A few weeks ago, I needed to take my son in to have a couple of teeth extracted.
Can I just say this is not my favorite mom-job?
A few weeks ago, I needed to take my son in to have a couple of teeth extracted.
Can I just say this is not my favorite mom-job?
I would say I have been praying for a miracle in one (or more) of my kids for a year now.
But, y’know, it’s probably one of those things where you think, spring feels like a small miracle sometimes. My kids hanging up their towels sometimes feels like a series of miracles. And hey, let’s not forget the miracles God’s doing in me (to the tune of, Wow, when that kid flipped his lid, I didn’t flip mine. Miracle.)
So this past weekend was the community garage sale in my small town. Though I’m really aspiring to greater simplicity, a community garage sale is my kryptonite.
I was super-excited about a necklace I found. But when I paired the necklace with a bracelet I’d nabbed for $.50, my husband’s eyebrow cocked. Not a good sign.
Months ago, I stumbled upon what I thought was an epiphany: silicone scar strips…which promised, with 4.5 stars on Amazon, to fade stretch marks, people.
My heart lifted. My first child ballooned my belly like a watermelon, complete with stripes. When another mother asked to glimpse my stretch marks after I mentioned their severity, she gasped aloud with some equivalent of Good golly.
So over here, school has started again. I may have subconsciously avoided my boys’ room this morning, which at last sight looked like someone flipped it upside down and shook it. My daughter’s room was pretty similar as she rushed out the door. Hers just smells better.
What I want to do? Overfunction just a little.
Confession: Sometimes my own view of women hamstrings me.
Some of you are shocked, and maybe a little offended, I would ask this question because your inner answer is, Of course.
I woke up the other day feeling—well. Feeling needlessly angry. (It wasn’t the first time, lately.)
I drilled down a bit in my surly little soul. Anger, I recall, is secondary; it stems from something: disappointment, fear, hurt, sadness. For me, there were slices of sadness—but also a big hunk of fear. More specifically, I felt powerless.
As I was scrawling thoughts for this post, I felt rather sheepish for even labeling that. The reasons I feel powerless are nothing like some of you reading this, huddling (or scramming) when an abusive spouse comes home. Or perhaps you’ve got a boss who makes you feel about an inch high, or even threatened—but you’ve gotta pay the rent. Or maybe you’re a person of color, feeling terrified and estranged after the last election. Or you have a dark diagnosis and a couple of small kids.
I guess you could say that because of my story, which I shared last week–I’m pretty passionate about giving insecurity the boot. Maybe it’s much more so in parenting because I watch how my kids Xerox my values.
And I know how much it’s robbed from me.
I told you how insecurity—for far too long—was a giant, life-sucking Hoover in my marriage. It was as if I’d wrapped a leash around my neck, panting to be led by someone’s opinions. …Even complete strangers.
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