Surviving and thriving in Mom-dom View RSS

A Rose By Any Other Name... 20 Jul 2021 7:20 AM (3 years ago)

I read something the other day that has really stayed with me. Honestly as I was reading it, I felt it. It rang so incredibly true that I truthfully wondered how I couldn’t see it before. Have I been so world-washed that I no longer know what my feelings and emotions are? Or are we all more comfortable with accepting the status quo, conforming and never ever stepping out and away from the crowd to become aware of our own thoughts and emotions? We are more and more overscheduled, over-tasked, overly connected via never ending social media feeds but not more enlightened, compassionate, helpful, concerned. There is a disconnect. 

We run and we run and we run. 

I run and run and run. 

There’s rarely a quiet moment and if there is we simply must post it, wait for the “likes” and feedback that seems to give us justification and validation in this world. Our connectivity to others is more than any other generation. At our fingertips is more information than we will ever be able to consume; in our hands is both a tool and a distraction; we have an addiction to our devices that is so commonplace that we don’t even notice the disconnect happening. 

And we are exhausted. Worn out. Tired. Frazzled. We glorify those terms and wear them as a badge of honor. It validates that we are doing life well-at least based on worldly terms. But what if? What if we replace all of those earned titles above with the word “lonely”? Are we the most connected people on earth and yet still possibly the loneliest? 

Stick a pin in that for a moment. Because “lonely” is not something we talk about or even give permission to talk about. It’s almost-gasp-a cultural faux pas. And to bring it up in even a hushed tone can get you shot down. So, we instead overschedule, overstimulate, overshare, overindulge and try and try and try to cover “lonely” with anything but talking about “lonely”. 

I suffer from loneliness- a loneliness that I’ve lied about, that I cover with exhaustion, that I try to fill with stuff and smiles and an armor I rarely talk about. Last night in the screaming quiet of my room- all alone- I couldn’t shake the internal struggle by which I was consumed. My loneliness has become anger. You see, “lonely” doesn’t feel good. It hurts. It’s an internal ache that I haven’t figured out how to cure. And it feels weak. Our society has branded it weak and I’m hell bent on not being weak. But I’ve been lonely for years. I have years and years of practice assembling an impenetrable suit of armor. And I wear it well. I’m so used to armoring up daily and filling my quiver with the weapons of “exhaustion”, “busy”, “frazzled”, “focused” that no one, including myself, would ever be the wiser. Not even I was fully aware until I was slapped to reality with a book I wasn’t even fully enjoying. And now I must sit with knowing what I know or turning a blind eye, continuing to do as I’ve always done and ignoring that soul-sadness I feel. Daily. 

I know my soul feels it. I’ve touched on it before very superficially in writings, but I’ve never actually labeled it because I truly think my eyes were opened only just a night or two ago. I’ve longed for connection, true connection and belonging for a long time. I resent deeply those who say they are “friends” at face value when it’s truly only an acquaintance-type relationship, one where the invite to the shopping party is only to get credit for my purchase. And I naively do it. Every time. Because I am craving that inclusion and belonging. I’m not the one asked for intimate coffees, or girl’s nights, or trips, or walks to talk. I’m asked to “do” …for them. It has nothing to do with me. It’s 100% for them, to benefit them and I’m asked because I always help. I’m a helper. A people pleaser. A yes-man. My heart is used and abused and when they’ve gotten what they need, I’m cast aside. It happens again and again and again. I don’t know how to do boundaries well. Because when I try, it seems to end the “friendship”. But it never truly was anyway. 

I sat with all that last night and couldn’t turn my damn mind off. It hurts. I’ve had somewhat unsettling thoughts lately- none I would honestly act upon or even retell the details. That would be the quickest way for someone to lock “lonely” away-because she’s a freak and broken, after all. Nope. I love my kids way too much for any of that. But I do think things recently. I’m truly ready to go home. The world is a lot…it’s too much. Because “lonely” hurts deep. And I want to walk with Jesus. I’ve asked Him to take me home, but I don’t think I’m done here yet. I’m not doing “here” well though. I can feel it. If I must put on angry armor to get through today, why do I have to continue to walk and carry that heavy load? I simply don’t know. But I know I can’t be the only lonely one in this world. And for that reason only, do I put these thoughts and emotions to print.  

This is not a cry for help by any stretch. I don’t want consoling comments or direct messages of “I’m concerned about you”. Those truly lock that angry armor into place even tighter. I don’t know why. To say I’m complex is a huge understatement. I feel things so deeply but don’t know how to share them without the awkward way that defines me. Sometimes it’s ok to just…open the door; open the door to all the things we don’t like to talk about. And loneliness is at the top of that list. This is my hand reaching out gently to all who feel the “lonely” and thought it was exhaustion, to all the “lonely” who use “busy” as a badge. I’m in the arena with you. I’m here. 

Cleansing Rain 14 Jul 2021 7:02 AM (3 years ago)

 I drove through town this morning without the all too familiar droning of the radio. Normally, we turn it up loud and sing and seat-dance our way across town. But not today. Today it was just 2 chattering and excited-for-another-day-of-camp little boys, their listening mama and the soothing sound of the rhythmic rainfall. It didn’t take long for it to completely wash over me and draw me, if only for that moment, closer to the Lord. It was His permission to be present. And, oh, the things I felt. 

Today. Today is the morning after another “last”. I haven’t let many of the “lasts” sit for too long; I’ve bypassed the sadness that comes with growing up a child and marched forward into the next thing. But the quietness of the car and the permission of the rain gave way to the floodgates of my always guarded emotions. Perhaps it’s because there is but one child home with me today which is odd to say the least. Perhaps it was the finality of the “last high school moment” fully sinking in as I drove. Perhaps it just is what it is. You see, my foolish pride boasts of my steely emotions. I’m very proficient at putting my blinders on and doing the next thing. It’s gotten me through some very tough moments. However, what if I allowed myself to sit and feel. Feel all the things. I admit it’s not a comfortable place to be but quite possibly it’s the better place to be. Weren’t we endowed with all these emotions? Not simply strength? Joy and sadness are not mutually exclusive. We can be both joyful and filled with hopefulness for what is yet to come and equally sad and nostalgic for what has ended and is behind us. 

And the last “last” sat heavy with me this morning. I’m not good at crying. I’ve never really learned how to do it; or more truthfully, I’ve become so proficient at the not crying part of life that I’ve refused to allow myself to feel that emotion that can be so healing. It’s not a sign of weakness. Not at all. Allowing oneself to feel, to feel ALL the emotions, is a strength, awareness of your own humanity and a better understanding of what it means to depend fully upon our God. It is beauty. The steadiness of the falling rain this morning felt very much as a metaphorical cry for me this morning. It may sound foolish. And that’s ok. Because after I dropped off my boys, it was just me, the quiet whispers of God and the steadiness of falling tears washing away the hurt, the stains of humanity, the sins I fall into, and my stubborn dependence upon myself. It was a cleansing. It was a permission to be sad. 

Often, we hear and probably repeat the saying “don’t be sad that it’s over; be happy that it happened”. And I’m stymied by the idea that we refuse to be both. I want to experience and feel all the emotions. Give permission to ourselves and others to be 100% present in this life, and yes that means we may have to feel sadness and be ok with others’ sadness. I don’t want to “get through it” my entire life. I want to feel the full spectrum of emotions sewn into my very being as I was knit in my mother’s womb because that is His true design! I want to love fiercely, feel fiercely, express my emotions fiercely. Living in the moment doesn’t mean marching on to the next moment with blinders on and never feeling the weight of life. 

My boys are all growing up-as they are meant to do. And that leaves me in this emotional juxtaposition of joyful hope and deep sadness. They need me less and less and in much different ways. They have this exciting autonomy and independence that is both beautiful to watch and assist and yet still heartbreakingly painful. My job as their mom, my ever-present role, ebbs and flows. It changes. Yes, I will always be their mama. That will truly never change. However, as a mom to all boys I’m very aware of my role. Boys leave their mamas. They tend not to return. As it is designed by their Creator. I’m raising them to be used by Him, after all. I know my role is fleeting. I feel it more and more and I am saddened that it will, no doubt, be over some day. One day…I will not be someone’s joy, or the one they look for in the crowd, or the first hug after something great or something horrible. Right now, I am the keeper of their world…of all their emotions, moments, tears. My role as mom has been exhausting at times, but I wouldn’t change any part of that. But it won’t last. One by one they will leave the safety my arms and my home and spread their wings. And I will cheer the loudest. Always. But they will find their place, their path and it won’t be next to mine. And that makes me sad. 

And today, God sent the rain to give me permission to cry. So I did. 

And in the losing... 15 Apr 2020 7:23 AM (4 years ago)

I Smell a Smell That's Smelly 28 Apr 2019 7:38 AM (5 years ago)

Being a parent is full of yucky things, smelly things from the word GO. Within hours of having that sweet-smelling, squishy, helpless mini-person placed in your arms, they start producing horrible oozes and projectile liquids that are equally distributed from both the north and south tunnels. And it will be a main priority and concern for years and years to come. As the creator of this human, you are now in charge of both tunnels and that which exits those said tunnels is, without a shadow of a doubt, your new duty-pun intended. Fortunately, the newness and grossness of that responsibility wears off quickly and can eventually be earmarked as "something I never thought I'd do". It never truly becomes an enjoyable task, but as a parent we learn quickly that there are many many things that can be classified under "other duties as assigned". That list, quite frankly, can go on and on and on and on. And we do it...because that's what parents do. We deal with the gross, stinky, disgusting things our children either do or create with their bodies. Parenting isn't for the faint of heart and it's far from glamorous.

Once all of your offspring are pooping and wiping on their own- not wiping efficiently or effectively, just merely "wiping"- and 7-8 times out of 10 can hit a bucket with their puke, and if you have boys hopefully hitting the pee-targets on a daily basis the gross things we have to deal with should be coming to an end. Right? Well let me poke a couple holes in that pipe dream onto which you are desperately holding. IT DOESN'T END. Well, not for me anyway. I seem to be the Commander in charge of a stinky, disgusting little army of dudes who are neither aware of their disgustingness nor care how it makes their mama's face contort. I fear I've handled all of their nastiness a little too well, and I've desensitized both myself and the humans of whom I'm in charge. They seem to be accustomed and even comfortable with their own gross tendencies. So much so that I have a real concern about their future ability to reel in a female and convince her to stay. Because boys are gross by nature even without this unique-to-a-Lien grossness my children seem to possess. Maybe it's our DNA....potentially Captain Hubby + Crystal = gross, smelly boys?

Yet...and here is where my concern starts to bubble up...T6 isn't a creation of our cauldron of DNA. We hired out for his production and now just take the credit and blame for all that is and is yet to be for the babe of the family. So that leaves me to believe that the nastiness and grossness must be a product of the nurture principle of child rearing. And that means that I am the common denominator in this Boy-dom that oozes, creates and encourages all things disgusting. Awesome! And as they say, the proof is in the pudding...and in this very specific case, the proof is in the rotten eggs. Save your gags because this is about to get really, really smelly.

Imagine  Easter weekend. More specifically, imagine Good Friday. It's finally over 70 degrees here and sunny! It's been quite a long winter here so the sunshine and warmth it produces is quite welcome. Since the kiddos don't go back to school for 4 days, we haven't worried ourselves too much about all that lies within the mysteries of a child's backpack. Hang onto that thought for a minute-put a pretty little pin in it.

Since it's warming outside, at least for this particular 4-5 day period, our garage gets quite warmish. And being a mama who was cursed with the super power of heightened smell, I've become quite aware of a weird, almost rotting smell. Now, I have a really terrifying and long history with mouse invasions and all the horrors you can imagine that accompanies that security breach-even the smells that permeate from dead mouse. I'm now the appointed blood hound of the family as I sniff every single nook, cranny, corner and entry point in our garage. I'm sure I was a sight to behold as I made it my mission to seek, find and destroy the smelly smell that smelled smelly!

This went on for days. Every time I entered my garage I was slapped in the nose with the smell that alerted me that something somewhere needed to be addressed, but I was failing to sniff it out. And every day the smell seemed to become stronger and stronger. Let's fast forward to today-10 days post discovery of  "the smell". I casually mention while taking out the garbage that I still smell something gross......and then.....it happened. The innocent confession-actually it was an innocent "thought you should know" tattling of a brother that has left me horrified, disgusted and mortified. The child revealed that our sweet little T6 had Easter eggs that he dyed at school two Thursdays ago in his front pocket of his backpack! By the time a big brother discovered the culprit of the smell while Mom and Dad were away, they were "oozing" all over the backpack. AND they decided not to tell Mom so their beloved little brother didn't get into trouble. Now, I love that they have each others' back, but we will most definitely be having a family meeting later and we are going to discuss smells, rotting eggs, and when to keep and secret and when to rat that brother out! To add insult to injury, the brothers also inform me how badly brother had been smelling on the bus- so much so that people wouldn't sit by him!

I don't know if I should laugh or cry or both. Never in all my parenting years have I thought I would be the owner of the Smelly Kid...but here we are. I'm the owner, creator, encourager. Yep, that's me Mrs. Smelly Kid. I can't imagine all of the poor teachers, aids and bus drivers that for a WEEK AND A HALF have been dealing with rotten oozing egg smell and couldn't locate the accuser!

I probably shouldn't be allowed to have any more kids. I'm obviously neither qualified to handle the children's curve balls nor adequately trained in the art of Smellometry to sufficiently deal with boys and all that comes with that gender. And in case you are wondering...the boy will have a new backpack come Monday morning.

If You Give a Girl a Minute, You'll Get a Lot of Thoughts 16 Nov 2018 6:26 AM (6 years ago)

And just like that it's been months over a year since I've even considered coming to this space, my place, and purging the thoughts, ideas, and hilarities that never stop running through my mind. As they say, life happens. Such a simple statement. Too simple sometimes when you actually start to try and unpack that word "life". But it does, just the same and that time just keeps marching on at a break-neck pace that often ends up with me nursing my skinned knees and scuffed hands because, once again, I've fallen and, most assuredly, can't get up.

In all that has transpired in all of these past months and months and more months, my Momdom has become a very hectic little world. I'm not so much a fan of hectic. You see, I'm an introvert. I love people, don't get me wrong, but in small doses and on my terms. When life gets too peopley I can feel my energy drain, exhaustion-the soul kind- sets in deep and my joy for life seems hard to muster. Us introverts aren't cranky on purpose; we aren't trying to be rude; we just need- physically need- some alone time, home time. For my very survival, I need to hear the clock ticking in my home on the regular.

Couple an introverted personality with people-pleasing tendencies and you've created yourself a recipe for a disaster that looks a lot like Mr. Hot Mess and Miss Meltdown procreated. It's not a pretty picture. Enter my current situation. I'm somewhat at the edge of what I think is my sanity. I can actually see it dangling by a tiny little thread at the edge of my new reality. And it's all pretty much my own doing- for the most part.

You see, my baby, the youngest little dude of 6, went to school this year. As sad as that is, I didn't really want to deal with being home alone and "not having anything to do" or the idea that I'm probably not getting to have any more babies-either homemade or otherwise. Through lots of prayer and self-evaluation I decided to somewhat reinvent myself. I've basically been the Soldier's wife or the mom-of-all-the-boys for as long as I can remember. It was time to figure out who I actually was. And I did. Only a little too well, and now I'm tired of...me.

You see, I jumped into a hobby turned-way-too-quickly career with both feet! I hit the ground running and never looked back! Only, I am now paying the price. Between not knowing how to meet the demands placed on me and not being fully confident in saying the word "no", I've placed myself in a position of plain and simple exhaustion- of mind, body and soul. I'm tired-deep down into the depths of my soul tired. And that "tired" is weighing me down and taking away from my true joy- raising Godly men. I'm too tired to be the mom I've always sought to be. My patience is lacking. My gentle words are fewer and fewer. My cuddly moments don't happen because I'm either too tired or too busy. And it's very obvious that I am not the type of woman who can "have it all"- although I've never wanted "it" all anyway.

My "all" was always raising happy, well-rounded, God-fearing men while being a Godly wife and help-mate to my husband. Since at this stage kids trump spouse, my ability to be an ok wife-I'm not even shooting for good; to hell with great-is seriously lacking. It's all very "Mrs. Meltdown-Hot Mess", and she's started to look a little rough around the edges. I cry through praise music. I pout when I have more studying to do (still- all my own doing). I cringe when another request for my craft comes my way. It's a double-edged sword. I want to be able to fulfill these requests and help people achieve their goals-I love helping people! I love fitness! And I love leading classes! Yet, I'm simply exhausted- too exhausted to even do my own workout which has always, ALWAYS, been my personal release, my comfort-zone, my place of personal care.

That all leaves me with a brain jumbled with thoughts and worries and concerns and stress and ideas and suggestions and research topics and exercise modifications and training plans. I don't even have the sweet release of restful sleep anymore. It left when my sense of peace and calm left. When I no longer got to rest in my safety net of alone time at home- my peacefulness, calmness, overflowing joyfulness also left. I yearn to drink coffee and soak in the Word- my soul needs to drink in hours of the Lord, but that has been cut down to a measly 30-40 minutes.

And I can feel it; I can hear it in my thoughts, sense it in my panting soul, feel it in my racing heart. I worry that my kids are having to suffer because I'm gone more- and others tell me it's good for them when I express concern, and I'm left wondering, "Is it really?" No one knows my children like I do. NO ONE. I have to throw the bull sh!t flag on that one because if my child is begging me to sit with them, I have to believe that's where I should be. I worry my husband is deprived of ...well, me. I'm too tired to have a conversation let alone anything else that a husband and wife should enjoy. My body and soul are equally tired and sore. And I worry that NOT saying yes to every request for more from outside my home will leave me irrelevant and passed over. None of this is a win-win. If this is the reality for all those seeking "to have it all", "be all things", "bring home the bacon and make it too"...then I don't want it. I've never ever felt unworthy by staying home and being a homemaker. Never. Until I told my own damn self that it wasn't enough.

And I'm tired. Too tired to cry the tears that feel like they want to spill down my cheeks. Even though they sit in my throat almost daily waiting for their cue to release. Only not yet...I have a class to plan, a method to research, a test to study for, a supper to make, a wrestler that needs nutritional advice, children that need a story and spelling words help and a bath, a husband that eventually would like a conversation...and in all of that I really could just use a hug. And permission to say no. And a nap. And time with God.

But there just isn't time for all of that. And even as I try to wrap my mind around a million little thoughts and worries and attempt to make them make sense in this small space, I'm thinking about the test I should be studying for, and the Bible study I'm desperate to dive into, and the laundry that I can smell, and the complex carb options I should prepare for my wrestler, and the friendships that used to be friendships but really aren't anymore and should I even deal with that or let it go, and the Christmas shopping and December birthday shopping that needs my attention, and the budget that I'm sure won't stretch far enough which makes me think I should take on more classes to help which means I should probably seek more training and professional development which all leaves me in a heap on the floor wishing for a moment or a nap or a soul-exhausting prayer.

And if you ask me, "so how are you?" the people-pleaser and joy-seeker and happiness-giver inside of me will most assuredly smile and say, "I'm good. Busy. But that's life." I'll leave you with a dimply smile and bright blue eyes- because my burden is not your burden. But I'll gladly help you carry yours. Because at the end of all of this heaviness, I'm still a daughter of the King and I know He's in this with me...and I know I'm here to be a light that shines joy. Even if it kills me.

Puke-Ocalypse 3 May 2017 6:41 PM (7 years ago)

So...it happened. Again. IT happened again. One would think that in a house with children that 1 time is normal expected even, 2 times should be chalked up to bad luck and unlikely to happen again, but 3 times?! Three times seems absolutely ridiculous and extremely inconceivable! Well, color us unlucky with shades of inconceivable because we are currently recovering from our THIRD bout of stomach flu this school year. I'd put up a fight and boycott or form a picket line or something along those radical lines but I'm too damn exhausted; and quite frankly, I'm a little nervous! I mean, I've just been beaten for the third time. Three strikes and you're out, people! No one should be allowed to try again after failing so miserably three consecutive times. Not once have I acquired a victory in this war against the puke-a-palooza!

Clearly, I've been outmatched. Clorox, Lysol, essential oil concoctions. None proved able to rid my family of this pestilence and none were victorious in protecting me, MAMA, from suffering the same fate of the germ-wielding petri dishes I lovingly refer to as my offspring. I'm hosting a freaking puke and diarrhea festival over here complete with the Spinning Wheel of Explosion Poo, the Untrustworthy Fart, The Up-Chuck Station, and the Roller Pukester! The rides won't cost you much: a bottle of useless disinfectant and your ability to control your own gag reflex. Feel free to ride as long as you'd like. However, I warn you that nary a person has exited a victor from the Puke-capades ala Momdom. You really do "Enter at your own risk" when you step foot in this Castle of Vomit.

In full disclosure, I actually have only personally fallen victim to the Vomit Fesitval the most recent time. However, who do you think is responsible for cleaning up the aftermath, aftershock, and collateral damage incurred from the torrential downpour of unauthorized exit of bodily fluids?! I was bound to catch something- whether it was from before, during or after the Poo-Pocolypse! I've put on quite a brave and confident face through all of the malady, and truth be known, I was starting to get a little cocky. To successfully dodge two rounds of consecutive pukes must mean I've developed some kind of immunity or super hero powers of some sort. I clearly must have been the Chosen One! Only...I wasn't. Pride definitely came before the fall. And oh the horror that is to come when mama succumbs to the unmentionable!

Round 3 came guns a blazin' with a multitude of assaults. It's shock and awe assaulted both the southbound and northbound lanes of traffic on all victims. Truly, my posse couldn't trust a fart for about 2 weeks! And since no child has ever been known to listen to the advising parental unit as to what should and should not be consumed during these bouts of tummy troubles, the assault seemed to go on and on and on and on. Heed my words! Stick to bland and boring foods and liquids! My children seem to insist on learning this life lesson for themselves eating a vast array of foods and drink while in the midst of the pukes- all of which made their presence known as they vacated their poor little unwilling bodies. The horror that has occurred in my bathrooms is downright throne abuse. And mama? Mama gets to clean it, do it, clean it again.

I'd like to throw in the towel, but we all know that as mama I'm not afforded that luxury. I wanted to walk away; every man for himself, but I was already afflicted with the plague before I attempted an escape. So the couch and a bucket held me hostage for two days as I floated in and out of consciousness hoping my offspring would take care of me. They didn't. They stayed quite clear of me and my yuck, and I can't totally blame them.

Alas, we all survived and have lived to fart another day! Onward we will march...until the next round of germs renders us incapacitated. Until then, peace out and never underestimate the luxury of fearless farting!

Let It Go 3 Apr 2017 12:20 PM (7 years ago)

Well, here we are. Less than 2 short months before my oldest son's graduation. It has happened in the blink of an eye. Before I was mentally (or emotionally) prepared for it, it came and has been sauntering all cocky and confident up my sidewalk getting closer and closer to my door. One would think that I would have seen it coming; somehow I should have known that this day would happen whether I wanted it to or not. But, I have to tell you, while parenting I've rarely contemplated this actual day. I mean, we don't generally enjoy releasing our prized creation into the wild!  I've been so consumed in the thick of it that I haven't even considered the magnitude of this next step. Nevertheless, it will be here before I know it and whether I like it or not.

And so it begins. The very real "letting go" of a child. There it is. That's the rub. The hidden agenda of this whole parenting gig. No...the sleepless nights and tantrums aren't the hardest part. The letting go is. You see...this boy, this little boy that has grown into a handsome, mature, ready-to-conquer-the-world young man holds a huge chunk of my heart; quite frankly, a piece of my very soul strolls around with that little boy-er- young man. And I am expected to gracefully and joyfully open the door and allow him to walk into the world...all on his own...while I watch and pray and trust that the world will love him back.

We put all of our efforts, time and money into these little creatures...they've even spoken for money Captain Hubby and I haven't even earned yet! They quite literally get our blood, sweat and tears. Every ounce of energy; every waking moment; several supposed-to-be sleeping moments; all of me as a mother has gone into raising, grooming, teaching, molding, rooting for, supporting and defending this boy. Of course, that doesn't end the minute he crosses that stage all proud and determined and convinced that he's leaving home. But it surely changes things. It changes the dynamic of our mother-son relationship; it changes the ebb and flow of our little family; it changes the camaraderie between him and all his brothers. He will no longer be "one of the posse", he won't be part of the 6 when I count my crew; he may never ever again be considered one of my Woozles. And that makes me sad.

No longer will I have 2 "Bigs" as I'm gathering my crew. No longer will I set his place at the table and curse under my breath when he doesn't arrive promptly because he was engrossed in an Xbox game; No longer will we juggle our schedules to accommodate the oldest teens' schedule. Nope. That's all going to change. And for some crazy reason, people seem to think I should be excited, happy and ready for this moment. This moment that's been 18 plus years in the making.

Eighteen years is a long time...a really long time...a really, really long time to fiercely mother someone and then simply go cold turkey. I'm not sure it's for me. I'm not positive I'm that trusting, graceful mama that will wave and smile and watch him drive off. No! My name is Crystal, and I'm 100% addicted to this human that I created with my own body. I won't comply! I'm throwing the proverbial bull shit flag on this entire production! As mothers, we've gotten the short end of the stick. Explosion diapers, baby puke running down my back, so many pee-in-the-face moments that it hardly phases me anymore, tantrums, injuries, spelling tests, teaching a teen how to drive (who's brilliant idea was that?!), numerous rogue nut-cup sightings and now that I have finally groomed this drooling little fart-machine into a well-mannered, respectful and functioning human I'm EXPECTED to just unlock the door and let him go?! What the what! Did I wrong someone in some previous life? I have 2 that still don't even wipe their own butts, take one of them! Don't take the individual that laughs at my jokes, has civil conversations with me, takes care of bathroom business without involving or alerting me and (for the most part) cleans up after himself. Take any of the other 5! Not because I don't love them as fiercely, but because I'm certain that they are SO unprepared for life without me that they'll barely make it past the driveway before they come rushing back to me.

I'm certain that there is going to be some ugly crying, a tantrum even, that is going to ensue when he attempts to break free of this Mom-dom. To hell with letting them spread their wings and fly. I'm much more on board with breaking those wings and keeping them safe and sound in this nest.

Sick and twisted. This whole thing is sick and twisted. On behalf of all of the mamas of the Class of 2017, "Nuts and bolts! Nuts and bolts! We got screwed!"

Just Me And The Lorax 5 Mar 2017 12:08 PM (7 years ago)

I think I was born in the wrong time period. Quite honestly, I've felt that way for as long as I can remember. My soul, my very most inner being longs for a much simpler time. A time of more community, sock hops, malt shops, and drive inn movies. A time when small communities were the thing- alive and thriving! Ma and Pop shops were on every corner and people actually got together in person for that thing called "socializing". Less schedules and more picnics on a blanket in the park. Less social media and more meeting for coffee and donuts. More lemonade stands without worry about safety of the kiddos running it.

Call me an old soul, traditional, or crazy. Whichever. It doesn't change the fact that my soul yearns for porch swings and acres for my boys-in-the-hood to roam, build, destroy and grow. I want a quiet country road that sings of birds, dust and wild flowers. I want kids on bikes, pick up games of flag football and fresh cookies in my oven. Falling asleep under a big oak tree while reading a good book and the sun warms my skin sounds like the best afternoon.

That's what my childhood was filled with. Laughter, hay bales and bike rides- riding so fast and so hard we thought our legs would fall off. No worries about juggling our sports' schedules and practice times. We swam at the local pool daily; all our friends meeting up at the corner, dropping our bikes and rushing in with towels over our shoulders. Never concerned about what would come later. Ahhh. It calls to me.

Maybe it's because life as an adult isn't nearly as ideological as we make it out to be as teens; or maybe it's because all the weight of parenting is on me right now in this season; or maybe I truly have an old, old soul. I'm not sure what it is that pulls my heart. Overwhelming feelings, schedules and emotions probably brings out the desire for simple in all of us. But for me, it almost pushes me over the edge. I don't like to be so busy that we can't fit in a family meal around the table. I don't enjoy rushing to event after event. I don't enjoy not sitting and reading stories with my children. I thrive in long, lazy days in the warmth of summer. I love spending those days with my kiddos, eating popsicles quicker than they can melt and deciding if we are going to go to the pool or run through the sprinkler. It truly is what I enjoy. I have no desire to run any kind of rat race, punch anyone else's clock or miss out on any moment- no matter how small- that pops up in my boys' lives. I'm selfish like that I guess. I want all their moments; every single one. I don't want to miss out on any. And lately, the running around, jostling people from one practice to another, filling my calendar up with everyone's schedules and the sort just doesn't seem to offer the same appeal as it has in years past.

Give me a swing under my tree and the sweet sounds of laughter of my kids and I've found my happiest of dwelling places. I would have enjoyed being a parent in another generation because I have no desire to serve anyone outside my home. I want to cook and sew and bake desserts and make my home a peaceful retreat for all seven of the boys I've been blessed with in my life. Give me a 100 year old farm house with some acreage and oak trees and you may never ever see me again. It is where my old soul wants to be for eternity.

Just me, my boys and some trees.

Hug it Out 3 Mar 2017 11:44 AM (7 years ago)

Here I stand, wobbily at best, in this season of motherhood on the verge of stepping onto the slippery slope of an almost welcomed deranged psychosis. As appealing as it is, I'm trying desperately to maintain my grasp on sanity. I remain, however, frozen at this fork in the road one foot firmly planted on the side of calm, serene, normalness and one foot sinking uncontrollably on the path leading down a labyrinth filled with hectic busyness, uncertainties and overwhelming mania.  I'm quite literally on the very edge looking over a chasm of the deep dark abyss of chaos, schedules, To-Do's, expectations, letting go's, and obligations. It's been a long 3 and half months of being the one and only functioning adult managing this less-than-tiny dynasty of boys. And slowly but surely the weight of all of it has gotten heavier and heavier and exhaustion has become my new normal. There is a foggy haze that has enveloped me, and I am desperately trying to decipher the dim lights of the EXIT sign.

Don't get me wrong; I am not crying out for help. Honestly, I don't even know how to do that even if it was necessary. What I am doing is screaming as loudly as I can muster a need for a reprieve, a break, a moment to exhale. Six kids brings with it six times everything and even though I do the lion's share of "kid duty" when Captain Hubby is in the same country, I at least have a battle buddy that's willing to get down and dirty in the trenches with me and take on every battle that parenthood throws our way. It's a sense of not being alone in the day to day process that we call life. As much as I am an introvert, I am drowning in this sea of lonliness.

Honestly, I need a hug. A long, strong hug from stronger-than-mine arms; arms that can carry the weight that I'm struggling to hold up; arms that bring with them ears to hear without judgement all that has my mind spinning and twisting and tying into knots; arms that bring soothing words of God- breathed scripture void of suggestion, opinion or observation. I'm quite aware of all I'm doing wrong. No need for it to be highlighted. I just need...need to not be the only one in this village that's raising these young men; need to not hear "just ask for help" because I don't know how or even what to ask help with; need to have the bravery to lighten my load without letting the devil heap mom-guilt onto my plate; need to figure out how on earth a mother let's her child leave the nest without holding on for dear life; need strong steady arms that squeeze tight, tight enough that the tears I never let see the light of day feel safe enough to escape and release their burden on my soul. Because my soul is tired...so tired.

Be that as it may, there's no time to pout and count my "whoa is me's" because I'm a mom. And being a mama means doing your absolute best to meet the needs of your children. This is not just shelter, food, water and clean clothes. It so much more than that. And its becoming quite apparent that solo parenting isn't God's design because my children's needs are not being met. One sweet little boy cries daily. There simply isn't enough of me to go around, physically, mentally, or emotionally, and he desperately needs his daddy. I have another trying-to-be-a-man boy that has found himself lost- surprisingly lost without the constant, daily tough love followed with jokes-only-dad-can-make presence of his Father. And for whatever reason, I wasn't prepared for my kiddos to struggle during this experience. Sometimes I forget that they are just little people in this big old world and have far less life experience and defense mechanisms to help them through. For me to focus completely on those 2 kiddos has left the other 4 lost in the middle of existing and being forgotten. Nothing about this is fair...or easy...or going quickly...or "been there done that". No amount of deployments or TDY's makes a family experts in the area. Each age, each child and each situation is different every single time. That realization alone is enough to drop me to my knees, but when I add the actual reality of having to manage and deal with all the children, ages and circumstances I've realized how inadequately equipped I am to be Momming alone.

So day by day and sometimes hour by hour is how I'm existing. I'd love to think that it'll get easier once we get through this valley, but I know all too well that life never slows down. We DO have six kids, afterall. And short of pulling them out of all extra-curricular activities- which just so happens to be my one and only viable option, one I'm actually considering, I can't see a moment of refuge in our future. So my daily routine has seemed to suffice in soothing my nerves and anxiety, however simplistic that sounds. But more and more I've discovered that there's less and less time in the day for all the things that need my attention. There's less and less time with my oldest son before he leaves for college. There's less and less time to help my boys grow up and grow tougher while dad is gone. There's less and less time for me to remember to set the example and teach the lessons that need to be learned. And such is life...that's how it goes...and by what we overcome and conquer during hard times is what we will hopefully be able to pass along to the children desperately clinging to us during our shared storm.

And that's life. It is what it is. We all do our best with what we have. But sometimes hugs should be given without request and without worry. Because sometimes a strong and heart-felt hug just might save a mama from stepping over the edge.

Hickory Dickory Dock 30 Jan 2017 7:21 PM (8 years ago)

When Captain Hubby is taken away for long periods (ya know, saving the world and all), I always make it a point to come to a mutual understanding with the worldly powers that be that this particular moment of single parenting wouldn't be the ideal situation for any untimely shenanigans, Murphy's Law type scenarios or unforeseen disasters. However, the cosmos always seem to align perfectly to cause some sort of complete and utter chaos, trouble and usually an ER visit or two. Each deployment in the past has left me baking another installment of a boy to eventually reign in this kingdom and thus sufficing the world's need to see how much I can actually handle. However, this go around left me childless; correction, I still have my six original dudes but I was vetoed on the war-baby tradition and hence left with no new editions in the making.

All was well and good with the no-new-children-for-Crystal deployment battle drill. Everything was going according to plan. While Captian Hubby was gone my plate would be filled with the senior year and college search for our original boy. Followed up with a graduation and then the dreaded "dropping off at college" was all going to have to happen, like it or not. I'll also have the privilege of taking kiddo number five to kindergarten and kiddo number 2 to high school...all by myself. I'm not actually looking forward to any of that. All of it makes me want to hide under the bed in a fetal position while sucking on my thumb. But, everybody seems to think I can handle more than I really care to and insist on telling me I'm strong enough to do it "all by myself". All while handling Boy1 and the senior year frenzy and then Boy5 and his eventual start of his academic career, I will have 4 other dudes to nurture, raise, teach, taxi and basically parent.

Great! Again, all is going according to plan. Cue month number 2. Everything was just going a little too swimmingly, apparently. I was handling it all a little too well. I got cocky...this was sensed by the universe which subsequently aligned the cosmos in a most terrible, hitting below the belt way. Bring on the plague of rodents that started with one teeny-tiny unsuspecting little mouse. His presence was disturbing but somewhat innocent in nature. We all get mice, right? None of us; NONE of us are immune to those little creatures. So without a man to aid in my rescue, I put my ninja panties on and trapped that little jerk of a rodent in a jar. A damn jar, people! I channeled my inner ninja warrior, crept behind that little guy and trapped his ass under a Ball canning jar. Victory! Women for years will be telling my story and inquiring of my super secret ninja stealth mode.

Not quite.

That small victorious step for all-military-spouses-left-behind, that tiny little victory that made me feel like "I've got this!", and "Ain't nobody got time for that!" actually became more than just a giant leap for the lowly mouse that spilled a rodent-sized can of worms. This 1 tiny mouse became a disaster equivalent of Pandora's box! What started with one errupted into an all out assault on my home, my nerves, and my sanity. I dare say, I've taken care of all of the mice in our entire county. Generations of mice seemed to be living, reproducing and wreaking havoc in our garage. What with the dog food, rice sensory bin and heat, my garage proved to be a full fledged rodent spa.

Snap traps, sticky traps, pest-control sized traps...all used to seek and destroy these horrible little creatures. Multiple times a day I'd hear a snap, see a mouse, hear the squeakity squeak squeak of mice in the live traps. It has been the worst kind of torture I could ever imagine for a woman who is terrified by mice. And to top it off, no one would help me dispose of their sad little carcasses! It's been all me! I'll gladly shed my ninja suit and tap out if anyone would just simply step up to the plate and help a lady out. This has been the least amount of fun I've ever had. Actually, it's been 45 times less fun than anything in my entire life! 45? Yes! That's the number of mice I've caught, killed and disposed of. I'm done, y'all. Done!

If this deployment doesn't drive me to being a full-fledged wine-o, nothing will! Hickory dickory dock, I'm about ready to not give a f***

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly 27 Jan 2017 12:04 PM (8 years ago)

I struggle from time to time balancing the "fill my cup first" moments and the "momming" moments. Very often the "momming" moments have to come first; they simply do because necessity dictates that reality. Being a mom is a full time job whether you work at home or away from home, and I think we can all agree that the mom-job (and parenting job, for that matter. Dads, you know you keep these families afloat!) doesn't really have any days or moments off. All of us, for the most part, realized that our parental role was going to take over most areas and dimensions of our lives when we excitedly saw the positive results on that pee stick way back when. But I would guess that we never knew the extent of that "take over" effect until we were elbow deep in the trenches of parental warfare. There is never a down moment or dull time of life in this path from womb to dorm and every other step, fall, bump, bruise, broken bone, tantrum, teenage attitude or drama in between.

So...We know parenting is hard. What happens when we throw some hiccups, pot holes, unexpected events, and bumps in the road? Well, life is very often unpredictable and notoriously known for uncertainties and changes in plans. We've all come to expect those things, and trust me when I say I'm not looking for any sympathy or words of encouragement during our own unpredictable situation. But I am maybe trying to figure out what to do when being both mom and dad isn't going as successfully as I'd hoped. You see, I love being mom and wife. I love staying at home and selfishly having all of my kids' moments. With that said, I seem to be more successful at those two jobs when my husband is in the same country as me. Actually, it's most successful when he's under the same roof.

What I thought would be an old hat really hasn't proven to be the truth of the matter. Deployment is a difficult experience...every single time. And every single one is equally hard....not "been there done that" as maybe is assumed. It's simply not. Just because we've "done it before" doesn't necessarily mean I'm some kind of master or role model in this less-than-ideal experience. My six boys are all- all of them- handling it differently and none of them are handling it in the same way they did 5 years ago. Things change. Times change. Children grow and change and are faced with different challenges and stresses all the time. This isn't the same. And trying to feed their minds, bodies and souls all differently isn't easy. I'm very much struggling to meet each individual boy's needs at the time they should be met in every individual situation that presents itself a hundred times a day...each day...every single day.

Basically, I'm failing this mission. Not in the sense that the house is falling apart or the kids are struggling emotionally and in need of an intervention or that I simply cannot function any more. But in the sense that the house IS quite messy and more unorganized and dustier than usual and the boys often are sent to bed without their love language being completely met or getting a one-on-one talk with their parent or simply having a bath. We eat leftovers more than we ever have before. There is quite often dirty clothes crawling out of the baskets. The kitty litter is almost always stinky and in need of attention. The turtle tank is murkier and stinkier more often than not. I show up late and usually frazzled to my kids' events. There's college information that needs to be addressed and decisions that need to be made. There's additional expenses that don't quite fit into the designated budget which is requiring more math than I'd ever like to use. Sheets and bedding hasn't been washed since Captain Hubby left. And, quite honestly, I can't remember when I last bathed (with soap and deliberate washing) my youngest two. This is the real nitty gritty. It's the "real" of this moment. It's not graceful or pretty and sadly it doesn't feel very close to my family's motto of  "I've got this". Not at all. It feels more like "well, maybe I'll get it".

You see. My cup is so empty right now- emotionally, spiritually, physically- that I'm struggling to get drops into each of the six kids' cups. And because of that amazing thing we all know as MOM GUILT, I'm not very forgiving to myself. It's actually my job to make sure these boys are filled with love, security, attention and not to mention food, clean laundry, a clean healthy home, and the feeling of a safe, calm haven to which they can seek refuge. It's just not the case right now...at least not all of it and not all the time. I'm trying really hard to yell less and smile more. I'm making a conscious effort to make eye contact when the child wants to tell me another story about what happened at school or a joke they heard that is "so funny"! I'm doing my best to keep my eyes focused and ears open longer into the night than I'd like so I can have another oh-so-precious conversation with my college bound oldest babe. These moments are fleeting. So fleeting. I'm watching them grow and mature and handle life without their dad in such an amazing way that it makes me sad. Nostalgic even. It needs to slow down. I need to linger in their moments longer. Inhale their beauty and stinky smells on a more regular basis because I know I'm going to miss it. When did the ugly, busy, craziness of life become the most beautiful thing I could ever imagine? When did these moments that seem so insignificant and so overwhelming become the beat of my heart?

And at the end of it all, I'm hoping that through the exhaustion, leftovers, not always as-clean-as-I'd-like home and all too often a short response instead of really giving them my full attention...that they'll know I did my best and gave them all I possibly could in these moments. I'm doing my best by these 6 boys; giving all that I have in me to get them through this as unscarred as possible and perhaps with a life lesson or two.

And maybe, just maybe they'll have learned enough through three deployments that grace and patience and love was the answer the entire time. And maybe...maybe they'll declare without any irony or doubt that "we've got this"...

Do You Want Fries with that #2? 8 Jan 2017 11:59 AM (8 years ago)

So...I'm a mom, right? It's who I am; it's what I do; it's pretty much how I will be defined by this life that I'm living when I pass on to the next world. Most days I love what I live. It's my purpose for which I was created...more or less; am I right? But all ooey gooey sentiments aside, sometimes, SOMETIMES, momming doesn't bring out my best, or my most gracious soundbites. Anyone worth their salt as a parent wouldn't be caught dead -without very impressive disguise, I suppose- buying a parenting How To written by yours truly.

I'm hardly a guru in this area. Actually after 18 years, I'm more of a rookie than I'd care to admit. I mess up constantly; get things wrong continuously; take the easy road quite often when my give-a-crap meter gets too low; and...I've been known to let the TV or other electronic entertainment babysit my kids for a few precious moments of "me" time. Oh I'm not proud of it, and I'd rather not shout it from the roof tops. But let's be honest...this shit is hard and sometimes mind numbing...and very often this Mom job we wouldn't trade for the world is the very thing that could be sucking the life right out of us! Like a leach! A blood-sucking leach.

I'd like to think that I'm the master of my domain; the cream of this crop; the place where the buck stops...but if I were to be honest with myself, my kids hardly even know I'm here. Other than the fact that I'm the laundress, cleaning lady, chauffer and personal chef my children believe in mom being seen and not heard. Not heard...unless I growl, snort and breathe fire which will always perk their sweet little ears. The poltergeist that comes out of me at those moments will most assuredly be the image and memory my children will speak of in hushed tones once they leave my nest. That will be my legacy...Chuckie's mistress-an evil, fire breathing demon that turns into a Gremlin every couple days. The Gremlin-like state is most assuredly brought about via sleep deprivation, repeated inquiries of "put these away", "pick that up", and "who used the toilet and didn't flush". Too many of those unanswered inquires coupled with a mom-tired state always spurs the spawn of satan that was once lovingly referred to as "mama".

Again, I'm not proud of this metamorphosis that transpires at least once a week. In fact, my New Year's goal was to be less grouchy, less yell-y, less...well, me in those stressfull, I'm-gonna-blow moments. I don't really want my kids to be subject to that experience. If any other person came into my house and growled at my kids I'd probably lose my poop in ways that would make the evening news. Nobody messes with this mama's cubs...nobody except me apparently. I truly beat myself up after these "ass chewings heard 'round the world"; but every now and then my sons seem to need mama to blow up in order for their listening ears to find their way to the ON position.

Just this morning I walked in on a sight worthy of a horror movie. Poo water on the floor, poo filled toilet, garbage everywhere...the smell was horrid. Mama's crazy was unleashed! I can always tell when the kids know I'm at the brink because they forget how to speak and their eyes merely blink blankly in my direction. The "not me" fairy comes out of hiding and apparently "it wasn't me" is my 7th son because he seems to do everything around here. My growl was in full swing but the fire didn't come out of my eyes, ears and nose until during the ferociously anger-filled plunging while lecturing the children on the fact that this ISN'T a Frat house caused poo water to splash...onto my face! MY FACE! I know!! There's no coming pack from poo-water face. Needless to say, the bathroom is cleaned and now off-limits since I've put "caution: crime scene" type tape up. Hopefully a lesson was learned by all of us. The children (fingers crossed) learned that mom doesn't appreciate a poo-filled toilet simmering and waiting patiently for her to discover. And I've learned not to lecture and plunge.

And now I'll spend the rest of the day searching the internet on how to get new skin for my face...

Little House on the Prairie? 26 Mar 2015 10:59 AM (9 years ago)

It's been awhile. Like a long while. This big ol' family packed up all of our treasures and otherwise worldly possessions and moved far away from all we knew and loved. And guess what? We've all survived...more or less. Change isn't easy for anyone especially when its fought tooth and nail (guilty as charged), but...we came, we saw and we are in the process of trying to conquer. And in all of this I've realized something. Some things really never truly change.

Lost But Not Found 18 Apr 2014 9:04 AM (10 years ago)

I've always believed that God would never give you more than you can carry. In my adult life, the road has not been paved my rainbows and unicorns. We've had our fair share of crap-storms, but I've always stood on the rock of God. Time and again I've been told (and retold) that God only wants good things, is in the details, and is a refuge. But what happens when in the storms of life you are unable to sense, see, or feel God?

Ooh Yeah! 31 Oct 2013 8:06 AM (11 years ago)

Slippery When Wet 23 Sep 2013 12:49 PM (11 years ago)

I've Got A Feeling 20 Aug 2013 7:54 AM (11 years ago)

Does A Bear Sh*t In The Woods? 8 Aug 2013 8:09 AM (11 years ago)

Take Me Out To The Ball Game 31 Jul 2013 7:30 AM (11 years ago)

Don't Be Tardy For Keeping Up With The Real Military Housewives 23 Jul 2013 7:34 AM (11 years ago)

Boys R Us 18 Jul 2013 2:30 PM (11 years ago)

If You Can't Beat Em, Join Em 17 Jul 2013 9:16 AM (11 years ago)

Dressed For Success 11 Jul 2013 8:52 AM (11 years ago)

Every now and then I like to separate myself from the all-male herd with which I roam and adorn myself in such a way that identifies me as distinctly, without a doubt, female. I have an array of dresses, skirts, frilly tops, accessories, and cute shoes to match. They all hang beautifully in my closet...rarely touched...waiting for the day that I grace them with my presence. I've even fallen victim to the catalog-page illusion of that care-free woman strolling along a promenade in her crisp white, flowy sundress without care of dirty, sticky fingers. I have the dress...and it looks as if it would be beautiful to wear on a getaway weekend alone with Lt Hubby.

Anycrazydaydream, contrary to what anyone may have seen lurking around the ball fields, I enjoy putting on attire that may be classified as "cute" or "girly" and attempting to present myself as something other than frazzled, over worked and under showered. Unfortunately, it is a rare occurrence that some have likened to Big Foot sightings. It is not for a lack of desire but more appropriately, a lack of opportunity...or practicality.

On the occasional "Date Night" (read: few...far between...basically non existent) with my man, my favorite part is rummaging through my closet to find some of my cutest apparel that never gets to see the light of day. But, alas, that rarely happens. Chalk it up to six kids, crazy sports' schedules, Lt. Hubby's multiple work commitments, or complete and utter exhaustion! Whatever the culprit, my "going out" (with Lt Hubby or girlfriends) has been reduced to the status of Urban legend which leads me to attempt to wear my "good" clothes for my day-to-day adventures if I ever want to see what they look like off the hanger.

Herein lies the problem. Most of my "good" clothes are not kid friendly. Days involve chasing, grabbing, bending, holding, lifting, cooking, serving, cleaning, wrestling, wrangling, dodging...and this is just for the 1 year old! There are 5 others! They all demand food multiple times a day which always results in the need to either renovate my kitchen or just burn it down and start over. Any and every outing requires buckling and unbuckling and climbing into the back of the van to buckle another one who just "can't do it!" And with those outings comes the multitude of crap and necessities and accessories that need to accompany us in order to make the outing less painful and more of a success.

Mind you, I attempt to keep outings and expeditions to a minimum, but with the oldest two very much active and involved in sports that's an impossibility. Baseball games are nightly. We arrive with stroller, blankets and hoodies (just in case), bags of toys, sunscreen, sipper cups, water bottles, snacks (which they will refuse because the "session" stand calls out to them even though I specifically told them NOT to ask for the concession stand), bug spray, umbrellas (just in case), parental expectations (that will be defied and shattered at the amusement of others in the stands), sunflower seeds for the minion to chew (and spit usually splattering unsuspecting mommy), camera (which never gets used but needs to come along on the off-chance that I will be left alone long enough to snap a photo or two of the actual ball players that I am here to support), diapers, wipes, another package of wipes, and the slightest slimmest hope that I will get to have an adult conversation with someone that will give me the teeniest and tiniest glimmer of hope that "this too shall pass" and allow me the fortitude to do it all again tomorrow.

If I could accomplish all of this AND also arrive looking cute, I would be marked as a martyr for all mom-kind. Tshirts are not just a luxury for this job...they are a necessity. In all honesty, moms should have smocks, hairnets, and protective eye wear for our own safety. Heck, when we leave the hospital with our newborns, our "complimentary" (you know you're paying for that crap, right?!) diaper bag of goodies should include a hazmat suit for future use. "What Not to Wear?" CUTE CLOTHES!! I love me some Stacey and Clinton in theory but in on-the-job practicality they may have missed the mark (no offense Clinton...I actually have a huge, indescribable crush on you. I think it's my desire to have you dress me up and down like your own personal Barbie.) Wash and wear needs to be the goal when dressing for the day...we are talking about survival! And survival of the fittest will include washable garments, comfortable shoes to provide support and stability, pony-tail and some really effective deodorant.

Good luck and God speed mamas!

Everybody's Doing It 29 Jun 2013 4:11 PM (11 years ago)

My Words Exactly 3 May 2013 8:18 PM (11 years ago)

I don't discuss my belief in and relationship with God very much in this space. It's a personal choice from which I rarely veer away. I mostly like to keep things light hearted and funny. I've always enjoyed being a class clown and entertaining those around me with my jolly upbeat spin on life. I find the humor and joy in most things. Even in tough things and times I can usually find the silver lining, the "up side", the part that is "glass half full". Sometimes in life if you don't see the humor and laugh about it, then you'll cry.

But...I'm worn.

Maybe I need to let cry happen. Maybe? You see, I'm a fighter...I'm strong...I can get through this and whatever else lies ahead...and I'll do everything within me to help you get through it too. And if I struggle, I'll keep that between me, myself and I. I slap on a bright smile and a contagious giggle and laugh about the crappy hand of cards we've been dealt. No one likes a whiner, a complainer a naysayer, and I don't want to burden anyone else with my struggles. Crap storms happen in life...to everybody, and that's just the way it is. My armor against the world is fastened tightly and securely, and very, very few ever get through to see my tattered beat-up underpinnings.

I'm worn.

For the last three years, I've been in a revolving door of life heaping more and more on top of me. Every time I think I've got a handle on it life sucker punches us again. And somewhere in all of this pre-war, war,  war injury, post-war, unemployment and subsequent salary slashing with uncertainty around every single corner I've lost my way...I've lost my joy...I've lost my will to fight...I've lost sight of God. I can't see Him anymore. I'm not sure where He is in all of this...and I'm "worn". Such a simple word but it encompasses all that I am and all that I feel right now.

I'm worn.

For three of my boys today, I ran to and from their designated venues 6 times. And in those 6 trips in my overly crowded van, I heard the song "Worn" by Tenth Avenue North three different times. Three full times on three different trips. I've never heard a song that spoke to me- or spoke from me- in such an honestly disturbing way. That song is directly from my tattered soul crying out to Jesus. I have no idea how five total strangers could so completely understand and relay thoughts, feelings and emotions that even I can't succinctly vocalize or explain.

I'm worn.

I sit here tonight in the quiet of my over-stuffed house with all 6 boys safely tucked into bed and listen to it over and over and over again with tears staining my mascara-ed lashes and trickling softly down my powdered cheeks. And even in the loneliness of my living room, I'm ashamed of my tears...because I should be stronger, tougher, better at handling adversity and change and challenges. I'm lost...and I can't seem to find the lighted path that leads me home. Where is my soft place to land? Where is our promise that things are actually going to work out for our family? Where is our God? I'm too beat down to cry out...I'm tired of fighting...and my soul yearns for rest.

I'm worn.