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A One Direction Christmas

“It’s a phase,” my husband Tim grumbles.  “Faith won’t even care about One Direction in six months.”

I looked at the laminated Santa List my daughter had just presented to us and chortled.  Sixteen items were listed –fifteen of them revolved around the boy band One Direction.

The only thing practical on the list was a curling wand.  To my husband it looked like $200 worth of nonsense.

There was the Mrs. Harry Styles t-shirt, a One Direction iPad cover, a One Direction book, a calendar and even a set of One Direction dolls.

I shrugged and agreed that girls her age were indeed irrational and then asked for the credit card to go buy her the nonsense.

I remember all too well…a little girl back in the Christmas of ’79 who loved Shaun Cassidy and swooned and shrieked at his hypnotizing voice and long wavy blond hair.  He made me and all my friends gushy inside.  Shaun Cassidy bonded us.

How can I begrudge my Faith for her first boy crush when I wore the same girl drama shoes?

Faith is caught in that in-between stage of childhood and teen where the first flutters and stirrings of the heart are easier to project on a celebrity than on a real relationship.  Boyfriends will inevitably follow –but for now she is content with posters on the wall to drool over and concert tickets from the One Direction Global tour.

Before I know it my baby Faith will be all grown up and a real Mr. Right will swoop her off her feet.

And so I am crossing off her list one by one with a secret sigh of nostalgia –thinking about the days when a girl could talk for hours with her besty about a boy’s smile and his pretty curls.

 

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Moonlight, Mistletoe and Faith

My daughter Faith and I have discovered a new favorite seasonal pastime.  It’s ridiculously girly, involves loads of tissue and about two hours of cooing and sobbing between the two of us.  What’s our new find?  I’m embarrassed to admit (cough, cough…ahem…) but we have become obsessed with the Hallmark Channel.

In an effort to save dollars, my ever frugal husband negotiated a smoking deal with Direct TV.  What remains is nothing but the most basic of channels; excluding the NFL channel he somehow worked into the deal. 

(I know …right? I lose my favorite shows and he gains about another 25 games a week)

Who knew after we lost Bravo, the Style Channel, “E” and anything of interest to a chick that we would find the secret jewel of Hallmark?  I can only assume in the absence of all decent amusement, sappy love stories involving Santa and Elves start to look good.

A Bride for Christmas…Moonlight and Mistletoe…Naughty or Nice…

Only Hallmark could come up with low-budget movies this good.  I get to see all my favorite actors stage a comeback while being emotionally hijacked in the process. 

But the best part of wasting my time on mindless entertainment is doing this with my daughter.  I sit by her side; play with her long hair and cuddle close.  We share a fleece blanket, toast our toes by the fire and sip hot tea while munching on animal crackers. 

There are rules: We don’t argue.  We watch the whole movie.  We fast-forward through commercials and we simply hang out and do nothing–together.

It’s a much-needed reprieve from the daily grind of Faith pushing the envelope to grow up fast, fast and faster and me standing by with a blinking yellow “slow down” sign.

Push-Pull…it’s our daily battle of growing up and letting go.

But Hallmark, oh glorious and cheesy Hallmark allows us to push pause and simply enjoy each other. 

Do you have a special holiday pastime?

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Terrible Two’s and the Grocery Store Meltdown

Kolby Keller (AKA “Lamby-Pants”)

It’s a hard sell after a long day at pre-school to get little Kolby anywhere near the grocery store.  I’m afraid to even suggest the appalling word –Pavilions, knowing it will bring on growls and whining.

All Kolby can think about is driving straight home, noshing on MACANONI, plowing through eight or nine books, taking a bath with her Dora shampoo and falling into mommy’s arms exhausted by 7:45pm. 

My two-year-old loves routine.

But mommy had to pick up dinner for the family and the pain of a cranky toddler was a necessary evil.

In we trooped to the store and quickly made our purchases.  Kolby commented on the balloons, the cards, and the Christmas decorations.  She pointed out the green bananas, offered her critique of pepperoni vs. sausage pizza and spelled out the letters on every sign. 

In the checkout line Kolby noticed the man behind her.  She smiled at him and struck up a conversation.  I felt a tug on my leg.  “Mommy, who is he?” she whispered.

Overhearing her, the man replied, “My name is Garrett.  What’s yours?”

Kolby stuck out her tiny hand.  “I’m Lamby-pants, nice to meet you.”

I corrected her and giggled, “Her name is Kolby and sometimes Lamby-pants.”

Kolby’s smile vanished.  “Mom, I am Lamby-pants!  That’s what you call me,” she shrieked as only a small child can. 

(It’s the scream from Hades every parents fears and it ALWAYS happens in the checkout line)

All commerce stops.  All eyes turn to the parent to see how they will react.  After three kids I know the routine.  If I freak out, I can guarantee someone will recognize me as the pastor’s wife and make a thinly veiled comment. My only option is to ignore the pounding in my head, offer a firm but calm response and to flee from the scene ASAP.

“Mr. Garrett my name is Lamby-pants,” she spitted out, glaring at me with all the hostility she could muster.

Mr. Garrett nodded at my small child who morphed into Carrie, afraid her head would spin around and spew out green vomit if he disagreed.

I raised my eyebrows, shook my scarlet cheeks, and paid for my frozen pizza and wings.  “Ok Lamby-pants, let’s say goodbye and get the hell out of here,” I muttered under my breath, trying not to look at anyone.

I tried to knock off the big L on my head as I ran out the door, but it refused to budge.

Note to self * After 5:30pm, Dominoes is always WORTH the cost of delivery*

What’s your most embarrassing moment as a parent?

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Violent Hands

 

Monday night was a heart racy night for me.  I held my breath.  I tried to be calm, but the anticipation and anxiety of the awards ceremony was way too much drama for this mama.

Monday was the end-of-season football banquet for J Serra High School where my son Kyle plays on the freshmen team.

Kyle is a tight end and middle linebacker.  And although he scored about ten touchdowns over the season, it’s the defense that captures his heart.

One of his coaches’ told me in private, “Your boy has violent hands.  You can’t teach fierceness.  Either you’re born with it or not.  Kyle’s a playmaker.  He disrupts, he intercepts, he makes fumbles and quarterbacks run when they see him.”

Yep, that pretty much sums Kyle up.

When he was little he had an over-abundance of energy.  I took him to the pool or the park religiously to wear out the little tyke. 

Now Kyle always shared his toys.  He was gentle with girls and small children.  But woe to the boy child who stole from him, pushed or bullied.

That kid was going down.

I don’t know how many times I had to jump in the baby pool as my son confronted  a bully or an out of control water-gun shooter and knocked him on his butt.

Kyle was the Chuck Norris of the toddler set.  He was the defender of the weak.  He was also very difficult to peel off when he was tackling (I mean teaching) another kid a lesson.

Football was a Godsend.

He was seven years-old when he set foot on the field.  After the first week of full gear and contact he came to me with tears in his eyes.  “Mommy, thank you so much for letting me play football.  I get to hit people and its ok!  Thank you so much!”

You’re welcome?

Seven seasons later I sat next to this tall, muscular and mature young man at an extravagant awards dinner and held my breath as they called out names.

They announced the big awards last.  The suspense was killing me.  I sat there and thought, “Why am I so nervous?  Why is this so personal?  Why do I care so much about his success?”

I guess it’s just what football moms do!

This is the kid I’ve pushed up and down the street a thousand times in his Flintstone car to hear his giggle, the kid I’ve loved and battled with and washed a thousand stinky jersey’s for, this is the kid who is a gentle giant (off the field) with a wicked sense of humor.  This is the kid whose smile and soothing personality brighten every day…

I looked over at Tim and Brent.  They were sweating bullets too.  I smiled and laughed inside.  We all care so much about Kyle’s journey.

As the coach started talking about the last defensive award, I knew he was referring to my boy.  He mentioned how the quarterbacks at Orange Lutheran want nothing to do with this kid. (Kyle knocked both the starter and the second string QB’s out of the game).  He mentioned his ability to make magic on the field, his work ethic second to none and his leadership that set the tone for the entire team.

He paused and grinned at my boy, “The Defensive MVP Award goes to…Kyle Adams.”

Is it ok to thank Jesus for “violent hands?”

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One Click at a Time

My post Why Guys aren’t Asking Women Out has created a big buzz.  The comments are pouring in and Ruth Rutherford even blogged about her struggle with some of the male comments in “Oh Henry! There’s Gotta be More.”  In this controversial post I suggested the over-sexualization of our culture (and porn specifically) is one of the biggest contributors to the problem of women not getting asked out.

Some agreed, while others clearly did not.  I was dismissed by a few guys who by their very own comments proved my point that many men in our culture are driven by the sexual images they see.  I was also affirmed for identifying this as a cultural crisis, but my FAVORITE response came in this morning from Brandon. 

I wanted to share this because as a woman I lose credibility by the sheer fact that I don’t have a penis, AND maybe some of you can hear this message better from a man. 

(Although this whole post was done in collaboration with my husband –a male pastor and we deal with this issue on a daily basis in our church, ministry, through counseling and in the relationship seminars we speak at.)

Here is Henry’s comment, which I confess I struggle with a bit.

As a guy I have a very different perspective. I’ve dated a ton of women – more than I care to admit. I don’t think porn is the real problem as to why these girls aren’t getting dates. Any honest Christian single guy will admit he’d much rather marry and sleep with his wife/best friend than settle for porn.  Read more…

Brandon replies…

“Henry is right…men DO want somebody to cuddle up with in front of a Cowboys game, enjoy bedroom life with, and read the Bible with…but that’s about it. The long drivel that makes up the rest of his comment is incredibly shallow, ignorant, and short-sighted.

When I first saw the title, “Why Men Aren’t Asking Women Out”, a little thought popped into my head… “Why men aren’t asking women out? That’s simple. Porn.”

For Henry to dismiss pornography and the general sexualization of our society as one of the biggest, if not THE biggest, contributors to this problem means he has his head in the sand. Recently, I have discovered that multiple men very close to me…older men that I have looked up to, some of which that are in ministry or deacons of churches who have by all accounts healthy, close relationships with the Lord have struggled with pornography recently or in the not so distant past. These are men who have served as my personal heroes and confidants, all of which are in their 40s and 50s, all of which have daughters… And they have all come to me separately in the past year to confess that while they were giving me advice in my struggles…they were struggling with lust and secret sins of their own in a way that boys do now starting as early as elementary or middle school.

If these types of men are struggling with this, it’s undoubtedly even bigger than any of us probably even realize.

Pornography and constant easy access to sexual imagery is re-programming our brains one click at a time and the result will be many men and many women that are single much later into their lives, if not for the rest of their lives as well as many ruined marriages that are entered into without full disclosure of the digital women that the groom brings into the equation from Day 1.

In the spirit of transparency, I have met girls before and thought to myself, “She seems awesome. I would ask her out but [insert physical feature] doesn’t really match up with what I’m into.”

I’ve tried to capture those thoughts and re-train my thinking in these areas but with a world full of men that are more likely driven by lust and fulfilling physical desires with such quick and simple ease rather than being driven by Christ-like motivations, there will undoubtedly be millions of women who will continue to pay the price.

The only thing women can really do is pray and ask the Lord to show them areas that they’re falling short in their relationship with him, which will undoubtedly make them more attractive to the right type of man. Also, continue to pray for your future husband. It’s very likely that he is in a spiritual battle with sin and the enemy that needs your interceding. As for men…there are a lot of difficult choices to be made, but the first of which is to step up, take responsibility, get our heads out of the sand, and start fighting for the wives and the children that God has yet to entrust us with because we’ve been warped by a computer screen.”

Brandon, THANK YOU!  You articulated this beautifully. 

What do you think about Brandon and Henry’s different perspectives?

 

Photo credit: Via pinmarklet

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Dreading the Evil Christmas Card Photo

I went cold-turkey for a while.

I just couldn’t take the pressure.  I didn’t want to play the suburban game of my kids are cuter than your kids.  I didn’t want the pressure of feeling inadequate as a single mom.  So I just said “to heck with it” and stopped taking the dreaded picture altogether.

What dreaded picture you ask? 

Oh right…I’m referring to the DREADED Christmas card picture!

The one that gives a mommy shingles just thinking about it.

Now that I am married and added another munchkin into the mix it seems like the card thing is necessary again.  Our extended family wants to see images of the kids and it’s expected that I make the effort.

The truth is, I shudder with anxiety just thinking about trying to get my family to match. 

My son wants to spike his hair up in a faux-hawk and look edgy, my tween girl wants to wear lip gloss and roll her shorts, and all my two-year old wants to wear is her lion costume.

Help!

When I try to get some love from daddy he’s already ticked because I booked the picture on Sunday afternoon (his only day off) and he is missing his favorite Seahawks game. 

Everyone is grumpy when I bark out orders and turn into Scrooge Mom for the perfect picture.

Look happy or mommy will have a MELTDOWN!

Seriously, Pinterest has screwed us all when it comes to photos, parties and crafts.  No one just schleps anything together anymore.  Every kid’s party is a cutout tribute to graphic design.  Every sepia card and Martha Stewart wannabe has upped the stakes. 

I just can’t engage in this virtual game of crafty awesomeness anymore.

For crying out loud, I’m still six months out on my thank you notes.

Man I miss the easy days of ice-cream and cake and Polaroid’s.  A few balloons, a dash of streamers and we were rocking.  I bought my pre-made Christmas cards at Target and threw in a few school pics. 

But then the game changed and everyone’s cards got really cool.  My pride prickled at my measly offering.  So I bought the Pinterest lie to be more creative than I really am.

So how do I wrangle my family to look joyful, be hip and cool and wow my friends?

I think I don’t. 

I think I might let my family wear whatever they want to. 

I’ll just let them be themselves and maybe their smiles will be genuine instead of fake like some poster child for Stepford-ville.  

Maybe we won’t match. 

Maybe one of us will be a LION.

Rebellious?  Possibly…

Then again, Kolby was the only lion this year for Halloween in a sea of princesses.  Maybe she gets it from me.

 

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Trophy Child

 

Perusing through the bookstore, a catchy title caught my eye and I yelled for my husband.  There the two of us stood, mouths agape, as we stared at the cover of Trophy Child…and the parents that enable them.

The book had a cover of a sports star kid and his adoring parents fawning over him.

This book hit way too close to home –in an irritating and pissy sort of way.

I didn’t even want to pick it up.  I knew what it would say and I didn’t really want to hear it.

The truth is parents of kids who excel either in athletics or sports or even the arts DO treat their kids differently. 

I know this because I have two other kids along with my trophy child.

I’m certainly not spending a fortune on private coaches and speed training and all the little extras we do for Kyle on my other two.  To some extent I even expect Faith and Kolby to sacrifice for their brother. Our whole family is behind him and together with my ex-husband we are Team Kyle. 

I openly admit I give this kid special treatment.  I don’t wake up at the crack of dawn to make a hot meal for anyone in my family but my son.  We drive an extra distance to his private school. I run over to the school whenever he calls to bring him little things to make his life easier.  There are late-night runs to Sports Chalet and I help him with homework when he is too tired to hold up his head.  We go out of our way to meet his needs, even if it means the other two suffer a bit in the process.

I don’t do this for my girls.  I love and adore and treasure my girls but I’m not a butt kisser to them like I am my son. But it doesn’t mean if they had a dream like Kyle I wouldn’t be willing to do the same for them.  In fact, I hope and pray they do!

Now, part of our special treatment is directly related to Kyle’s effort.  The kid has heart and discipline and strives at a level I am in awe of.  He wakes up at 5:45am every morning to stretch before weight-lifting.   He does extra workouts on his own, on top of the extra workouts we schedule for him.  He is committed and focused and I want with all my heart to help him achieve his goal of playing college football.   He works hard in school and performs at a high-caliber.  It doesn’t hurt that he also a really nice and amiable kid. 

We expect a lot and he over-achieves on every level.

But where I know we fall into the trophy child trap is putting his success before the rest of the family and sometimes even before God.  Football takes all his time and at least during the season, there is no time for extras.  Youth group goes by the wayside.  Service is missed.  It’s about all I can do to shake him out of his stupor on Sunday mornings to get him to stumble in to church with me.

He suits up for three games a week.  He practices twenty hours.  The abuse on his body by week eight of the season is intense.  Every inch of Kyle has a bruise or a cleat mark.  His pinky is a puff-ball of black and I am deeply grateful we have gotten this far in the season without any major injuries. 

I know there is probably an appropriate balance between sports and God and not allowing our son to get a big head; I just don’t think it’s as easy or trite as some make it out to be.  Commitment means sacrifice.  But God is clearly a non-negotiable. 

And so we must teach our son to weave him into every facet of his day, into each game and during the seasons where he is deeply engaged both on and off the field.

So here’s to trying to living by God’s priority and not our own in the midst of raising a trophy child. 

 

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A Soppy Dog Day

A long time ago I made a list of how God sees me.  I read and re-read the list over and over for years until I memorized and internalized certain truths about my identity.  When a bad day hits, I go back to the verses and remind myself of whom I am in Christ.

It gets me through THOSE kinds of mommy days. 

Like yesterday, when I pulled out all the fixings for dinner and discovered I had purchased hot dog buns for Sloppy Joes instead of hamburger buns.  My kids looked at me like I had been smoking crack and even though I tried to explain it was an accident, they gave me the LOOK like I was losing my marbles. 

“Mom, hot-dogs and hamburgers are very different,” my daughter Faith explained in her snotty Jr. High voice.

Ya think?

Even little Kolby gave me a hard time and refused to eat her “sloppy dog” (except she called it a “soppy dog” because she struggles with her “L’s”).

Then there are the days like Monday when I set up a princess tea-party for my girls with home-made chocolate chip cookies and sweets and crisp white linen cloths with an elegant tray.  Kolby and Faith donned their fanciest gowns as I carried the lovely china bursting with yummies outside to our front porch.

The clouds were supposed to part and the harps were supposed to sing…right?

But just as I placed the feast down on the table, we were accosted by the roar of a Carpet Cleaning Van parked in our neighbor’s driveway and a hot wind blowing an inferno in our face.

COME ON!  Princesses aren’t supposed to sweat profusely in mid-October or have to shout over rumbles.  I wanted serenity and girl-time, but instead I got sweaty pits and a migraine.

These are the days I try to remember my God affirmations.  I have to repeat over and over, “I am a good mom and a loved child of God, even when I screw up Sloppy Joes and my princess party fails,” instead of berating myself for the mishaps. 

I want to think about things that are good and true and noble instead of focusing on the bad. 

But geez…it’s so dang easy to complain. 

Lately, God has been nudging me to stop focusing on the little irritants and keep my eyes focused solely on him.  I wish I could say it was effortless, but the truth is, it’s a hard road for me to navigate. 

I am a woman after all. We like to complain. It bonds us.

Most days I feel like Peter walking on the water, eyes squared on the BIG man and then suddenly I drop off into oblivion when a gripe seeps out.

Walk, drop, swim…walk, drop, swim…

Over and over I play this game. 

Sometimes it feel s like I doggie-paddle more in the deep than I walk on top of the water, but I am determined to keep paddling towards the only one who can lift my soppy dog head out of the water again.

Do you ever struggle with complaining?  How do you keep your thoughts positive on a bad day?

 

 Photo Credit: From nowserveme.wordpress.com

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Confessions of a Carpool Failure

I’ve never had good luck with carpool.

When my son Kyle was in kindergarten, I eagerly arranged to share the mommy-chauffeur load with a family down the street.  All was well for about six months and then the sabotage began.

It started with a beautiful girl.  Doesn’t It always start with a beautiful girl?  Little Sofia was glorious.  She had long raven locks and a tiny button nose.  Even more importantly, she played a mean game of hand-ball.  Kyle fell head over heels in love with her.

Unfortunately, our carpool buddy, Christopher, was also smitten with Sofia.  And so the war began to fight for the damsel’s affection.

It seemed for a time, Kyle had the upper hand, untill one day, right around Valentines and coinciding with a fancy bracelet adorning Sofia’s arm, Christopher gained her favor.  Kyle was bent on revenge.

The next Monday, as I strapped Christopher into his booster seat, I struggled with the buckle.  For the life of me, I couldn’t get it to click.  Studying the lock more intently I saw something or lots of somethings were jamming it.

One by one, I pulled out french-fries from the buckle insert.  Kyle laughed in glee and I knew who the culprit was.  After three days of fries mysteriously appearing in the lock, Christopher’s mom was so ticked off she not only refused to let her son in the car, but Kyle and I were mocked by all the kindergarten mom’s as difficult to carpool with.

Almost ten years later, still stinging from kindergarten wounds, I decided to try again.  One week in, I lost a kid.

Not dead lost.  Lost lost.  I couldn’t find the kid in our carpool meet-up area after school.

I found my daughter Faith and her friend Alexa, but the boy was MIA.

We drove up and down the road home.  It was the longest two miles of my life and I did it four times.  I called his mom(who didn’t answer) and banged on his door (no one home) and besieged the neighbors to help.

I dreaded facing his mom.  What the heck would I tell her?

Finally, my neighbor called with the news.  The young man had gone home with a friend and forgot to tell anyone

Carpool doesn’t like me. Then again, maybe I just need some french-fries for the boy’s seat?

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So Long Sailor…

“What are we going to quit this Thursday?” I posed to my girlfriends as we lingered over a late lunch after church at our favorite Mexican restaurant.

The speaker on Sunday morning, Bob Goff, ignited the church with his infectious love and zeal for people, and had us all thinking about the lack of margin in our lives. We sat and reflected on what we needed to be let go of so we could more available to engage in loving relationships.

My dear friend leaned back in her chair and said, “I need to stop swearing. It’s not what I want to model for my kids.”

And her words startled me because I realized how not that long ago this was a HUGE issue for me.

But without even realizing it, my desire to verbally scrape the filth off the bathroom floor has disappeared.

How did that happen?

It’s certainly not because I’m more Christ-like, although I give it my best shot every day. I look in the mirror and the same old redeemed sinner stares back at me.

But In a moment of clarity I grasped why I’m now different in this area and how I inadvertently gained victory over my covert potty mouth.

I think it’s because I’ve made a HUGE effort to cut out the life draining activities and toxic relationships which perpetually keep me on the edge of an F-bomb leaking out.

If I’m honest, I was so overwhelmed with life (for a time) with the third baby, church plant, being the pastor’s wife, and juggling three jobs that resentment and bitterness were slowly brewing in my belly into a pity party of vulgarity.

Even if I didn’t say the bad word (good pastor’s wife that I am), I was probably thinking it.

But when I made some major life overhauls, thanks to my cranky heart –contentment and MARGIN started to fill in the cess-pool of obscenities. I still don’t know whether to laugh or cry at my heart condition, but more often than not, lately it seems like it might be a hidden blessing.

Now, don’t get me wrong, some people will always be jackholes and I have no qualms about calling them out, but there has been a massive shift in my verbal paradigm and for that I am eternally grateful.

At least my kids won’t remember me as Sailor Sam.

As for me, the thing I want to quit is being afraid. I have a laundry list of fears swirling around finances, my parent’s health, and my kid’s growing up able-bodied and sound; all of which give me chest pain if I dwell on them too long.

So, in light of the magnanimous Bob Goff (author of Love Does), I want to ask you…

What do you need to quit doing to make room in your life for love?

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