How I plan to always connect with my girls

It's the best day of the week to be a mom at Pruning Princesses. Monday Mentor Mom day. This week things are a bit different because, well, I am the mentor mom. Actually I am a MOMtor over at one of my favorite blogs for encouragement, Mothering From Scratch. The subtitle of the blog is "Where Mentoring Moms is Our Main Dish" and the two women who write this blog do not disappoint. The post I wrote is close to my heart. It's about the habit in mothering I am most proud of. The one I never regret and that I would encourage every mom to adopt. 

The steady needs of toddlerhood wore me down some days. By 6 pm, especially on nights my husband couldn't be home, I would practice being patient in ten minute intervals. Bed time could not come soon enough. I wanted to rest from issues: picky eaters, listening to my daughter sob at the sight of shampoo, trying to be consistent with discipline. But our bedtime ritual took extra patience and intentional focus.

Sometimes I envied the moms who tucked their children into bed and walked out of the room. I maintained an elaborate, time-consuming bedtime ritual that took an hour....(read more)

What You Should Teach Your Kids

It is Friday. You know the drill. Five minutes of writing. It is a beautiful community and I am just discovering its blessings. Join us over at Lisa-Jos. Today's word: focus.

 A mental list of faults that need to be corrected unscrolls in my mind. The list of traits I want them to have is long and it is hard teaching characteristics I have not mastered myself. Still, I try. I pick stories, heroes, prayers that emphasis fearlessness, perseverance, kindness, bravery. 

And I try more, almost will, my girls not to pick up my faults. My fears. My selfishness. I do not want them to experience the pain that holds hands with cowardliness or discouragement or doubt. 

When I focus on the list, I see the faults. I see the work there is to be done. The lessons that I want stored in their hearts. Lessons I can teach but not force to grow roots. I miss the grace of God. 

Ignoring the list and teaching them instead the wonders of God and the peace of gratitude, I can re-see their beauty, enjoy their quirks,  and wait expectantly for God to mold them. Grace returns.

For the mom (and her friends) with a child who fails to thrive

I am so excited to restart the Mentor Mom series on Mondays (late today due to technical difficulties and a long weekend of traveling). I love reading the wisdom and hearts of other moms. I love encouraging each other. Take a deep breath, slow down, and read the touching words of Amber who returns for another potent sharing of her heart as a mom. Send this post to moms who need it, because many do. Remember to leave Amber some encouragement and please pray for her and her family.

Terrified. Complete darkness. Lost in my own room. As a child I woke up one night lost in darkness. I had walked in my sleep and awoke to a pitch black room. I grew up on a farm in Kansas. No street lamps. No porch lights. On cloudy nights not even the moon and stars could dent the darkness of my basement bedroom. 

On this particular night I had sleep walked around the room and ended up on top of my desk. I huddled on the desk’s ledge, not knowing where I was, scared to death, and desperate for light.

Twenty years later the feelings of desperation and panic aren’t as faint as I wish they were. It’s no longer a dark room that scares me. (The darker the room, the better I sleep these days!) Now my fear grows from the black hole of unanswered questions. Questions that have hung like a curtain for two years, rustling around me as our family has inched our way backstage into the world of special needs. 

This special needs world became our backdrop in September 2009. I didn’t know it at the time. All I knew on my youngest child’s birth day was that I was in love. My baby was sweetness defined! His two older siblings adored him. My husband proudly snuggled him. The grandparents found him adorable. And the doctors declared him perfectly healthy.

Chase came home with us to expectations of sleepless nights, endless feedings, diapers and lots of irresistible cuteness. I was after all a mom now to three– practically a professional in the mommy career. I knew what to expect.

What I didn’t expect was the first medical test at two months old. I didn’t expect the doctor’s concerns over Chase’s “failure to thrive.” I didn’t expect the MRI, the CT scan, the ultrasounds, the blood work. I didn’t expect Chase’s grandma, who always beamed over his accomplishments and sweetness, to point out his floppy body and lack of interest in toys.

Tests continued. Physical therapy started, along with occupational and speech therapy. Scared, but trying to ignore it, I gladly accepted the extra help. Chase just needed a little assistance to reach those initial developmental milestones. He would of course catch up to “normal.” Plenty of friends affirmed this thought, telling me stories of kids who had started out slow and were now just fine. 

But then the doctors started talking about finding a diagnosis. Doing genetic testing. And the darkness that had inched its way into my life crashed down on the boundaries I had set up to contain it. I could not keep it out.

This unfamiliar world scared me. I spent hours googling genetic syndromes. I searched for answers just as desperately as I had searched for the light switch in my basement bedroom. I wanted to identify the problem. I wanted to know what to expect. I felt sure a diagnosis would banish the darkness.

Chase will be three this month. We still don’t have a diagnosis. We still love him just as fiercely as the day we first held him. And I still feel a bit lost sometimes, not sure of where I am and where I fit within this new world of special needs.

Chase’s needs seem fairly mild when put on the special needs spectrum. He can finally walk, so the special walkers and ankle braces are gone. He doesn’t need a feeding tube. He looks like a pretty typical toddler. Without a diagnosis I have no specific support groups or websites to which to turn, even though I long to fit somewhere, to talk with moms who have seen this darkness.

Some days the darkness fades. Other days I panic because I can’t see answers. I don’t know if he’ll talk. I don’t know his cognitive abilities. I don’t know how long past normal diapers will remain in our house. I don’t know if I can ever expect normal sleep patterns.

On those days when the darkness is inky black, I have to choose to turn from the questions and focus on what I do know, on what I definitely can expect.

I know that Chase will always melt my heart. Even on the frustrating days when I cannot decipher his angry cries or day-long whimpers, I will never lose my love for him. And I know that the belly laughs and flirty smiles cannot stay away forever.

I know that my friends will always care about me and my child. They may not always say what I wish they would say or completely understand my feelings because half the time my emotions baffle me. But I know my friends will always care. If you are a friend to a mom with a special needs child, listen to her. Pray for her. Love on her child. Don’t minimize her concerns even if you’ve heard them before. Look for resources that could help her. You may not understand all that she is going through, but there are people and organizations out there that do. Help her find them.

I know that I will find help and resources from other moms in the special needs community. While I may not feel sure of how I fit in this world, I have found acceptance, resources and encouragement in this community. If you are a mom within the special needs community, be on the lookout for those of us who enter through the backdoor. We don’t have a diagnosis. We don’t know if our children have gene mutations or long-term disabilities. But we are desperate for answers, desperate for a light switch… or a flashlight. You can help!

I know that the One who sees light in the darkness is also the One who created my son. And I can trust him. 

"If I say,'Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become become darkness around me

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day, 

for darkness is as light to you.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

Psalm 139:11-14

Amber is a mom to three, including one princess, a photographer and a writer. She shares her heart for Jesus and for mothering on her blog Here...and the hope of glory. Previous posts on Pruning Princesses include Girls and Boys, When You Feel Like the Wrong Mom for Your Kid, and What a Youth Group Leader Wants Parents to Know. 

How to strengthen your marriage while you parent

My husband is a natural teacher. Give him a group and a subject and he can impart knowledge and make people laugh at the same time. I think there is a wind up key inside of him and it only gets wound right before a group presentation. 

He is a math teacher at a community college. If a biased wife can believe her own heart and the ratings on Rate my Professor, he is an amazing math professor.

And if they had a Rate my Coach site. I think he would have amazing reviews as a soccer coach. He passes on a love for football (the real name) and a high skill level that is rare in Michigan, north of Detroit.

But talent at coaching does not equate to ease in coaching your daughter. Having a dad for a coach is tough if your dad is serious about the sport rather than serious about making the sport all about fun. Sports teach discipline, mental toughness, teamwork, and passion for excellence. Fun is a side benefit, according to my husband.

My daughter has benefited from my husband's skills. She is a good player. But sometimes she comes home from practice with a scowl on her face. She is usually mad at her father--the emotions of taking a command to do something differently have clouded her mind and she confuses correction with anger or lack of love.  And in the dark space of her bottom bunk she unloads her frustrations to me before sleep. Except that more recently, a look of pained pause passes over that freckled face. She doesn't know what to tell me.

Telling me can be equivalent to telling her father. Nothing is safe. And some nights she begs me, "Don't tell dad." And some nights, wanting to pull the burdens out her heart, I am tempted to agree.

But I know better than to ease into the friend role, first I am a child of God, then a wife, then a mother. The order cannot be switched in the name of friendship with a child. Because secrets from your husband, even kept for your dear daughter, put cracks in the parenting wall that you and your husband form. And sometimes, my husband needs to know how she is feeling so he can address the issue or misunderstanding.

Wise words, read or heard somewhere, popped in my head. "Bird, dad is my partner is parenting. I can make no such promise. If I think your dad needs to know, I will tell him. If I think you are just venting and he doesn't need to know, I will be quiet. But I make no promise other than a commitment to pray about it."

Bird turned her back to me, said good night, and asked for her Bible. At least she would be pouring her heart to the One who could help.

Sacrificing the hair

Today's post is a repost from an older blog. It is a story from 4 years ago, when the girls were 4 and 6. It still encourages me today. (Forgive my old photos...digital cameras have improved tremendously).

I don't love beards and mustaches. I like the slightly defiant look of a five o'clock shadow. I've asked Coach many a time to shave his facial hair. Or at least keep them more trim. He feels naked without them. His outward appearance when he is clean shaven doesn't fit his personality. So he never shaved on my request. I understood but I kept trying.

For months, Coach has complained about my long hair. He feels physically sick when he finds long hairs on the floor, or worse, in his food. I put my hair in a pony tail or a knot when I cook, but hairs are escape artists. That's why they make hair nets for cooks. I didn't want to cut my hair. Long hair was the easiest way to ignore my hair--an ideal situation for a mom of two young ones. I could pony-tail-it. And I have lovely hair: thick, strong, and flowing. The envy of many women. As such, my long hair suited my stay-at-home lifestyle and the lack of bathroom moments moms of young children experience. It also made me feel pretty.

In the back of my mind though, I kept thinking about how Coach didn't like my long hair. He is, after all, the only person whose thoughts on my appearance are important. I should have just cut it for him, as an act of service. I justified my long hair, saying, he needed to get used to long hairs, since he had two daughters.  One evening, I flippantly said, "If you shave your beard and mustache, I'll cut my hair." I did not put stipulations on the statement, like you can't grow back your beard for three months. Two days later Coach came down the steps without any facial hair. Crap I thought (and my brain never thinks such words), before noticing how handsome he looked.

I avoided cutting my hair for weeks, wondering if he even remembered. Getting a good haircut is expensive, I did't ow know any trustworthy stylist since we were new to Michigan, justification after justification postponed the cut. A month later, Coach brought home a business card from a salon. Two weeks later he asked if I had made an appointment.

I work hard to make sure my kids know they need to keep their word. Follow through, do what you say, let your yes be yes. The phrases I throw at my children were convicting me. I made an appointment. Together Coach and I searched the internet for haircuts. A week later, he came home in the middle of the day so I could go alone for the cut (Oh luxury of luxury).

In the end, I loved my short hair. I loved the experience. God blessed me with a great stylist who was friendly and talented and even a massage chair for the shampooing, all for the price I paid for a bad trim at the mall salon. For once, I didn't worry every time I met a person who pretended they didn't notice my haircut, I didn't cut it for them and I knew that to some people, nothing will ever look better than beautiful long hair.

Really though, the joy was in the sacrifices we made for each other. Parts of who are (or so we thought) that we didn't want to change. A little like the Gift of the Magi.( I love O Henry.).

And my children? Embarassingly, I had justified not cutting my hair by reciting stories I heard about kids being scared of their mom after a new cut. Bird said my hair looked "gross" when she first saw my short-do. Ten minutes later she wondered if she could get her hair cut like me. Bug  barely noticed.

Linking up today with Jenny at Rediscovering Domesticity. Check out her site to meet other bloggers, writing about how to Thrive at Home. 

When a kid refuses to play

I love Fridays and the chance to join Lisa-Jo's community to write freely for five minutes. And then to get comments, "the love language of bloggers." Won't you join us? Given the word of the day, you really should. Today's word: Join.  

My Bird was shy. Or she was pretending to be. "Go" I said. "Ask that little girl to play with you." Bird was three, sweet and wild.  Bird was my first and I was anxious for my girl to form friendships, to fill her God-given desire to join others her age in play. 

So my little Bird, she flitted over to the other toddler. And in her toddler cadence asked her to play. And I held my breath. And that other girl, with skin like dark chocolate, a child of the Sudan refugee's that settled in town, well she looked at my Bird with wide white eyes. She spun around and ran home to her mama on the apartment porch across the street. My Bird wobbled and collapsed, crying that she shouldn't have asked. 

My first-child mama's heart, it worried and fretted. What if my Bird would never ask anyone to play again? What if she didn't recover her confidence? I didn't recognize the resilience of the desire to join that God places in us. It takes multiple rejections and adult emotion coupled with bad logic to stop that joining drive. He made us to be joiners and He doesn't give us more than we can handle. And my Bird, she's made friends on every playground since then, using squirrels when other children couldn't be found.

God stretched me using hair in the drain

It's five minute Friday again. The day other word-lovers take 5 -minutes to write without overthinking about the word of the day. Visit these other fabulous writers at Lisa Jo's. Today's word: stretch

Piles of raw meat on a wagon pulled by a bicycle to the local restaurants merely amazed me. New foods and chopsticks were fun to try. Receiving one ticket a day to shower in the public showers didn't bother me. Neither did the bathroom troughs with a stream of water running underneath me as I squatted. My adjustment to Chinese culture for six weeks was fast and fairly easy. Even jet lag wasn't too bad. 

The "big" things, the ones I had prayed and worried about. Those weren't the problems. The stretching came in little things: unexpected bouts of claustrophobia in a tightly-packed, 14- hour long plane ride; embarrassing tears of frustration as I tried and could not hear the correct ways to say the Chinese words I wanted to learn; long black Asian hairs that clogged the bathroom sink and didn't get cleaned up often. In details, God reminded me I was weak and needed His strength. 

Still, ten years later, it isn't the big events where I have trouble leaning on Him and remembering who is in control. It is the little details, the ones I want to control, expect to control, where I recognize my selfishness and have to lay it all down again.

Storing Her Creations without Clutter

School is starting soon. I wish I was the organized person who used the end of the school year to organize things, but really, it is the start of a new school year that kicks me in to panic mode and makes me start organizing. I feel a need to get it under control before the papers starting pouring in weekly again. 

I've been writing about creativity, why it is important for kids, how to nurture it in kids, and today, what to do with their creations. Almost every creation is special--either because of the memory of when or how it was created, or because it represents a stage in their creativity. I say almost because sometimes my girls spend 2 minutes doodling and scribbling on a paper. They put little thought into it and even less effort. And my girls, even though it brought tears, have learned that anything done with minimal effort isn't very valuable. I sound like the Tiger Mom, but really, we don't do our kids favors if we praise everything they do. 

So all those creations? From 3 until ...... What is a sentimental mom, who fears being a pack rat, to do? My mom, bless her heart, saved much of my elementary art work in a box. She passed it on to me. Very sweet. But it wasn't even that interesting to look at. I doubt there time or technology to do much more than store art in a box when I was growing up. But now? There are options. And what about the creations that don't fit in a box? Once-in-lifetime-Lego models completed or forts that show off a budding engineer brain?

Here's my idea. I am hoping it is more fun than a box of old art. I take pictures. Of all quality (see paragraph 2) creations. I store the photos with date labels in folders on an online photo site (I use Snapfish but there are many others). And when the girls finish elementary school I plan to take all those pictures and put them in a photo book. I don't scrapbook, but I love the simple photo books you can make online. I make one each year to document what we did that year, and sometimes there are 500 pictures but the spine of that photo book? Not even 1/2 inch wide. Beautiful memories. Beautiful space saver.

Top: photo books and my attempt to show you how skinny they are. Bottom: One of Bird's preschool art projects and one of her 4th grade art projects that will eventually go in her elementary art book.

Bug's art gallery. It is in a stairwell so it is hard to photograph. 

I do have galleries on the wall full of the girls' most recent, hangable art. But when it is full, I take down the pictures and (don't gasp) throw them away. 

Art clothesline. Image from Cozi, see link below

One friend uses the clothesline method. She picks two of her favorites creations and lets her son pick two favorites. And when new work comes along that trumps old work in terms of favorites, the pictures switch. I love her method because when you, as the parent, save only the art you love, it increases the value. And when the kids decide what to save, it teaches them to make special places for prized accomplishments and that saving all our work does not add value to our lives. (Thanks to Simple Mom for sharing this philosophy).

If you need more ideas for your princesses creations, check out these sites:

• 14 ideas from Parent magazine
• 12 ideas from Cozi (Family Life. Simplified) (I love the Dynamic Art Frames, but need to save up for them.)

So what do you do with your kids' creations?  

Sharing with In the Studio

Why creativity is important

Sweat dripped from my hair as I listened. The American college students were planning their lesson for their Chinese friends. The topic was American literature  in a one-hour lesson.  Whew.  They picked a classic short story, “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson.

Do you remember it? (spoiler alert: you can read the story here first if want..it’s a 15 minute commitment) It’s literary genius hidden in horror. A perfect small town, the excitement of a yearly summer ritual, everyone gathering, anxious, kids gathering rocks, townspeople chatting, while they wait to see who will get picked. Tessie wins the yearly lottery. Someone hands little Davy a rock. Tessie cries out about the unfairness and the story ends with “And then were upon her.”

My husband and I were assistant directors to these eighteen students from America who came to hot central China to make friends with another 18 Chinese college students. We lived in Chinese dorms and ate Chinese food and stuffed down the rice when nothing else agreed with our stomachs. Daily we taught English and culture lessons and prayed to communicate God’s love.

These Chinese students were walking history books. They knew the names, dates and accomplishments of every ruler of China since before Christ. They were loyal. Decisions were made not on personal likes but on how they would reflect on family and their country. We marveled at their real tears of joy when Bejing was awarded the 2008 summer Olympics. They reassured us that the Tiananmen square massacre never happened.

The Chinese students, gathered in groups with American students to discuss the story. They couldn’t. They could recite the facts of the story. But they couldn’t imagine what characters might be thinking, what reason there might be for such a lottery since it wasn’t stated.Really. This story should evoke strong emotions. But such opinions were too risky. 

Other American cultural lessons bombed too. Anytime we asked them to draw, or act, they stared--unsure of the meaning of our request. They were English majors trying to learn from us the intricacies of our language. Yet, when we performed skits they laughed from their bellies. I remember being impressed with their knowledge but sad that memorization was king. There is freedom in creative expression they did not know. A dozen of the Chinese students became Christians over time and these statements no longer describe them. Christ's truth releases freedom from more than sin!

I believe humans are born with creativity of some kind (we are made in God’s image and God is creative. Consider the varied  landscapes of the world. Read the descriptions of the temple and its furnishings in the Old Testament.) But we need to be taught to use our creativity. Parents and teachers need to nurture it. The Chinese students were taught to use the incredible brain God gave them to memorize facts and retain them. The American students couldn’t give the dates of the Civil War, but they could create new ideas quickly. Surely a balance is best, but not being able to create feels criminal.

There is a creativity test that has been in use since the 1970s. It is called the Torrance Test. It meaures divergent thinking  (the essence of creativity?). For example it might show a picture of a toothbrush and ask test takers to list all the ways it can be used. Test takers get points for originality.

Researchers, studying thirty years of using this test,  say that since the 1990s kids are less able to create new and original ideas. Experts blame media, couch potatoes, and No Child Left Behind’s emphasis on test taking. The head researcher claims creativity is innate and cannot be lost, but it has to be nurtured.

I don't foster my kids creativity because I want them to score well on a creative test or be the world's most original thinker. Helping them create is a kind of nourishment.  

Teaching creativity and allowing kids to create gives them coping skills. It gives them an outlet for emotions and teaches them to love a process even if the end result isn’t perfect. Hopefully it teaches kids to create until they find the solution or the expression or the medium that they love and can use best. And then they create for Christ’s glory without stopping to wonder what others think. Creating is risking and overcoming fear.

Perhaps my words are too much of me. Probably academic research is more convincing, so I will end with an excerpt from research compilation from the National 4H Council and the University of Arizona,

Creative thinking allows both young people and adults to “avoid boredom, resolve personal conflict, cope with increasing consumer choice, accept complexity and ambiguity, make independent judgments, use leisure time constructively, and adjust to the rapid development of new knowledge” (Strom, 2000, p. 59).Furthermore, for societies to prosper in the midst of rapid scientific and technological advancement, people need to be inventive and flexible (Cropley, 1992). Therefore, it is important for adolescents to be creative thinkers in order to keep up with today's accelerating social and technological developments (Fryer, 1996).

If you missed the first post that inspired the creativity series, click here. Come back next week for the last two posts (How to Nurture Creativity, and What to Do With Their Creations) in this series, they are less about the whys and more about the practical hows of creativity.

Sharing today at

Image credits: freedigitalphotos.net

Rules for being bored

Summer rolls on. Heat overcomes. Vacations end. And children get bored. What can I do? 


I have boards on Pinterest with pictures of crafts I want to do with the girls. I know websites I can visit listing every activity in 3 nearby counties. I see Facebook posts about my friends who took their kids to a museum, stopped working all afternoon to swim in the pool with their kids, or made organic, no-refined sugar smoothies for their kids for breakfast. And I feel like an overwhelmed underachiever (too much comparison is a trick of Satan because I do spend time with my kids doing awesome stuff...just not constantly). 


I am working to let it go. I am not supposed to spent every moment of the day with my kids. Every moment is not quality time and it is not my job to entertain them all the time. God calls moms to invest in their kids and to train them--not entertain them.  There are no rewards for most crafts completed or even the most organic cook. God wants followers who follow Him...not Pinterest or Facebook. 


So this summer, give yourself permission to not be the boredom rescuer. Around here boredom is a 5-minute state but while in it, there are three rules to get out of it....

You can't let your girl learn to end boredom by eating. Bad habit. And you can't let her end boredom by watching TV or playing video games. More bad habits. Train her to be creative. And if the way she solves her boredom breaks these rules, make her help you with the laundry or whatever you are doing. Following through with the threat is critical to effective parenting.  


But, don't expect your daughter to know how to solve boredom issues alone. Our job is to train our girls, and this includes instruction on using down time wisely. Give her some ideas before you institute rules. I sat down with my girls one day and we brainstormed a list of things they could do when they were bored. It had things like puzzles, baking cookies (baking is different than just eating) for neighbors, painting nails, climbing trees, cleaning their treehouse, asking neighbors if they could help with a project, building a fort, making a new guinea pig house, writing a letter, plan a lesson for an imaginary class etc.


The girls no longer tell me if they bored since they don't want more chores. But sometimes, if they are laying around doing nothing, I apply the rules of boredom anyway. Now, go enjoy your summer without feeling like you need to entertain your kids.  



Participating today with Hearts at Home Blog hop. The topic: How to beat summer boredom. Check out other ideas from bloggers on this topic.

Wisdom Wednesday: 5 mentors for your daughter

It takes a village....I love this phrase and I want a village to help me raise my girls. But finding a village in this culture of instant updates without real interactions is tough. Especially when family is far away. So I've been praying for some villagers...

At my grandma's funeral an older cousin gave me some advice for raising my girls. She knew the treacherous teen years were coming. She knew that no matter the depth of our parental love and effort, it might not be enough to survive the valleys. Her advice? Foster 5 relationships between your daughter and other adults you trust. Relating with parents who impose all the rules is a tightrope walk for teenagers. Sometimes resting under the rope in the trampoline with another adult makes the performance easier. And certainly we want our little performers learning the answers that plague their muddle their brain from wise adults rather than internet forums. 

Why 5? Why not? Currently I struggling to think of three adults who regularly interact with my girls in an invested way. And every person exposes my girls to new strengths and weaknesses. I might not be able to comfort my daughters sometimes, but my neighbor might. 

An ink drawing Bug made when she was seven while spending time with my friend. 

Currently I am brainstorming. What relationships can I foster for my girls? God has blessed us with a friend who gives Bug weekly art lessons. I am not convinced Bug loves the art as much as the ear of my listening friend. And my friend loves the Lord, weathering difficult valleys with her faith strong and intact and my Bug has watched. I am praying about asking another women to invest in my Bird. And wondering if an email mentor might not be a fabulous use of technology. In a few years hopefully, youth pastors will part of the five. How about your family? What relationships with other adults are you fostering for your girl? What do you think about the email idea?

The gift of risk

She looks extra small up there. The board sways vertically even with her little weight. And she looks up, right at me, with tears streaming down her down. 


"Save. Me." They plead. 


The swim instructor treads water and tries to encourage her. It is just a jump. With a teacher waiting to catch her. She quakes her head back and forth which sways the board more so she tries to sit down. 


"No sitting." A lifeguard barks. Her job and my baby's emotions clash. 


Another lifeguard climbs the short ladder and begins walking toward my Bird. The movement of a full size person arcs the board precariously. The lifeguard lifts Bird and drops her in the water where the instructor catches her but not until her head goes under. It needs to be realistic. 

Year 2 of swim lessons: jumping alone but still worried. 

I am not a risk-taker. My instinct as a mother is to protect, comfort, soothe. Life won't match my instincts and the ability to meet uncertainty with the confidence of God is a gift I want to give. So we start risking small. And pray big, knowing that a life lived in pursuit of God is adventurous, daring, and brave. 


Writing today with friends over at Lisa-Jo's. Today's word: risk. Join us!

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..

Another lesson from subbing

Linking up today with those who love writing and who enjoy a 5-minute writing exercise and then encourage each other with comments. Such fun. Join us at Gypsy Mama. No qualifications needed! Today's word: See

I spent the morning subbing for a teacher's aide in a middle school special ed room. Substitute aides don't have enough responsibility to fill the time. I record observations and write in my head to stay awake. The teacher was a short, stout lady with a gray pony tail and and a habit of excuse making for things not being the way she thought they should. As I listened I learned she would retire after more than 30-years in 7 short days. 


She was trying to guide students through a story problem about probablity. Math is not my strong subject but I knew she wasn't doing the problem correctly, so did one other student. Her technique and answer were wrong. And when confronted, she insisted. The student refused to acknowledge her way as correct, she exploded. I pointed out I had gotten the same answer as the student. It was too much. 


She went on a soapbox about respect and read a thank you letter from a former student about how awesome she was and how she was the only teacher who cared and taught the letter-writer anything in middle school. Then she said she was going to skip probability problems and she didn't want to talk about it. 


I read a few posts on SEE this morning, and had the idea of seeing with His eyes in my head. This small women, I wanted to shake and say, stop it, you've gone the wrong direction. But I sat silently, mouthed, "it's okay" to the student who knew the right answer and prayed for her. How much disrespect had this tired teacher endured? What health issues prompted retirement? Her grandchildren were coming to visit that afternoon she proudly said, but there wasn't a wedding ring on her finger. What pain had this woman endured? 


Lord help me to see. Help me see with your eyes before I react with my own brand  of indignation at injustice. I am guilty too. 


(Time is up but you need to know that this teacher returned to the classroom after a brief absence later in the morning. She had checked with a math teacher and she apologized for misteaching the problem. Then acknowledged her student's correctness and retaught the problem.) 


image credit: www.freedigitalphotos.net

Science lesson gone wrong?

For weeks I have watched the chickadee mom and dad fly in and out of the birdhouse just outside the window next to the computer. Birds and nests and eggs are fascinating evidence of God's creativity--how they painstakingly build a home, sit on eggs (how did he think of this device for nurture) and how those ugly hatchlings turn into soft, ornately colored soaring birds.  On Monday we noticed the chickadee hadn't been back all day. Somehow we missed the fledging of the chicks. 


Bug and I did some research. We found a website where a dad risked the dive bombing attacks of the father chickadee and took daily pictures of a chickadees' nest and the development of the chicks. These little darlings grow fast, ready to fly away in 12-14 days. And chickadees apparently nest early and only once, so some sparrows had been fluttering around our birdhouse, considering it as a home but never going in.  Maybe it still smelled too much like chickadees?


In one of those I-will-live- in-the-present-and-be-a-good-mom moments, I suggested to Bug that we open up the birdhouse and examine the nest. I ignored the images in my head of bird nest strung around the house and proceeded. Unlike the photo blog guy, the roof our birdhouse would not easily come off. Bug ran and got a screw driver. I glanced at the clock. Good mom time was over. Dinner needed to be made. I let Bug struggle with the old screws alone.


In passing my determined Bug and her screwdriver, she asked, why does it stink? Pausing, I suggested that one of the eggs hadn't hatched and was now rotten? She accepted my answer because she still thinks I am very smart. While I was cooking the phone rang. Bug got one screw loose. She started on the second. I chatted on the phone, cooked and chopped. Chatted, cooked, chopped. Bug shrieked. I shut off the burner and got off the phone. 


She had succeeded in opening the birdhouse. The nest of moss and hair and feathers looked just like the one in the picture. The trouble? Inside were five rotting chicks, about 12 days old according to the photos. They were covered with pin feathers and arranged, like the blog said, with tails to the center so that they all fit. And there were feasting bugs too. 

This picture, and the one of the nest above, are from
the photo journal of the chickadee chicks we found. The picture above
shows chicks at day 12, about the age of the ones we discovered. 

Our nature lesson turned tragic. And my moment of patting myself on the back faded when I left my girl to discover the dead chicks alone. Still, Bug and I, we have that memory of exploring our little yard and learning a tough lesson. And even though dead chicks make little girls sad, the the nest, the bugs, the pinfeathers, still spoke of the grand schemes of our creator. And both of us couldn't stop staring at the wonder.  (The maggots were gross but we had a great conversation about how God created a cleaning system for nature). 


We brainstormed possibilities. I had seen a sparrow trying to get in days before. Would a sparrow kill the chicks? Or, this birdhouse has a metal roof. It sits mostly in the shade, though the sun shines on it for about 1.5 hours starting about 4 pm. Could the recent 90-degree temperatures on that metal roof have fried the chicks? We aren't sure. But we will be getting a new birdhouse. 


Writing about this God Bump to record this sacred moment for my girl and joining others doing the same at Getting Down with Jesus. 



If you would like to see the photo journal we found, click here. 

Perfect parenting formula

My husband teaches math at a community college. When he came home from a day at grad school I sometimes glanced at his notebook. The formulas and proofs looked more like Egyptian hieroglyphics than logic. While most math formulas hold little meaning for me, I've spent a long time looking for parenting formulas.


When I meet a mom whose kids turned out to be amazing followers of God, I ask what did you do? I pick her brain looking for the parenting formula to raise kids who love God. If someone shares a story about an adult kid making too many bad decisions, if there is a tactful way, I ask about the parents' involvement, their guidance and what they did or didn't do. If I can't the perfect formula I might be able to find what not to do. And crazily, most of the time I am not consciously aware of what I am seeking. 


And sometimes when I have a decision to make about my kids I get really stressed. What if I make the wrong decision? When should I vaccinate? Can we start solids now? My daughter is too shy to play with other kids, how do I fix her? My daughter doesn't like to play with dolls, what does that mean? How much soccer is too much? And so I do what I always do. I research. I quiz other moms. Frequently, I pray less than I research and quiz because is more addicting than the waiting of prayer. 


There is wisdom in seeking the advice and experience of other Godly women (hence the Mentor mom series). Scripture encourages it. But like so many things, the world has twisted this principle. We believe that if we mimic successful formulas (add a coffee shop to your church, follow certain beauty steps) success can be duplicated. And since the following the formula sometimes works, we try it in relationships which are not formula based things. While God cares about how we parent, our parenting finesses does not determine the adult life of our kids. There are God-fearing, loving adults who had mean, selfish parents and there are evil, selfish adults who had loving, God-fearing parents. 


Humans are too unique and complicated to fit formulas (more evidence that there is a creator). And if I think following certain steps will guarantee that my kids will turn out well, then I've lost sight of the goal. The goal is not to raise kids who don't mess up or who don't experience difficult things. The goal is to follow God as we parent. Daily we must give the hearts and minds and bodies of our kids to God--trusting him, no matter what. They are his anyway. There is no formula to avoid trials, illness, or straying from God. For it is in those hard places that we learn how profoundly we need God.


One day, as I quized a mom I admired, she looked at me and told me to stop worrying so much.


"Laura, Do your kids know you love Jesus?"


"Yes."


"Do your kids know you love them?"


"Yes."


"That's all you need to do."

Be a good mom on a bad day

May is the month of beginnings and ends. Every one is busy. At least if they are involved in a school in anyway. Graduations, moving in, moving out, wedding season has begun, school years are ending, dance recitals, people are busy. And I don't know an endless supply of mentor moms. I truly wish I did. But I have almost reached the end of my list until God prompts my heart to remember more. And there are a few posts on the drawing board. So on this Monday, because I desperately miss sharing wisdom with my readers and being encouraged in the process, I am going to share a blog post that encouraged me from a blog that I love to read.

Meet Kat, from Inspired to Action: Tips and Tools for Inspired Moms. And just in case you ever wonder, she gave me permission to link up.

Her post, How to Be a Good Mom on a Bad Day will inspire you.


And come back tomorrow 'cause my full of joy ten-year-old has a post to share! (hint:it's a craft)

Long Road Trip or Practicing Thanks

If you have five minutes, we double dog dare you to spend it writing here 

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

OK, are you ready? The Gypsy Mama Facebook late night crew is my new muse come 10pm Thursday night, so please give me your best five minutes on : Perspective

Mom called on Sunday. It must be bad. She doesn't ask me to drive 14 hours just because she wants to see me. Grandma was in the hospital with pneumonia. 

So the question of the girls began. Should I take them? My grandma hadn't seen them in over a year. It would lift her spirits. But how long would I be gone? School still had over a month left. Dear hubby had a week without classes between winter and spring semesters. Leave them. Too much about this trip was unknown. 

Driving the fourteen hours alone was scary. I never go anywhere alone. Not in three years. And never for more than a weekend. My youngest, she  cried and cried she wanted to go. And we-just-don't-know-what-to-expect isn't a reason to a child. And driving through Chicago, in the rain, my fingers were tight from gripping the wheel. I was lonely. Maybe I had made a mistake. 

A dear friend called near Rockford. To make sure I was awake. Doing okay. To offer support. I tell her I wish I had brought at least one one kid. She, who has more kids, and a toddler still at home says, I would pay a million dollars to drive for fourteen hours alone. And everything changed. The daily practice of thanksgiving I was learning turned back on and the whole trip changed.