To the Mom with the Puking Kid in the CFA Bathroom

Hi Friend! Can I call you friend? After all, we are all part of the same enormous family. To say I was a bit surprised when you rushed through the door cradling your daughter in your arms would be an accurate statement. But appalled? No. Bothered? Nope, not even really that. Though I’m sure the same mortified look that graced your face would have been plastered on my own as well had I been in your shoes last night.

But that’s how things are, aren’t they? When our own child does something that goes against the social norm – whether it’s puking in a restaurant, or throwing a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store – We look around wondering what the old man must think of us now, or how the other mom in the bathroom  must be chiding us for bringing our sick child out in public, and we feel just awful for what we put the employees through (whether cleaning up remnants of lunch or the shattered glass spaghetti sauce jar that the one year old threw to the ground – yes, that happened to me). And these moments are hard. Really hard! But they happen. Life happens. And we get caught in the middle of it sometimes.

I’m so sorry for any rude comments that came your way as a result of last night. To be honest, I’m glad for your sake it was at Chick-fil-A and not another restaurant as the grace of the employees covers nearly any offense in that place. I’m sorry if there were other customers that were more concerned about their own comfort than in assisting a struggling momma in her moment of need. I assure you, this wasn’t your fault.

As you think back over the events and decisions of your day, second guessing where you went wrong and wishing so desperately that you could go back and just change one thing to undo the embarrassment of the evening, don’t beat yourself up. There’s no way you could have known your daughter wasn’t up for a chicken sandwich. You made your decisions based on the information you had at the time. You did your best. You’re still a good momma!

Sometimes, we as women like to look at the mommas around us, convinced that they must have it all together – never aware that their insecurities run as deep as ours. And isn’t that why we judge and condemn one another anyhow? It makes us feel better to make someone else feel worse. It makes us feel bigger to make someone else feel smaller. I guarantee you that no mother makes it through life without embarrassment, frustration, and regret. Not one!

I’m proud of you, friend. The way you handled yourself, the way your cared for your daughter – I saw how you loved her. Thank you for not chiding or making her feel guilty for something she couldn’t control.

So when you think back to last night and rushing down the aisle to the bathroom, do me a favor, k? Give yourself a little grace! I’m willing to. And the next time you see me with a puking kid in the bathroom, you can pass it back my way.

Why I'm Giving up on Being the Perfect Mother

I don’t usually involve myself in posts that could be controversial. First, I really struggle with the comparison game, myself, and elevating one philosophy of mothering over another can easily turn into harsh slung words over who is right or what ideas carry the greatest weight. Secondly, ain’t no busy momma got time for that!

But this topic is near and dear to my heart and is one I have long struggled and labored over. Yet, in writing this, please don’t feel I’m pushing an agenda or saying this way of thinking is best for everyone. I just want to share my heart on one topic I’ve wrangled with and seen the effects play out in my sons.

The perfect mother. It’s something we all have strained toward. We research what it looks like, what it feels like, what it sounds like – we seek the ethereal example of motherhood perfected. If it requires a new gadget, we invest in it. A change of thought, we conform. A habit, an effort, a fruit of the Spirit, we model our life after actions that may lead us to a closer ideal.

I’ve read blogs – leave the house dirty, hug your little ones, the time passes quickly – be slow, be intentional, stop saying no, order is the way, schedule, free play, make lists, organize, relax, take you time, discipline, give grace. And each time I walk away feeling a little more of a failure in my motherhood – like somehow I don’t measure up. So I set the bar higher, leaning and stretching to attain some form of perfection in my parenting. And I’ve grown weary. Weary of trying and failing. Weary of what forever seems impossible, but unable to break out of the relentless cycle of pursuing perfection.

Here’s the problem: I can’t do it. And I will never be able to do it.

Now if I said that’s the reason I’m giving up, this blog post would be over, but there’s more to it than that. My struggle toward perfection is strangling my motherhood. Here’s what I’ve discovered:

First, when my focus and my goal is that of my own idea of perfection and I fail, who am I failing? Namely, myself, my own ideas and desires. And if I’m failing myself, what is my response? Well, guess I better try harder next time. And you know what I miss? I miss how my failure in that moment may be affecting one of my sons. When my eyes are fixed on my own goals and motives, I miss the dynamic bigger picture of how my impatience or my harsh words may be breaking my boy’s heart. I don’t sense the need to apologize for anything because the offense was against my own goal – not against anyone else.

Second, when I set perfection as the standard for myself, I am inadvertently setting the standard at perfection for my sons. If I am not allowed to fail, then neither are they. What is this teaching them about grace but that there’s no need for it? If failure is not an option (and Lord knows how often we mess up), then am I communicating that they will never be enough? Never measure up? When I don’t give myself room to fail, my sons don’t see my need for grace. When I communicate that perfection is the standard, I don’t give them room for grace either!

Finally, when I strive in my own strength toward perfection, I am turning my motherhood into a vessel that is to be set on a shelf and adored rather than a usable vessel to nurture my family. I communicate “don’t touch,” “do not disturb,” “Hands off.” This is my pretty vessel – it doesn’t need finger smudges and boogers to flaw its surface. But this is not what I am called to as a mother. The direct commission I have been given is to bring forth life and to bear fruit (both in a physical and spiritual realm). And who is the life giver? God! Who is the vine that I must abide in? His son, Jesus. Who develops the fruit in my life? The Spirit. And I so desperately want my sons to know this. This, right here – the power of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwelling in me!

So, no, I cannot do it. Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. I say that all the time – and that’s why God must be the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

So where does that leave me? I am going to mess up. I will have moments where my anger gets out of hand, where the house is not perfect (or maybe for the moment it is, but I have missed an opportunity to invest in one of the little ones), I get impatient, I speak harshly, I don’t give grace, or I mess up in many other ways that I know I will. And I want my sons to know that’s okay.

When I wound them, I want them to see me admitting it, asking for forgiveness, seeking their grace – so that they can go and do likewise.

When I fail, I want them to see that it’s okay. Perfection is not something we can attain. I want them to see me receiving grace in my time of need so that they also can receive grace in their time of need.

When I walk this road of life with my sons, I want to be tangible, real. I don’t want to be hands off. I want them to see my desperate need of Christ. I want to be usable. And the only way that will happen is to let Christ live through me. I don’t want to be an empty vessel on a shelf – I want to be filled and spilled. And that means being willing to get dirty (sometimes in physical ways too!).

So I’m giving up on the idea of perfection in my mothering. I’m giving up to the one who can live His life through me. Christ, the image of perfection – that who I want my sons to see!

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The Birthing of a Man

Wet, warm, slimy babe in your arms, new from the world of wombs. Only God could have planned this moment. Skin to skin, breathing in new life, new joy, hopes and dreams for both today and tomorrow. Pull the wobbly, too heavy, head up for a kiss and feel the warmth of new blood rushing, oxygenated now by something other than you. Your role is a little less crucial than it was yesterday. But you don’t feel that right now, you just bask in the new mommy, joy moment. And do, for it passes too quickly. All of life is letting go. 

 The way he ripped through your body, the burning pain with the tightenings and the forceful entry into the world – that’s the way he’ll rip through your life as he strives to be birthed into a man. Many painful contractions of love, breathe, readjust, try to cope in the moment – if you look at the whole, it’s overwhelming. Then a break, a breather, a moment of reprieve, and you still feel the tiny pushes from within. 

The transition hits and you don’t know where to go. You try to catch your breath, but it seems elusive. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” And that’s what it feels like, the ends of the world caving in and pulling you apart at the same moment. You’ve been stretched, stretched to where your body can handle, but it’s still try to stretch a little more. Tears, groans, and gasps. They all come. Did you picture it this way? Did you know the pain of birthing a man?

Pushing brings a little relief, but adds with it a stinging sensation you may have never known. At least you and your body are working together now. In a moment you want to hold back, hold back from the burning, but holding back hurts all the worse and you give in to the urges of your body. God knows best. For if a child remained inside forever, he would never be a man, and he would wind up eating you alive. The ring of fire, appropriately named, as your skin stretches and sometimes breaks open at the sheer force of his head, and in one gigantic effort, it emerges. A moment, or maybe two, and you bear down again unable to hold back any more. He twists and turns and struggles his shoulders out, and in one swift motion, he slides into the waiting hands. He’s born.

That first breath brings air to parts of his lungs that have never experienced air before. He wiggles and screeches. No longer safe in the darkness of your womb, but now exposed to the light. Breathing now depends on him. Life, depends on him; his body has been preparing for this moment. Your body has been preparing for this moment. They clamp the cord – his former life source – and within ten days, the evidence of such will also fall away. 

But now that he’s here, you don’t remember the birth pangs, they are the former thing and are no more for you are overwhelmed at the joy of who is here now. 

For when your son becomes a man, it is then that you truly become a momma!

Hannah Norton 2014

 

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The Elusive Hum of the Refrigerator

June 11^th, 2013 (just after lunch)

 

Chaos – that’s what the last hour and a half has been. Pure Chaos. I got Noah down for his morning nap and proceeded to complete medicine boxes so that wouldn’t be riding on my shoulders when Oliver was here. About 2/3 of the way through (with Gabriel vying for my attention the entire time) Noah woke up screaming bloody murder. Eli asked if he could go talk to him. I said sure, just not to get in his bed. Next thing I know, Gabriel was in the room as well – trying to entertain Noah by throwing toys in his bed …. Where one of the toys obviously hit Noah on the head making him scream even harder.

I retrieved the infant one and returned to the gated office to try to finish up these medicine boxes. The whole time, Noah proceeded to whine and babble about how much he was put off. I finished up as quickly as I could and put the boxes back in the locked closet before heading upstairs to make sandwiches for the boys and myself. I laid Noah on the changing table talking to him as I went. I whipped together the peanut-butter-laden bread with sticky purple jam and cut a pepper. Summoning the boys to the table, I plopped the plates down and strapped the little one in. I thanked God rather rashly before rushing off to the bathroom, closing the door to muffle the screams of the baby. “God I need grace!!!” Noah had been screaming the entire time I was making food and had a very difficult time calming in order to nurse. Several times, he worked himself up again and started the tears all over – there was nothing I could do to comfort him.

About the time he finally did calm, Gabe started screaming for more of something and would not be consoled from across the room. I lumbered into the kitchen with the baby still suckling. I had Gabe start counting – which he did, but as whiny as he could muster. I struggled to fill the sippy and attach the lid with one hand, but finally managed. Then I took Noah to the nursery to finish nursing and lay him down.

Once he was down, I tackled Gabe – too far gone to be worth pushing the rest of his lunch, Gabe accepted my arms and we washed his hands and face. A quick prayer later, he was in bed with a book. Music, kisses, and goodnight.

Eli headed downstairs with his toys and we set him up in the office where I noticed Gabe was screaming again. This time he was frantic because he couldn’t find his “ball ball” blanket. Once I reminded him that he had put it under his pillow early this morning, he settled down pretty easily and fell asleep quickly. I walked out of his room, paused and sighed. All I could hear was the refrigerator humming – what bliss! I finished making my salad and headed out to the screen porch where I started working on this. All too soon, it seemed, little nephew was here.

I took a break from my processing and welcomed him, helping him get settled with toys. I folded most of a load of laundry before Noah started screaming yet again – it was as if he were terrified. I stopped with the laundry and went to pick him up where he startled Gabriel into an awake state who also started screaming, and when I went in to comfort him with the infant one, I shut the door so the nephew wouldn’t come in and he also started screaming….3 at once. What happened to my blissful hum of the refrigerator? I could no longer hear it!

I calmed Gabe, put Noah in the wrap, found new toys for Oliver. Finally, not all screaming. Then I hear my name – from a familiar 3-year-old in the basement. “Can I be done resting?” No, of course you cannot be done my brain thought. It’s only been 30 minutes and I’ve had my fill of being needed!!! I walked downstairs where I explained the situation in a 3-year-old logic. Coming back up, I looked around. My heart was pounding. My breathing was rapid. All I wanted to do was crawl in a dark hole with ear plugs and a cup of coffee and sip until I woke up from this awful dream. I haven’t felt that much panic in a long time.

I’ve felt so distracted all day. Mainly Case Management stuff and looking at the big picture of the next week – feeling like I haven’t gotten the down time I need nor the time with my husband. Freaking out over forgetting the busy days to come, wanting desperately just to tell everyone no and eliminate everything from my schedule. I hate busyness! Part of me began to wonder if I am in a season of life right now where I need to do some of that? My kids are at such a critical stage, and I know how easily I can become overwhelmed (though I haven’t felt it like this in a couple months.)

Surprisingly, I didn’t react like I used to. It all boiled up inside, but none of it seeped out. I looked up. I asked for grace and the strength to walk in the spirit. And he came. It wasn’t a miraculous change. Really, I didn’t even notice much of a shift. But the still small voice said “It’s okay, I’m here.” And that seemed to make it much better.

I still feel a little overwhelmed, and my heart aches for time and space and maybe even the opportunity to cry for a bit, but I know that here in this tough moment, He is here with me. I am not alone. And It will all be okay!

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My Boys are People Too

I would like to take a moment to express a couple of things before I continue in this post.

1) I want to apologize for some of my blog posts coming across as complaining. That is not my intent at all. These are my journal entries of my prayers, the way I talk to God as my friend and Father. They are raw, they are emotional. But God beckons me to "Pour out my heart" to Him. (Psalm 62). That's what I do. He already knows what is there, and it doesn't make a lot of sense to try to put on a front for God when he can find me even on the highest mountain or in the depths of the sea and knows the words before they are even on my tongue (Psalm 139.) If I were to edit the rawness, I would be a hypocrite. I am not here to flaunt failures, but to be authentic and real and honest.

2) These posts are about a month behind the current dates. This is for two reasons: a) this is how I also share my heart with my husband and we make sure we are on the same page in a lot of ways. With that being said, he is deserving of my heart before I share it with others, so as we sit down and share journals with one another, then I am freed to share them online. b) keeping some distance between what I was dealing with and what I am currently dealing with frees me to continue to allow Christ to work on my heart as he sees fit and not feel pressured to "learn something today just so I can share it on my blog."

I would love for you to continue to join me on this journey of discovery and delight. If you have any questions or suggestions, feel free to let me know.

Blessings on you!

June 7, 2013

 

To think of my sons as people, man, I have failed in that way. I’ve thought of them as my sons, as boys, as children, as subordinates, as minors who need taught, trained, honed, and loved. Yet, I have not given much thought (at least in a true, conscious way) to their being made in the image of our amazing God as a dynamic person – they have a body, yes, but they also have a mind, a will, emotions, a spirit, etc. Lord, Forgive me!

I think at times I have been aware of their spiritual needs to an extent, but I continue to fail to pray for them like they so desperately need me to – and right now, more than ever, I am starting to realize the spiritual battle that is waging for my little boy’s hearts. Father, give me the strength, the armor, and the passion and focus to pray for my sons and battle for them on my knees.

In addition, they have motives, desires, and deep hearts – and as such have a need to be understood. Lord, help me learn to ask the right questions and to really listen. I want to become students of my children. I don’t know them, but you do. Help me learn to know them.

I know life cannot be always fun and games, but so much recently, I have been so busy. Too busy! I haven’t been the mother these boys need. Sometimes, I feel like I am needed deeply in the nursing/baby stage then as they grow and get more independent, I am no longer needed and I loose some of my passion to care for them. The mundane aspects of life (feeding, diapers, naps, etc.) wears on me and I feel like it is just something else to get through to make it through the day rather than a true need they have and a way to meet them.

Father, I feel like I have failed so much as a mother, and I don’t really know where to go from here. I don’t want to become careless and let other things slip that would affect my family in other ways, but I also want to be here, and to let you live through me here and now. I need you, God. I cannot mother on my own. I don’t know my kids and I don’t know how to get to know them, but you do. Give me wisdom. You tell me that I can ask that of you and you will give it. I trust your promise. Help me to look and listen for that wisdom today and to walk in step with you. May my eyes be fixed on you today and my heart locked into your will and not my own. I love you, papa!

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