Winning through Him

Today I felt like I was failing at everything; that on some level, I was falling short in every aspect of my life.

Failing my husband. Failing my children. Failing my neighbors. Failing myself. Failing at my commitments and goals and dreams.

Have you had days like that? I like to think I'm not alone on this one.

Here's what I've learned about that. This is what I know for sure.

God does not want me to feel like a failure. Sure, there is always room for improvement, and I have to keeping stretching and growing and reaching.

BUT, failing?

That feeling doesn't come from God.

And what's more, it shows a lack of faith and hope in the redeeming power of Jesus Christ. And that's just a miserable place to be.

This is not the end for me. He died for me, and all of us, so that we can try again, begin anew, start afresh, change, grow, conquer, become.

Isn't that the very definition of winning?

Let's not give up on ourselves. He never has, and He never will.

I'll take a baker's dozen

I think it's good advice to learn a second language. So in my school years, through college even, I studied German.

It was by default, really, that I chose German. I wanted to speak French, but my mouth just couldn't form those beautiful words. When I said them (or read them), they sounded more like I was choking on a fresh croissant with too much Brie.

Spanish would have been my second pick, but I couldn't get the accent right. I sounded like I was reading a Taco Bell menu: See senior Rita, me goostah inch a lottas.

But German and I just clicked. It turns out I do guttural real well.

Now that I've been out of college for more years than I care to admit, my German has mostly by the wayside gefallen.

The years of tiny, dirty hands and looming laundry and school loans and little sleep has led me to whole heartedly embrace another culture and another language.

I'm fluent in cookie.

That's what I said. I speak cookie.

And they speak back to me on a regular basis.

Cookie is such a beautiful language! I like to let the small nuances of the intonation wash over me like a warm milk bath. Which, by the way, goes great with cookies.

Plus, the natives who speak cookies usually have such nice personalities! With soothing promises and nourishing encouragement, they rarely yell at me. Even the feisty ginger snaps are some of my closest friends who have proven, time and again, that they will always be there for me.

It's probably cliche, but my favorite dialect is the chocolate chip cookie. With interspersed, perfectly melted chocolate morsels, it is the vernacular that keeps on giving and giving and giving, until it disintegrates into folklore. Some days I just relate to that, you know?

I appreciate how cookies are an international language. When I grow up, I hope to be the ambassador of cookies everywhere. Then I can help those nations who tainted the cookie language by replacing jam centers with strips of lying papers. Clearly, a fresh tomorrow waits on the horizon for them.

Cookies understand me. They get me. They heal me. I would tell you about the conversations we've enjoyed together, but that would feel like betrayal. There is no Cookie-to-English translation book because it's different for each mouthpiece. I'm pretty sure one of my sisters has a negative relationship with cookies; they must yell at her and lay on the guilt real thick. She always reports the number she's eaten with disgust and surrender, like she's being arraigned before the Betty Crocker tribunal.

I'm not sure how long I'll speak this love language. Maybe someday they'll turn on me. But I doubt it.

And if they do, I'll just drown them in a tall glass of cold milk until they stop screaming, and then bite off their heads.

No matter the language, we must be clear in our communication, I always say.

Some Encouragement

I had another baby. . .NINE months ago.

The fact that I'm back typing away at this machine may make you think that I must finally have it all figured out; that I'm back in the saddle again.

If you're thinking that, you're wrong.

I don't mean to give the wrong impression here. I adore this baby and all my other babies. I wanted them, hoped for them, prayed for them. Their lives are miracles--each one. They teach me how to be like God, and they lovingly, patiently, happily encourage me on my journey to be His.

It's a messy journey.

An exhausting journey.

The kind of journey that dreams are made of.

It's imperfect. I'm imperfect. That's okay. This is what six children looks like for me,  and that's good, because it's my journey to take and my journey for which I will give an accounting.

On Boyhood

My baby boy turned nine last week. Nine years old! I'm cursing my bad memory for forgetting all the moments I've had with him. I wish I could play all of them back, over and over and over, like a soothing lullaby.

The night before his birthday, as I kissed him goodnight, I cried. He cried, too. It was a beautiful and terrible moment all at once. Time stood still for a few seconds; I remember the first time I held him; I thought I could see him going off to college. I breathed in his goodness, his loyalty, his faith, his fun.

His boyhood.

He awakened on his birthday with excited eyes and a shiny soul. He felt older. He seemed older.

He spent the day in his Spiderman costume, wielding Mjölnir, dressing his sister in a Spiderman costume from a past birthday and carrying her on his back around the house, fighting crime together.

There is nothing--nothing--in the world like a son. He slips his hand into yours, and for a moment, you know what godlike power feels like. Those hands will grow large and strong, and they will do important, ordinary things with extraordinary faith and courage. That little buddy that follows you around the house like a puppy, making sound effects and begging for food at all hours, will influence nations and change the destiny of the world--all for the better.

Sometimes I worry about the future of this crazy planet with people intent on living below their potential, full of doubt and jealousy and rage.

But when I see my son, I can't help but feel an overwhelming peace and assurance that his small shoulders will carry great burdens with joy and strength. His circle of influence will widen and swell, and join with the other valiant sons of the earth. They will be a formidable army of greatness and good.

For now, nine is fine and he is mine. And I couldn't be happier or more grateful about it.

Happy Birthday, sweet son of my heart!

Performance Review

I love my job. I'm just gonna say that up front.

I'm not the most qualified, talented, organized, put-together mom on the planet. I'm just gonna say that, too.

Some days I get some things right. Some days I get most things right. Most days I get some things right. Some days I get no things right. 

But at the end of every day, I am always overwhelmed with gratitude for these amazing people who fill my home and heart with the magnitude of their worth and potential and joy. Trust me: I didn't do anything that right to deserve all this. 

But I am, oh, so grateful!

I'm a hopeless romantic

One of my favorite things in the world is a real kiss.

You know the kind I'm talking about? The kind where the giver means it, wants nothing in return, and leaves you feeling truly loved.

When my sister and I discovered what the PIP button was for on the remote control, we capitalized on its value. "PIP" means, "picture in picture". The viewer simply pushes PIP, and a freeze frame is made and remains in the corner of the television, no matter what is playing on the rest of the screen.

We wasted no time. We put in our favorite movie ("The Princess Bride"), fast-forwarded to the good kiss (Buttercup and Wesley at sunset), and pressed that PIP button as hard as we could. It worked! There was the perfect kiss, frozen and immortalized forever, or until an unfeeling brother came and heartlessly deleted it.

We perfected the craft when we discovered that we could actually move that freeze frame around on the screen. After capturing the prince's kiss to his loving princess, we moved that frame where it belonged: smack dab in the middle of the screen. Who cared about the show that was playing in the now-background? We certainly didn't. And we ignored the disgusted comments from our cold-hearted, disgusted brothers.

They just didn't understand what Victor Hugo knew, "A kiss and all was said."

But we knew.

I guess this is an inherited trait because my daughter was watching The Sound of Music on my iPad the other day, and I later found the photo library filled with pictures of Maria and Captain von Trapp in the gazebo, singing to each other. I couldn't get after her, because that would be hypocritical, but I told my husband. He gave himself a loud, smacking face-palm.

I have this other daughter who has just turned two. She gives more kisses than anybody in the world. Her dad made her that way. When she was being weaned, her daddy would hold her until she would go to sleep, kissing her tears away, kissing her closed eyes, kissing her sweet cheeks. Now she passes out kisses like they're going out of style.

They're not.

At least not at my house.

At some point every day, and usually more than once, she puckers up those big lips and smooches whatever part of me is closest to her. Usually, this is my knee caps. When I'm lucky enough to be holding her, then I get kissed all over the face.

I've received every flavor of two-year-old kiss there is: oatmeal, booger, salty tears, spaghetti sauce, sticky candy, too much lip gloss, baby saliva--just every flavor.

And I'll admit something. I love them all. In fact, she can't kiss me enough.

Deep down, I know that someday, she'll stop kissing me. She won't always have a perpetual runny nose. (I hope.) She'll grow up.

Some prince will come along, kiss her, and take her from me. I just know it. And the truth is, I want that for her. Because my deepest healing and greatest earthly joy comes from the arms and love of my husband.

But I'll miss her booger kisses and all the words they mean: Thanks for the milk. I love being in your arms. I'm wrong, but I'm cute. Thanks for being my mama. I feel safe with you. I need a tissue. I love you.

Nothing required in return. Just an expression of her childlike love--which is love in its most pure and perfect form.

If only I could capture those kisses for always.

Hey, Sis. Where is the PIP button when you really need it?

Changing Pants and an Adage

I have five children with one on the way. There was bound to be a post about poop sooner or later.

This is that post.

You don't have to read it. Consider yourself warned.

It never fails. Sometime during dinner, one of our littles excuses herself to use the restroom, and right when I'm about to enjoy my piping hot dinner, I get the call, "I'm all do-ooone!"

This means, "Mother, you're the best. Will you please come and wipe me? I know it's a lot to ask. I'll appreciate your sacrifice forever,"--only with fewer words. It's the economical way to tell me I'm awesome.

This call has awakened me from a deep sleep, seeping between the ceiling and floor that divides the basement and main level. I've also received this call right as the baby is drifting off, and it has penetrated at least three doors and double that many walls.

The unrelenting summons follows me. Hunts me. Finds me no matter where I am hidden. It cares not my circumstance or mood.

And when I am summoned, I must go--as surely as the person had to go in the first place.

Tonight at dinner, it happened.

We heard the cute little voice coming from the bathroom, announcing her completion.

I left my hot dinner to answer her call. Everything went as well as I could have hoped, and in a few minutes I went back to eating my now lukewarm dinner.

While I was away, the baby-in-potty-training-pants got down from the table and ran behind the couch. When we discovered her, I tapped my husband's shoulder once and said, "You're it."

He was confused. I explained that the baby now needed to be changed. It was his turn. He looked bewildered.

I insisted.

He's a good one, that man. He dutifully, and even cheerfully, went to the rescue. I sighed in contentment, glad to have him on my team, and wondered again how single parents do it.

Not long into my second bite of dinner, I heard his distress signal. "Uh... Mama? Um...I'm not sure how to do this."

I didn't need to see what was happening. I knew what it would look like. You don't easily forget a hunk of gunk in those thick, potty-training panties. By your fifth child, the experience is cemented into your mind.

In my husband's defense, I have to admit, this was bad. So bad, in fact, that I had to laugh. Also, I had to set the baby in the tub and work from there. It was so, so, so bad. He stuck beside me, and I loved that, because the mess would have become much worse if I had to clean it on my own. Somehow it always spreads, like an air-borne illness on the subway, covering surfaces it shouldn't and waiting to further promulgate its nastiness. And it does so at lightning speed.

In the end, we cleaned everything and everyone up, we snarfed the cold grub, and the night went forward as it normally does.

But I think we should change that urban expression to: the poop hit the pants of a toddler during dinner time. It would be waaaaay more accurate.

And I'm betting I'd be able to use it tonight when dinner time comes.