into the (smokin’ hot) minivan with eyes lit triumphant and held up her recorder proudly.

“I passed!” she beamed, and her smile broke through the mounting pressure of the day.

*inhale*

So I’ll take these deep breaths where I can get them, and in the moments when I feel like it’s all pressing down on me I’ll force myself to calm down, stop resisting, and remember this won’t take long.

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What I Know Now

When I first became I mother, I knew everything there was to know about mothering. As I lay nestled in my hospital bed with Sloan all bundled tight and hot against my chest, I felt a confident calm. Because I had read all the books, so I knew how this was all going to shake down.

I was going to nail motherhood.

Twelve and a half years later, I’m four kids in, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. On any given day, I’m pretty sure I’m winging it.

None of my babies, not even the littlest, like to be wrapped tight and lay against my chest for any period of time anymore. They’re busy, and they take their snuggles on the go.

And also, I now understand just how little I know about this act of mothering.

Oddly enough, I haven’t figured it all out. I started out so confidently, and then that swaddled bundle of mine grew into a little boy – a strong-willed little boy with opinions. And then two more joined the fray, and they had opinions.

And then the fourth one came along, and I’ve decided not to allow her to formulate opinions. I’m sure that’s going to work out well for me.

So now I live in a house full of small people, all of them clamoring to make their opinions known, each one pushing back in their own unique way and, quite frankly, there are some days when I think I might lose my mind.

And there are other days when I’m pretty sure it’s already been gone for some time.

So what’s a mom to do when she’s lost her mind, and the children are crying, and the house is a mess, and her husband is out of town, and the insanity of it all just. won’t. stop?

She can start by taking a few deep breaths. In the middle of typing that last sentence, one of my children spilled an entire bowl of cereal. The milk dumped out onto the baby who was standing underneath the table, and I wanted to cry because all I want is to finish a sentence.

That’s it.

Just a sentence.

But you know that thing about crying over spilled milk? Yeah, there’s something to that. Because it was just an accident. He didn’t spill his cereal as an attack on me. He wasn’t trying to interrupt my train of thought.

He was just trying to give his sister a bite of his cereal and his elbow got in the way.

So *deep breath* we cleaned it all up and moved on. Because I know now that damaging their little hearts over an accidental spill isn’t worth it. Growing angry over my children’s childish behavior isn’t productive for them or for me.

As I raise these children of mine, I’m growing up, too. Some days I do great. I take deep breaths, and I smile as I mop up spilled milk.

Other days, I have to leave the room for a few minutes to pull it together.

And sometimes I have to apologize.

Motherhood is as much an act of my own personal growth as it is my children’s growth.
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My friends, Wendy and Amber, have written a wonderful resource for moms to help us as we grow into motherhood. It’s a process, this business of being mom. It’s not innate – not really. Every day is different, every child is different, every life stage is unique, and we have to keep up.

I’m thankful for resources that come along and support my growth as a mom. Using sound biblical guidance, Wendy and Amber have given us tools for dealing with each TRIGGER that might threaten to undo us. We don’t have to do this motherhood gig alone.

If you feel like you’re drowning and you can’t get a handle on the emotions that accompany parenting, I highly recommend this book.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to mop up a sticky floor. And also, the toddler has gotten really quiet. That’s never, ever a good thing.

Purchase your copy of TRIGGERS: Exchanging Parents Angry Reactions for Gentle Biblical Responses here.

 

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The Magic of Exploration

Our little house sat nestled on a five-acre field, the sprawling Wisconsin woods providing the backdrop to what was a pretty idyllic scene. I was a child, so my memories of Wisconsin winters are filled with nothing more than magic. Hours spent tunneling through the snow, building igloos, eating snacks inside our burrowed out snow caverns in six and seven foot drifts.

We lived at the top of a large hill, so the neighborhood descended upon our back yard daily to sled. We’d bring out pitchers of water at the end of each day, and build up a ramp of snow, sprinkling it with water between each layer. By morning, we’d have a frozen solid launching pad for our toboggans.

My bedroom was on the second story, and I’d wake up each morning to look out over the stark white landscape, a wonderland of possibility for my imaginative mind. I didn’t need a wardrobe to reach Narnia. It waited for me in my backyard.

It’s easy to remember those Wisconsin years with great fondness. I was a child, and my only responsibility was to bundle up and give in to the imagination. As an adult, I shudder at the thoughts of frigid winters and snowy fields, but as a child?

I lived for winter.

When I was little, there were few things I enjoyed more than exploring. My brother and I would wake early and make plans to traverse the woods behind our house. Of course, during hunting season it was imperative that we wore bright colors and made enough noise to not be mistaken for deer, but in the summer, when the snow finally melted and the trees turned vibrant, we’d spend hours and hours in their shade.

There’s magic in exploration, and I miss it.

There are days when the mundane feels like a blanket over my head. The predictability of life presses down, and I find myself longing for those early years  when I was nothing more than the girl in the trees, swinging from one grand adventure to the next.

There are other days, however, when I’m completely smitten with this life I’m living. As the cooler Florida weather kisses my bare arms (I’ll take a Florida winter over a Wisconsin winter any day of the week now), I watch my husband and kids play in the backyard.

The boys kick the soccer ball, whooping and hollering in delight with each scored goal.

Tia flips and tumbles over her mats, the very same mats upon which I used to flip and tumble in my Wisconsin yard as a child, and I feel her delight as she takes in the world upside down.

And Annika tromps through the yard, high stepping over the areas where the grass is a little too high. Her face is filled with that rapturous delight that only toddlers possess when they’re given the freedom to roam unhindered.

All the sights and sound assail my senses, and I realize there’s plenty of adventure left. Some of the adventure is awesome, the imaginations of my small people lighting the path for grand adventures.

Some of the adventure I could do without – like broken bottles of nail polish and shattered snow globes, and everything else the rambunctious toddler longs to attack inside the house.

It’s all an adventure, even the monotony. I guess it’s just a matter of perspective, and a willingness to use your imagination. Because the truth is, we were made for adventure. We weren’t made for monotony because it leads to complacency, and there’s no power in complacency.

You and me – we were made for adventure.
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If you sit back and think about it, I imagine you’re seeking adventure just like I am. Maybe you’re an obvious thrill seeker, always open and game for the next wild endeavor.

Or maybe you’re a homebody, content to stay nestled inside your comfort zone.

But I imagine you still long for adventure. 

So what does adventure look like for you? Is it the challenge of your work? Is it the delight you take in watching your children grow? Is it travel? Do you find adventure in a good book, or in the creativity of your every day life?

What is it that breaks you free from the monotony of the day to day? When was your last adventure?

Has it been too long?

Helen Keller told us that “Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing at all.” If this is true, and if you believe it, then what are you doing to enjoy the ride?

Happy Tuesday, friends. Make today an adventure.

 

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