There’s this memory that sort of hovers over me every year. It floats in sometime after Thanksgiving, and grows increasingly strong until Christmas morning when it roars past me like a freight train.
Sometimes I wish I could catch the memory, maybe climb back into it, and wrap myself up in the warmth of that moment.
It was Christmas, and I was young. My brother and I burrowed beneath blankets upstairs as the winters winds of Wisconsin knocked at the window panes. It was the middle of the night, not even close to being a reasonable time to wake our parents. The clock by my bedside said 3:30. We decided to wait until 4:00 to go downstairs.
Because, obviously, 4:00 is more than reasonable. Ask my mom. She loved getting up that early.
Brett slept on the floor by my bed, and on this night (morning? No…definitely night), I was reading Ziggy to him by flashlight. I’d read the words, then show him the pictures, and we’d both snicker because, for whatever reason, we found Ziggy hilarious.
It’s very tactile, this memory of mine. I remember the darkness that wrapped around our house, the way the windows rattled now and then with the wind. I remember my toes being cold, and not really wanting to get out of bed, but so longing to see what treasures waited for us under the tree.
I remember being happy and excited. I remember feeling both cold and warm, or…maybe it’s just the memory that makes me feel warm?
Mostly I remember feeling completely at peace.
The thing about Christmas is it tends to get under your skin. There’s something about the holiday season that wraps all tight around your heart, forcing you to recall short snippets of time, replaying them like movie reels in your mind.
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I love that Christmas memory. I don’t remember the gifts we received that year. I just remember being happy in my bed, giggling with my brother, anticipating the day to come.
There’s another Christmas memory that has loped it’s way into the reel in recent years. This one, too, has been pressing down on me for the last few days, reminding me that I’m not a kid anymore, but that Christmas can still hold a particular brand of magic.
It was three years ago that I sent off our completed dossier to Russia. I’d had eleventy frillion documents tracked down, signed, notarized, and copied, and I sent the stack of paperwork as thick as my arm off with a thrill in my heart.
And the week before Christmas it all sort of unraveled. Whispers of a Russian ban on American adoptions made their way into my heart, and began to squeeze tight.
It was Christmas night, and I was up all alone. The children were in bed, the events of the day having pushed them into slumber swiftly and mercifully. Lee was asleep, too, and so I sat alone.
I curled up in front of the tree, all lit and glittery with memories old and new, and I sipped my hot tea. I thought of a little girl far away, alone and waiting for a family to choose her, and I prayed the prayer that only a mother can pray when she feels powerless to help her child.
I’m not one to claim to have heard the voice of God often. I don’t toss that idea around lightly. But on this still night, I heard the word Wait.
In this memory that keeps flitting around my subconscious, I hear the voice audibly. I don’t believe it was quite so clear that particular night, but I do remember growing still in spirit as the message washed through me.
Wait.
Tonight, we brought home our Christmas tree, and while Michael Buble´ crooned Jingle Bells in the background, we pulled out the lights and ornaments, and we dressed the spruce in our living room.
“Put the breakable ornaments up a little higher so Annika can’t get them,” I told the big kids, and they did. And all the while, Annika stood in the middle of the carpet, her eyes dancing with delight at the wonder of it all.
Three years ago last week, I put our dossier in the mail to Russia. It’s been a long wait, but tonight I felt a warmth spread quick through my soul. It’s the same feeling I get when I think of that Christmas morning in my bed with a flashlight, and a Ziggy book.
Peace. Joy. Anticipation.
The thing about Christmas is there’s always room for one more memory – another snippet to add to the reel.
It seemed to be so, anyway. As I walked down the sidewalk, in the beginning, I felt proud of myself for the suggestion. This wasn’t just a good idea – it was a great one.
Those happy thoughts lasted all of thirty seconds.
It was a beautiful evening yesterday. It was the kind of Florida evening that we live for down here in the sunshine state. Now that the heat has broken, we are blessed with that perfect, 70 degree air that bathes the skin in delight.
After an afternoon spent relaxing, baby napping, kids playing their electronics, I felt that it was time for everyone to get outside and breathe in the perfect night. So I suggested a walk.
“We need to get out,” I told the family as everyone pushed their feet into flip flops. I plopped the baby into her stroller, and Lee and I together walked down the sidewalk, and I thought this was such a good thing to suggest. We were together, as a family, enjoying a beautiful Florida evening.
What could go wrong?
By the time we finally rolled back into the driveway, I sincerely regretted suggesting the walk. The children fought and bickered the whole time. They hung on Lee and I, tripping us constantly. Nothing about it was relaxing…or really even remotely fun.
I was frustrated.
As we entered the house, everyone made a beeline for their respective electronics again. Sloan grabbed his phone, Landon grabbed my phone, and Tia grabbed my computer. Before I could even get my shoes off, they were back in their solitary corners, eyes alit by the glow of the screens.
With a huff, I demanded all electronics be turned off for the duration of the evening. “This is ridiculous!” I cried, and everyone sort of laughed at me because they thought I was joking. But I was serious.
And yet…
Part of me wanted to just throw my hands up and say, “Screw it!” Because, honestly, the most pleasant, relaxing moments of my days are when they’re all occupied with their screens. It’s just so easy to let them sink into the games, and the videos. Screen time drastically reduces arguing.
But it also drastically reduces imagination, bonding, interaction, and basic togetherness.
Sometimes I feel completely oppressed by electronics. I feel like I’m in a war zone. I’m charging up the banks of Normandy with a water gun in my hand.
I’m losing the battle.
And I’m not innocent in the matter. I’m as drawn to the screen as the rest of my people. It’s always there, begging me to pop it open, to check the news, Facebook, Instagram, email.
Everything is waiting for me, and it’s so easy to get pulled in. No wonder the children enjoy it so much. It requires so little of them. And it requires so little of me.
As moms, we’re constantly told to pick and choose our battles. Know when to fight, and know when to let things go. This maintains a healthy balance inside the home, and I fully and wholeheartedly embrace that wisdom.
But the fight against electronics is not one I want to lose.
We simply must teach our children the art of balance. In a world that’s growing increasingly more isolated, despite the many, many ways to remain connected, it’s not worth it to me to throw in the towel. It’s a battle worth fighting, even on the days when I don’t feel like fighting it.
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But it’s hard, this battle we’re fighting as parents. And maybe you feel beaten down by it all like I do. Can I offer a challenge?
Put the screens away.
How will this look for your family?
A couple of years ago, Lee and I instituted ‘No TV during the school week’. It’s a good rule. It eliminates at least one temptation daily. But sometimes (most of the time?) I feel like it’s not enough. Because the PlayStation, the iPhones, the computer – they’re all there waiting for little eyes to latch on.
So what will we do?
I’m not sure yet. I’m chewing on it. But as we head into the Christmas season, I do know that I’m feeling so battle weary. We could all use a break from the war. Perhaps, we could even learn to be in the same room together joyfully, without electronics occupying us.
Because I’m tired of being alone together with my family.
How do you combat in the electronic battle? What rules do you have in place to keep your family from being overrun by screens? I’m up for suggestions!
When I graduated Baylor University with a degree in English Professional Writing, I immediately took on the title “writer.” That’s what I wanted to be, that’s the field in which I looked for a job, and so that’s the title I claimed for myself.
Writer.
That one word feels lofty and even a bit snobbish. Writers are romanticized in movies and television. They are these deep thinkers who live in quirky apartments, and they wear funny sweaters and smoke cigarettes while tapping out the Great American Novel on rusty typewriters.
I don’t know a single writer who does any of those things, by the way.
Photo Courtesy of Tammy Labuda: TammyLabudaPhotography.com
Most of us are tapping out our stories in the dark hours of our days – early morning, and late nights make up a world of stories. If you were to come to my house, you’d see that writing takes place in the cracks of life. During lunch break on homeschooling days, and on the rare gymnastics nights that I can slip away for a time and tap the keyboard while my daughter swings the bars.
There aren’t long stretches of time set aside for writing, because that’s just not the nature of my life right now. Someday there may be time for me to dedicate hours a day to my craft, but that day won’t come any time soon. So I fit it in, and I tell myself it’s okay.
Back when I was newly married, living in a small apartment in Frisco, Texas, I set to work proving myself to be a writer. I bought a clunky Toshiba laptop and set it up on the kitchen table, declaring that to be my space to create.
(I even bought myself a typewriter, with visions of romantic nights clicking away at the keys by lamplight. But it turns out that typing on a computer is much more productive, and a whole lot easier. Typewriters make lovely decorations, though.)
I interviewed for writing jobs in those early days, and landed a few freelance positions, and I considered this paying my dues. I ghostwrote a Study Guide, co-authored a devotional, and I wrote weekly newsletters for a local doctor, while also helping him formulate his ideas for a book series.
I did all of this while working on my own book, and I called myself writer, and I meant it. I was a writer because I wrote words.
But no one was reading the words, so I began to question my ability, and I slowly and quietly dropped the title. I began calling myself an editor, instead. I told people I liked to write, which seemed safer because how can you argue with that?
But I no longer felt comfortable calling myself a writer because the litmus test for being a writer seemed beyond what I had accomplished. I wasn’t publishing books, or even e-books. I had a blog, but it was a humor blog, hardly meant to be taken seriously.
Then I went to a conference that changed everything. I sat in on Jeff Goins’ session on writing, and he told us that part of writing is simply accepting the title for yourself. “It all changes when you’re willing to call yourself a writer,” he said.
So I accepted the title once more, and I tried applying it to myself, slowly at first. And then a little more boldly with time, until I finally came to a place where I believed myself to be a writer.
It was then that I fell back in love with the craft of writing. No longer caught up in what I was and wasn’t doing, I simply learned to love the art. And I learned to better love my family in the midst of the art.
Taking on the title of mom, however, was never a problem for me. I believed in my ability to be a mom, and a good one at that, from the day my first child was born. It just felt so natural.
But being a Writer and a Mom? That’s a hard one. Because it’s hard to be both all at the same time. So I swing back and forth between the two titles, and the Mom title gets more of me, because of course it would!
Here’s the thing, though: I can wear both titles.
I am Mom. And I am a writer. I’m both things, simultaneously, though one outweighs the other in dedicated focused hours.
I’m also wife, daughter, sister, and friend. All of these titles rest upon me, and I’m grateful for them. Though I may wear some titles more naturally, and I may not always give healthy balance to each role, none are diminished or any less important. I embrace all these titles, without shame.
What are your titles? How are you embracing all that you were made to be, from your mothering to your wife…ing (go with it), to the many, many skills that make up the whole of your being?
Life is very full these days. From sun up to sun down, each moment of my day is parceled out in not so generous sums, and I’m slowly working my way to next Thursday when I will release all the strain, shut my eyes, and sleep for four whole days.
Lee and I leave next week for a much needed getaway. We’ve both been under pressure, me with two major book deadlines, and him with a hefty travel schedule. And in between all that we have these four little people who offer heaps of patience and grace (well, three of the four are offering patience. The baby is terribly demanding…).
And so it is that I stumble through each day, moving from one task to the next with little time to stop in between. This has, naturally, led to a bit of distraction, upon which my kids have capitalized and exploited in the most unfair of ways.
It seems they’ve grown quite thrilled with their ability to scare me. Normally it’s not that easy to make me jump because they’re loud, and they’re not really that good at waiting quietly in the shadows. Little giggles give them away, and so I’m usually prepared for their delighted BOO! I feign shock, and we all laugh.
HA HA HA!
But two things have occurred in the last few weeks: The first is the above mentioned distraction, which has left me vulnerable to attack. I’m all caught up inside my head, constantly sifting through all the thoughts that bounce around inside my overworked brain.
The second is that these kids of mine have become somewhat adept at hiding. I should be proud because they’ve really upped their game. But lately I find myself mumbling each time I round a corner, “If one of you jumps out at me I’m going to drop kick you into tomorrow.”
Mad parenting skillz.
This little game of scare-the-pants-off-mom rose to a whole new level last week when Lee was out of town. After a long day, I put the kids to bed then headed to my bedroom where I spent an hour after bedtime cleaning up, trying to find my floor under all the clothes that had buried it.
Around 10:00, I made my way to the kitchen to grab a drink before closing down the house for the night. Just as I rounded the corner, Sloan stepped out from the shadows with a whispered, “Hey there!”
Friends, I’m not a cuss word kind of girl. In general four letter words do not fit very nicely on my tongue, so I don’t often say them save for very rare occasions. This was one such occasion.
I swung my fist through the air and yelped “AAAAAHHH – Whaaaaaat the H$#@!”
This was the moment that Sloan slid to the floor in laughter while I clutched my chest to make sure my heart started beating again.
WHY WAS HE NOT IN BED?!
WHY DID HE DO THAT?!
WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT CHILD?!
These are questions left unanswered. And honestly, I blame his father for everything that is wrong with him, and all the other ones like him.
“Oooooh my gosh, that was SO funny, Mom!” Sloan squealed, rolling on the floor. He sat up and wiped his eyes. “I mean, I literally scared the H-E-L-L out of you!” he laughed.
I tried to brush it off and be all, “Well, I mean ‘Hell’ isn’t really a bad word. It’s a place. A place. It’s a noun, cause it’s a place!”
“Not the way you used it,” he said, cackling now.
Ha.Ha.Ha.Haaaaaaaaaaaa……
Since that day, it appears that the kids are on a quest to make my life a living H-E-L-L by jumping out at me at all times during the day, forcing me to prepare myself each and every time I round a corner. People of the world, I do not have time for these shenanigans!
This morning I got up early and let the dog outside. As I walked back into the house, Landon stepped from behind the curtains. “Hello,” he rasped in his little morning voice, and I screamed bloody murder. It’s really a testament to my INSANE self control that I didn’t end up punching him in the tiny little freckled nose.
He, of course, fell over laughing, then stood back up and wiped his eyes.
“Aw, man,” he said. “I thought I was gonna get you to say the “H” word again. Or maybe even the “SH” word this time.”
Join me next week for my online seminar: How to Be an Awesome Mom in Two Easy Steps.
Be aware that if you see me in public, and I appear to have a nervous tic, it’s because life and my psycho children are all conspiring to make sure I end up in an early grave.
We spend most of these early, formative years with our children in the throes of training. Once we get them past the lumpy, squishy infant months where our main objective is merely to keep them alive, we move into the toddler years where, well, the objective is still to keep them alive. But a considerable effort is spent on teaching them life basics like sharing, saying please and thank you, asking and not demanding.
Then we move into the elementary years, and this is when solid life training begins. This is also where I think many American families begin to break down the training in the wrong ways.
This is the stage we are currently in, and as we navigate these extremely important years with our children, I’ve had to really evaluate what it is I’m trying to teach them. The American lifestyle, as dictated by the American Dream, demands that we teach our children to be “good.” Study hard, pay attention, get good grades. Be nice to others, don’t be a bully. Think of your future. Prepare for college. Say please and thank you, and keep on sharing your mountains of toys.
But the Lord has been whispering new lessons to my heart these last few years as we’ve navigated some bumpy life roads. I don’t want to raise “good” kids who do all the things needed to get into college, then get a job, and then from there make a “good” living for their families.
What a box we’ve created for our children!
While there is wisdom in teaching our children to work hard and prepare themselves academically for the future, we cannot put so much stock into those things that we make them the gospel. We can raise “good” kids in Christian homes who grow up with strong moral guideposts…and little passion for the world around them.
While we place in our home a proper amount of respect on good morals, I’m challenged to take my kids a step further.What does it mean to have integrity? How do we live a life of action, rather than one of complacency? Rather than waiting to be served, what if we were the ones who served?
I fight the urge to place my children inside the American shaped box – the one that dictates they find a solid job with a steady 401K, and a savings account that will give them the chance to retire at 60. None of those things are bad things, of course. We live inside those bounds ourselves. The point is, I don’t want that to be the emphasis of training in our home.
I want my boys to know that there is more to being the provider of a family than simply holding down a good job. I want my daughter to know that there is more to being a wife and mom than simply cleaning and preparing meals and kissing skinned knees.
There is a whole, big world out there filled with needs.Children are washing up on seashores, precious little chubby arms limp and lifeless from the life stealing waters. I cannot sit on the sidelines and merely cheer my children on to comfort and apathy when the world around us drowns. Action is required, and my children need to be aware.
I want to be a family that thinks of those desperate needs first, far above living a “good” life. And not because we have to, or we should, but because we can.
For a long time, Lee and I operated under an umbrella of fear when it came to giving and serving. We only did those things that fit well inside what was comfortable for us. Then God took everything comfortable away, and we came face to face with our own brokenness, our own weaknesses, and our own short comings. For so long we had brushed those things under the rug.
We were “good,” and we thought this made us good enough. It’s easy to live a “good” life. It’s easy to say and do the right things. It’s easy to live in apathy.
But it’s uncomfortable to care about the needs of the world.
And so it is that the more time passes, the less I’m less concerned with raising “good” moral kids.I want to raise children who have a deep and passionate dependence upon Christ, who see the needs of the world and don’t shrug it off as someone else’s problem, but who stand up and ask, “What can I do?”
This is a hard lesson to teach children who’s bellies are full, rooms are stocked, and who swim in more opportunity than they can possible process. This is a hard lesson for a mom to grasp when she has money in the bank, a full pantry, and more opportunity than she can possibly process.
But it’s not a fight I’m willing to concede. I don’t want to merely raise moral kids – I want to raise passionate kids who aren’t afraid to take risks, to drop everything to help a neighbor (near or far), and who realize that they are only worthy because God has given them everything they need through His Son.
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I hear this question every so often, and my first response is, “Super glamorous. I am practically famous. My office smells of rich mahogany.”
That’s a total lie.
Right now my office smells like a dirty diaper because it sits just outside the baby’s room, and I desperately need to empty the diaper pail. Nobody knows my name (except the twelve of you who consistently still read here – thank you!), and if you call yoga pants, a rumpled t-shirt, unwashed hair, and blood shot eyes glamorous then you’d make at least a portion of that statement true.
My life consists of fitting it all into the cracks of my day. In his book, On Writing, Stephen King shares his writing schedule with his readers. It consists of writing three – four hours every day, allowing him to finish most manuscripts within three months.
That’s almost like my schedule, only the complete opposite. Every morning, I wake up at 5:00 (except when I don’t), and try to make my brain write pretty sentences before coffee. Sometimes I am quite successful. Other times I just scroll through Facebook for an hour, kicking myself for not sleeping longer.
I wonder if Stephen King gets lost in Facebook when he’s procrastinating?
I wonder if his office smells of dirty diaper?
With school beginning this week, I’ve found that those cracks in my day have become a bit more narrow, but at least they’re predictable. With a twenty-minute mid-morning snack break, and an hour for lunch, I’m quite certain that my productivity will skyrocket this school year.
Because we writers love penning our words with the shrill shriek of children in the background. It really helps keep the mental juices flowing in an orderly fashion. My lunch time writing usually goes something like this:
Sit down and stare at the screen.
Try to remember where I was going with that last paragraph. Know in my heart it was probably going to be brilliant, but now it’s gone forever.
Get up and investigate the crash that just came from a bedroom.
Sit down and stare the the screen.
Try to remember what I was thinking about before I got up.
Get up and dig dog food out of the baby’s mouth.
Sit down and stare at the screen.
Try to remember what this book is about.
Get up and yell at the kids to quit fighting gently remind the children to play nice.
Sit down and stare at the screen.
Open Facebook and tell myself it’s research.
When the kids finally fall asleep at night, I usually flop onto the couch longing for nothing more than to shut my brain off and watch a little mindless television. Sure, TBS – I’d love to watch Legally Blonde for the 4 millionth time.
But then I remember that pesky deadline, and all the work that needs to be done in the next twelve months, so I pull out my computer, open up the file and stare at the words, then wait for them to stop swimming around on the screen. When they don’t, I sigh and pull myself up again for a mighty search through the house for my glasses, which magically disappear any time I need them.
When I finally locate the wily spectacles (why were they on the back of the toilet again?!) I set to work. Nighttime is for editing because the brain is too fried to write stories.
Unless those stories are blog posts about what it’s like to be a writer.
If I’m lucky, I crawl back into bed around 10:30, and I pick up a book because good writers must be readers. At 10:42, I fall asleep reading, dropping the book on my face in the process.
That’s my favorite part of this writerly life.
I sleep soundly most night, except for the ones where I see characters and outlines in my head all night long, at which point I toss and turn and clench my jaw until 5:00 rolls around, and I pull myself from bed again.
Only to have forgotten every single thought I’d had through the night.
What’s it like to be a writer?
I get to wear yoga pants, drink endless cups of coffee, and stay home with my kids. Glamorous?
Nah.
But pretty dang cool, nonetheless.
My novel releases this spring, and I can’t wait to share it with you! In the meantime, I’m busy putting together a couple of ebooks to share with my email subscribers, and will hopefully have a little site redesign done sometime this fall. I’d love for you to sign up so I can keep you up to speed on all the exciting things coming down the pike! If you’re interested, just leave me your email address in the little box to the right and click Sign Me Up!
