Folks, we've got ants......

Yep.  Big ole' carpenter ants.  At my office.  So we called Landlord and Landlord set up ant traps.  Landlord stopped me in the parking lot and explained how they work:

The ants go into the trap.
Take yummy tasting bait out of the trap to their homes.
Feed the yummy tasting bait to their families.
Die. Out of sight, in their homes.

Lovely.

The grossed out business professional in me loves this plan.  No more ant carcasses in my waiting room.

The tired, hopeful, raw sacred in me was disturbed by this plan.  Not so much for the ants, but for my babies.  It made me wonder what poison I'm collecting out in the world and bringing home.

Scary news coverage.
Arguments with insurance companies.
Unsettling health concerns in friends.

When I take a step back, I realize that under the influence of this poison, I feel scared, irritable, and helpless.  And I can think of a couple of typically-around-bedtime-or-meals-or-just-trying-to-get-out-of-the-house moments when Kiddo 1.0 & 2.0 feel scared, irritable, and helpless.

Bummer.

But then I remember the silly, snuggling, loved moments and wonder where those come from. Because,just like the poison doesn't just APPEAR, I don't think the balm does either.

Worship.
Community fundraising events.
Good music and warm coffee.
Therapy.

The poison is so real, folks.  But so is the balm.  And I really, really believe that we are powerful vehicles of both.  But the insidious thing about the poison is we take it home to suffer alone.  Like the ants, we're not dying in the waiting room.  We're suffering out of sight.  And while that does a really, really good job of protecting us from judgement, it makes the odds of rescue pretty slim.

My prayer this advent season is that we can be balm-bearers, not poison-portals.  And when we succumb to the poison, we don't do it privately, but instead reach out towards the light of healers, in whatever form they come.

Set the World on Fire

I was just scrolling Facebook.   Because Facebook is in my top 3 for avoiding-doing-hard-or-brave-things-at-work strategy.   Personal experiences and world news and windy weather has left me in an achey, scared place, so everything feels extra hard and brave.  While Facebooking, I came across this post from exactly one year ago.  

Today, my legs are on fire because I've been duped into this they-call-it-exercise-but-its-tourture-class on Mondays. Drill sergeant says this means I'm doing it RIGHT. GETTING HEALTHIER. 

And I'm reminded of this song. 

Because *I think* relationships are like exercise: If you're doing them right, you might be achey-on-fire the next day. But, the flame has to burn a bit to give off light, right?

Apparently, this achey is not an new phenomenon. And while I feel a little betrayed by Facebook because I was trying to AVOID not BURN BRIGHT, the reminder came at the right time.  So, I'm sharing it with you.  Whatever space you're in, be compassionate with yourself.  Compassion and courage and safety doesn't start with foreign policy and TSA restrictions.  It starts with each of us having an internal sense of what compassion and courage is.     

Lasagna Love

WThis week, I found myself making a lasagna.  A friend was struggling, and a group of mamas were working together to make sure she didn't have to worry about dinner prep for a few days.  Despite making dozens of lasagnas in my (very limited) culinary career, this lasagna hit me with the sacred space of it all.  If it weren't for the random collection of magnets, pretend food, and barbie shoes littering my kitchen floor, I might have taken my shoes off.  I'm talking THAT sacred of space, people.

As I layered the ingredients, I thought about all the layers of hardship that I had prepared lasagnas for.  New parents slogging through sleep deprivation.  Families trying to navigate grief, mental illness, or cancer.  As I've watched these families accept my lasagna, I've decided that asking for help is one of the bravest things any human can do.  Asking for help when you are feeling rough around the edges is pure heroism, in my opinion.  Because if I'm showing up with a lasagna, it's because figuring out what's for dinner has been lost in a sea of scared, lonely, unshowered, confused, dirty-clothes-scattered-around-the-house overwhelm.  And whether its sleep deprivation or a mental or physical diagnosis creating the overwhelm, the risk is still the same.  The risk of being scrutinized, of all that time spent keeping up appearances and niceties going out the window.  So these lasagna-eaters are real heroes, I tell ya.  Not just because they graciously accept my cooking as a "gift" but because they remind me of the beauty in the whole dynamic of giving and receiving.

The beauty in taking time away from work and chores and other annoying adulting (see below) 

things to send up a pasta prayer.  Even though Husband insists this form of prayer was not covered in Seminary, it's a thing, people.  So far, it's been the most sacred part of my week.  To layer the noodles, grace, cheese, patience, sauce, courage, herbs, self-compassion for the lasagna-eater.   To honor that struggle and love and community all belong together in the same dish.  To give myself permission that when I find myself on the wrong side of circumstance, I can accept the lasagna from another.

PS- After I crafted this lasagna, and my blog post, I read that the WHO has decided there's a link between red meet and cancer.  I'm not sure what kind of cruel twist of fate this is.  That my newly discovered spiritual practice is inflicting cancer on my lasagna-eating heroes.  *Sigh*  Too much for one day.  I'm eating some bacon and going to bed.  

Home

Awhile back, Kiddos & I were driving to the library.  We were listening to the radio, and this song came on.  Kiddo 1.0 piped up from the back seat: "Turn it up mama, it's God singing to us!"
Me: Turn what up?  God? Where?
Kiddo 1.0:  The song, mom, the song.  Listen.

Hold on to me as we go, as we roll down this unfamiliar road.  
Just know you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna make this place your home. 

Me:  Kiddo 1.0, how do you know that is God?
Kiddo 1.0: Because he made our home.  The song is about the Earth and how He is always with us.
Me: Silently tearing up in the front seat.  For a lot of different reasons.  First, tears of joy because that's beautiful theology, from a little one.  I love that she listens to love songs and hears her Creator singing to her.  Second, tears of confusion because this particular theologian had been screaming at me not EVEN an hour earlier for doing something horrific like brushing her hair in the bathroom instead of in the living room.  It's so, so disorienting to have intense joy and frustration for one little creature.

Fast forwarding, I tucked this experience away to unpack later.  And I'm sitting here, wondering about the concept of "home."  For a portion of my childhood, I was a military brat.  By the time I was 8, my family had lived in 8 or 9 homes in 5 different states/countries.  Enter a season of stability with 1 home for 10 years, followed by college/marriage/early career season of 9 homes in 8 years.  Definitely calls into question the merits of a physical space being the defining characteristic.  Then, my thoughts wander to some of my most vulnerable clients.  The ones that are in foster homes, waiting on a legal system to define their tomorrows.  And they remind me that "home" isn't just a physical space, it's a mental health commodity.  Then, my thoughts wander back to Kiddo 1.0 and another recent experience:

We've started kindergarten this month. Big deal, around here.  Kiddo 1.0 is in heaven.  She loves this learning, playing business.  Except when the business goes a bit off-script (so.my.child).  Which is how we found ourselves, holding hands in a very, very loud and crowded and chaotic school cafeteria.  Kiddo 1.0 had tears rolling down her face and was completely stumped about how to navigate this not-outside-because-its-raining-recess.  And I, in my Master's Degree, Awesome Mom Splendor, had a very appropriate response started to cry too.  Cue the 5th grade angel.  This creature walked up to Kiddo 1.0, asked her if she knew how to play "Go Fish," and invited her to join the game.  Kiddo 1.0 let go of my hand, went on to win "Go Fish," and have a great day at school.

THAT, my people, is home.  That gift of "you are struggling and you are worthy" is home.  Sometimes it comes in a song.  Sometimes it comes in a game of "Go Fish."  My hope and prayer is that I can BE that to others.  And when I can't be that,  when I'm too tired or disenchanted or wounded, that I can TRUST that in others and accept the invitation.

Flashback: Grace & Love & Samoas

T was super excited about a book he just finished by Rachel Held Evans.  And even though I *should* fully absorb everything T tells me and is excited about, I don't.  I get distracted by things like the load of laundry I started 3 days ago.  Cutting to the chase, tonight I'm super excited by Rachel Held Evans.  I was catching up on paperwork reading some of my favorite blogs.  And I came across this gem of a quote by Rachel:

"One of the most destructive mistakes we Christians make is to prioritize shared beliefs over shared relationship, which is deeply ironic considering we worship a God who would rather die than lose relationship with us."

Tangent: I didn't really know what I was getting into 8 years ago when I married T.  I mean, I knew it wouldn't be all sunshine and rainbows, but I didn't spend a ton of time vetting important things like, "Articulate your philosophy on antibiotics when you're sleep deprived & dealing with a feverish preschooler" and "Does grace extend to the occasional fender bender and major medical emergencies?"  So, me meeting and marrying and still thoroughly enjoying a guy that is excited by people like Rachel Held Evans is my personal testimony that there is some sort of higher power.  

Back to regularly scheduled programming:  My first reaction as I read this quote was "Yes! I love all people because my God did first!  This single quote captures the single most important tenant of my faith: unconditional love.  I may have broken out the box of Samoas to celebrate Rachel Held Evans.  

And then?  And then I remembered all of the moments over the not-so-distant past where I prioritized beliefs over relationship.   

Moments where I yelled at my kids because they don't share my belief about the value of vegetables and personal hygiene.  Moments where I ignore the pile of dishes because T doesn't share my belief about rinsing first.  Moments where I get really occupied by my phone instead of the arguing pair on the corner because they don't share my belief about conflict resolution.  

And then? And then I remembered Grace.  This beautiful, wipe-the-slate-clean caveat because no mistake is too big to undo the love and the holy and the sacred.  And that is why I choose faith.  Because as humans, we are wired for relationships.  But relationships are HARD.  Sometimes, people are WOUNDED and MEAN.  And the God I believe in knew this, and loves us unconditionally, and forgives us unconditionally, and calls us to do the same.  

Lessons Learned

I've been running up against a common saying this week.  "I must not have learned my lesson last time.  This must be happening again because God wants me to learn something."  And on the one hand, I appreciate the sentiment of:
"Wow.  This is downright crappy.  But maybe, if I keep mining through this pile, I'll find a porthole to a magic land of unicorns and rainbows in the form of a life lesson.  And that's just the motivation I need to keep from throwing my hands in the air and resigning myself to living a life in the pile."  

But then, I've noticed people around me ADDING layers to the pile.  Like, "I didn't learn the lesson the first time so I must be a stupid shmuck who will never get it."  And my heart breaks a little.  Because I've spent enough time in my own pile to know it is NOT prime real estate.  It's a raw, stinky, awkward, unattractive venue.  And so I can't conjure up a God that puts me there on purpose to do hard things like learning.  And even if that were the case, I don't think the lesson we are back there to learn is "we are stupid schmucks."

So, in my pondering-humanity-and-how-strange-humans-are practice that is stalking Facebook, I came across this:

And it resonated with my God vs. Pile dilemma.  I also appreciated that the image is of a huge elephant.  Because I don't know about your pile, but my pile is something like what you'd find on the wrong end of an elephant. 

I digress.  

Going back to my Silver Linings post, God doesn't concoct piles.  Piles are comprised of bad habits, unhealed wounds, interpersonal errors, and shame.  Piles are a byproduct of being human.  And if we're really doing human full on, we're going find ourselves in piles.  The hope I've been holding for myself is that I respond to the situation NOT with doses of shame, but with:

"Ugh.  This pile is very, very familiar.  But I am changed.  I am more ___________ (brave? compassionate? wise?) than the last time I was here."

"Hmmmmmm.  This pile is very, very familiar.  And I feel less _________ (brave? compassionate? wise?) than the last time I was here.  I wonder if there's a fellow pile-wanderer who loves me enough to muck out this pile with me."  

"Bleck.  I'm.So.Tired.  All I can hope is this pile is big enough and raw enough and stinky enough to keep me away from situations/people that cause me to be in charge of things like decisions and thinking and problem solving and cooperating." 

Saying Goodbye

Today I said goodbye to a couple of things.  Probably not things that warrant an entire blog post, but here we are.  

First, my hair.  Well, not ALL of my hair.  But most definitely, mathematically, MOST of my hair.  As seen here:  

A year ago, I found myself crying in the shower.  I have showered since then.  But this particular shower was different because it was 5 am and I was getting ready to go see Partner, who was in the hospital. Partner had emergency surgery the night before for a severely broken ankle.  I was crying because:

(1) It was scary and hard to see Partner so vulnerable 

(2) Partner could not be "weight-bearing" (this is a nice was of saying no driving, no full impact parenting) for 12 weeks 

(3) Ambulance rides and emergency surgeries are expensive

(4) Anything before 8am is inhumanely early for me 

I was washing my hair, crying, and having the thought that hair is really a silly thing to be taking time for at a moment like this.  Then two women I care about crossed my thoughts.  One was on her way to Seattle for a wig because her hair had fallen out due to an autoimmune disorder.  Another was wondering how to explain her breast cancer to her 2 young daughters.  And then I realized that hair is a very-not-silly thing to these women.  And that my heartache was very raw, but very manageable.  And I wasn't sure how to get through the day, but I was sure I could take time for my hair until it was long enough to cut off and donate.  Which brings us to today.  And the situation you witnessed above.  

I scheduled this appointment 2 months ago.  My hair was the longest it has been in 30 years.  So, I was a little bit shocked when the hairdresser was measuring my hair to see if it was even long enough chopping off an 8" ponytail.  Happened that quick.  Too quick for me to take a before picture.  Clearly, cutting hair isn't a sentinel event for her.  But I had to pause to catch my breath.  Then I got sad I didn't have the before photo.  Then I got mad I didn't have the before photo.  Then I got scared.  Then I took some time to reflect and self-actualize went shopping.  And while I was shopping, I realized that loss is so like that.  So.Quick.  And even if it's not quick, it feels quick because it never feels like enough time to orient to the new.  And that helped me be brave and remember that my haircut served a purpose: to maintain perspective about hard stuff.  That I lost 8+ inches of hair, but people I love are losing so much more, but thriving in the process.  

So, I took this little epiphany (and a few new wardrobe items) home.  And it gave me the courage to say goodbye to this: 

Yeah.  My breast pump.  If you saw that coming, I'm not sure if I should be concerned or totally impressed.

I am done being pregnant.  That's a story for a different day, but it leads us to me rifling through the house with a lovely family member who is 9 months pregnant.  And in need of a breast pump.  And as I carried it to her car, I felt sad.  Which is wacky.  Because I.HATED.PUMPING.  It's about the most dehumanizing thing a person can do.  A sweet friend told me once that in her sleep-deprived state, she was convinced the rhythm of the machine was talking to her (bad-mom, milk-machine, bad-mom, milk machine).  For me, it was initially a reminder that I was critically ill and my baby couldn't nurse.  Later, it was a reminder that I was a working mom who "chose her career" over her child.  Disclaimer: That's not how I really feel.  But sleep deprivation and shame takes a person to a really, really dark place.  Bottom line is, being sad about this era being over is a bit strange.  

I confided this to Partner, because I was confused.  And Partner stopped what he was doing and gave me a hug.  And said it's a very-ok-not-weird-thing to be sad about.  And I stepped into the second lesson about loss:  It doesn't have to make sense.  But everyone and every loss deserves a safe space.  And our culture does a lot of running from, covering up, and simply ignoring grief.  But the longer I spend noticing grief in myself and others, the more I am convinced that making space for grief is one of the bravest, kindest things we can do for one another.  

So, to summarize the day:

(1) Loss is disorienting.  

(2) Loss deserves a safe place.  Offering safe space is a great act of courage and compassion.  

(3) I'm going to save a lot of money on shampoo.  

Paddle Boarding

Let me fill you in on my perspective about Paddle Boarding.

Yes, paddle boarding.  I tried it for the first time while at camp this month and loved it.  Partner doubted my natural ability, so instead of taking pictures, he held my sunglasses and cleared the children out of the area so they wouldn't witness a drowning.  So, I did a brief google search to find photo representations of my experience.

There are two things not accurate about this photo.  First, I don't wear 2 piece swimsuits.  Second, the paddle board I used was white, not purple.  And while I didn't *actually* do this yoga pose, I probably could have.  If Partner would have calmed down long enough to single parent for 2 months so I could spend that time on said paddle board, perfecting my form.  

There are two things not accurate about this photo.  First, I don't wear visors.  Second, Partner was a lifeguard in a previous life so both myself and Kiddo 2.0 had lifejackets on.  The kid part is totally accurate.  Because after I realized I could maneuver a paddle board, I delicately created space for Partner's fears stuck Kiddo 2.0 on and paddled circles around Partner.  

Pretty much everything about this photo is not accurate.  But I picked it because it most closely represents my absolute favorite thing about paddle boarding:  Centering.  The key to paddle boarding is staying centered.  The week leading up to my paddle board experience was a pretty chaotic one.  I felt pulled lots of different directions with work and kids and extracurriculars.  Then I found myself on this paddle board and I realized very quickly that if I focused on any one or any thing other than me on the board, I would look like this:

Except I wouldn't be in footie pj's.  I don't do two piece swimsuits, but I also don't do footie pj's.   I digress.  Back to centering:

Considering how much time I spend, you know, making a living encouraging mental health, I've always really struggled with centering.  For a rough patch in high school, I think it was to avoid some of the raw, insecure wounds I had at my center.  For a good chunk of college and grad school, I made the grade focusing on everyone else's center.  But life like that isn't sustainable, so I had to start looking at my center.  And that was hard.  And that is still hard.  Until you have an ice cold lake staring right back at you.  Then you spend time focusing on center.  Until you have an injured family member or big life decision. Then you spend time focusing on center.  

So my hope is that we continue to have paddle board moments.  Moments to center without a crisis as the driving force.  May we have the courage to try it, the motivation to make it a priority, and the grace to hold each other's sunglasses for when we fall.  

Wedding Shoes

Partner and I have been married for almost 8 years.  I was wearing my wedding shoes the other day and noticed a couple of things:
(1) It's cool that I'm wearing my wedding shoes 8 years later.  Our culture's wedding traditions don't lend to much that lasts.  The flowers die, the dress shrinks, and the music stops.  Heck, statistics show that the marriage itself only lasts about half the time.  I went into my wedding (and my marriage) with practicality in mind.  So that's where these come in:

(2) If I wear them too long, they start to rub the skin raw on the back of my feet.  They didn't used to do this.  But pregnancy, in combination with life in general, tends to change one's body shape over the years.  This is also true of my marriage.   The first bit was cute and the perfect accessory.  Even practical, actually.  And then life happened.  And somewhere in that process, I began to notice that Partner sometimes rubs me the wrong way.  Rubs me all the way to raw.  Because marriage is HARD.  Being in a partnership where you put all sorts of assets (financial, emotional, and human) in a shared basket is a classic definition of vulnerable.  Re-evaluating the value of those assets to make big decisions (where should we live?  what career should I have?  where should we send our kids to school?).  TOUGH STUFF.

(3) I haven't gotten rid of them yet (the shoes or the husband).  I also haven't tortured myself with raw skin.  I invested in some medical tape and artificially create some "thick skin" on the spots I know get get tender.  In my marriage, this looks like adding "reinforcement" in the form of caffeine, sleep, time in the sun, and good music. This also looks like informing Partner of "tender areas."  

SIDEBAR: After 12 years together, Partner appears to know things I don't know I know.  Kinda sweet.  And creepy.  But he mostly uses this power for good, not evil.  

  

Bartering Binkies

Kiddo 2.0 inherited partner's sleep habits.  As in, she can lay in a dark room, with a binky and a sound machine and stay awake for hours.  Thankfully, partner has similar sleep habits and is willing to take the late/early shifts when Kiddo 1.0 and I are sleeping like normal human beings.  This has been a lovely arrangement until 2 recent developments:
1.  Kiddo 2.0 is potty trained and uses this as a ploy for late night ventures from her room.
2.  Kiddo 1.0 is in the process of giving up her nap (yes, she still naps.  yes, she's starting kindergarten) & falls asleep waaaaaaaaayyy before kiddo 2.0.  And Kiddo 2.0 likes to live on the edge and do crazy things like GO INTO HER SISTERS ROOM after sister is asleep.

This is a big problem because those potty trips and sister mutiny sessions cut into my sacred evening time when I do things like stare at walls and use the bathroom and finish all the meals I started at various points during the day.

So, my most very-thought-out-totally-recommended-somewhere-in-a-book-I-haven't-had-time-to-read strategy is to make Kiddo 2.0 trade her binkies for potty trips.  Every time she gets out of bed, she has to sacrifice a binky.  She sleeps with multiple binkies, so I'm really not a mean mom.  Just a tired, impatient one who makes her choose between her security object or using the bathroom.  I'm not sure, but I'm thinking it's somewhere between preschool and kindergarten that you earn basic privileges in our home, like unfettered access to the bathroom and goldfish crackers box.

Lately, I'm really leaning into the theology that if it isn't okay, it's not the end.  That love and good intentions and peace will have the final word.  And if it's a season of heartache and lethargy and overwhelm, there's another season coming.  All of this is to say that I'm pretty sure Jesus doesn't want me to end my day navigating potty breaks and sister fights.  I'm pretty sure Jesus wants me to end my day in a quiet house, with a glass of wine, reading pointless information on Facebook.  So while bartering binkies probably isn't a solid parenting practice, I'd definitely consider it a spiritual one.

Silver Linings Jesus, Round 2

I wrote this entry earlier this Spring, before I decided to make writing a formal intention.....between the time I wrote this entry and now, I came across the song "Love will have the final word" by Jason Gray.  And I got really excited, like, somehow, my "Silver Linings Jesus" was such a phenomenal idea that he wrote a song about it.  Obviously, I recognize the irrational grandeur of this.  I also know that mentally reviewing every worst case scenario for every situation doesn't actually keep it from happening, but if the irrational thought makes me feel better, I keep it around.

Please file this under the "Not Actual Advice" category and not under "She's a Therapist, it must be real advice" category.

Besides it being inspired by my earth-shattering blog post, I really like this song because it gives me a version of God that I feel nurtured by.  I don't feel nurtured by a God that causes hardship, then says it was my fault, then rescues me, so I will have a deeper faith.  That feels as twisted as me hiding Kiddo  2.0's binky, kindly telling her that if she kept better track of her things she never would have lost it, then stepping in as the hero in the 11th hour, revealing the long lost binky.  As I write this, it actually makes me think of lots of cases I see in my office, big and little people tricked by those who were designed to nurture and guide them.  I've always experienced God on the healing, not wounding side of things.  And this song says so.
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April, 2015

So, this bizarre thing started happening about a month ago.  I would have these cravings to write.  I'm used to cravings for caffeine and sleep and good music.  But not writing.  So I ignored it.  And then it kept happening.  So, here I am.  Not because I have all this extra time and energy and my house is spotless for Easter and the laundry is all done.  Not because something worth writing about all of a sudden happened, over a year later.  Really, because I have very low impulse control and I have a tendency to give into cravings.  Like, the entire tray of chocolate dipped pretzels in my freezer because I couldn't make it through the evening without some sort of sweet-salty deliciousness.

So, the latest writing craving was about my Silver Linings Jesus.  Yep.  Let me fill you in:

This weekend, our family took a mini-vacation.  There were some really great moments, like swimming and picnicking and snuggling in the fancy hotel bed.  But, there were also some pretty tough moments, like Kiddo 2.0 getting car sick (public service announcement- "I full" is two year old for "I'm going to vomit all over the place), and the hotel smoke detector battery beeping at 4:00am.

And on our drive home, sometime after the SECOND bout of carsick toddler, and preschooler question number 4,532,349,321 regarding our EXACT location in relation to "being there," it occurred to me that this Easter season, "resurrection" is the promise of the silver lining.  That there are storms, but Christ's death & resurrection is the promise of a silver lining.  That the storm does not have the final word.

In mini-vacation terms:
Kiddo 2.0 got carsick all over the place, I forgot to pack extra clothes, Kiddo 1.0 is a sympathy puker (storm).
Both kiddos were exhausted and ASKED to skip kitty playdate so they could nap (silver lining).
Smoke detector battery starts beeping at 4:00a, immediately above the sleeping toddler & preschooler (storm).
My sweet husband ripped the thing out of the wall before the girls woke up & the hotel gave us 10% off our bill for the disruption (silver lining).

See?  Now, God didn't concoct gastrointestinal distress and battery outages so that I would love Jesus.  Those things, unfortunately, just happen.  But taking time to notice the silver lining left me feeling grateful, not grumpy.  And usually, the grateful version of me is more patient and gracious and all those things Christ calls me to be with my babies and husband and co-workers and hotel front desk worker.

So, this Easter, I'm rejoicing that our God is a God of silver linings.  That we have a built in holiday to remember that life is hard, but it doesn't stay that way.  Now, say a prayer that the same can be said for the smell inside my car, which my husband has affectionately renamed "Vomit Comet."

Deep Breathing

Besides time with family, I spend a lot of time at my office.  My office is this magic space where kids and families come with their struggles, bravely share them with me, then work really, really hard to make things better.  The official term is "Play Therapy."  The process of play therapy is pretty magical.  It's also frequently noisy, messy, and unpredictable.  Big feelings in little people are like that.  Sometimes when it feels like there's more feelings and people than there is magic, I make some magic of my own.  I turn on some music and light a candle and take deep breaths.

If you'd like to re-create the sacred, here's how:

Pick a song about grace or love or mistakes.  My current favorites are "Not Right Now" by Jason Gray or "Grace Like Rain" by Todd Agnew.

Turn off the lights and light a candle.

Focus on the light and take deep breaths through the song.  Breathe in the love and grace and breath out the messy, noisy heartache.

Sometimes if I'm blowing out lots and lots of heartache, I blow the candle out.  And a little of the magic is lost because I'm already overwhelmed and I just EXTINGUISHED ANY LIGHT I HAD LEFT.  At this point, I do 1 of 2 things.

(1) I relight the candle and breathe more carefully.

OR

(2) I mutter some curse words, stop the music, and walk to my nearby coffeeshop.  Because music and God and light are great, but there are somethings that only cursing and caffeine fix.

Pity Potty Party

I've been working on a post in my head for awhile, reflecting on marriage and love and awwww.  And then Husband went on a business trip and I am on day 4 of single parenting Kiddo 1.0 & 2.0.  And marriage and love and awwwwww are so.not.my.vibe.right.now.  Instead, prepare yourself for a post full of sarcasm and potty training casualties and some capital letters.  If that's not your thing, check back after Husband returns and rescues me from single parenting and I feel the love and awwwww.

Kiddo 2.0 is potty training. So, it's a disaster when she announces its time, and her sister is already on the potty.  So we have a potty accident.  While we are operation de-con upstairs, epic screams come from downstairs.

Me: "Kiddo 1.0, what happened? Are you bleeding?  Kiddo 2.0, stop playing with the toilet water."
Kiddo 1.0: "Waaaaaaaaiiilll.  My hand screeeeeaaaammmm fell in the toilet after I hhooowwwwllllll pooped."
Me, wrestling kiddo 2.0 out of the toilet: "Did you consider washing your hands with soap?"
Kiddo 1.0: Silence

Fast forward through bedtime snack and teeth brushing and the nice-mama-reading-singing-snuggling routine.

Kiddo 2.0 announces that she needs to pee.  I put her on the potty, she pees.  Back to bed.
She announces she has to poo. I put her on the potty, she poos. Back to bed.
She announces she has to poo.  I put her on the potty, she poos.

FIVE TIMES.  We repeated this cycle FIVE TIMES.  Answer me this: HOW does a toddler not hold it long enough to make it to the 2nd potty in the house, but has the control to "stop & go" to make what should be one trip turn into FIVE TRIPS?!?!?!?

After I escaped the hostage situation nurturing, soothing bedtime routine, Kiddo 1.0 announced she would like another bedtime snack and time to play with her dolls.  I deal with my impatient parenting by having consistent, firm boundaries, giving in to practically anything.  So, Kiddo 1.0 cashes in an extra 15 minutes with a second bedtime snack and the following play scenario:

Kiddo 1.0: "Mama, will you help me put the doll's helmets on?"
Me: "Sure."
Kiddo 1.0: "Waaaaaiiiilllll. Hollllllleeerrrrr. The pink baby lost the pink helmet. Scccrreeaam."
Me, taking deep breaths and conjuring up images of women around the world who have to deal with real problems like cancer treatments and poverty and Ebola so I don't get tricked into thinking this is REALLY A CRISIS.
Kiddo 1.0: "Oh, here it is."

On the doll's head. She found the helmet on.the.doll's.head.

Even as I write this, the mama shame kicks in. I was *technically* only with the girls for 4 awake hours today, thanks to my village that watches them so I can work.  I am *technically* an expert in early childhood mental health.  My children are healthy, resourced little creatures.  So, really, there's no excuse for this rant.

Except that the helmet WAS ON THE DOLL'S HEAD.

Cast of Characters

I consider myself a relationship-oriented person.  On personality inventories, I max out the scale for Extroverted.  People are my bread and butter.  I'm who I am because of the incredible people I've gotten to spend time with.

I used to feel worried about this.  Somewhere along the way I heard that mature, confident people enjoy quiet times of solitude.  And I assumed I hated solitude because I hated the person I was left alone with.  Actually, as I type this I recall a grad school professor who based my grade solely on the amount of time I could spend in silence.  Somehow, I passed that course.  And while I'm not known for my silence, I do hope I've gotten better at listening.  But not at being alone.  Even in my alone moments (which, don't happen often--see below) I invite people into that space through music or books.  Despite incredible mentors and research touting the power of "being still" and meditation, it's just not how I roll.  I'm just beginning to trust it's because of my love affair with humans and NOT because insecurities in myself.

So, if you stick around for any portion of this journey, you'll hear about my people.  Because their stories leave footprints on my stories, you'll hear about them.  Because their stories are not my stories, I'll place a high priority on privacy.   So, I thought a little intro to my "inner circle" seems appropriate.  May I introduce:

Partner
Wow.  Partner and I crossed paths several times in high school & we both thought the other was out of our league.  I like to think our opinions of ourselves grew enough to take the risk at a relationship with each other.  We dated for years.  The hopeless romantic tone of this time period is captured in our song.   We married in 2007.  It might have been sooner, but Partner wanted to be a Pastor.  And there was a lot of arguing soul-searching that took place before I could reconcile a future as a Pastor's wife.  True to form, it wasn't a conclusion I came to in a self-reflective moment of meditation.  It was a conclusion I came to when I stopped talking and started listening and I heard Partner say "I am just as committed to being a therapist's husband as I'm hoping you want to be as a pastor's wife."  So we said yes.  Partner is a pastor.  Partner is the most patient person I know.  Partner brings me back to center.  Partner has seen the best and worst versions of me and keeps showing up.  I have too much to lose to question his motives.    

Kiddo 1.0
Kiddo 1.0 came into my life in 2009.  Medical complications on her birth day made it the scariest day of my life.  The silver lining is our relationship has steadily improved from that point.  Kiddo 1.0 opened my eyes and heart to the emotional roller coaster that is parenting a creature without a fully developed frontal lobe (newsflash--this is the case with any human under the age of 21).  Kiddo 1.0 is cautiously independent, brilliant, and spends her free time creating legos and marking days off her calendar.

Kiddo 2.0
Kiddo 2.0 entered the scene in 2012.  During my pregnancy, I was terrified.  During her birth, I was empowered and strong and really proud of rewriting history after Kiddo 1.0's birth.  Kiddo 2.0 struggled early on with respiratory and weight gain.  Enough to completely stress us out and trigger my mama shame, but not enough to trigger any residual results.  By 1 month old, she was on target and full steam ahead.  As a toddler, she desperately wants to do things herself and desperately hates being alone.  This makes life very, very complicated.  Kiddo 2.0 has a great sense of humor, is brazenly independent, and will be attending toilet-training boot camp this weekend.  She spends her free time coloring on herself with markers and displacing vital items like nail clippers and cell phones in secret locations around the house.

And So It Starts......

I'm historically misjudged for my age.  On the one hand, I have an immature sense of humor, playful personality, use a purple backpack as my work bag, and look pretty young for my age.  On the other hand, I have two kids, own a small business, and have a knack with words that makes me sound a lot smarter than I am.  So people are either
(1) in shock that I'm old enough to drink and responsibly procreate
or
(2) unnerved that I'm not yet 30 and was in high school on September 11th.

So, sometimes I get confused.  And I generally go through life "adulting."  Adulting (v) means to do grown up things that you don't feel like doing or probably don't have enough experience or street cred to be doing.  Examples of adulting include:
--Paying money to go to the dentist.  I hated the dentist as a kid.  Paying for it myself just makes me hate it more.
--Having a child.  Actually, age is irrelevant.  One can never have enough street cred to be truly competent at this.
--Making important decisions.  About everything from finances to groceries to people's feelings.

However, I am closing in on 30.  And despite feeling too young to be doing 95% of the things I'm doing, I found a gray hair this month.  And that aforementioned dentist?  He had to replace a filling because he said sometimes they wear out after 20 years.  So, ready or not, I'm old enough to start taking myself seriously.  Well, seriously enough to start putting my thoughts to print for you all to laugh at  learn from.

That's where this "Fumbling Faithfully" starts.  Because I fumble.  A lot.  And regardless of the situation, the fumble comes with an astronomical level of faith.  Faith that (1) things will be ok and (2) I will fumble again.

I hope a piece of my story somewhere along the way speaks truth to yours.  That you can laugh.  Or learn from my fumbles.  Or have a little more faith in the journey you find yourself on.