One of Those Days . . .

The morning did not start off with a bang.  I overslept, resulting in my husband being late for a meeting.  I almost lost my temper and sent my toddler to school without breakfast because he was throwing such a fit ("I want eggs.  I don't want eggs.  I WANT eggs.  I DON'T WANT eggs.").  I didn't get to snuggle with my infant, which is my daily dose of peace in this busy season.  I checked my work email to get a head start and ---- ugh.  You know the feeling.

I sat on my couch in my pink striped pajama top and borrowed scrub pants from my sister-in-law and considered the next few hours.  Why go in?  I reasoned.  It's pointless.  I won't accomplish anything. This is just going to be one of those days.

I closed my eyes in prayer, hoping for sympathy for my plight, understanding for my mopiness, an excuse for my lack of motivation.

Instead, I heard Him say:

"Get up.  Get going.  I have things for you to do today!  Things you can't do if you sit here and mope about what you could have already done better or about what you don't want to do.  Defeat is not from me.  I am for you!  So get up!  Get going! I have things for you to do today!"

So I got up, I got going.  And I said a prayer for victory for all of you still in your scrub pants and pink pajama tops.

One of those days? Nope.  It's one of His days.

And He has things for you to do.

Treasure

My toddler is a bright little boy.

I know this because people tell me it all the time.  I also know this because he challenges me.  He already argues with me, corrects me on my Spanish pronunciation, and informs me when I have incorrectly read a story that he has heard before.  He loves to count and read and learn new words and understand how things work. 

Yesterday, when I picked him up from daycare, he was building a train track out of blocks.  He wanted to count the blocks with me.  There were more than thirty, and ---though he got tripped up on 15 and 19 --- he easily spouted out the numbers.

Another mom was picking up her child, and she asked, "Do you work with him?  I can't believe he can do that."

I was a little embarrassed because I felt like I had been caught "showing off."  I wasn't, of course.  In fact, I hadn't even noticed her paying attention to us.  I was just trying to relate to my child after a long nine hours apart.  Still, to deflect attention, I almost said something along the lines of: "Oh - he struggles with the numbers sometimes . . .". 

But I caught myself.  My two year old is old enough to listen to me.  He hears what I am saying.  Even scarier, he understands a lot of it.  So - while downplaying his strengths may meet my need of demonstrating humility - what will he take from my comments?  How will they make him feel?

So, instead, I took a deep breath, turned the attention away from myself, and said, "He just really likes to count.  He's a smart little boy and a good learner."

It felt like vanity to say that --- like I was bragging on myself.  But I wasn't bragging about me.  I was recognizing one of the gifts God has given our son.  I was letting him hear me acknowledge his strengths and positive qualities.

I think that it is important for children to hear their parents speak proudly of them.  Too often when speaking in public, I make comments about my children as if they are simply extensions of me.  But they aren't just an extension of me!  Instead, they are wonderful, unique little people made in the image of God!  When the situation calls for it, I believe I should praise them as such, not downplay their accomplishments as if someone had praised me.  I know it is important to teach my children humility, but it is also important to teach them that they are good and equipped with special gifts from their Maker.  How will they ever learn to share their gifts if they don't recognize that they have them in the first place?

There are so many voices in the world that will seek to convince my children that they are less than adequate; I believe it is my job to teach them that they are a treasure, sought after in love and won at great price. 

Decision

In law school, success in most classes is determined by one grade:  the final exam.  It is generally the only test given in a semester, and it is the sole determinant of your fate in that class.  Suffice to say that final exam time is stressful.

On the night before one of my exams, I was cramming in the library.  This wasn't over-kill cramming.  I really needed to study.  I wasn't ready.

One of my friends stopped by.  She was dating someone who was not a good boyfriend.  Unfortunately, she had just discovered exactly how bad of a boyfriend he was.

I had a dilemma:  should I keep studying, or should I take time to be with her?

I am not proud to say that this wasn't an easy question for me, but I did do the right thing.  I closed my computer, stood up, and said "Let's go for a drive."

I am absolutely sure that I did not help her at all.  There was nothing I could say that made it any better.  I probably did say things that made it worse.  I'm not really good at things like that.

On the flip side, she helped me tremendously be allowing me to be there with her in that moment.  She let me make a choice to prioritize people over personal gain in a fairly low stakes environment. 

That night was more important to my education than almost any other. 

Cheater, Cheater

My senior year of high school, my teacher gave us a dream assignment:  write a fable.

At the time, I wrote fables for fun.  I woke up thinking about them and went to sleep thinking about them. 

Unfortunately, the assignment came at a busy time . . . so rather than writing something new, I just pulled something out of the drawer that I had previously written.  It would suffice.

The day before the assignment was due coincided with the last night of the regional fair.  I LOVED the fair.  I really wanted to go.  I called a friend to convince her to go with me.

"I can't," she said.  "I haven't written my story yet." 

"That's easy!"  I told her.  "I'll help you!"  I then proceeded to spout out one of the stories I had been thinking about for a few weeks.

We went to the fair.  I think we had fun, but - to be honest - I don't really remember.

What I do remember is what happened a few weeks later.  My teacher had finished grading the fables.  She said there were two that really stood out.

She read my fable to the class first.  It was okay, but it wasn't really great.

She then proceeded to read the second fable, the one I had given away, noting that it was "her favorite."

My friend beamed.  She should have.  She did a great job of writing the idea that I had developed. 

I felt like I had given away my first child.

It was the best lesson on cheating that I could have received. 

The Eleventh Commandment

In every family, there seems to be one person that receives notice of the Eleventh Commandment:

Thou shalt not be late to church.

Unfortunately for the recipient, there is usually only one person who is aware of this commandment in each family --- making him or her a fiery ball of nerves on Sunday morning.   You can usually spot this person by The Vein that is pulsing from the forehead or neck.  Other tell-tale signs include The Scowl, The Clenched Jaw, The Glare, The Balled Fist, and The Snorting Nostril. 

In my family, this person is me. 

My anxiety starts as soon as I wake up on Sunday.  I start plotting about how we can all get out the door on time.  To get a husband, a two year old, and an infant ready and keep them that way at the same time requires some strategy.  A strategy I have not mastered.  We've tried 9:30, 10:00, 11:00, and 11:15 am services.  We've tried dressy church and blue jean church.  No matter which one we choose, we are late.  Half the time, we are unshowered. We always miss the music, and sometimes we miss half the sermon too.

I will admit that I am part of the problem.  And that only makes me angrier. 

I've tried to pretend to be laid back about it, but that's just not me.  It comes off a bit like using surfer slang in a business suit.  I'm not fooling anyone. 

This is a problem that requires some serious therapy.

And so, I reread the 10 commandments, and remind myself that there are, in fact, only 10.  These 10 include the following:

* You shall have no other gods before me.
* You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below.
* You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses his name.
* Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy.

I want to rationalize that the Eleventh Commandment is consistent with these, but I don't think that is true.  It would be one thing if I were truly pursuing God's honor by getting to church on time.  But, really, I'm not.  I'm actually more interested in my honor.  It's EMBARRASSING to be the last family at church. 

Gulp.

So, my children who are watching me (and who are likely victimized by my Sunday antics), aren't really learning anything about God's will.  What they are really learning is that mom deifies her image over all, that she invokes the Bible to justify her need to be on time to church, and that she defiles the holiness and peace of the Sabbath to follow societal customs.

It sounds like I'm being harsh on myself, but I'm really not.  It's no picnic to get ready for church while harassed by an 11th Commandment follower.  It's certainly no way to prepare the heart for worship.

This, of course, brings me back to where I began:  The Eleventh Commandment. 

If you happen to adhere to it, I have a newsflash for you:  It's a fiction.  It's a distractor.  And it's likely to make you violate the first ten.

Keep going to church and aiming to be on time, but remember:  the heart of the matter is always the heart.  And a pure, patient, God-seeking heart will teach your children more than announcement sessions and opening songs at church ever will. 


 

Love Notes

When I was growing up, I always joked that I'd find a man who liked to cook.  In deep south Georgia, where women did almost all the food preparation while men sat around on the couch and talked football and farming, this was more of a fantasy than an actual list item.   

I also always dreamed of having red-headed children.  I come from a long line of red heads.  It missed me, but I always hoped I'd pass that gene along.

In law school, I met my husband.  Our first Christmas together, he surprised me by cooking me dinner at my apartment.  It was really, truly, wonderfully good.  To my surprise, it wasn't just a one-time dating tactic.  His resume actually lists cooking as a hobby and interest.

I would have married him without the cooking, but it was definitely icing on the cake.

There was, of course, one catch.  My husband is Chinese, so I was sure when we married that my gene pool would be obliterated.  It was a small price to pay.

Imagine my surprise when, upon the delivery of my second child, one of the first comments out of the surgeon's mouth was:  Is his hair red???

It's not fire engine red, but it definitely has an auburn cast.

I take tiny miracles like these as evidence that God loves me in even the smallest of things. 

Community Wipes

Since his birth, our now two-year-old has known only one kind of wipes:  Pampers Sensitive.  Some well-meaning soul told us early on that they were the best for little bums, and we trusted and never deviated.  Until recently.  Since the arrival of our second son, we've been trying to save money.  We eat out less, opted for Netflix over cable, edited our cell phone plans, and switched to Luvs diapers after trying out a sample and determining that they got the job done just as well as the more expensive brands. 
 
That's when I began to eye the wipes. 
 
At home, I didn’t really feel the need to change our brand.  We have a newborn with sensitive skin, and I didn’t want to change things up. 
 
Daycare, however, required a different analysis.   
 
Unlike the infant room, our son's toddler class at daycare observes a "community wipes" policy.  Every 3 months or so, each of the kids' parents bring in a big box of wipes, and the daycare staff  use those wipes on every child.  I began to notice that some of the other parents had switched to generic wipes for the toddlers, and I thought, "Hmmm, maybe we should try that too." 
 
The next community wipes time, I instructed my husband to go out and purchase cheap wipes.  He did so and I proudly sent them - unopened and untested - with my son to school.  They might not be the best, I reasoned, but at least our oldest will continue to get the "good ones" at night and on the weekends.
 
One day, we ran out of the Pampers Sensitive.  My husband had just picked up another box of the cheap wipes for daycare, so I tore it open, popped open a purple lid, and pulled out a wipe.
 
Much to my dismay, I quickly learned that there was a reason for the price difference.  These sheets were more like moist paper towels than wipes.  They felt sticky, wet, and scratchy on my hands and - I can only imagine - on my son's previously pampered hiney. 
 
It was a moment of guilt-inducing self-awareness.
 
I am not against generic brands.   I am not against savvy shopping.  But there is something about this particular scenario that bothers me.  I think there is a part of me that knew those wipes were not going to be up to par, as evidenced by the fact that I still used the premium brand at home.  Despite this gut feeling, I never checked the new wipes to make sure they were sufficient.  Instead, prodded by the perception that some of the other parents were getting off cheap, I decided to jump on the bandwagon.  It wasn't until I had to experience the difference myself that I realized that this was not good for any of the kids . . . including my own son.
 
I love my sons.  I take joy in their blossoming friendships at daycare.  I wish only the best for all of those children, who are almost like siblings to mine.  If I had any of those sweet babies over to my house for a play date, I would never use the cheap wipes on them.  I would be embarrassed and ashamed.  I’m pretty sure someone would leave with diaper rash. 
 
If this is true in my own home, why would I treat those children differently in the community context?  What is it about the “community” policy that caused me to cheap out, turn my head the other way, and hope for the best?
 
There is a lot to ponder in these questions, so I think I’ll leave this story here for today.  If you’ve ever found yourself in a similar situation, I’d love to read your comments.