She is Returning to Me Now

8
Mar

In second grade (or thereabouts — it’s been so many years now) I had a wonderful babysitter. Her name was Kris, which was so cool because it was a name for a boy or a girl, a new concept for me.

She taught me how you don’t pronounce the ‘R’s at the end of words in pop songs, and used Bette Midler’s song, ‘The Rose’, as a case study.

She sketched beautiful faces that had eyes drawn in exquisite detail — at least they were to my second grade mind.

When we moved to a new neighborhood too far away to continue seeing her, I wrote letters to Kris. They were long, descriptive letters, probably aimless and for all I know, unintelligible in my eight year old chicken-scratch, smudgy-pencil handwriting. I was enamored with describing the texture of a quilt, the glint of water on a mermaid’s tail when she flicked it and in one movement dove back under the water.

Kris kindly wrote back to me, brief letters but letters I saved, folded in a special box, her drawings hidden behind the cardboard backing of a framed photograph.

|||||

Fast forward to high school.

A cranky teacher. He looked more like he belonged on a stereotypical cop show set in Philly, with his bushy black mustache and heavy dark hair. He should have been in uniform, eating donuts and writing tickets for jaywalking.

He was the one stuck with teaching an unwilling class how to diagram sentences, the seventh circle of hell for any teacher, I’m sure.

He told me I was a good writer, that I should write for the school newspaper. I couldn’t hear him. I thought he was just having a hard time finding students to do the job, so I wrote one or two articles, and let it fade away. I dismissed his affirmation even though the idea that I was a good writer made my heart sing.

http://mrg.bz/009hwv

|||||

The world of books and words was one I cherished all through college, our department a place where earnest attempts at poetry were allowed, where experimental-run-on-sentences-were-viewed-as-Virginia-Woolfe-esque and therefore acceptable. I majored in English but didn’t work to know what careers this might offer me, be it a life in academia or a position in publishing. I loved words but thought they need all be directed at lining the path toward God.

I didn’t see they were already infused with His presence, and had no need of my spectacular tour-guide skills.

Even though I was an English major, got to read, analyze and write about literature, my occupational focus shifted to the skills I was learning outside of classes. I held in my mind my love of story and also my assumption that I was called to something other than books. One semester of “Foundations of Education” and a field experience, and I arrogantly declared that I wanted to teach students about things that really mattered, that I didn’t like thought of teaching students in a classroom about literature and not being free to address the way all truth points to God.

What an ass.

As if books and stories hadn’t been the things that fed me along the way, and continued to be my special respite, the way my spirit was replenished. As if I needed to point this out for others when I hadn’t needed anyone to point it out for me.

|||||

And now, things come full circle.

Now, to write about the texture of that quilt, the places where it is threadbare and the batting has started to escpae, the life it has had and the stories it has heard, this fills me with great joy.

Now, the flash of sun on the rippling scales, glowing green, blue and golden,

the line of light as that mermaid tail slips silently back into the quiet depths, this fills my mind with songs of fullness and a strong, brave heart.

The echoes of who I was remain as I reach into the shadow to draw them back to me. I pull them in, pet each one, and set it on the windowsill so the light and air can fluff them, help them grow strong again. Even though I did not feed or water them, did not acknowledge their importance, did not trust their purpose, I see now that they had a patience I could not imagine, a longsuffering I could not emulate. They waited, peeked out now and again — never intrusive — just to see if I was still there, until I discovered they’d been there all along.

The girl I once was, the one who saw pictures with words, who knew the power of a word-image, the importance of saying it out loud into the air even when the outcome was unknown, the one who noticed the slant of light and the far-off sound of a train, who had questions which no simple answers could satisfy, she is returning to me now.

I will not put her back in the shadows again.

*****

This post is part of the Story Session link up “The Girls We Once Were” and is part of International Women’s Day. Join us or find out more: http://bit.ly/1hX2mZ1

Missing Ash Wednesday

5
Mar

One year when I worked as the junior and senior high youth coordinator at a church, I got to participate in the Ash Wednesday service.

My background was in the same denomination but we hadn’t really marked Ash Wednesday in any particular way that I recall. We always had Wednesday night church, so an Ash Wednesday might mention of the start of the Lenten season (the lead up to Easter), and even go so far as to encourage us to give up something for Lent. There was no somber service that I remember, no special candles and certainly no marks made on people’s foreheads. That was something Catholics did, and we weren’t totally sure about them anyway (I’ve come way off my high-horse about that, by the way.).

The Wednesday when I helped with the congregation’s service, I was asked to administer the ashes. It wasn’t only me up there, but I was the youngest, and I was female. I would stand alongside two other people, both older. The man next to me was a longstanding fixture of the church.

I felt the significance build as I approached the event.

The service went along smoothly and the time came for me to go up front and play my part.

It was a divine and holy moment.

People I cared about, people I served, students I led, these all came to the altar. As they stood in front of me, I made a smudgy cross on their foreheads and repeated a phrase, the specifics escape me now but it was to the point of “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

The ashes were a sign of penitence, contrition, and acknowledgment of sin. It almost felt as if I was bestowing a blessing upon these friends. I remember being teary and wishing I could kiss everyone right on their mark of the cross.

And at the end of the service we all wore the ashes.

|||||

This year I wanted to attend an Ash Wednesday service.

Something in my spirit desired the ritual, the darkened space, the high ceiling and quiet corners. But despite my research and efforts, I couldn’t make it happen.

I know that the outward sign of ashes are not necessary, that it is a condition of the heart. My heart. But there is something about wearing the ashes as a mark that lines up the image I project with the inner state of things.

My inner state is such that I get mad and raise my voice with my kids.

I bend the truth rather than have the hard conversation.

I ask leading questions or make (what I intend to be) subtle suggestions to try and get my way.

I’m self-centered.

I lack generosity.

But I wouldn’t let you know it by looking at me.

Wearing the ashes reminds me that no matter how much progress I’ve made in taming my inner turmoil, I still screw up. And there is a freedom in those times when our outside and our inside line up, when the façade and neatly colored lines get wonky and the gaps can be seen.

There are still theological ideas that get my brain in a twist and I want to dig deeper into the various school of thought on alternative to substitutionary atonement, but I know this:

Jesus, out of His great love, came for me. He came for you. And whatever you decide to do with that – accept, reject, ignore – is up to you.

I’m missing Ash Wednesday this year, like I have many other years. Even though I’m not in a church today, my heart is in the right place.

Do you have a tradition of participating in Ash Wednesday or Lent? How does that look for you, and are there elements that make it especially significant?

Come into the light

28
Feb

You stand under a bridge.

An old cottonwood tree throws off tiny clouds of cotton that parachute down and gather in pools.

The light creeps closer, closer to the edge of your toes.

From your spot in the shadow, the strength of the sunlight warms the air to a shimmer, and you smell the combination of dust and grass.

Will you step out from the darkness and take the chance of being exposed

to the light,

to the risk,

to being seen?

You toe the line of light, and wonder how much further it will come. You resist the way it invades your safety, forces the decision between moving forward and retreat.

The sun passes overhead, the day draws out and darkness slowly returns, and from your place of shelter you feel the moisture seep from the ground, feel it fill the air with coolness and relief.

Will you choose to trust that the sun will return?

Does the darkness hold

danger

possibility?

Will tomorrow bring hope or destruction?

Instagram: tclmn

You can choose — hope, joy, faith, belief in goodness — these can all be plucked out of the air, as cottonwood fluff can be chased and captured.

Even in the night, after you skinnied up that nearby tree, you can trust there are not jackals circling beneath it.

But in those times when there are jackals, you can trust that your high branch will keep you safe from the teeth and claws, even as you keep your eyes open all night long.

Do you find it difficult to hope in the face of hopelessness? How do you approach risk? What areas of your life might there actually be a choice — even in your own attitude toward the situation — where it seems there is none?

This is a post written alongside lots of other people who participate in Five Minute Friday through Lisa-jo Baker. She gives a word prompt, you set your
timer and write for five minutes flat. No editing (okay, I read over mine and do spellcheck it — is that cheating??), no self-criticizing, just go for it. You can read more posts and find out more at http://lisajobaker.com . And as always, thank you for coming by and reading today!

UPDATE: In an interesting convergence, the Creative Blog Hop was focused on the word “choices” so I decided to include this post there. If this is your first time coming by the blog, thank you for reading!

Oh dear – one more purity Event

27
Feb

A Christian camp, a place where I worked in my younger years, is hosting a purity retreat.

When I read this news, I groaned.

“What are they going to teach those students?” I said to myself, “And how long will it take them to undo it?”

As someone who was on the early edge of the big evangelical push to churn out curriculum, trinkets, marketing and events surrounding purity and abstinence, I speak as an observer a few steps removed from the hard-core movement. But I remember accountability partners, vague discussion of boundaries, the concern about being a stumbling block for the males of the world, the guilt over “going too far”, and the way it was stressed that sex should be confined to marriage.

At a purity retreat, there will most likely be a challenge to use your mind over your emotions (although I’m sure they’re not above drawing on emotions to motivate the participants), pledges of future behavior, repentance over past thoughts or behavior, and they might even give out some small purity token — a souvenir of significance to mark the weekend and the new commitments people made.

If you are not familiar with the purity/modesty rules philosophy, it goes like this:

Sex before marriage is wrong for lots of reasons.

Foremost of those reasons is that the Bible says you are supposed to reserve sex for marriage.

If you do not reserve sex for marriage, you are messing up God’s plan.

When you mess up God’s plan (a.k.a. ‘the two shall become one’,’ a woman shall leave her mother and a man shall leave his home’, etc.) you give away parts of your heart to each partner until you have but a tiny scrap of a heart left. You are unable to give yourself fully to your eventual spouse (because everyone gets married, you see), you end up with lots of baggage and assumed regrets, and you mess up your spouse’s life because your spouse was a good person and saved sex for marriage.

If you have sex before marriage, you are guilty, blemished, and broken in God’s eyes. Sure, you can be forgiven — there’s even discussion of having your virginity reclaimed — but you’re still going to have to sort out the consequences of your sin, which may play out for the rest of your life.

This also goes for other sexual expression, because the Bible says to stay away from sexual immorality. In some circles it includes kissing and holding hands. Yes. Some people reserve kissing and/or holding hands until they are engaged or married.

I’m serious, and it is a deeply held conviction for them, one they are willing to stick with and in doing so frequently feel misunderstood and judged.

And superior, don’t forget superior.

So if you think Christian culture is quiet about sex, you’d be wrong…except that the thing students hear while they are growing up is that if you wait until marriage it will automatically be blessed, fantastic, fun and natural. You’ll take to it like a fish in water, even if you haven’t ever kissed a person and have, up to that point, convinced yourself that all sexual expression is negative and ridden with guilt and shame.

Good luck with that.

|||||

Alongside the purity culture of evangelicalism is the modesty culture.

During her time at a Christian college, a close friend of mine was brought in to have a long talk with her resident assistant. The reason? It was because she wore a sports bra without a t-shirt while playing volleyball outside on a hot autumn day.

This is pretty common.

Girls are told what kind of swim suits they can wear to church events that involve beaches or water, and shirts and skirts are monitored for length and coverage.

Modesty can be subtly damaging because it is the preamble to sexual purity. If you are immodest, it follows that you are also impure. And if you’re not the one who is impure, you’re making a bunch of other people impure, because you’re causing them to stumble.

So make sure you cover up those mazongas because you shouldn’t “think of yourself more highly than you ought but consider others better than yourselves.” (This is an often-used morphing of Romans 12:3 and Philippians 2:3, both letters from the Apostle Paul.) First of all, who are you to think you look that good anyway, and plus, when you choose clothing you should be thinking of the ways you could be causing your Christian brothers into sin by wearing that spaghetti strap tank top.

(I’m 99% sure that boys are not taught to cover up for their Christian sisters.)

The damage to our young men and women in this is profound.

It makes our young men into mindless primates with little will of their own, held captive by their urges, which they cannot control.

It makes our young women into temptresses who, by nature of their female-ness, lead all men into impure thoughts and impure actions for which they cannot be held accountable. It’s the whole virgin vs. vixen idea of a bygone era when women were presumed to be either wholly sterile in their total lack of sexual desire or appeal, or they were women of low moral character who were ultimately subhuman, meant to be used and tossed aside like an old tissue.

|||||

There is something amiss with the evangelical obsession with sex, either having it or not having it.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think it’s a good idea for unmarried people to sleep around. I’m all about self-respect and I’m a big fan of modesty because sometimes the reason for the lack of it is to gain self-worth from our boobies (or other parts…and yes, I just wrote “boobies.” Focus, people, focus. Stay with me.) When I consider this concern for modesty and the purity culture it spawned, it’s a huge sweater of interlocking stitches. When you pick at one, it turns out that it’s connected to the stitches around it.

Consider: The burden of modesty is set on girls, since boys’ urges are somehow too uncontrollable and they can’t reasonably be asked to take much responsibility in it. Heck, they can’t even look at a bikini without lusting, much less a girl wearing that bikini. Therefore, the responsibility lies with females. But females, by nature of being female, are lesser, the argument goes. And since they are lesser, they can’t be asked to handle such a potentially dangerous mission. Therefore, the only logical conclusion is to enact a no-touch, no-look policy…Or enlist the “leadership” of the girl’s father, and return to the days of dowries and arranged marriages, when the girl was a commodity to be traded.

It follows that since a female form, simply by existing, causes sin in the males who observe the female-ness. The curve of a breast is inherently sexual, rather than just being an added bit of skin over the pectoral muscles. The female body, it follows, must be sinful, otherwise why would it raise such chemical, physiological reactions? Plus, it was Eve who corrupted Adam by offering him the apple so it follows that it is in the nature of women to lead others into sin.

See what I mean about the stitches being interlocked? You can’t pick one stitch without it unravelling the ones around it.

|||||

There are people having conversations about these assumptions, these categorical dismissals of the individuality of each person, the choices placed before us and the attitudes about the worthiness of women. They are talking about a woman’s ownership over her own body, and the dastardly connection between purity culture and it’s potential to tumble down the rabbit hole of making a woman responsible for her own sexual harassment, or worse. There’s a discussion about men NOT being hormone-driven maniacs who have no control over their impulses (for an interesting perspective, read Micah Murray’s piece, http://bit.ly/1dzk1BV ) , and who will do almost anything for sex.

This is too big for one post. And we’re only skimming the surface here. I’m certainly not the only one writing about it, not by far, but we need more people talking and writing about it.

It’s something I take very seriously, as a woman, as a wife, as a mother, as a human.

What I wear should not single me out for harassment, regardless of how much skin I show.

My sons should be responsible for their own actions, their own choices when it comes to purity, attitudes of the heart and physical expression.

My daughter should be free to respect herself and not draw her self-worth from how much attention she garners with her bra straps or short-shorts. And she should be safe from other people treating her as an inanimate object or something inherently sinful.

I’m going to look into this advertised purity retreat at that camp. I want to find out who is organizing it, what its goals are, and how they are treating this topic. I have a feeling it is probably representative of the whole purity/modesty culture that is so intrinsically interwoven in evangelical culture.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’re doing something different with this retreat, bringing in fresh perspectives and voices that offer another way.

I know that, as a woman, I am created in the image of God. And men are as well. And we can all pursue a deeper relationship with Jesus, and that can include all parts of ourselves, even our sexuality. And that is something our students and young people need to hear.

She Flew

24
Feb

The darkness crept along the outside edge of the door. Like smokey tendrils it fingered its way up the wall and clustered in a far corner of the ceiling. There it waited, quietly, unnoticed.

When enough of it had collected, the darkness snaked across the popcorned finish, down the arch that led to the cozy room where she sat, legs tucked unter her, covered in the cream afghan knit by her grandmother. It slinked across the hardwood floor, across the second-hand rug, and enveloped her, leather chair and all.

The weight of it was suffocating.

It seemed so slight a form, its particles each insignificant, but taken as a whole, it had the strength to slowly push her entire body. First the heaviness, next she hunched under it,

then she bent

down,

until she was folded, chest on legs flattened. She felt the weight, fought for breath against the darkness that threatened to crush her, cell by cell.

She tried to inhale but each shallow breath was poisoned by the cloud. It invaded her eyes, her thoughts, her neck, her mind.

http://mrg.bz/Kmn05j

She had forgotten.

In her lack of air, in her confusion, her sorrow, she forgot. When the thought entered her awareness, she was unsure of herself, it was so long since she tried. But the smothering darkness infiltrated her lungs and she knew it would not be long before she succumbed. She would go down and never re-emerge. The death, fear, disappointment, wrongs, shame, abandonment, rejection and heartache would claim her as their own and she would not resurface.

She clung to a warm day spent along the river, a day when hope and love frisked alongside her, darting in and out of wild daisies and rose bushes, then back again, almost tripping her as they wove in-between her feet. She filled her mind with this day.

She pressed against the heft of her sorrow,

strained,

and began to sweat as she insisted again what would trap her.

The darkness fell in shards around her as she pushed her way free.

As she flew out of the chair,

the living room,

down the hall and out into the crisp winter night,

she remembered.

She had always known how to fly.

\\\\\

This post came from a word prompt during a write-in with Story Sessions. If you’re curious to find out more about them, they’re having a Twitter party this Thursday, February 27th, from 7p-9p CST, using the hashtag #jointhestory.

Do you have to strain against the darkness? What keeps you bent under its heaviness? Most importantly, how can you reclaim your ability to fly?

Young does not mean “Small”

20
Feb

There’s nothing small about their feelings, even if they’re unjustified or disproportionate.

There’s no smallness to their generosity or their unconditional offer of love, heedless of a person’s otherwise social awkwardness or prickly first impression.

You can’t tell me their gestures of gratitude feel small, the smallness of their chubby arms, or that place between elbow and wrist where the skin plumps up as if by the presence of a rubber band. Those arms, wrapped caution-to-the-wind around your neck will dispel any idea of smallness in the grandness of their embrace.

Though they be small, the force of their innocence will fell the loftiest person to the ground, brought low from their presumed place of importance or stature. They care not for etiquette or fancy graces.

They care for you,

and in all your imperfections,

that is no small thing.

This post is part of a link-up through Lisa-Jo Baker’s website: http://lisa-jobaker.com . A welcoming band of women write for five minutes, no self-critique, no self-editing, no perfectionism. We write for the joy of writing. It is open to anyone who wishes to participate, and you’ll find all kinds of fun blogs you may not have previously known about. It’s an amazing group of people.

Not Just a Pretty Face

18
Feb

There are times when a blog looks nice but has little to say.

It is easy to navigate but when you see the content that’s offered, there’s not much to keep you interested.

Some sites have content that’s combative, argumentative, created to stir up strife and visceral reactions, many times with the purpose of driving traffic to the site, if only for the chance to spout off about how the author is nuts.

I’ve visited sites where I wanted to read the content but the visual layout or intense colors made my eyeballs burn and I actually said something to the point of: “You’ve got good things to say but I can’t read this.”

I find myself with elements of all these dilemmas as I launch this new site.

Will I have anything to say?
Will you, dear reader, resonate with the words I write?
Do I adopt a reactionary stance and give myself an ulcer from dealing with all the negative stuff out there?

The goal of this site is to be more than just a pretty face, even though I do have to say that I like the way it turned out don’t you?

What You’ll Find Here

While I know it is standard practice to “find your niche” and zero in on one certain area of expertise, I find that I’m a dabbler and have written about many different things. In trying to narrow it down, I’ve found a few themes in the past four+ years of blogging.

Tone

First and foremost, I desire that this be a safe, encouraging place. That doesn’t mean we won’t address difficult, sometimes painful topics. We can do so, however, with respect and an appreciation for the nuances of life. Over time I have come to realize that just about everybody is doing the best they can with what they’ve got, and if we can approach one another with a posture of honesty and trust, our conversations will be much more productive. Let’s treat each other with an extra measure of grace.

~~Now shut up and bring me that cookie dough.~~ Can we all agree to that?

(Just teasin’ about that ^^^, but if you have cookie dough to share, I’ll bring my own spoon.)

Stories

As a blogger, writer and aspiring novelist, I walk all day around collecting stories. It is hard to unsee the stories once you’ve noticed them, and so they are now everywhere. It’s a little bit maddening, but in a good way. Writing is a way I order my thoughts and when I find a helpful tool or a way to further develop as a writer, I like to pass it along. The practical side will be a small portion here, and primarily you’ll see the curtain at the front of the house, and not the backstage workings.

I’d also like to support other writers, so when I find that I have the opportunity to spread the word about their work, I plan to do so. That may come in the form of book reviews, but also helping host book launches and guest writers, and events from other bloggers. There is room at this writing table for all of us.

Mischief

As we get to know one another, you’ll discover that I like making a good memory almost as much as I like a good story. Some mischief here, some silliness there — there’s almost always a reason to laugh a little, even in the most mundane, uneventful day. I hope you’ll find this site has a good sense of humor.

Spirituality

In almost every corner of our lives, I believe we can find traces of God, whispers and shiny stones He leaves to lead us back to Himself. Or Herself. …Either way, my relationship with Jesus and desire to better reflect his character and priorities is something as intrinsic to me as breathing.

In this area of spirituality, I have observations about the Big C “Church” and theology, especially as it pertains to evangelicalism and women. There are a lot of things we could be doing a whole.lot.better. I recognize that I can be a part of the solution.

Family/Parenting/Woman-ness

I’m a wife and a mom. These roles/relationships inform my perspective and are ever-present as I approach the world. I am not a perfect wife or mom (or person) but I really do try, even when it may seem like I’m in over my head (but if we’re honest, aren’t we ALL in over our heads when it comes to this stuff?). I’m a work-in-progress so I learn a lot from the mistakes I make and the interactions I have with my kids and family.

I can’t escape the way being a woman affects my perspective, nor do I wish to escape it. We are an amazing and dynamic group, full of power, tenderness, creativity, intelligence and resources. There are times when events impact women in very specific ways. I would like this to be a place that discusses womanhood and the issues that effect us.

Your Role

You play an important role here. I have room for guest writers, as I mentioned, if that’s your thing. I love to interact with your reactions to posts, your thoughts an insights to questions I’ve raised. I truly believe we’re better when we help one another, and because of that, the more people we bring here to get involved, the better off we all will be. Shares, likes, retweets, pins, and all other forms of support, including notes delivered via carrier pigeon, are deeply appreciated.

Thank you for joining me here. Even though we may not know each other (yet), I hope in some small way, this blog can help to make your day a little brighter.

Here and I’ve done all the talking. Would you care to say hello? Introduce yourself? Please do so in the comments — I’d love to meet you.

You’re invited to travel with me to the new site

17
Feb

UPDATE: I should let you know that this post came along with me from my old site, thus the references it makes to “moving to a new site” are about moving here. In a sense, it is old news since now it is posted here on the new site, but I wasn’t sure how to pick and choose so I just draaaagggggged the whole old site along for the ride. Hope this doesn’t cause any confusion.

Okay, update complete. Carry on.

|||||

I’m just about ready to move this blog over to a new site. That means I will no longer post here at Love, Laundry, Faith & Family. It should happen early next week (if everything goes according to plan…which it rarely does).

I’d love to have you come by the new space. You can find it at https://tclarson.com . I’m also on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/TCLarsonWrites , amongst other social networks.

If you are a fellow WordPress user and you’ve clicked “follow” you’re the one I’m most concerned about losing as I transition to the new site. Would you consider subscribing via email?

Here’s a little video farewell, and I look forward to seeing you over yonder at the new site.

That Mom is Me

3
Feb

I am that mom.

I am the one who emailed the teacher to verify the start time of the event at school…and still showed up thirty minutes late.

I am that mom — the one who didn’t RSVP to the classmate’s birthday party until the morning it was scheduled to happen.

I am the mom who went to register my child for the enrichment class two days after the deadline because I didn’t take time to read the informational letter. I’m also the one who apologized my way in.

I’m that mom, the one who got the phone call from the kindergarten teacher asking if I’d be there soon. It was Mom’s Day, and my daughter was waiting for me. I walked in and all the moms were sitting on the floor, each one with a child next to them or on a lap. All except for my daughter who sat at the foot of the teacher while she read a book to the class. My daughter. Alone.

I’m the mom whose kid had toothpaste down the front of his shirt, the one whose kid wore boots at school all day long because he forgot shoes and I didn’t think to check his backpack. When he got home, his socks were soggy.

I’m that mom — the one who thought she had enough time to get milk and bread from Target. I was still a few minutes from home when I watched my child’s bus come towards me on the road. Again, my daughter. Again, alone.

I’m the mom who had to air out the house because the stove burner was left on for hours. The flame had gone out, but the knob was still set on simmer, natural gas seeping into the kitchen, out to the dining room and down the hallway.

This all happened last week.

I’m that mom, and I know it.

/////

Have you seen me? You know you have. You know there’s someone like me, someone who is that mom to you.

That one mom who always seems to come charging in late, disheveled, discombobulated.

The one who makes you feel think, ‘Well, I may not have it all together, but at least I’m not like her.’

Do you know how much it sucks to be that mom?

A lot. It sucks a lot.

http://mrg.bz/k2aG5h

Contrary to how it might appear, I’m not a total flake. I’m not checked out, I’m not “smoking too much weed”, I’m not a train wreck, not a disaster. And I’m not a bad mom.

I’m just in a rough patch.

I have enough personal family gunk going on that I have to prioritize what can receive my attention. Some things have to go.

Having never been a detail-lover, I now find they are the first things to escape me. They are de-prioritized without me even trying. And those are just the details I know I forgot — how many have passed me by without me even feeling the breeze they made? I’ll probably find out later that I only knew the half of how badly I was screwing up.

In the midst of this, I am trying to take care of myself as well, trying to make good choices and gauge what ways I can be kind to myself each day. I’m exercising, I’m brushing my teeth, I’m even laughing sometimes. Maybe I’m laughing too loudly, maybe it sounds a tiny bit hysterical, but it still counts.

I don’t need help feeling guilty about how I’m falling short of where I want to be. I can administer enough guilt on my own.

I have to extend grace to myself, the grace I would want to show someone else, but it’s hard. It’s hard to be nice to myself, because I see the ways I can’t do it all, the way I want to manage it alone but can’t. I know what I can usually take care of, and I see all the ways I can’t do it now.

I feel weak, and I hate feeling weak.

I feel looked down on, but as far as I know, the only one looking down on me is ME.

/////

Today I’m trying to give myself enough space to move around my life without knocking things over.

I’m going to give myself extra time to get done the things that usually take me less time but now seem to require more effort.

I’ll feed myself well.

I’ll let myself make mistakes and I’ll see them as mistakes, not as failings.

I’ll ask for help.

I’ll be to myself the person I’d want to be for someone else.

I’ll try to look for glory, for as my friend Kelly wrote, “Glory is most at home in the common, if you have eyes to see.” (You can read her post here: http://bit.ly/1j6DhxJ )

When I come out of this rough patch, as I know I will eventually, I will work to remember what it was like to be that mom. And when I see her, the one for whom the burden of everyday seems almost to much to handle, I’ll pray that she can be gentle and patient with herself, that she’ll see how she can be good to herself in the midst of struggle. And if I can, I will let her know that she’s not the only one.

Eventually, there comes a time when we all are that mom.