Let the Little Children Come

One of the things that I love about my church, Christ Church Nashville, is how they love on our children. The pastors all know and care about my children, and although Marella is a bit too young to grasp all of it, Reagan excitedly shouts their name when he sees any of them. He knows he is loved at church. He feels safe and secure at church. He thinks all the pastors and the church staff, from our Senior Pastor and on down, are his friends, and he's right.

A few weeks ago, one of our church members, a man who works with our youth, lost his wife. He showed up at church the next day, and I'm so glad he did. But while adults, myself included, may sometimes get lost in finding the right words to say, or worse, saying nothing out of fear of saying the wrong thing, our children in our church service, gathered around him and prayed for him.

I was standing in line with my husband to receive Communion, and I saw children -- maybe eight or ten of them -- laying their hands on this man and praying for him in his grief, and I lost it. I'm teary just thinking about it.

The faith of a child. Jesus Himself said,  "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." (Matt. 19:14)

I've heard that verse a lot, but it's only recently that I really understood it. I stumbled upon another verse, right before that verse, which I'm sure I've read time and time again, but I never really got it until recently.

Matthew 18:10: "See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven."

Did you read that? Did you get that?

"See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven."


Since I've grabbed hold of that verse, almost everything has changed in how I relate to my children. Because, maybe, just maybe, the veil between here and there, between Earth and Heaven, is thinnest when we are with children. If their angels are with my children, and also seeing the Father, then we are in a very real sense touching the face of God when we deal with children.

Isn't that AMAZING?

If the angels that surround my children always see the face of God, then that changes not only the big picture -- how I parent, how I relate to them, how I talk to them -- but it also changes the mundane. That third game of Chutes and Ladders, or that sixth story, or that time at the park when I want to be working suddenly seems like a spiritual act, maybe even an act of worship.

 (photo courtesy of Moments by Moser)

I wish I had Reagan's faith. This morning in Sunday School, when his teacher asked for prayer requests, he prayed that my little toe, which I injured Friday night, would get better. When I'm in a situation where we are giving prayer requests, I'm thinking about friends with illness, friends in grief, orphans all over the world. I'm not thinking about my toe. But to Reagan, it's a simple prayer request (and for the record, it feels much, much better today).

A couple years ago, when Reagan was two or maybe just turned three, a friend was having some vision problems. I told Reagan about it, and he wanted to pray for her, so we did. A couple days later, I told him that her vision problems went away. I was so excited, and he looked at me like he was confused, and said, "But Mommy, of course they did. We prayed for her, remember?"

Yes. 

I'll never, ever know the full story behind my brain tumor scare a couple years ago. I'll never know why two separate doctors told me it was behind my right eye, and why I had excruciating migraines, and then, suddenly, when a third doctor looked at the same scan the first two doctors looked at,  it was at the base of my skull and not behind my eye. 

I'll never know what really happened. It is entirely possible that two doctors read the scan wrong. It is. I don't question that.

But it's also possible that God heard the simple prayers of a two-year-old, who didn't know fancy words to use or the right combination of phrases to try and convince God to listen to him. All he knew was that he was home a lot with his Mommy who had to shut her eyes every night before Daddy got home, because the headaches were so bad, and he wanted the headaches to go away, so he prayed for God to take the tumor away.

I learn so much from my little boy. He has taught me more about grace and trust and faith than I have learned in a lifetime of sermons.

I want to be like Reagan. I want to have faith like him. I want to believe like him. And I want to be with him, and others like him, because maybe it's then that I fully understand the Father heart of God.

"See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven."

We Can't Have It All

Last week, I worked a lot. Like, all day, every day, for four days. While I've worked all but two months of Reagan's life, I'm now working more, and I love it. I love what I do, I love the experiences I get to have, and I love that I get to work usually from home.

But suffice it to say, last week was a challenge, albeit a mostly happy one. My husband was home in the mornings, and then my in-laws took over so I could get everything done. It was, I reasoned, the best of both worlds.

On Thursday, I was working from a coffee shop, and, while I was waiting on some information to finish an article, started a blog about being a working mother, and the difficulties, challenges and successes of filling that role. I waxed poetic about balance, having a hands-on father, splitting household chores and hoping I raised a son, and eventually a daughter, who see both their mother and their father worked hard to support them, while making sure we both had plenty of hands on time with them as well.

Blah blah blah blah blah.

I admit, I was feeling pretty good about life when I wrote it. I left to go run some errands, came home, and turned my article in early because I was itching to spend some time with my little boy. It was a beautiful afternoon, and I thought we'd play outside, maybe even go to the park.

I scooped his sweet little toddler self up and told him Mommy was ready to PLAY!! He asked if he could watch something on my computer. I said no, we were going to go outside to PLAY!!

He said, and I quote, "Mommy, go bye bye again. I want my Daddy back."

Just to make sure I got the message loud and clear, he repeated it for me. About 20 times.

And then I trashed the blog.

The truth is, we can't have it all. Or, at least not all at the same time.

I wrote before, in my knee-jerk reaction to an article by Amy Glass that crucified women who chose to stay home and raise their family, that whatever choice we make as mothers is for us the right choice, whether it's to take on a grueling job or to be a stay-at-home mom. When I said that, I was coming from a place of anger that another woman would dare criticize the choices that I make, and ones that my friends make.

But, now that I'm balancing working more with wanting to have time with my sweet son, I'm even more aware of just how challenging this balance is, and accepting the fact that there will rarely be a moment where everything swings in perfect harmony.

The working mother balance is not new to this generation. It's been going on for centuries, but at least we're finally getting some company. For the first time, at least that I am aware, the conversation is shifting to mothers and fathers. After Esquire posted an article on their website last year, saying that the issue is one that affects men and women, Hal Edward Runkel shared his thoughts on the balance teeter-totter that both parents face on the 'Today' show.

“It’s this ridiculous notion that we’re supposed to have everything we want at all the time we want it and that’s never going to happen,” Runkel said. “What we have to do is… prioritize. Figure out: what do you want most? Because failure is whenever we sacrifice what we want most for what we want right now.”

My husband and I have had many, many conversations about how we will continue to balance in the future. We don't have any answers yet, but we're open to exploring all options, however unconventional they might be. He shared a great article by writer Peter Mountford with me last week (read it here), about the struggle men face when they choose to stay home so their wife can work.

"The reality is that no parent I know—regardless of gender—has the luxury of making a choice about how he or she will balance the demands of work and childcare," he says. "The decision isn’t heroic or cowardly. It isn’t even a decision. No, this here—this is economics."

So, the truth is I work because I want to work, but also because I need to work. But, also, because I want to work. And for most of the time I was working last week, I was happy and fulfilled and thrilled in a way that, much as I love my son, I don't get while coloring outside with chalk or watching him go down the sliding board or putting a puzzle together.

I'm not going to lie -- I shed a few tears when he told me he wanted "my daddy" back. But, now that I'm several days removed from it, I see that I can choose to be grateful that he has such a wonderful, hands-on father. I am thankful that we have, so far, been able to avoid the high cost of child care while both contributing to our household finances. And someday, he too will understand the sacrifices I made, and the sacrifices we as a family made, which hurt in the moment but are better when considering the bigger picture.

I can't spend every moment with him. I get way more time with him than parents in some careers have. I don't get as much time with him as some other people have. But we can't have it both ways, so we have to choose, and we will continue to have to choose every day until he leaves home. It's an ongoing balancing act, without an easy answer, but with countless rewards on both sides of the pendulum.

An Open Letter to Amy Glass

I read a blog recently that made me mad. And then it made me sad. The writer, Amy Glass, wrote an article titled 'I Look Down On Young Women With Husbands And Kids And I’m Not Sorry.'

The first time I read it, I felt like the breath was being sucked out of me. And I wondered if maybe I reacted so strongly because I was afraid she was right (she isn't, by the way). So I read it again. And then I left it alone for a day or two, and then I read it again.

You can read her blog here, but basically what she says is a stay-at-home Mom isn't worth as much as one who works outside the home. Two statements she makes that stand out to me are:

"You will never have the time, energy, freedom or mobility to be exceptional if you have a husband and kids."

and

"Women will be equal with men when we stop demanding that it be considered equally important to do housework and real work. They are not equal. Doing laundry will never be as important as being a doctor or an engineer or building a business."

In a subsequent blog, after more than 2000 people commented on her words (you think?), she wrote: 

"I can’t help but think of my own life and how easy it would have been to morph into that role and I chose to chase my dreams instead. This is my own experience, so I can’t help but think there are lots of other women who felt compelled to fill that role whether or not that’s what they really wanted. Not questioning their social role feels weak to me, and it’s hard not to look down on someone you think is weak."

Ironically, in yet another blog, written only a few days before the one that was heard around the world, she says:

"This means that as good feminists, we never judge the choices of other women." 

Perhaps, she meant to say "we never judge the choices of other women, as long as we agree with their choices."


But I digress.

I am certain Amy Glass has better things to do than read what a stay-at-home blogging wife and mother has to say, being that she's so busy with her career and all, but if she DID by chance happen to stumble across this blog (which she won't), here's what I would say:

Dear Amy,

I admit I was a bit taken aback by your words about women who choose to stay home. which, I'm gathering, was your intent. I'm not sure why I was so stirred by what you said, because technically you weren't even speaking to me. I mean, I am a mother and I do stay home, but I also make a respectable living while staying home (and I'm not exactly young), so I assume I have earned some measure of approval from you.

Whether or not your comments were addressed to me or not is irrelevant. You were speaking directly to many of my friends, who gave up outstanding careers to wipe noses and fold laundry instead, and we kind of tend to look out for each other. Poke one of us and we'll all respond.

When I first read what you said about women who stay home not being on equal footing with their career-driven counterparts, I was mad. Mad because deep down I was afraid you might be right. But after I mulled it over a bit, I realized, thankfully, you are completely wrong. Whew. That's a relief.

But while I am absolutely certain you are completely off the mark, I don't hold that against you. I actually feel a bit of sympathy for you. Your reaction was so strong, and so harsh, that my guess is there's a void in your life, something missing, that you can't fill, and so you think if you scream loud enough, and convince enough people it isn't there, maybe it will go away.

That's probably not working out too well for you, is it?

Here's the thing, Amy. I have a lot of friends who are mothers. A lot. And some of them happily went back to the work force as soon as their maternity leave was up. Some of them made the gut-wrenching decision to go back to work because their family needed the income, but they hate that they are away from their little munchkins so much. Some of them stay home and get up crazy early in the morning (me) to bring in extra income so they can stay home. And some of them were happy to cash in their paychecks for more play dates.

And you know what? They're all really good parents. Because here's the thing -- what's right for one isn't right for all.

Yes, I could go get a 40 hour a week job (which in most cases would be more like a 50 hour week), and bring in enough money so we could go on real vacations instead of just trips home to see my family, and we could drive something newer than a 2003 Ford pick-up, and I wouldn't drive to Aldi every Wednesday to buy their $1.50 strawberries and $2.00 bag of apples. But that wasn't the right decision for our family. Having two full-time incomes is the right decision for some, but it just wasn't for us.

(And I won't even ask what you think of men who give up their careers to stay home so their wife can go to work, but trust me, it happens -- a lot).

You wrote,  "Women secretly like to talk about how hard managing a household is so they don’t have to explain their lack of real accomplishments."

Oh, Amy.

I've done a lot in my life. I've had plenty of different jobs. I've worked with violent juvenile delinquents. I've done on-call crisis, where I sometimes worked for 24 hours straight. I've spoken at seminars, waitressed, managed an office, started a business, interviewed more than 75 celebrities and written thousands of entertainment news articles online.

This, being a Mommy, really is the hardest job I've ever done. Not hard like, I don't have time to get a manicure. Hard like, this little person wants my attention all. the. time, and I just want to sit for five minutes and not talk about Thomas the Tank Engine or read Corduroy Goes to the Doctor, and maybe go to the bathroom all by myself.

I don't work as much as I used to. Partly by choice, partly not. But, I've had a lot of career accomplishments. I'm blessed, and I don't take that lightly. When a major news outlet picks up one of my stories, I feel happy. When I interview a high-profile artist and it goes well, and I didn't stammer or spill my coffee and they seemed to really enjoy themselves, I get a high. I'm not going to lie. It's awesome.

But you know when I feel the most successful?

When at the end of the day, after my son is in bed, I realize I never once used a tone with him I regret. When he ate three square meals, had healthy snacks,  a variety of activities to fill his day, and I never got impatient with him, when I got on the floor and played with him instead of letting the Wiggles keep him entertained, THAT, my friend, is a successful day. The rest of it -- all of it -- is fluff to me. Like the icing on the cake, when the cake is already really, really good.

I'd give up an interview with Taylor Swift or a fancy schmancy post-awards party to cuddle with my child any day of the week. And not feel one ounce of regret.

I realize you don't know me, so my words mean nothing to you. But I'm sure you've heard of Ivanka Trump, daughter of gazillionaire Donald Trump. She has a lot of fancy titles, including  Executive Vice President of Development and Acquisitions at The Trump Organization, as well as a high-end fashion designer. She has a swanky office on Park Avenue, and probably owns clothing that cost more than my house.

While I'm certain Ivanka and I share very few similarities when it comes to our views on parenting, I do appreciate what she says about taking care of our children.

“I think the expression ‘working’ versus ‘non-working’ implies that a mother who stays home doesn’t work. It’s far more difficult than anything I do in the office.”

If I was to follow your mandate that only women who have real careers have value, then I would assume that would mean that I should go get a real job and put my son in day care. Where someone else, who has a real career, will teach him his manners and his ABCs and read him books and wipe his nose and kiss his boo-boos.

Or, I could just do that myself. Because I get to invest my time and energy into this little person. What I do with him now is affecting the rest of his life. He might be a doctor or a lawyer or a scientist or a teacher or an astronaut or anything he wants to be, but whatever it is, I can say that I had a huge part in that, and that I helped him become who he is, because he was important enough to me. He mattered to me so much, that I willingly and gladly put the rest of my life aside to pour all of my energy into him.

That, Amy, is the best, and most important, and most exhausting job I will ever have.

The Struggle of Motherhood

Let me start by saying, I love my son. And by love, I mean that deep, aching part inside of me that realizes I would give my life in  half of a second for this child. That love that would rather throw a ball back and forth with him or read Good Night Moon 10,582 times (in a row) or watch him accumulate handfuls of dirt and rocks in his pudgy little hands, than do just about anything else. That love that can stare at him in wonderment for hours, just marveling at his perfection. That's the kind of love I'm talking about. It's an all-encompassing, eternal, bigger-than-me feeling that I've had for this precious little boy since I first found out I was pregnant, and impossibly, continues to grow exponentially every single day.

Because my husband and I were, ahem, older when we became parents, I thought the whole parenting thing would be a breeze. By the time Reagan came along, I had traveled, enjoyed my freedom, saved up a little bit of money, experienced some unbelievable life events, and checked just about everything off of my List of Things I Want To Do Before I Have a Baby. So, I really thought adding a 7 lb. bundle of sweetness would only make everything in my life more magical, more special, more ... better (yes, I know, bad grammar).

And, for the first couple of days, it did, aside from the ridiculous amount of sleep deprivation babies make us go through. His delivery was a breeze -- as in (women who gave birth, please don't hate) an I-pushed-for-10-minutes delivery. He ate, and he slept, and repeated that cycle for days on end.

But somewhere around the end of his first week of life, my perfect ideal of how I imagined this chapter of my life to go, started to unravel a little bit. It began when I had to supplement nursing with formula because my milk production was so low. Reagan discovered that drinking from a bottle was much easier than Mommy's method, and he began to loudly, and angrily, express his preference. 

And then, just as we were figuring out the balance between nursing and formula, he developed colic. (Let me just stop here and offer my sincerest and deepest apologies to all of my friends who had a colicky baby and I did not offer the appropriate amount of Advil and chocolate, because both are vital to surviving this phase of infancy).

In a matter of days, it seemed our almost-perfect child turned into a miserable, crying, whining, angry little boy. For days (Weeks? A month?  The time frame is a blissful blur by now), by late afternoon/early evening, nothing made Reagan happy. No amount of driving, swinging, rocking, singing, walking, or any combination of the above, could even begin to silence this wailing, pitiful child. Nothing. We took him to the doctor (twice), we took him off dairy, we read all the books about dealing with a colicky baby, and we gritted our teeth and sometimes just cried along with him.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. But, soon after that, he became ... mobile! Who knew there came a time when you could no longer just lay them in the middle of the floor on a blanket and walk away? Who knew that they started pulling on things, and getting into things, and staying on the move all. the. time?

I should add, that while my husband goes above and beyond in doing housework and taking care of the mundane stuff of life (I wash dishes maybe once a month, for example), he was at the time working 6 days a week. And some of those days, he left at 8 in the morning, and got home after 7:30. There were moments I'd get excited to see the UPS man, just to have another adult to talk to for 4 seconds.

Here was the rub for me: For years, my time was my own. Completely. Outside of a work event (which I could accept or decline), every hour of every day was entirely structured by me for the past 10 years. And then suddenly, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, someone else was telling me what to do with my day. Cute as he was, sometimes I didn't want to stop what I was doing to rescue him from whatever perilous situation he was in. Sometimes I didn't feel like rocking him for 45 minutes so he would nap for 10. Sometimes I didn't want to feed him yet again (where do little babies put all their food, anyway?) And let's not even talk about how many diapers this little boy could fill.

True confession: 95% of the time I delighted in his sweet little angelic perfect cherub-esque face. But the other 5%, when people would say to me, "I bet you love being a Mom," I would smile and nod and kiss his ample cheeks and silently think, "Are you crazy??"

A well-meaning -- but pretty clueless -- friend, who started her family when she was still in her early 20s, would say to me, ad nauseum, "You have no idea how much your life is about to change." She didn't say it with the sense of happiness or excitement from the pure joy that babies, even colicky ones, can bring. She said it from a sad, almost resentful place of, "Enjoy your free time now, because soon you won't have any. Ever." Others made similar comments, of course, and some of them I chewed on, and some I dismissed, but mostly I just wanted to smack them on their foreheads and go, "Duh! I know it's about to change!"

And I did know all of that. But what I didn't know was how much I (gulp) didn't always want the change. I wanted Reagan. Desperately, madly, fiercely, I wanted him. I just wanted him to eat and sleep and play on my schedule. But there's a funny thing about babies -- they are pretty self-centered.

Here's what I wish someone had said to me: It's going to be hard. It's going to be really, really hard, and some days you will want to give up. But for every difficult moment, there are a thousand good ones. For every sleepless night, there are beautiful baby cuddles. For every crying fit that goes on for hours, there will be a spontaneous giggle over bath bubbles, or a puppy dog, or the way your hair touches his face. For every moment you want to run away, there will be the times when he reaches his arms up for you, and you're almost positive it's the best feeling in the world.

Now, Reagan is a 17-month-old non-stop force of energy, and he makes my world. Every morning I wake up excited to spend another day with him. I can (almost) forget those challenging early few months when I was trying to find my footing and my new identity, because these days are just really, really good. He sleeps nine to 10 hours a night, he naps without crying (most of the time), he talks (Mama, Dada, Oh mo, Oh yeah, Oh wow, ice and some odd syllable that I'm pretty sure is supposed to be "shoe"), and he makes us laugh all the time. He loves to be chased, he loves to eat, he loves to splash in his kiddie pool, and he is a ridiculously great traveler.

Yes. My life changed. In every way, my life changed. And every day, it keeps getting better and better and better.