Ever marveled over how your child is different from the one you’d pictured?
When I found out I was pregnant 16 years ago, I was over the moon. In fact, there were a few days during a women’s retreat when I suspected I was miscarrying. Fear clutched my heart with thick talons.
Who did you think you’d marry?
My husband–I unearthed this a few years into our marriage, when we finally had the fortitude to be more vulnerable with each other–thought he’d marry someone more athletic. (I am laughing out loud as I type. Poor guy.) To his credit, when he met me, I was running every morning, performing pushups and situps at night. We played intermural sports and pickup games of soccer together. We hiked together. And to my own credit, I still live an active lifestyle. But none of these has approved the actual coordination factor.
(My parents laugh about me as a child falling repeatedly into the same hole in the yard on my way over to the bus each morning. I do not share these memories. And one has to ask, if it were true: Why did no one ever fill in said hole?)
My husband and I sat at the empty dining-room table (um. Empty except for all the stuff my kids didn’t pick up), discussing Thanksgiving plans over a cobbled-together lunch. Him: leftover Mexican. Me: a bunch of stuff dumped in a bowl with tortilla chips. We were talking about what he hoped would happen; he turned to me.
“What about you?”
Well. There it was. I knew it would sound a little martyrish. But, hey. I’m a mother of four kids off school. I’m inviting relatives. My work-from-home schedule had already been put through the blender with the lid off. (I mean, that’s having kids in general, right? Like my “birth plan”. Please write down what you hope will happen so that, if the other 246 factors align themselves, we can help you have the birth you want.)
Well. I’d been waiting for a good illustration for this post. I didn’t really want it to come when I was sleeping (probably snoring?) last week at precisely 12:35 AM. That is when my husband, arriving home late, confirmed I was good to go on that meeting tomorrow at 8 AM, the one an hour away.
Yes. (I was mumbling. If I wake up too much, I know I won’t get back to sleep.) I have to drop off all the kids, and then..
Wait. Did you say 8? Wasn’t it 8:30?
My husband and I were riding home in the dark last night, drinking in that laundry-on-the-line feeling of spring, even though I know in Colorado it won’t last long. (I’m scheduling this post for a day when they’re predicting more snow.) We talked about some happy successes with my new business. I mean, it’s not Africa, but I’m excited about it, I shrugged as we pulled to a stop sign. It’s okay. This doesn’t need to be Africa. It’s a new box; new expectations.
It needs to be said. Blogging about parenting can feel a little like heading for an outhouse in a snowstorm, y’know?
Because honestly, there’s waaaaay too much I don’t get right. (And aren’t we all a little skeptical of the people who seem to be doing it with Pinterest perfection?) Sometimes I pull up a chair to blog about parenting and I’m thinking, Which failure shall I blog about this month?
From the beginning, I think God’s had it out for me to shake up my (firstborn, overachieving, idealistic) parenting goals. As in, pretty soon after those two little lines turned pink.
Ever find a relationship off-roading completely from what you longed for?
Yup.
Maybe, like me sometimes, you feel like the person isn’t listening or getting you, or isn’t open to alternate opinions. Of course my primal reaction is to just duck and cover. I’m completely willing to be kind and generous—but so much for an authentic relationship.
Okay, moms: Who’s the best mom you know? And what makes her, y’know, stellar?
I wonder what the highest standard for motherhood is in your group of friends. Is it clear where you should be sending your kids to school, or what educational concepts they should have mastered? Whether you should vaccinate? Whether you use essential oils or antibiotics? Which programs your kids are enrolled in, how your daughter’s room is decorated, or what cute ideas you found on Pinterest for her birthday party?
I’ve only been back in the States for a month, so maybe I’m picking up on the wrong vibes. But—I am picking up on some significant pressure that we both give and receive from each other as mommas. Maybe you’re insecure like I was as a young mom, and sometimes still am. So much is imploding in front of you, despite your utter exhaustion. I admit to a wee bit of wicked consolation when another friend has a pile of dirty dishes that’s kind of erupted all over the rest of the kitchen, or when her kid also has a head-turning meltdown in the housewares aisle.
Man, it was a tweeny sort of day. And I remembered: This isn’t just about control. It’s about relationship.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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How would Jesus tweet? Social media as love, Part III–FREE GIVEAWAY
Missed the first two posts? Get Part I here and Part II here.
6. Love = Telling the truth. …In love. Is a status update artfully alighting upon all my strengths the same as telling the truth? Like a camera, we all choose what we zoom in on. But is it possible we’re airbrushing our lives, and creating a climate of unnatural expectations? (Check out this post on perfectionism vs. pursuing excellence.) Though we may look for sympathy when our kid smears poop on the wall or throws a fit in Target’s housewares aisle, our lives on social media generally lean toward the photoshopped side of things.