Kelli Stuart's Blog, page 9

Mom Like a Boss

It’s 5:30, and I am up early, tapping away at my computer long before the sun rises. This is the only time my house is quiet, but it’s grown increasingly difficult for me to get up at this time, because when my house is quiet I WANT TO SLEEP!

We’ve officially been in the crazy time of life for a couple of years now, but I feel like it’s all starting to swirl together and crash on top of me. Between soccer and gymnastics, homeschool and middle school, and the active (dare I say ornery?) toddler in the midst of it all, most days I barely have time to catch my breath.

We jump from one activity to the next, and we don’t stop jumping until the house silences again at night, and I look around and wonder how on earth it’s already bedtime again, and have I had any water today? What about any real food? Did I eat an actual meal, or simply graze the half eaten plates of the tiny people all day?

I CANNOT REMEMBER!

When we brought our first born home from the hospital, I felt the confidence that only comes from inexperience. I immediately got him on a schedule, and felt such pride at my Mom-ing abilities.

Yes – I just used “Mom” as a verb. It’s the most active thing a woman could do, so it only makes sense. Frankly, I can’t believe we haven’t officially made it a verb before now.

When Sloan was around 18 months old, I remember noticing the first chink in my mom armor. My angelic little toe-headed cherub didn’t seem to want to follow my directions anymore. He had a will, a strong one, and it was all his own. It was at this point that I lamented my loss of daily freedoms.

“I’m just so busy!” I wailed to my husband one evening after a particularly rough day of Mom-ing. “The only free time I have are the three hours he’s sleeping in the afternoon, and then the rest of the day I’m at his beck and call.”

I think back to that younger version of me – sweet little fresh-faced girl who felt certain her life was being swallowed up by her baby. I want to give her a hug…and maybe a little chocolate. I want to whisper in her ear that she will never have so much time to herself again.

It is now twelve years, and three more babies later. Gone are those three hours stretches of alone time in the afternoons. Gone are the early bedtimes and precious evenings alone with my husband. This house is filled with noise and chaos. It’s always dirty.

Always.

I eek out slivers of stolen moments here and there throughout the day. I grossly underestimate how much I can actually accomplish on a daily basis, and am constantly overcommitting myself, because I still forget that Mom-ing four kids takes every waking moment of the day.

In the midst of it all, I wonder if I’m doing okay. Did I do the right thing yesterday? Did I feed them any vegetables? Fruit? Meat? Tell me they didn’t just eat bread and candy.

Mom-ing is hard.

Most days I’m sort of feeling my way through the dark, but I’ve convinced myself of one very important thing:

At the end of the day, if I can tally up a few shared moments of laughter, and obvious displays of love, then I did alright.

Last week, I took the kids to the beach during a day off school. As we made our way down the road that leads to our favorite stretch of sand, Sloan put on Lacrae, rolled down the windows, and messed with the sound settings until he had the bass pumped at full volume.

Shrieks of delighted laughter floated up and out of my pumpin’ minivan as we literally rattled the windows of the cars next to us. The kids rapped and I laughed, and people definitely stared, but who cares. Because I was Mom-ing the heck out of that one moment.

Moms, you’re feeling buried under the weight of it all. I know that you are. Maybe some of you have some silence built into your days as kids go to school, or young ones take naps. Or maybe, like me, the only silence you’re offered is in the dark hours of the early mornings.

Either way, I know it’s a lot. Mom-ing takes all of us, and so I want you to know that I see you, and I offer this encouragement:

Roll down the windows of your (smokin’ hot) minivan. Fling open the doors of your home, and put on a little Lecrae. Rattle the windows with your pumping bass, and let the world know that despite the insanity and never ending to-do list, you are Mom-ing the heck out of life.

Pump the bass, and let the world know you’re Mom-ing the heck out of this life. #momlikeaboss
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Find moments of each day for laughter, and dole out as many hugs and kisses as you’re allowed. And when your head finally hits the pillow at the end of the day, whisper into the blessed silence, “I Mom’ed like a boss today.”

Because you did.

Story

I sat up tall in the chair, elbows resting on the desk as I soaked in every word. I leaned in close, hoping to maybe catch the magic of each phrase and bottle it up for later.

“You each have a story to tell,” the professor said. He wasn’t flashy, like some of my other professors. He didn’t bring in a clunky keyboard, like my Latin professor, and make up quirky songs about the Greek gods.

He didn’t come to class dressed as Chaucer and recite The Canterbury Tales for twenty minutes like my Lit professor.

No, this man was different. He was a writer, and he had the aura of one. He was cool and laid back, with a sharp wit and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He leaned on the podium and looked at us, one at a time.

“You have a story to tell,” he said again. “And that story is only yours.”

That was a long time ago. A loooooong time ago.

It took me thirteen years, and several drafts to write my story – my first story. Because as soon as one story ends, another begins. In between all that storytelling, you see, is a whole lot of living, and life breeds story.

When I finished my novel, I wondered if I would ever find another story to tell. For several months, I thought I’d used up all my words. It was about this time that my blog began to die, and swirling inside all of that was a healing heart after a terminated adoption.

I had to fall into the heartache for a bit so the wound could scab over. Did it heal? Yes, I believe it did.

But there’s still a mark.

Scars are stories, though, aren’t they? I have scars on my knee that tell of a young girl who could swing the parallel bars…until she landed wrong and tore her ACL. It’s a story, and it’s all mine.

It’s been two years since I finished my novel, and in that time I’ve also written a non-fiction book, a couple of short stories, and lots of online words. But I wanted a new story to tell. And I was getting impatient.

In the last month, I’ve felt the tickling sensation of an idea formulating. It likes to prick at me late at night, usually when I’m tired, and I want nothing more than to crawl up in bed with a cup of hot tea and Netflix. At first I tried ignoring it, but then I remembered this is what I was waiting for.

So I recorded it.

Chicken scratches on a scrap piece of paper next to my bed may very well hold the key to my next story. It’s relieving to know there’s more to come. I’m not finished typing words just yet.

But life is hectic. There are so many small people running around my house, it makes my head spin. Half the time little people who don’t even belong to me are here! So I’m fitting the storytelling into the cracks of my day, and in the larger chunks of time I’m choosing to live.

Because life – with all its hectic hilarity, all its pain and confusion, all its joy and laughter, all this smashed up living inside four walls – breeds story.

So first I’ll live the story, and then I’ll tell it, because a story cannot be forced.
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You have a story to tell, too.

Maybe you don’t desire to write a book. That’s okay. I don’t blame you. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a story worth telling.

All of mankind, every bit of the history that tells us who we are, and from where we came, is built on story. Consider this my podium moment as I lean in close and look you in the eye.

You have a story to tell, and that story is only yours. You live your story every day, and it holds weight in this world.

So live your story, and then tell it.

Write it in a journal, on a blog, or on the walls of your home. Tell it with the lens of your camera, or with a video camera strapped to your wrist.

Life is happening right now, all around you. Everywhere you turn, life is waiting to be observed and recorded, and you have a perspective that no one else shares.

Tell your story. I promise, the world needs to hear it.

Where the Streets Are Not Marked

“You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. 

Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked. 

A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin! 

Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in? 

How much can you lose? How much can you win? 

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right… 

or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? 

Or go around back and sneak in from behind? 

Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find, 

for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind. 

You can get so confused 

that you’ll start in to race 

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace 

and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, 

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. 

The Waiting Place… 

…for people just waiting. 

Waiting for a train to go 

or a bus to come, or a plane to go 

or the mail to come, or the rain to go 

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow 

or waiting around for a Yes or a No 

or waiting for their hair to grow. 

Everyone is just waiting. 

Waiting for the fish to bite 

or waiting for wind to fly a kite 

or waiting around for Friday night 

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake 

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break 

or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants 

or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. 

Everyone is just waiting. 

NO! 

That’s not for you!”

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
Dr. Seuss 

Let me tell you a little story about what it’s like to write and launch a book.

It’s a process filled with waiting places – places where you can choose to sit back and hope good fortune stumbles over you, or where you can take matters into your own hands and walk to the good fortune.

The beginning of this journey is filled with excitement. You head down these long wiggled roads at a break necking pace, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying, and you sort of stumble your way through the process until you reach the other side. Finished. A completed manuscript in your hands.

This is when you enter the first Waiting Place.

You hold in your hands a tiny piece of your heart, and you have to decide if you’re going to let anyone read it. So you timidly hand it over to strangers, hoping they like it. And you wait for the “Yes” amidst a whole lot of “No.”

If you’re not content to stay in that waiting place, you persist and push through all the “No.” Because eventually, with a little dedication and refusal to give up, you find your “Yes.” Someone agrees to bind up that piece of your heart, and put a title to it. This, it turns out, is where the real work starts.

Launching a book is like running a marathon in the dark. You sort of stumble along pitch black roads, feeling your way toward the finish line, hoping you don’t peter out and die before you get there. That’s where it’s imperative to have running partners by your side.

Last weekend, I headed up to Greenville, South Carolina for the Allume conference. This is the third time I’ve attended this conference, and it holds a special place in my heart. This is the place where I found my running partners.

There’s a confidence that comes from being with a group of people who understand this crazy journey of publication. They understand the rejection and the fear. They understand the extreme exhaustion that comes from pouring your heart out on the page, and the utter terror that you feel when you must submit those pages to be judged.

The first year I attended Allume, I went all alone. I had the unedited manuscript for my novel tucked away in my bag, and I met with several agents, all of whom loved the concept, but “fiction is a touch sell,” and on they went.

Except for one.

She agreed to at least read the first 50 pages and give feedback. “It’s too long,” she said, and she was right. 150,000 words was a ridiculous length for a debut novel, so I spent the next year editing, and cutting, and shaping it up.

I went back the second year with my edited novel, but I was also joined by Wendy, and together we had a proposal for a new book – a book for creative moms, meeting them right there in the mess of motherhood.

This time, we heard “Yes!”

Then our agent took my novel and said “Yes, again!”

I went to Allume this third year with two books in production, and the weekend was spent trying to learn the ins and outs of marketing and launching. It’s intimidating and overwhelming. I’m running a marathon in the dark.

But at least I’ve got running partners by my side who are cheering me on. Several of them have already walked this path, and so they offer advice and wisdom, lighting the road before me just slightly.

It’s exhausting and overwhelming, this journey I’m on. But I’m glad I pushed myself out of the waiting place and onto this path. Dr. Seuss was right – waiting isn’t for me. The journey is so much more fun when you move forward…even if you’re moving in the dark.

So, what are you waiting on? What’s stopping you from moving forward?

Made for the Light: Part Two

“I just love the way the world looks upside down.”

She said the words with a sigh, her mouth turned up in just the hint of a smile. I glanced at her long enough to see that she wasn’t looking at me, but rather up at the sky. She wasn’t really talking to me at all. She was just stating a fact.

She loves the way the world looks upside down.

As I prepare to head out to a writer’s conference tomorrow, I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking about platform. What does it mean, and can I really stand on one with any amount of emotional stability?

It dawned on me when Tia spoke those honest words that I feel so much like her. I love the way the world looks upside down. I love the way it looks on my computer screen. I love the tapped out rhythm of life that echoes across the keyboard. I love the way the world looks when I’m writing.

Because stories are my upside down.

It’s a beautiful thing to embrace the world as one weren’t meant to see it; whimsical and bright – the world is a fascinating place when turned upside down.

You see, I am the girl on the platform, spinning her way around the stage, and finally feeling warmed by the Light that illuminates the space in front of me. No longer concerned with the applause of the auditorium, I find myself increasingly fascinated with the world as He created me to see it – all topsy turvy.

It’s not always easy, though. I still forget at times to focus on the Light, and instead I strain my eyes toward the seats, wishing there were more listening. I’m not so secure that I’ve forgotten the desire to be seen and heard.

But when I allow myself to simply love what I do for no other reason than I was made to do it, then the Light fills in the dark places once again. Because I love the way the world looks upside down.

Maybe you’re standing on an empty stage, gazing into an empty auditorium, and you’re feeling lost and confused. Maybe the world is to right side up for you right now.

Can I offer a few words of advice?

1.) Know you have a story to tell

Your story is unique, and it’s a story that only you can tell. Maybe there are others around you telling flashy stories. Maybe they have a bigger stage, and wider audience. But they don’t have your story. They couldn’t. Only you hold that story.

So tell it.

2.) Know how you love to see the world

This is akin to finding your voice. How do you love to see the world? What is upside down for you?

Are you a Bible teacher? Then give us scripture laden wisdom, and make us crave the Word.

Are you a humorist? Then tell us a funny story, and make us laugh out loud.

Are you a story teller? Then tell us a story, and make us long for more. 

Find your voice, and show us the world from your vantage point. Because the world is waiting to hear from you.

3.) Know that you’re there to reveal the Light

I heard a story once of Billy Graham. As he ascended the stairs to the stage at one of his famous rallies, the cheers and applause from the crowd below reached a deafening level. Stepping before the podium, the humble man held up his hand, and a hush fell over the group.

“God shares His Glory with no man,” Mr. Graham said, and then bowed his head to pray.

When you ascend the steps of your platform and you take to the stage, no matter how big or small your audience, remember that you’re there to reveal the Light. You’re there for them to see and feel the warmth of the Light. Because that story you have to tell?

He gave it to you. And He shares His glory with no man.

So, tell me: How do you love to see the world? 

If you missed it, here is Part One.

Made for the Light – Part One

There was a little girl I once knew whose entire life was an empty stage, and she knew in her heart she was the one meant to fill that space. The hall echoed with waiting spectators, but she couldn’t see who they were, for the glare of the spotlight left her blinded. So she shielded her eyes and stood center stage, waiting for her cue.

She waited a long time, and the more she focused on the auditorium, the better she was able to block the glare of the spotlight until it sort of faded into her periphery. That was when she realized – the seats were all empty.

She stood on a barren stage, in an empty performance hall, with nothing but a spotlight to keep her warm. How terribly downcast she felt about the whole ordeal.

Dejection tried to push in, but the girl quickly convinced herself that she had only to begin performing, and then people would come watch her. So she started, loud and bold.

“COME LOOK AT ME!” She cried out in her most dramatic voice, each word inflected with a sense of purpose.

“YOU WANT TO WATCH ME, BECAUSE I WAS MADE FOR THIS! THIS IS MY STAGE! ISN’T IT GRAND?”

And a few people trickled in. Some sat in the front row – they were her family – and they clapped the loudest and most enthusiastically. She liked that.

A few more came, and the girl squinted through the spotlight to see a seat fill up here and there, and so she raised her voice again.

“I WAS MADE FOR THIS STAGE! IT’S MINE! I WANT TO BE UP HERE, SO IT MUST BE MEANT FOR ME!”

As she shouted her monologue, more people came, but some also left. It seemed they were a fickle crowd, willing to come and go, and so the girl pulled back and looked around. And that’s when she noticed hers wasn’t the only stage in the room. In fact, the auditorium was filled with stages.

Some were quite large, much more so than the girl’s. And the ones who stood on those large stages had lights, and music. Some had lasers, and even back up dancers. The girl felt very small and inadequate next to those large stages.

But there were others, she noticed, who had smaller stages than her own. Some of those on the small stages stood nearly motionless with arms pinned to their sides, timidly speaking, their whispers drowned in the noise.

But some on the small stages spoke quite eloquently, and the girl noticed that people were listening and watching those speakers. They were illuminated by nothing more that the spotlight, and she felt compelled to incline her ear toward these strong speakers on the small stages.

The girl looked back out toward her own audience, and suddenly realized they all looked bored. Well, all of them except those sitting in the front row. They always looked proud.

And then the girl couldn’t remember her story, or why she stood on that stage in the first place. So she sat down, put her head in her hands, and began to weep. No longer a girl, she had grown into a woman, and she found that being on the stage wasn’t where she wanted to be. She was tired of trying to be heard.

She wanted to be in the audience, comfortably choosing which speaker to follow. So she pushed to her feet, and decided to leave.

Only she couldn’t leave, for the stage had grown around her. It wasn’t a cage, but she found there were no steps on which to descend. She was meant to stay up there. But why? And for what?

Turning circles on the platform, the girl tried to make sense of it all. Finally, she turned back toward the audience, but she couldn’t see them, the glare of the spotlight having grown increasingly bright. For a brief moment, she quit looking for the people and allowed herself to be warmed by the light. And that’s when she knew.

The stage wasn’t hers – it never had been.

And the story wasn’t really hers to tell. All of it belonged to the Light, and in the Light. She wasn’t there to be seen, but to reveal the Light. The audience wasn’t warmed by her performance, or her words – they were warmed by the Light alone.

So she stepped forward, this time more humbly, and with much more trepidation. Lifting her chin, she turn her face toward the Light, and with a smile she held her hands wide.

“Come see this Light,” she cried, in a hushed and hallowed voice. “I was made to show you this Light. Isn’t it Grand? This Light is for you, too.”

Part Two

On Claiming a Title

When I graduated Baylor University with a degree in English Professional Writing, I immediately took on the title “writer.” That’s what I wanted to be, that’s the field in which I looked for a job, and so that’s the title I claimed for myself.

Writer.

That one word feels lofty and even a bit snobbish. Writers are romanticized in movies and television. They are these deep thinkers who live in quirky apartments, and they wear funny sweaters and smoke cigarettes while tapping out the Great American Novel on rusty typewriters.

I don’t know a single writer who does any of those things, by the way.

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Labuda: TammyLabudaPhotography.com

Most of us are tapping out our stories in the dark hours of our days – early morning, and late nights make up a world of stories. If you were to come to my house, you’d see that writing takes place in the cracks of life. During lunch break on homeschooling days, and on the rare gymnastics nights that I can slip away for a time and tap the keyboard while my daughter swings the bars.

There aren’t long stretches of time set aside for writing, because that’s just not the nature of my life right now. Someday there may be time for me to dedicate hours a day to my craft, but that day won’t come any time soon. So I fit it in, and I tell myself it’s okay.

Back when I was newly married, living in a small apartment in Frisco, Texas, I set to work proving myself to be a writer. I bought a clunky Toshiba laptop and set it up on the kitchen table, declaring that to be my space to create.

(I even bought myself a typewriter, with visions of romantic nights clicking away at the keys by lamplight. But it turns out that typing on a computer is much more productive, and a whole lot easier. Typewriters make lovely decorations, though.)

I interviewed for writing jobs in those early days, and landed a few freelance positions, and I considered this paying my dues. I ghostwrote a Study Guide, co-authored a devotional, and I wrote weekly newsletters for a local doctor, while also helping him formulate his ideas for a book series.

I did all of this while working on my own book, and I called myself writer, and I meant it. I was a writer because I wrote words.

But no one was reading the words, so I began to question my ability, and I slowly and quietly dropped the title. I began calling myself an editor, instead. I told people I liked to write, which seemed safer because how can you argue with that?

But I no longer felt comfortable calling myself a writer because the litmus test for being a writer seemed beyond what I had accomplished. I wasn’t publishing books, or even e-books. I had a blog, but it was a humor blog, hardly meant to be taken seriously.

Then I went to a conference that changed everything. I sat in on Jeff Goins’ session on writing, and he told us that part of writing is simply accepting the title for yourself. “It all changes when you’re willing to call yourself a writer,” he said.

So I accepted the title once more, and I tried applying it to myself, slowly at first. And then a little more boldly with time, until I finally came to a place where I believed myself to be a writer.

I even wrote an e-book about it.

It was then that I fell back in love with the craft of writing. No longer caught up in what I was and wasn’t doing, I simply learned to love the art. And I learned to better love my family in the midst of the art.

Taking on the title of mom, however, was never a problem for me. I believed in my ability to be a mom, and a good one at that, from the day my first child was born. It just felt so natural.

But being a Writer and a Mom? That’s a hard one. Because it’s hard to be both all at the same time. So I swing back and forth between the two titles, and the Mom title gets more of me, because of course it would!

Here’s the thing, though: I can wear both titles.

I am Mom. And I am a writer. I’m both things, simultaneously, though one outweighs the other in dedicated focused hours.

I’m also wife, daughter, sister, and friend. All of these titles rest upon me, and I’m grateful for them. Though I may wear some titles more naturally, and I may not always give healthy balance to each role, none are diminished or any  less important. I embrace all these titles, without shame.

What are your titles? How are you embracing all that you were made to be, from your mothering to your wife…ing (go with it), to the many, many skills that make up the whole of your being?

What titles can you claim for yourself?

Post Celebration Blues

Do you remember that feeling you got as a kid when a birthday would come and go, or Christmas morning passed in a blur, and suddenly it was all over and you were left feeling a little let down?

It was the post-celebration blues, and they snuck up on you every single time.

The same feeling washes through when you finish writing a book. It’s sort of a day-after, did-that-really-happen kind of feeling that leaves you wringing your hands and wondering what you should do next.

The thing is, there’s still a lot to be done. Just like after a great birthday party, or a memorable Christmas, there is cleaning up to do. A new day dawns, and brings with it a flurry of activity. And yet you find yourself a bit dejected for a few days until the moment finally passes and you can start looking forward to the next celebration.

Wendy and I turned in our manuscript on Tuesday. It’s been an intense couple of weeks as we’ve gone through the book with a fine-tooth comb, pulling out sections that didn’t make sense, or stopped the flow. We’ve done rewrites, and we’ve challenged one another on theological concepts, always pushing each other toward becoming stronger communicators.

We’ve pushed ourselves late into the night, and throughout the day, filling each down moment with editing and sharpening.

And now it’s out of our hands.

Add to the the fact that I turned my novel back into the editor on Sunday night after doing all the rewrites, and you find me here in the corner, feeling like my birthday and Christmas just rolled past me in one giant swoop. I’m a little sad that it’s over.

There’s still so much to be done, obviously, but today I’m simply in that strange aftermath – the waiting period before life kicks back into gear.

Tomorrow my husband celebrates his birthday. He’s had a stressful few months as well, so we’re sneaking away for a few days, just the two of us. We’ll join Matt and Wendy in San Diego, and we’ll celebrate birthdays and finished manuscripts.

And hopefully we’ll sleep, because I’m running on fumes.

I’m not taking my computer with me, and I’m not going to lie – I’ve had a couple of panic attacks today as I’ve thought about leaving it behind. I need to get started on marketing plans, and I need to finish my ebooks. I need to contact people for endorsements, and I have a MOPS talk to prepare.

But if I don’t stop to take a breath, I simply won’t make it to the next goal.

There’s something to be said about stepping back and taking it all in. Just like there’s something to be said about sitting in front of the fireplace the day after Christmas and not diving right into the cleaning and organizing. Memories can’t be made if we don’t stop to digest the moments.

Books won’t be launched if we don’t stop and digest the accomplishment of writing them.

So tomorrow morning, I will drag myself out of bed at O’Dark Thirty (it’s hard to fly from one coast to the other), and I will leave the work behind. It’ll all be waiting for me when I return, no doubt.

I’m going to step away and celebrate the accomplishment of finishing these first steps. This is the time to breathe, to soak it all in, and to not think about what’s next.

So that’s where I’ll be, and that’s what I’ll do. And hopefully I’ll come home relaxed, refreshed, and ready to prepare for the next big celebration. TWO BOOK LAUNCHES!

Happy weekending to you all!

365 Days

I’ve been her mom for 365 days. I’ve been looking at her face, memorizing it daily, locking up all the unique nuances that make her so special for one year. When I close my eyes, I can see her perfectly. I hear her voice, the way she jabbers constantly. She sounds like a turkey half the time, and I know the words.

I know when she’s fussing at me, and when she’s just trying to communicate.

I know that she reserves her smiles for only those times when they are warranted and deserved. She won’t just give a smile away, and she’s endearing for it.

I know her laugh, the way it gets stuck in her throat and comes out a tangled mess of joy.

 

I know when she’s excited, the way her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ and her feet kick in anticipation.

I know that she doesn’t care for most foods unless they are fruits. And cake, apparently.

I know that she prefers being awake to sleeping.

I know that she lights up when her big brother comes into the room. He’s her protector, I can already tell.

I know that she gives her sister knowing smiles, like they already share a secret to which the rest of us will never be privy.

I know that her other brother, the one who used to be baby until she came along, is her very favorite playmate.

I’ve learned a lot in 365 days. I’ve found that our family is better as a unit of six. I’ve found that I’m stronger and more capable than I thought as I managed this household with a traveling husband and no grandparents around to help out.

I’ve learned that I really prefer to have grandparents around to help.

I’ve learned that having a baby with older kids is quite lovely. Everyone should try it. *wink*

And above all that I’ve found in these 365 days that I just cannot imagine life without her.

 

Today we celebrate Annika, and the joy that it is to calls her ours.

What the…WHAT DID I SAY?!

Life is very full these days. From sun up to sun down, each moment of my day is parceled out in not so generous sums, and I’m slowly working my way to next Thursday when I will release all the strain, shut my eyes, and sleep for four whole days.

Lee and I leave next week for a much needed getaway. We’ve both been under pressure, me with two major book deadlines, and him with a hefty travel schedule. And in between all that we have these four little people who offer heaps of patience and grace (well, three of the four are offering patience. The baby is terribly demanding…).

And so it is that I stumble through each day, moving from one task to the next with little time to stop in between. This has, naturally, led to a bit of distraction, upon which my kids have capitalized and exploited in the most unfair of ways.

It seems they’ve grown quite thrilled with their ability to scare me. Normally it’s not that easy to make me jump because they’re loud, and they’re not really that good at waiting quietly in the shadows. Little giggles give them away, and so I’m usually prepared for their delighted BOO! I feign shock, and we all laugh.

HA HA HA!

But two things have occurred in the last few weeks: The first is the above mentioned distraction, which has left me vulnerable to attack. I’m all caught up inside my head, constantly sifting through all the thoughts that bounce around inside my overworked brain.

The second is that these kids of mine have become somewhat adept at hiding. I should be proud because they’ve really upped their game. But lately I find myself mumbling each time I round a corner, “If one of you jumps out at me I’m going to drop kick you into tomorrow.”

Mad parenting skillz.

This little game of scare-the-pants-off-mom rose to a whole new level last week when Lee was out of town. After a long day, I put the kids to bed then headed to my bedroom where I spent an hour after bedtime cleaning up, trying to find my floor under all the clothes that had buried it.

Around 10:00, I made my way to the kitchen to grab a drink before closing down the house for the night. Just as I rounded the corner, Sloan stepped out from the shadows with a whispered, “Hey there!”

Friends, I’m not a cuss word kind of girl. In general four letter words do not fit very nicely on my tongue, so I don’t often say them save for very rare occasions. This was one such occasion.

I swung my fist through the air and yelped “AAAAAHHH – Whaaaaaat the H$#@!”

This was the moment that Sloan slid to the floor in laughter while I clutched my chest to make sure my heart started beating again.

WHY WAS HE NOT IN BED?!

WHY DID HE DO THAT?!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT CHILD?!

These are questions left unanswered. And honestly, I blame his father for everything that is wrong with him, and all the other ones like him.

“Oooooh my gosh, that was SO funny, Mom!” Sloan squealed, rolling on the floor. He sat up and wiped his eyes. “I mean, I literally scared the H-E-L-L out of you!” he laughed.

I tried to brush it off and be all, “Well, I mean ‘Hell’ isn’t really a bad word. It’s a place. A place. It’s a noun, cause it’s a place!”

“Not the way you used it,” he said, cackling now.

Ha.Ha.Ha.Haaaaaaaaaaaa……

Since that day, it appears that the kids are on a quest to make my life a living H-E-L-L by jumping out at me at all times during the day, forcing me to prepare myself each and every time I round a corner. People of the world, I do not have time for these shenanigans!

This morning I got up early and let the dog outside. As I walked back into the house, Landon stepped from behind the curtains. “Hello,” he rasped in his little morning voice, and I screamed bloody murder. It’s really a testament to my INSANE self control that I didn’t end up punching him in the tiny little freckled nose.

He, of course, fell over laughing, then stood back up and wiped his eyes.

“Aw, man,” he said. “I thought I was gonna get you to say the “H” word again. Or maybe even the “SH” word this time.”

Join me next week for my online seminar: How to Be an Awesome Mom in Two Easy Steps.

Be aware that if you see me in public, and I appear to have a nervous tic, it’s because life and my psycho children are all conspiring to make sure I end up in an early grave.

The End.