That One Time Where I Link You Up: It’s Getting Colder Edition

Read this in one of my new favorite books, Sticky Faith by
Dr. Kara Powell and Dr. Chap Clark

It’s getting cold.  I’m getting grumpy.  I’m one of those big time fall haters.  I am a summer girl and fall just means the end of happy to me.  And also- fall is a giant tease.  Around here it lasts approximately 3 hours and then BAM.  Winter.  And the only thing I hate more than fall is winter.  I don’t like coats or sweaters.  I’m constantly in search of the perfect mittens/scarf/hat combo and every season I’m disappointed.  I hate being cold.  Give me flip flops and sundresses.   

Anyway.  This week felt cold.  I busted out the winter coat for Monster and he instantly became obsessed with his mittens and hat.  That kid looks forward to school every day just so he can wear his winter gear.  Again, sometimes I question his maternity. 

We’ve got jr. high youth group and birthday bonfires tonight and then we’re headed up to a lake house with some dear friends for Saturday night.  Our weekends have been rich and full these past few weeks and this one is no exception.

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For you’re weekend reading pleasure I’ve got a few of my favorites from the week (or two- it’s been a while since I posted links!)

I loved reading both sides of this competitive sports argument (NY Times).  For the record, I’m pretty sure I don’t want my kids to get too involved in the intensely competitive sports field (unless Monster or Toots is the next hockey wiz kid).

I loved this parenting tip and have already employed it with my kids.  Each night I tell them one thing I loved watching them do that day. (The Talent Code)

Kristen over at Rage Against The Minivan always makes me think (and has my favorite blog name of all time).  This post was particularly compelling for me.  (Rage Against the Minivan)

If:Local may be the single greatest thing that has happened to the Christian conference of all time.  The women planning this conference realized it wasn’t accessible to everyone so they tore up the ticket price, made it pay what you can, and opened it to everyone!  All you need is an Internet connection and a gathering of people and you can have access to the webcast of the whole conference!!  Any of my friends want to get together for an If: Local? (Jen Hatmaker)

And finally, this was beautiful in the most haunting, aching way.  (Laura Ortberg Turner)

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Have a great weekend pals!  What are you all up to?  Hoping your weekend is rich and full as well!

Every Family has a Few Crazies

I came across these verses today:

9 Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. 10 Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers.

It’s from Galatians 6.  I was heartened by verse nine, but then, to be honest, I wanted to stop there.  I don’t particularly like that tenth verse, the last part of it at least.  It makes my stomach turn a little.  Verse ten is always hard for me and I find myself cringing a little when I come to that final command, wishing Paul had just stopped with “let us do good to all people.”  I can handle that part.  It's the "especially those who belong to the family of believers" that gets me every time.

On the surface I could say I don’t like that second part of verse ten because it has an “in vs. out” quality.  It implies, to me, that one group is better than the other.  That one should get priority.  And, it part, this is true.  I don’t like this verse because it makes me a little frustrated on behalf of those not in the family of believers.  Why especially them?

But my “gut-reaction” to the second part of verse ten has a lot more to do with this family of believers that drive me crazy.  Particularly the ones that think differently than me.  The ones who claim to be the same as me but act (in my opinion) poorly.  The Mark Driscolls and Westboro Baptists.  I don’t like that last part because I don’t want to be called to help those believers.  I feel they give me a bad name and I don’t want to associate with them.  Their words and actions make my blood boil and I don’t want anyone to mistake me for them.  I don’t want them to be “in.”

But isn’t this attitude just as bad as that of those rallying to keep the “sinners” out of the “saints’” table?  Isn’t that caring more about my identity than my identity in Christ?  My blood boils when I see Christians treating my non-believing friends as unworthy, unloved and less than.  And then I turn around and treat my brothers and sisters the same way.

I may not get to pick them, but they’re still family.  And I suppose that grace towards even the most frustrating and repugnant family members is an excellent way to prove that “everybody’s in.”

The End of Dreaming

I have a confession to make.  I’ve been struggling with some big feelings.  Some ugly jealous/crazy resentful feelings.  There seem to be a number of people as I scroll through my Instagram and Twitter feeds that are doing. big. things.  Living the kind of dream life I’ve long given up.  Traveling all over the world for work or pleasure.  Creating something from nothing and actually following through on the things that I’ve always thought I’d like to do someday.

The part that really frosts my flakes is that these women are in my life stage.  The “living with littles and desperately trying to survive” life stage.  Only they don’t seem desperate to survive.  They’re thriving, actually doing the things I gave up on, chalking it up as impossible to do with kids this young.

I used to be a big dreamer.  I loved envisioning what great adventures my life would hold.  When I was sixteen my psychology teacher had us create a “life to do list” where we listed all the things we wanted to do in our life.  No aspiration was too big or too unachievable to be put on the list.  At sixteen I knew I had all the time in the world to touch a giraffe, win an Oscar, perform on Broadway and go on a cruise.  For the next ten years I kept that list at hand copying it in the first page of every new journal I started, crossing off the things I’d done and adding more dreams as I imagined them. 

In high school and college the endless possibilities of “what life could look life” were exciting and enticing.  Where would I go to college?  Who would I meet?  What would I study?  And then, whom would I marry?  What would my career look like?  Where would I live?  The endless combinations of decisions left to be made created an environment ripe for dreaming for me.  Anything could still happen.  I had no idea what my life would look like.  I loved it.

I’m finding myself, in my more dramatic moments, feeling as though I’ve reached the end of dreaming.   So many of the “big” questions have been answered for me.  I know whom I married.  We are currently shopping for our forever house, answering the question of where we will live.  Two kids in, the “what will I be?” feels pretty limited, at least in this young kids stage.  We’ve begun to settle into our life in a way that feels pretty final.  Somewhere in the last few years I stopped putting that life to do list on the first page of my journals, stopped reminding myself of the adventures I wanted to have, stopped dreaming up new adventures to add.

I’m a “P” on the Meyers-Briggs personality test, which means, among other things, that I am more comfortable before a decision is made.  I like the open-endedness, the unknown, the anticipation of what may be.  Making a decision always comes with a little bit of a let down for me.  It’s why I never find out the gender of my kids beforehand, why I never let Tommy tell me what he got me for Christmas and birthdays and why, while I love my tattoo, I still had a bit of a hard time with the permanence of it all.

Tommy on the other hand is as “J” as they come on the Meyers-Briggs.  He loathes the decision making process and just wants to come to a conclusion.  I can see him getting more and more excited as we settle into life.  He needs roots and permanence to feel comfortable.  It’s something we are constantly navigating in our marriage.

It’s normal, necessary even to find ourselves in this place of settling in.  And in quiet, still moments I can be honest enough to admit it’s a cheap fix to blame my end of dreaming on this season of life.  Having forever questions answered doesn’t mean it’s really forever.  Or that there’s nothing left to anticipate.

No, if I’m being really honest, I’ve stopped dreaming because I’ve given up on myself a little.  It was easy to speak aloud my dreams in high school and college because there were so many of them and the possibility seemed endless.  As I’ve gotten older I’ve had to take a crash course in “realistic limitations.”  A job where I travel and teach and write?  The logistics of figuring out how that works with kids and the part time job I already have feels like a mountain not even worth attempting to climb.  Traveling the world with Tommy?  That takes real dollars and those little people cost a lot.  And don’t travel well.

Facing the reality of what it will take to make some of these dreams happen have me too exhausted to even start trying.   It feels too impossible to see the light of day.

And if I’m being even more gut-level honest here (and I might as well go all the way) there is nothing more vulnerable and risky to me than saying I’m want to do something that may not come to fruition.  I have been known to follow through on things I absolutely don’t want to do anymore only because I declared publicly that I was going to do that thing.  (This is the only reason I’ve completed three marathons and participated in natural childbirth.)  The potential shame of putting it out there and failing keeps me from dreaming at all.

But I’m trying to walk into vulnerability these days.  And I think the practice of imagining adventures for my life is important in and of itself.  I need there to be possibility and anticipation or I start to feel full of ennui.  I get all Ecclesiastical and begin declaring everything to be meaningless.  I need to dream big dreams because it keeps me engaged in life, makes me hopeful and happy.  I need to dare to dream despite the realistic limitations because it is a practice in faithfulness to God and myself.   I need to share those dreams with others because it keeps me open and vulnerable and accountable to at least trying.  And I need to have grace for those dreams that are deferred or simply left undone in twenty years.  I don’t chastise or shame my sixteen-year-old self for daring to believe she could win an Oscar or perform on Broadway.  Rather I smile at the bigness of her goals and breadth of her self-belief.  I expect fifty-year-old me will feel the same about my thirty-year-old dreams as well. 

Do Something-ers

In second grade we had a “Science Day.”  We got to take a break from our regularly scheduled programming and travel room to room with packs of other second graders to perform different science experiments with parent volunteers.  I don’t remember much else from that day except the stickers we wore after going to the “Space Room.”

In the Space Room one of our tasks was to convert our weight on earth to what we would weigh on the moon.  I remember this vividly because after weighing in and calculating our new weight we were given these little stickers where the parent volunteer had written our weight on earth and our weight on the moon.  In second grade I didn’t yet have weight shame, so I don’t remember what my number was or being particularly concerned about it.

I do remember a boy named Seth’s tag.  Seth was a big kid, the biggest in the class, and word spread quickly that Seth weighed over a hundred pounds.  We all knew this, of course, because poor Seth had to walk around for the rest of the day sporting a sticker that revealed the thing that made him different from all the rest.

I remember kids talking about it.  Remember the way this news spread like wildfire throughout the second grade.  And I remember what Roger did.

Roger was the least popular kid in second grade.  He was a nose picker, and a glue eater.  He had ADHD before it was the super diagnosed disorder it is today and we knew because he told everyone.  Constantly.  He was the target of every mean trick and cruel game grade school kids are so adept at playing.  The kind of kid who mistook any attention as good attention, Roger often seemed to egg on his attackers.  He never appeared all that bothered by the teasing; rather at times he almost welcomed it.  You felt really bad for Roger but at the same time, it was hard to stick up for him when he picked his nose and flung boogers at you.

At any rate, at some point during Science Day Roger switched tags with Seth.  Roger walked around with a tag that screamed “heavy kid” and Seth wore the one with a more typical second grader weight.  When asked why he switched, Roger denied doing so.  “What?” he’d say.  “This is my tag.”

Despite his attempts to come across as unscarred by the years of torment, I think Roger was a kid who knew how much it hurt to be the target.  And so, in one of the most profound acts of compassion I’ve ever witnessed among grade schoolers, he took Seth’s target.  And wore it proudly. 

I’ve thought about this story today for some reason.  As I raise my own little people I think about Roger.  I certainly don’t want Monster or Toots to bear the burden of being the kid picked on all the time.  I don’t ever want them to be the odd man out, the last kid picked or the only one sitting at a lunch table.  I don’t want them to be the targets of cruel jokes or mean comments.

I do, however, want them to be like Roger.  I want them to be do-something-ers.

In grade school and middle school I was not an alpha dog.  I wasn’t confident or popular enough to be mean.  I didn’t pick on the Rogers of the playground and, when no one was looking, I was usually very kind to them.  But I was painfully, compulsively driven by a need to fit in, to be liked, to not be the target of ridicule.  So while I wasn’t cruel, I also wasn’t good.  I didn’t want to risk becoming one of the teased by putting my neck out for someone in trouble.  I was a do-nothing-er.  I didn’t hurt, but I didn’t help.

I don’t want this for my kids.  I want Monster to be the kind of boy who willingly, happily takes the target off another kids back and wears it on his own.  I want Toots to be so sure of her worth that she’s free to do something, anything, to stand up compassionately for her peers.  I want them to be do-something-ers. 

It was easy for me to stand by.  Too easy.  But as an adult I have so many regrets about standing by.  I can remember distinctly the times I didn’t do something when I could have, when I should have.  My kids are little, and I’m not quite sure how to raise them to be empathetic do-something-ers.  I’m paying attention, asking questions and trying to praise that behavior when I see it. 

Imagine what would happen if we all raise a generation of do-something-ers…

That One Time When I Link You Up: Late to the Game Edition

It’s Friday night and I’m watching West Wing (duh).  Seriously man, this show.  As my husband says when the credits roll of every single episode, “this is the greatest show of all time.”  We’re waiting for two of our dearest friends to land at O’Hare from the west coast.  Their flight is two hours late.  Stupid O’Hare. 

I’ve got a few great links from the week for your weekend reading pleasure. 

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I’m not one to read obituaries, but this is perhaps the best picture of life lived sweetly and fully.

I love Louis C.K.  I love this clip.  Good comedy should always have a dash of philosophy.

This new Pope, man.  He's a little bit rebellious and a lotta bit social justice-y.  He almost makes me want to return to my catholic roots.

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Enjoy your weekend friends.  It’s been a long week and everyone’s ready to relax a little.  We’ve got lots of fun plans in the city with our friends including dinner at one of my all-time favorite restaurants.  I’ve been dreaming about it all week.  Mostly I’m just looking forward to sitting across the table from our good friends and enjoying their company.

Be well pals.

My Tribe

I was the first of most of my friends to have a baby.  Forging the way to motherhood had its difficult moments, but all in all was not really that bad.  I did, however, struggle with the whole “mom friends” thing.  Those of you with small children know that you need people, other adults, to hang out with during the day or else your brain will turn to mush and you will pounce on your poor introverted husband the second he walks in the door to talk all about what that crazy monkey did today on Curious George.  Poor introverted husband just wants a few moments to decompress, but as he’s the first adult you’ve had contact with all day, that’s not happening, amiright?  Enter the mom friend.  Someone you can walk to the park with and talk about real grown up ideas and not feel bad about the saggy diaper your kid is sporting.

The problem was I already had really great friends who just weren’t moms yet. My wonderful, compassionate, hilarious friends weren’t accessible during the day, as they had jobs to go to and non-yoga inspired clothes to wear, but they were amazing friends, nonetheless.  It seemed sort of silly to try to make a whole bunch of new friends, particularly when the only thing we had in common were little tyrants that now accompanied us everywhere.  I hated trying to force connection based on similar life stages so I decided to just wait it out.  Eventually at least some of my friends would have babies too and I’d finally have some adults to hang with during the day.  The only real friendship that came out of this waiting period was Kate who lived two doors down.  Both of our kiddos are born weeks apart and she doesn’t really feel like a mom friend because we would have been friends whether or not kids were in the picture.  It just so happened that we came across each other pushing newborns all around town in an attempt to keep our sanity.  We would continue to provide sanity saving comfort to each other for the next few years until we both moved off the street that made us neighbors.  

At any rate I am finding myself in the glorious stage of life where some of my friends have now become moms.  And we live close to each other.  For the past year or so, I’ve had a few mom friends in particular with whom I’ve been doing life.  It’s amazing, this mom friendship thing.  We know each other’s schedules.  We plan outings to help break up the monotony of the week.  We understand the monotony of the week!  We understand how a day with a small child can be so insanely, whiplash inducing crazy, while also being so incredibly, mind-numbingly boring.

I got into the car after an outing with these friends and our kids feeling full to bursting.  We had spent the morning catching up and sharing hearts all while continuing to do the parenting thing.  And, as we’ve all grown particularly close over the last year of doing life together, our kids were all interchangeable.  One friend pushes mine in the stroller, I help her kid go potty, we all dole out lunches and sippy cups and snacks.  She makes sure mine doesn’t run into the street, I watch hers while she pees.

I love that we take care of each other’s kids.  That their kids feel like my kids.  I love that it doesn’t matter who’s watching whom- I know it’s covered.  Our kids look forward to seeing each other, squealing with delight upon sight.  They feel comfortable with not just each other, but with all the adults.  These are familiar faces they know and love.  These are safe people they see every week.  It feels like a tribe, these friendships.  Like we’re all raising our kids together, that we’re invested in the lives of all these little ones, not just the ones we birthed.

My tribe will only grow from here, as I have many more friends not quite ready for kids yet, and many future babes to know and love.  I’m thankful for it all, but particularly for this sweet season of doing it day in and day out with women whom I knew and loved before kids and know and love even more now as mothers.

More Things I Don't Do...

A few years ago, spurred on by Shauna Niequist, I set about participating in the incredibly liberating practice of creating a list of Things I Don’t Do.  It was wonderful and empowering and all around freeing to say aloud the things I refuse to succumb to the “do this too” pressure.  As I find myself in a new season of life and weather I’ve been ticking off a few more things to add to the list.  I don’t know about you, but new school years and new seasons have me feeling the weight of DO ALL THE THINGS!!!  And also, this back to school time of year tricks me into thinking I need to reinvent myself, become more, better, bigger.  That this year is the year that I am finally all the things that I’m really not.  And so, here are a few more things I don’t do.  As always, if they are things that you do, bless you for it.  There is no judgment from me and I hope no judgment from you for my slacking.  I’ll probably solicit you to do them for me.

I don’t grow gardens, can vegetables, or make preserves or apple butter from scratch that I can save for the winter months.  I don’t actually know what apple butter is.  I am in awe of those of you who can do this.  Absolute, one-hundred-percent awe.  But seeing as my mom asked me to water her tomato plants while she was out of town for two days and the whole garden operation came tumbling down and my mom is still complaining about the poor crop she got this year, I’m ready to throw in the green thumb towel.  I would love to be able to walk into my backyard, hand pick all the produce necessary for a delicious salad and then serve it for dinner that night.  But I want someone else to do all the work to make that little scenario possible.  Same with being able to go to my pantry in four months and pull out a can of something that I grew myself when the sun was still warm and the green grass grew all around.  Alas, I’ve given up this dream and I feel ten pounds lighter saying it aloud.

I don’t do arts and crafts with my kids.  I’m not crafty.  I loathe glitter and pipe cleaners and glue.  I’ll read Go Dog, Go ‘til I’m blue in the face, will have one million tickle fights and will even sing the itsy bitsy spider (though that’s pushing it) before I get crafty with my kids.  I’m probably ruining Toots' and Monster’s creative potential, but judging by what they bring home from school and the gym kids program there may not be all that much there to begin with.  I just don’t have it in me.

I don’t do bento boxes or artistic lunches.  Monster may feel bad one day when his turkey sandwich, grapes and pretzels are haphazardly tossed in Tupperware while the kid next to him is munching on a lunch that would make the sous chef at a five star restaurant squeal with delight, but I’m not going to feel too bad about it.  I hate making lunches, so I’m going to call it a win that he has something in his monkey lunch box at all.

I also don’t get too perfectionist about Monster’s homework.  I want to.  His “Student of the Week” poster went back to school today looking like a three-year-old put it together and there was a small part of me that wanted to fix it all.  But then I remembered that a three year old did put it together and that three year old is pretty dang proud of his work.  Upside-down pictures and all.

What don’t YOU do?  What freeing things have you stopped doing for the greater good that I, too, can give up?