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Love, War and Wings

Tim-“I want WINGS with sauce.” Sam-“Oooohh Gross!”

It’s not easy to get in a good argument at church, especially when you’re Mr. and Mrs. Pastor. You snipe when no one’s looking and then smile when someone appears, get in a good dig and then pretend all is happy for the crowd.

“La La La …you peanut butter bone head.”

But yesterday, my husband and I even didn’t have the strength to play the happy Christian poser game.

It’s never a good idea to argue with a sick and hungry man (i.e. BIG CRANKY BABY) but I forget who I was dealing with, possibly because it seems like my husband is sick all the time (thanks to our germy toddler) or maybe because I had zero sympathy for the man who has a perennially runny nose.

Just as my husband was accusing me of never wanting to go his favorite restaurants (which I do all the time even though his idea of a good meal is how many sauces are offered) a darling woman from church approached us.  Normally, I would feign gaiety but this time I turned to her and blatantly confessed, “Excuse us; we’re fighting right now.”

She looked slightly stunned and then laughed. “Well can I interrupt your fight?”

Tim and I looked at each, snarled, and then turned to our friend and nodded our heads in agreement.

“I just wanted to say hi. What are you fighting over?”

“Where to go to lunch,” we said in unison.

“I have an app on my iPhone for that. I just shake it and it gives us the place to go.”

Tim and I looked at each and laughed. Maybe she was on to something.

I just wish there was an app that went further and got to the root of the problem. You could shake it and it would translate Mars to Venetian-like a mini-mobile me counselor.

When Tim says Sam never wants to eat his food he really means “I’m feeling sick, cranky and needy right now. I want to be taken care of and babied. I want you to want to eat wings and sauce, or maybe you could make me Top Ramen like my mom used to and then I would feel really loved.  I’m grumpy because I have a paper for seminary due tomorrow and I’m already exhausted before I even start the darn thing. Waa Waa.”

When Sam says she doesn’t want to go to Wild Wings she means-“I’m feeling overwhelmed and I can’t stand wings because they have 1900 calories before you add the sauce.  I don’t want to go home and make you Top Ramen because you will then turn on the football game and I am so sick of the NFL I can barely breathe. (If the tables were turned and you had to watch ten hours a week of chick stuff you would poke your eyes out too)  I have two huge writing projects I am working on and since you’re already overwhelmed I can’t even ask you for help, but I guarantee you will assume that I will care for the children while you do all your work, and oh, by the way, I still have to get my work done and I guess I will write in my sleep because clearly your crap is more important than mine. Waa Waa.”

It’s never really about “where we are going to lunch?” The fight is always about ten layers deeper than what you are bickering about and it has far more to do with feeling understood, empathized with and cared for.

And the truth is, when our bucket is full and we feel understood, we’d eat just about anything or anywhere (even Wild Wings) and watch endless hours of football for our beloved (remember dating?)

So, where did we go for lunch?

We went to Nordstrom’s Café, (where I wanted to go) and then we came home and I let Tim study. It was a compromise and that’s what we do in marriage.

But it would have been really fun to shake the phone.

 

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Patience-what parents have when there are witnesses

 

I think it was Bill Cosby who used to jest (in reference to his children) “I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.” I never really connected with that statement, joking aside, until one of my own little angels turned into a teenager.

Because the truth is… Sometimes I want to throttle my kids or at least shake them really hard for the emotional trauma they put me through. Like on Tuesday for instance.

I got off work, drove a delightful 50 minute commute home, picked up the baby from daycare and pulled into my driveway. As I walked up to the front door, keys in hand, I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard piercing screams. It sounded like someone was killing my daughter.

Panicking, I put my key in the door and jiggled it, trying to unlock it as quickly as possible to rescue my darling girl. But my key is cranky and it sticks (and I gave the good one to the kids, because I’m a loving mom or possibly a lazy mom for not getting another one made). Of course now, in the most urgent and frightful of all moments the stupid key wouldn’t budge an inch.

The shrieks were growing in volume and the thumping of my heart reverberated in my ears. I started to pound on the door and yell at the top of my lungs for help. Tears were pouring down my face and the baby was bawling at my feet in fear. The thought flashed through my mind of someone violently attacking my baby girl.

Adrenaline was racing through my veins. I looked around and saw the front window as my only option. I furtively glanced around for something to smash the window with, when the door swung open in my face and there stood my ten-year old daughter, red-faced and laughing uproariously with her teenaged brother.

I collapsed on the front door stoop after yelling at my children at the top of my lungs “I thought you were dying. What the BAD WORD(1) were you doing?”

Their faces turned red in shame and they pointed to the playroom where the baby’s blocks were now strewn all over.  There were blocks in the bookcase, on top of pictures and blocks hanging off the potted plants. “We were having a block fight mom.”

I saw an ice bag on the floor. “What’s that for?” I choked out.

“Kyle threw a block at my face,” Faith whimpered.

I sat on the floor and wept and let my kids wallow in the guilt of tormenting their mom.

Then I really let loose. I cried tears of relief that my sweet Faith was alive, tears of frustration for their utter (and very normal) childishness and most of all, I cried big gulpy sobs because the truth is I am not there for them after school to protect them from imaginary intruders.

I am at work and it kills me.

And this burden on my mother’s heart feels like the weight of the world.

My husband walked in amidst the chaos and I finally started to chipper up and then ultimately laugh.

I guess it could have been worse. It could have been a dart fight.

[1] I actually said “hell” but you thought it was the “F word” didn’t you? I’m making real progress here people!

 

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Out of Gas

I ran out of gas this morning. I figured it was sign that maybe God wanted to chat about something. I’m guessing it’s the “hey girl, you might want to slow down and take some time to refuel conversation.” (You know the one all I want to do is avoid)

I sat on the side of the road, with the baby in the back yelling, “mama, car broke,” and sighed.

“Ok God,” I thought, “you’ve got my attention.”

And this is what I sensed him saying.

Make the call. Ask for help. Let me love you.

It’s been a repeated theme ringing in my ears for the last few weeks after my husband and I got in an argument and he suggested that though I give love well I am woefully lacking in my “love receiver.”

To which I replied “maybe you’re a suck giver” (OK… I didn’t actually say that even though I wanted to)

But if I’m honest, Tim’s probably on to something.

I hate to ask for help. I struggle to accept gifts and I feel like I have to prove my worth (by working, writing, cleaning, ministry, etc…) before I am allowed anything good-like time with a friend, or a margarita, or a nap.

I run around all week like a chicken with my head cut off yelling (difficult to yell with no chicken head-but play along with me here) “have I earned my keep?”

I guess what I’m really asking is… “Am I valuable? Do I have worth beyond what I do?”

And when I stop (for more than a minute) God whispers “yes.”

So I made the call. I asked for help. I leaned in.

My husband showed up like a knight in preppy armor and rescued his damsel and baby damsel in distress. By the large goofy smile on his face, I realized, he was born for this “hero” job.

Sometimes I think God allows these break-downs so I will be forced to scream “uncle.”

And recognize that my greatest need is to allow Him (and my husband) to simply love me.

 

 

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First Crush

“So Brayden, I hear you think I look like I princess,” said my daughter Faith to our young neighbor.

Brayden gulped and sat up in his chair. “I, um did I say that?” He looked at his mom in panic and gave her the mini eye roll for letting the cat out of the bag.

It was no secret that Brayden adored my ten-year old daughter, but this was the first time he had been caught in the act of his crush.

Faith gave a tinkling laugh and tossed her long golden locks over her shoulder.  Four year-old Brayden looked dazed as if fairies had dusted him with smitten powder. He squared his shoulders and looked at his dad with newfound determination, ready to slay dragons and fight for his princess.

“Dad, I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” Brayden stated, now serious and reflective in his demeanor.

“Why not bud?” Brayden’s father Tyler replied.

“Well dad, I don’t like boys anymore so we don’t have anything in common.” Braden suggested.

Tyler nodded his head and played along with his boy, “its ok bud, we can still be friends. Because guess what?  I like girls too!  That’s why I married your mommy.”

Brayden looked relieved. “Oh that’s good dad.”

Tyler looked at his son with a proud smile and recognized this was the big moment Brayden needed to court his girl. “Who are you going to marry Bray?” he asked.

Brayden took a deep breath and owned his intentions, taking his first bold step towards manhood. “I am going to marry Faith!” he exclaimed with a swoon and a giggle.

And the table erupted in glorious laughter and a bit of wistfulness.

Because we all remember our first crush.

Poignant. Powerful. Piercing.

It made every day better just to catch a glimpse of our beloved.

Later that evening Faith tucked our little pajama clad Romeo into bed and read him a book.

And without a word, his contented smile and beaming face told the story of his heroic romance.

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Duck Hunting-Scrappy Sam

I just love Duck Chili mommy!

I’m a single mom this week to my three kiddos.  It’s been challenging to say the least. So far, we’ve only had one ‘girl” melt-down, one mommy melt-down (I was out of coffee-nuff said) and the boy and the baby have fared pretty well in the last thirty-six hours.

My husband Tim is out doing manly Wild at Heart shenanigans-namely shooting fowl in the wild of North Dakota. I can just picture him traipsing through the tick infested brush, spotting a flock of ducks, lifting his big rifle into the air and pulling the trigger on a poor defenseless duck. (Quack. Bang. Plop)

Sounds awesome!

And while he is out making sure I will have no room in my freezer for the foreseeable future, I am left to hold down the troops. (At least we get to eat whatever we want until he returns, because then it’s all downhill)

Kid-“What’s for dinner mom?” 

Me-“Duckloaf”

Kid-“Again?”

Me-“What’s wrong with duckloaf? You should be grateful we put food in your mouth and give you duck sandwiches to eat. There are a bazillion kids starving in the world”

Kid-“I wish I was one of them.”

Me-“Just wait until daddy goes venison hunting?”

Kid-“What’s a venison?”

Me-“I think it’s a type of big cat?”

Kid-“I love duckloaf!”

Me-“I thought so!”

Tomatoes are good in duckloaf, right mom?

So until Friday I will attempt to navigate pre-school drop-off (with a toy to share), middle school drama, and elementary school cliques. 

I will make sure all homework is done through subtle mind games and a few threats. I’ll change diapers, sing lullabies, and juggle football practice, cheerleading, high school open house, Willy Wonka rehearsals, and writing deadlines-all with a pained smile.

I will go to work, commute an hour each way, sing hymns, and somehow hopefully find the time to shower (probably not going to happen), buy more coffee or maybe steal pods from the office? (Just kidding) and write about the church bathing suit (an article I am dying to tackle).

I’m sure I’ll also fit in a quiet time and some scripture memorization. (Yeah right)

I’m pretty sure Jesus is in the trenches of motherhood. (This just has to be a spiritual test, right?)

And I will dream of my duck man and the day we are reunited (so that he can deal with all this kid nonsense for at least thirty minutes and I can take a very long bath).

How do you survive motherhood?

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Blessed

I’m in a wistful mood. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

I lost a loved one today. It makes me want to hold onto my babies a little tighter, linger over beauty a bit longer, and enjoy the blessings I have been entrusted with.

A lovely tableau

Like antiqueing with my husband in Carlsbad on a surprise getaway.

Or snapping this shot of my friend Keri in her Halloween costume. (Seriously, she got this at Target and I am in awe.  She looks like a regal princess)

Like finding just the right pumpkin.

Kyle's blowing out his birthday candles

And celebrating the best thirteen years of my life with my cherished boy.

Like stopping on the side of a busy road to smell the flowers and look at a bug.

Or watching a beautiful bride float down the aisle toward her beloved.

And then taking a picture with her so I can remember how much it moved me.

Like my first-baby girl turning into a young-woman, despite me wanting to keep her locked in a castle far away from all the ogres, and dragons and eager suitors.

And I’m not even ready to acknowledge how fast the baby is growing up. (Amazing block skills for a 1 yr old, right?)

And then there is romance. 

Like my husband who still courts me, despite the busyness of life.

And my Father in heaven who pursues me with His relentless love.

Today I am wistful. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

And most of all Blessed.

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My super-power is…

A woman came up to me last week at my son’s football game and said all in a rush, “I just discovered your blog and I’m like totally addicted and I had no idea you were so hysterical because in real life, you’re just, you know, the pastor’s wife. And, I’m not saying you’re dull or anything, but you’re not like all-out there in your face funny. And I really love your writing. I really do.”

“Uhhh, thanks,” I replied sheepishly.

I stood there with a dumb smile on my face not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted. And while I appreciate that she thinks I’m a funny writer, there’s this part of me, some striving little girl in legwarmers from the 1980’s that wants to be funny in public too (even though I’m most decidedly not).

I’m the girl who’s a bit socially awkward. I can fake twinkly gaiety and confidence around crowds for a set period of time, but I’m generally exhausted afterward (unlike my extroverted husband who’s like the energizer bunny).

I’d rather get to know a few people well at social occasions. I like deep probing discourse and intellectual stimulation. Smalltalk is death to me and what’s with the church hug? (I never know what’s appropriate) Either go in for the bear hug or go home-just don’t go in halfway and awkwardly hit my boob.

I am deeply envious of those quick witted folks who are stand-up comics on the fly. My friend-pastor Jeff Maguire is like that.  His body language alone makes me snort and blow corn out of my nose. I can laugh just thinking about him.

One time at a wedding, Jeff was out on the dance floor showing off his Rico Suave moves, when this little old lady inquired about him. “Is that young man a professional dancer or a comedienne?”

“Actually,” I replied. “He’s a pastor.”

Which has to be the least funny job of all time, right? It’s like we lay down our right to be a sarcastic on the altar of religion.

I love it when people find out I’m the pastor’s wife and this look of horror comes over their face. “Oh no, I just had a beer in front of you (or said a bad word, or talked about sex).”

Once the cat’s out of the bag, people stand up straighter, tell me how they should go to church more often, and then tell me how they are more spiritual than religious. It’s like we have to get the confessions out of the way and I have to make the sign of the cross over them before we can really get to know each other.

I met a unique young woman at a blogging conference recently who struggles with bi-polar tendencies. She was transparent and funny and I found her irresistible. She named her blog “Crazy is my super-power.”  I love it when people take their weakness and turn it around (with God’s grace) to be a force of strength and encouragement.

So I guess I’m a bit like Clark Kent-really, and my alter-ego is cooler than my regular gal aura.

And might I suggest that my super-power is funny and maybe that’s good enough. (Because even though Superman is awesome, Clark Kent isn’t cool, but we love him anyway)

But if I make you laugh hard enough to pee or snort corn, please let me know…comments make me deleriously happy.

What’s your Super-Power?

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Scum of the Scum

I waved to my wailing baby, winked at daddy and dashed into an overcrowded Starbucks to grab a quick cup of Joe to get me through the afternoon.  The line was snaked around the corner and I tapped my foot anxiously as precious minutes slipped by. I glanced outside at the car which was now shaking with toddler angst and daddy’s frustration.

I should have walked out of the store then and there and been the kind and loving wife I long to be, but my head was throbbing from caffeine withdrawal and I justified that a happy mommy is much better than a cranky mommy and “gosh, gee, golly” I was really doing my family a favor. 

Besides, my teeth were already starting to hurt and once the teeth hurt a migraine must be lurking around the corner.

Finally it was my turn and I stepped up to the counter, ordered a triple Americano, gave them my name, paid and waited in the mosh-pit of caffeine addicted souls such as myself. After a few minutes, I saw what looked like my triple Americano in the hand of the barista.

Strangely enough the barista paused, looked a little baffled and then stared at the cup far too long.  I started to walk toward the pickup counter, now curious, when he called out the name on the cup, “Scum, your Americano is ready, Oh Scum, please pick up your drink.”

The noisy, jubilant over-caffeinated crowd quieted down to a whisper. I heard the plop-plop of the percolator and the swishing steamer heating cappuccino froth and the individual thump-thump of my own heart.

Here was my make it or break it moment. Do I walk out to the car empty-handed, wasting not only my family’s time and patience but my money as well, or do I suck it up and take the walk of shame to the counter and admit that I’m the scum?

When I think of “scum” images of lewd women brawling on trashy TV shows pop into my head; I see Casey Anthony at her trial and Sandra Bullock’s sad face after Jessie James humiliated her. Entitled, selfish, and crummy people leaving the world worse for the wear are scummy to me.

But if I’m honest, I have scummy moments too. Like now for instance-feeding my helpless husband to toddler mayhem to soothe my coffee addiction and stubbornly justifying this behavior as acceptable.

I’m often selfish, full of pride, slightly rebellious, sometimes defiant, and generally envious of expensive purses. I’ve hurt people and should be the last one to be throwing stones at anyone.  Without God, I am at best-the mutinous gelatinous scum on the scum of scum.

So, after a long painful pause, I made up my mind and decided to take the walk of shame. I strutted up to the counter and choked out, “Uhhh, yeah, hi!  So, I’m the Scum, thank you very much.”

And Starbucks erupted into laughter and even few claps.

Because, the truth is we all have scum in our hearts, it’s just tougher for some of us to own it.

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The Halloween Bootique

“Can we pleeeeeaaaaassssse go to the Halloween store?”

My sweet little Faith pleaded, cajoled and whined long enough to drive me batty and so I caved (which you knew I would) and off we traipsed to the dreaded Halloween store to pick out a costume.  But this time, just to spice it up, we took along a posse of little ladies consisting of three ten year-olds and a toddler.

On the way to the store, the girls turned up the radio and belted out Taylor Swift songs with all the gusto they could muster, wailing on and on about some nasty girl who stole Taylor’s man and getting revenge and so forth. (That Taylor is a wee bit snarky and I think I like her)

We pulled up at the Halloween Bootique at the Kaleidoscope in Mission Viejo and I must confess I was blown away (in a pleasant red balloon flying away in the sky kind of way) at how upscale and charming the store was. It was far more Harry Potter than Nightmare on Elm Street and nothing like the mega-suck Halloween stores I am used to.  

In fact the second I walked in I did a double take and giggled in delight.  I danced around and whipped out my camera.  The owner Ryan Privratsky, a young hip guy, stared at me, bewildered by my bizarre behavior, but then recovered quickly and asked if he could help us.

He took us to a beautiful children’s section and then helped us to a fitting area where a very patient lady (because the girls tried on about a bazillion costumes) meticulously and with great pains took apart each costume, assembled it, and then lovingly placed it back in the bag like it was a couture outfit.

I’m not kidding; it was the Nordstrom’s of Halloween retail.  This Bootique had stellar customer service and darling displays. There were also roped off areas, where I assume the more mature costumes were concealed, not that I ventured into the X-rated section with my babies, but I was tremendously relieved none the less that it wasn’t in my face; though I did take one sweet pic just to tempt my hubby for a private costume party.

The girls grabbed dozens of costumes and the show began.

One of the girls pulled out quite a few costumes that her mama nixed via text message.  I thought it was hysterical because if I hadn’t been there in person, Faith would have been looking behind the ropes and eyeballing the grown-up section.

“Mom, what about the gothic vampire?

Me-“No”

“Genie with bare belly?”

Me-“No.”

“This one?”

Me-“No, no, no!!!”

Finally we found the “Ahhhhhhhhh” costumes for all the girls, where everyone in the store smiled and the birds chirped and mama was happy that no tummy, booty or gaping expanse of chest were showing.

And in response to this blissful experience I forked over way too much cash for Faith’s costume.  But for the first time in this whole drama of costume buying business, I felt like I got my money’s worth because I had a lovely experience with the girls and I didn’t have that awful feeling of being violated by bad taste and gruesome ickiness.

I guess some things are worth a little extra cash.

The girls want to have another Girl’s day out next month, where we can assume I will spend too much money, shopping will be involved, and Taylor in all her teen angst will be sung. 

Oh Boy…I can’t wait!

 

Boo!

 Check out the Bootique on Facebook!

Also, I found this article on Ryan in the OC Register.

And oh by the way, this is not a sponsored post. I just really wanted to help out and promote a cool young man who is working his butt off and making this mom’s life a little easier. Well done Ryan!

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Just Being Real

I saw a Real House Wife from the OC yesterday at the grocery store. This lovely is my neighbor, if you count living in the track across the street as part of my hood, and I do, because somehow that makes me cooler (or maybe not).
We both had three kids trailing at our heels and our eyes met in a moment of “Lord have mercy on me,” or at least that’s what I was thinking with a crying baby, my son begging for coconut water that costs five dollars per eight ounces and my daughter trying to assemble the perfect cake making materials to create an atomic particle (will somebody please tell me how the crap am I supposed to make positive ions out of frosting?).
Right about then it hit me who she was and the “ding, ding, ding,” bell of acknowledgement traveled though my thick skull.
Trying not to be too obvious, I snuck copious glances and did the female version of celebrity gawking. She was dressed in fancy workout clothes (because that’s what you do when you are a hot reality star) and her long blonde extended tresses were flowing around her shoulders. She had lots of makeup on and was a perfect shade of bronze.
I, on the other hand, am proud to say I did not have snot or poop or pee on me. It was a good day.
We checked out around the same time and somehow ended up right next to each other in the parking lot. I walked over to my Nissan Xterra and she walked up to a white BMW and then realized it wasn’t hers.
She started mumbling cuss words under her breath and for the first time I saw a REAL woman. The scenario was funny and dumb and something I would do.
And for a moment, I connected with a single mom who struggles to remember where she parked the stinking car. And I know that feeling of panic all too well, that “Oh no, is this early Alzheimer’s setting in?”
I loved it! I love the MESS! I love it when we desperately need Jesus and I love it when people don’t have their act together and acknowledge it.
What I really want is a REALITY show where moms act like real moms.
• Real is: when they walk around all day with baby vomit on them and are too exhausted to care.
• Real is: when they show the parents pretending to be asleep when baby cries and then fighting over who will get up for the third time. “It is not my turn! It’s your turn jackwaggon.”
• Real is: when a mom prays for a girl who is a bad influence on her daughter to disappear and this bad girl moves and the mom shouts-“Yes Jesus Yes!!!!” and the daughter is baffled why her mom is having a big whoop dee doo in the kitchen because her friend (who didn’t even say goodbye) has just moved to Texas.
• Real is: when Facebook is the cause of endless arguments between teens and parents, and mom commandos the teen’s page and posts links to “Lord help me have a heart for the Poor and Needy.”
• Real is: when parents turn on Yo Gabba Gabba and park their baby in front of the TV and get crazy in the bathroom for five minutes because it’s the only time they have to be intimate.
• Real is: when neighbors come over and bawl and hug because it’s been a bad day and we pull out the Skinny Girl margarita mix and we encourage each other to forgive and forget, even when it’s tough and even when we know we are right.
• Real is: when real mommies and daddies fight and make up and pray and laugh at each other’s jokes, because mommy thinks daddy is freaking hysterical and adorable and the best thing, alongside Jesus and her babies, that has EVER happened to her.
I could go on and on… but for me, this would make REALITY TV far more real.

What real stuff do you think is missing on TV?

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