The Table

All great change in America begins at the dinner table.  -Ronald Reagan

I am a person with guilt.  Often over little things, like the time I threw a fit because my mom bought be the wrong clippie stuffed animal.  I believe I was 4 at the time.  I still have guilt over that.

I’m also a person with regret.  I don’t generally dwell on things, but there are a few that I can’t let go of, and my grandparents’ table is one of them.  Or rather, the table they used to have.  They are both gone now, making that long-lost table seem all the more precious.

Many years ago they moved from their lifelong home and auctioned off many of their possessions.  I knew at the time that I wanted that table, but I was a college student with a small apartment and no space for a second table.  Like an idiot I kept mine (from Value City Furniture – good call Heather) and let theirs go, and to this day I feel sick to my stomach when I think of it.  It’s no antique; in fact, it was a cheap table in mediocre condition with absolutely no monetary value.  But if I had any way of knowing where that table was now, I’d pay top dollar to have it back.

I’m thinking of it tonight because I found a paper I wrote in college.  The assignment was to write one page about a perfectly ordinary, inanimate object and make the reader care.  And to this day, I care very deeply about that table.

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The Table

There is a table at my grandparents’ house.  This plain, brown, worn-out old table is a treasure to the two beautiful people who own it.  No one in the world means more to me than them, and no thing in the world means more to them than that table.

The furniture itself is not the treasure; the table is a symbol of love and family.  The backs of the chairs are worn and faded from years of heavy use.  On hot summer days their finish softens, and shirts cling to the moist varnish.  The arms of the chairs are worn down from years of rough treatment and not-so-gentle hands pushing them back under the table.  The table’s legs are nicked and scratched, and it is by no means considered beautiful.   Appearances aren’t everything, though.  Few material possessions could hold more beauty than does the table in Grama’s kitchen.

Pap doesn’t fully understand why she won’t let it go.  The table, or half of the other furniture that Grama loves so dearly.  To this day I can hear them bickering over the old ironing board, so well-worn that it must be propped up on the counter to be used.  My father’s clothes were ironed on that same board forty-odd years ago.  Pap says that they should buy a new one, but Grama refuses.  “For memory’s sake,” I can hear her explaining over and over again, but Pap just shakes his head.  No one really understands like Grama.

For every aging piece of furniture that she clings to there is a story.  There is a story that makes the ironing board worth putting up with, and the ugly table worth holding on to.  I can remember when Grama decided to put a new cover on the stool in the kitchen – the one that sits in front of the paper plate drawer.  It always sits in front of the paper plate drawer, most inconveniently, and for no reason other than that’s where it’s always been.  For years, every time their decor changed, the stool cover changed, one layer on top of another.  Not so long ago the covers all came off.  Everyone laughed at the dozen or so different layers of material, but not Grama.  No one else quite understands.  A new cover went on, and the stool is now at home in a new corner of the kitchen.  It’s just not the same.

The table is the most talked about, though.  Everyone laughs, and they say they can appreciate her sentiment, but no one really does.  No one knows like Grama.

Twenty years ago, two beautiful little girls crawled underneath that table and decorated.  There are still pencil scratchings bearing the names of Amy and Beth, joined years later by the artwork of their little sister.  The family laughs at the mischief and moves on.  No one understands.

Two other little girls have joined the family since then, and I wonder where their names are.  Some may call it destruction, but to Grama it’s making memories.  Maybe we should show them where to write.

Maybe no one understands, but there is no denying the love in my Grama’s treasures.  What some look at as just ordinary furniture are some of her most prized possessions.

And to tell the truth, I think Pap does understand.  Sure, he’s not as vocal, not as teary-eyed or sentimental as Grama, but he also overestimates his ability to hide his emotions.  For all of his harassment, I know that Pap must understand or new things would have moved in long ago.

But still…no one understands like Grama.

We all appreciate that someone cares for us so deeply.  We love the comfortable, homey feeling of Grama’s house.  But no one really understands like she does.

I want to.  I want desperately to understand, to have the same memories and the same sentiments that my Grama does.  My parents told me once that I inherited her heart, and there is no bigger compliment that they could pay me.

Just thinking about Saturday mornings with Pap and Grama, Coco Wheats and bacon, riding through Seven Creeks in the back of Pap’s pickup, playing Trouble, sneaking into Pap’s Twinkies, and falling asleep on their shaggy brown carpet can make me cry.  I know nothing better in the world.

There are a million moments with my grandparents that I treasure, a million memories and a million hugs that I could never forget.  But nothing feels as good as going ‘home’ to their house, and no thing will ever be as precious as that old kitchen table.

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I ache with longing to see them again.  To sit at that long-gone table and share one more meal, play one more game.  I would give almost anything to have that table today.  But I don’t, and I can’t change that.

The only thing left to do is create a table of my own, one memory at a time.  And today, that is exactly what we did.

What I wish I could teach my husband

A man is not where he lives, but where he loves.  ~Latin Proverb

I have, quite clearly, the best job in the world.

The pay is lousy.  Nonexistent, one might say.

I’ll grant you that.  But there is nothing more wonderful than being a mom.  And I have some fantastic little girls.

Before we had kids, I worked outside the home.  The house was tidy, I cooked all of our meals, and we had free time.  And money.  Now many of those things have disappeared.  But my happiness has multiplied, and is found in unexpected places.  I’ve always said that my mini-van is my status symbol – it screams success every time I see it.  A tangible reminder that I have what I wanted my whole life.  But there are other reminders as well. 

Napkins that never quite stay in place,

doors that are never without little fingerprints,

drywall with nicks.

When I see this

it doesn’t look like a mess, it looks like art.

I’ve learned lessons along the way.  Like when you wipe down handrails, don’t forget to do the underside.

I’ve learned not to bother sweeping the floor until the kids are tucked into bed.

And I’ve learned that a table’s beauty is not found in its perfection, but rather in its wear.  The traces of glitter glue and marker add character.  The scratches and dents are reflections of our life.  Every groove, every missing bit of finish, every imperfection is part of our story.

I’ve also learned not to panic when someone ‘accidentally’ glues their craft to the table.  It comes off.

When Catie took a crayon to the wall, I left it there.  The days of scribbling on walls will be gone all too soon.  I will spend many years of my life fondly missing the crayon years – another day or two on the wall won’t hurt.

It even helps.  Reminds me of what is important (my girl) and what isn’t (my wall).  That little red alien drawing in the basement stairwell made me smile every time I walked past it.  Until yesterday, when it vanished.

You see, my husband is a neat freak.

6 years ago I bought this for our wall.

I treasure it.  He is not amused.

He’s always straightening, organizing, cleaning, re-arranging.  He never sits still.

While we’re stopping to smell the roses, he’s pulling weeds and planning to re-mulch.

If the girls want to play a game, I wipe off the table and spread it out. 

He sweeps the floor under the table, washes the seat cushions, decides to remove the leaves from the table and clean between them, and then runs out of time to play a game because the kids have to go to bed.

It breaks my heart.

He’s missing out in a huge way, and I don’t know how to make him see that.  The saying, ‘Can’t see the forest through the trees’ – well he isn’t living because he’s caught up in the details of life.

Is it possible to change someone?  To give someone the gift of a new perspective?  Is it possible for a control freak to let go of the reins?

I’m concerned about him.  About how this affects the kids.  About what it teaches them.

I’m concerned about the prospect of him going through life as an obligation instead of a blessing.  And I don’t know how to help him.

For years I felt this was my own shortcoming.  I readily admit I’m not a good housekeeper, so I believed that if only I did better, he’d be happier.  One day my mom kept the kids so that I could clean the house from top to bottom.  I worked my tail off for 10 hours and the place was spotless.  I was beyond excited about it, and how happy I knew he’d be. 

When he came home, he started scrubbing the inside of the kitchen cabinets.

I’ve told him since then that this was the day that I gave up.  I accepted that I would never be good enough.  I will never be able to make everything just right.  I’ll never be able to make him happy.

We control our own happiness – I firmly believe that.  Happiness is a choice.  I wish I could teach him that.

I wish I could show him how to dance in the rain.  How to count your blessings even when your world is crumbling.  How to take joy in a messy car, because it’s a by-product of child rearing.  How to love little socks scattered about, and muddy shoes on the porch.  How to relax, even if the house is messy.  How to relax, period.

We’re not romantic people, and Valentine’s Day, especially, is a day that means little to me.  A bouquet of flowers today means less than it would the other 364 days of the year.  We don’t typically exchange presents.  But today, this is a gift I’d like to give him. 

I’d like to teach my husband how to be happy.

Following My Bliss

I’ve been really bummed about not being able to go to Blissdom. I’ve actually never gone to a blogging conference (Although after hearing about BlogHer last summer, I wasn’t so disappointed that I missed out on all that drama).  Besides all of the learning opportunities (Getting Published workshop, I’m looking at you), Harry Connick, Jr. will be there.  Harry!  Y’all know how much I adore Harry.  And my dear friend Darcie will be there.  Since we live on opposite sides of the country, our chances to meet up are few and far between (Namely, WDW every October).  And on top of all of those good reasons to go, the conference is right in my backyard!  It’s in Nashville, city that I love, and oh-so-conveniently located for me.  So close, and yet so far. 

Alas, because of some unexpected bumps in the road of life, our disposable income is, um, less-than-plentiful these days.  We’re more in trip cancellation mode than trip planning mode.  I’m not bitter about it, but I am disappointed.  So when I heard that Mom in the City was giving away a Blissdom pass, I decided to give the dream of Blissdom one more shot.  As such, this is my entry in her giveaway – wish me luck!

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The theme of Blissdom 2010 is “Follow Your Bliss.”

2009 was a year full of challenges for me.  Unfortunately the year began with my beloved grandmother’s death.  We were very close – she was like a second mother to me – so this was an emotionally devastating event.  I am very fortunate to know that she was a Christian, and that she is in heaven with my grandfather right now, so my profound grief is also mingled with joy.  After her death I blogged about her, and about choosing happiness.  Because I do believe that happiness is a choice.  You don’t always feel it; sometimes you have to deliberately choose to be happy.  Over and over again. 

I spent a lot of last year choosing to be happy, in spite of my sense of loss.  In spite of the Grama shaped hole in my heart.  And then last fall, another devastating blow came in the form of a medical prognosis for my husband.  A very overwhelming diagnosis, and a future that is very uncertain. 

I will be happy, I will be happy. 

Fake it ’till you feel it.

I wish I could say that I’m feeling it.  That I’m not still faking.  But I’d be lying.

I’m an optimist by nature.  When I have a few pounds to lose, I appreciate living in a country where food is so plentiful.  When the kids are sick, I’m thankful that it’s pneumonia and not cancer.  As the medical bills pile up, I’m grateful that we are alive and here to worry about them. 

And worry isn’t the right word, really.  I’m not a worrier.  One of my favorites quotes is, “You can tell the size of your God by the length of your worry list.  The longer your list, the smaller your God.” 

I serve a big God.

And I know that God’s hand is in our situation, just as it always is.  I know that God is watching over us and providing for us, in good times and bad.  I know that others have it far worse than we do.

I am trying to be faithful.  But it’s hard not to be fearful.  It’s hard not to think about what the future might hold. This is a constant struggle.

2009 was largely spent choosing to be happy.  Choosing to find Bliss, even when it was lurking in the shadows.  Choosing to accept the flicker of candlelight, when a spotlight on my path would have been easier.  Choosing to believe that true Bliss will come again one day, and faking Bliss until it does.

I do not know what 2010 will hold.  I wish I could say that something has changed, but it hasn’t.  My husband’s medical condition remains the same.  I write this on the 1-year anniversary of my Grama’s passing.  Maybe that’s significant.  Maybe this is a day that, down the road, I will look back on as a turning point.  I hope so. 

For now, the future is uncertain.  I am grateful to know that whatever it holds, I have a Savior who will carry me through it all. 

And that’s enough. 

That’s where my Bliss lies.  Today and forever, in Him.

Jesus, bring the rain.

Water Safety

My dear friend Darcie just posted something that you absolutely must read.  I have no words more profound than hers, and nothing to add to what she said.  Please visit her site and take her warning to heart, so it will not happen to your family – your child.

Never be too nice to the dentist

My husband is switching jobs next week, which means a change in insurance and a short-term policy for 90 days.  In a scramble to have everyone checked out before then, the girls and I have all had dentist appointments.  When Catie and I went last week, they found a sugar bug in each of our mouths.  They said that both were minor, just barely anything, and we could watch and wait.  But being reluctant to allow a cavity to form, I made appointments to get us fixed. 

When we went in yesterday, Catie went first.  Her total time was 12 minutes, including getting the moon gas, allowing it time to take effect before they began the work, and her picking out a prize after they were done.  12 minutes.

My total time was 2 hours and 3 minutes.

Yes.

My tiny little doesn’t-even-need-to-be-fixed-now spot became a huge ordeal.  Why? you might be wondering.  Because unbeknownst to me, I was given a student or a resident or whatever you call them when they are not a real dentist. 

Now I understand that everyone needs to learn at some point. And I’m a pretty easygoing gal.  But this is not what I signed up for.  I do not go to a dental school for our work to be done, we have a regular practice.  I did not know when I made the appointment that this is who would be doing the work.  (Because guess who would have been doing the watch-and-see then?)  And I our insurance is not being billed a discounted rate for having the student do the work.  All of these things add up to me not being a happy camper.

The other problem is that I didn’t know she wasn’t a dentist until she started working.  On the wrong tooth. 

Yup.

Numbed and drilled the. wrong. tooth.

Oopsie!

So then when we’re finally all on the same page about exactly which tooth needs attention, she begins to drill.  And drill.  And drill some more.  Apparently that microscopic little possible problem was nearly impossible for her to reach.  After 40 minutes of drilling I was fantasizing about smacking her in the face.

I’d already run through all of the Presidents in order (as best as I could recollect), the Gettysburg address, Hamlet’s big speech, and the words to every Joshua Kadison song I could remember (thanks, dentist office Muzak!).  Clearly there was nothing left to think about but how much I dislike this student. 

Don’t get me wrong, she seemed very sweet.  And an hour previous I’d have been just fine with her. Heck, 20 minutes previous I might have been more generous.  But at that point, I was really seriously done.

She, unfortunately, was far from done.  She called in a Real Dentist to look at her work, and he (of course) proclaimed that she was not done, so he drilled himself for less than a minute.  Upon his departure, I guess the student felt she was smarter than the master, because she started drilling again.

Yeah.

She finally finished and got out her tools to fix the damage she’d done, but accidentally slipped and cut my mouth.  The blood was too much to easily suction away so they had to stop for a few minutes and let that clear out before proceeding.  To her credit, at this point she was smart enough to leave the room while I waited.  I’m guessing she was afraid to stay in a small room with me and sharp objects.

She did the actual filling relatively quickly at that point.  But then of course that filling needed to be filed.  For approximately 45 minutes.  Now I was over being angry and just wanted to cry and/or fall asleep.  But I couldn’t sleep, because I had to do that whole bite/grind thing over and over and over again so she could figure out where to sand.  I think it was a crap shoot for her, because she was all over the place in there.  The normal two-time bite and grind became a 12 time procedure.  Twelve.

By the time we left my leg had fallen asleep, my lower face was puffy, and even the second round of numbing had begun to wear off.  Catie had fallen asleep in her chair while watching cartoons.  And the pseudo-dentist declared that her hands were tired.  Yeah, so is my jaw, lady.

I should have asked for another dentist.  A real dentist.

I should have made her stop.

At the very least, I should have complained on the way out.  Or with a phone call today.

But I’m reminded of that line from Fried Green Tomatoes.  “Assertiveness Training for Southern Women.  Now that’s a contradiction in terms.”

And it is.

So I shall be a very sweet southern lady and suffer in silence at the dentist.

But learn from my experience, my friends.  The dentist’s office is no place to be polite.

You’ve been warned.

Warning – pictures aren’t for the weak stomached

In fact, my husband couldn’t believe I was going to share these with you, but hey, the story was too good for me to pass up. And the visuals just help it along.

Back in December, I was slaving away over Christmas gifts for the girls, sewing round the clock. For the first time in my life, like a complete idiot, I sewed my finger. The needle broke off, actually.

Chris wasn’t home yet (of course – don’t these things always happen when you’re home alone?). I wasn’t sure what would happen as I was still in shock, so I immediately wrote down my parents’ phone number and told Annie to call them if I fainted. Quick thinking, huh?

Then I went upstairs to prepare to deal with the situation. I got the peroxide, the rubbing alcohol, the tweezers…huddled over the kitchen sink, and then a glance to my right told me that my camera was nearby. I mean, it’s not everyday that a girl has a needle broken off in her finger, right? I mean, it went clear through and everything! I had you all in mind even in my time of crisis. I whipped out the camera, struggling to remove the lens cap without getting blood on anything, and managed to take a couple of quick pics for the blog. Which is right about the time my dear husband walked in and nearly fainted. He’s not good with blood. Or crises.

Anywho… he thinks this is totally disgusting and inappropriate to share, but to me it’s just fodder for the blog, baby. Of course it’s gross – in a really cool kinda way.

Needle protruding pictures to follow – you’ve been warned.

PS) I don’t know why I said ‘anywho’ up there – please forgive me. It even annoys me when people say that…somehow it just slipped out.

and an addendum…

Here is my contribution to The Mother Letter project…

Dear Mother,

Today was so much fun. With three children 5 and under, you can imagine how much fun each and every day is, but of course some are more fun than others. Often because some days the kids are more helpful than they are on others. And really, who could possibly make dinner without the help of a 3 year old? Or clean up a playroom without a toddler following right behind you – ‘helping’, of course.

Today was especially fun because it involved a trip to the store. A trip to the store to pick up 3 – exactly 3 – items. A trip to the store which took an hour and 20 minutes, in which time I said ‘no’ roughly 397 times, followed very closely by the ever popular ‘stop it’, ‘put that down’, ‘don’t touch anything’, and (my personal favorite) – ‘Mommy’s going to cry’. By the time we reached the checkout – self-checkout of course, so the kids could ‘help’…mommy really was about to cry. At which point the 3 year old whined “Can we pleeease go? I need a drink!” noyoudidnotjustsaythatareyoukiddingme? “Um… yeah honey, Mommy needs a drink too.”

Trip home (“I wanna listen to High School Musical”), rush through dinner, rush to bed, rush through prayers. Now that’s a proud moment right there, rushing young impressionable minds through their prayers. Way to go mom. So now on top of exhaustion and frustration, I can add guilt to my plate for the night. Brilliant.

Go downstairs, pick up toys, clean up dinner, occasionally yell vague threats up the stairs – “You’d better stop talking and go to sleep or else you’ll be in big trouble young lady!” Finally finished and alone – ah, the solitude. The peace. The quiet. 8:30 on a Friday night and I’m exhausted, ready for bed. I bask in that for a few minutes.

And then I feel lonely.
I miss them.
They look like such angels when they sleep.
Nothing in the world could be more beautiful than the sight of your own sleeping child.

Days like this are part of motherhood – a right of passage. And I am grateful to the core of my being that I get to experience these exhausting, patience-trying moments. I adore my carpool minivan and my mom uniform (sweats) and my forever ponytailed hair. They are my status symbols. That van shouts to the world that I have arrived, and I am exactly where I want to be.

On your most trying, most exhausting days, may you always have the minivan of your dreams to remind you that it’s all temporary, that dreams do come true, and that God does answer prayers. It’s not always easy, but it is always worth it. Here’s to you mom, for making the world a better place, one baby at a time.

Love, Heather

PS) A glass of wine now and then helps, too.

Sometimes our kids really ARE smarter than we are

From the first day of school, Annie has been coming home with stories about Sammy. He seemed a bit ornery, that Sammy. Impulsive, always getting into little jams, and earning the not-so-distinguished honor of being the first child in Ms. Kristen’s room to lose their green light. I don’t know why, but somehow I’ve always envisioned little Sammy as high-spirited rather than naughty. (Possibly because I hope that’s how people will view Catie when she gets to school!)

Yesterday Annie’s Sammy story was sad. He told Evelyn that he would not be her friend because he does not like her. Seeing as how Annie and Evelyn have been BFFs since they met last week, this did not suit Annie very well. She said that Evelyn started to cry, and she told her not to be sad because she loved her and she was her bestest friend in the whole world. She said that cheered her up a little, but Annie was still concerned about the whole situation. Over dinner last night she asked me what she should do when something like that happened.

I wasn’t really sure what to say. In my head I admit to thinking ‘Kick him’, but it was very fleeting and only slightly serious. I told her that in my experience, people who say mean things usually do it because they are hurting on the inside. And that while I don’t always know the right things to say, I try to remember that and treat them with love. She didn’t say very much after that, but when she said her prayers last night she prayed that Evelyn would be strong and not have her feelings hurt, and that Sammy would learn nice words to say. I kissed her and told her that was sweet. As I started to leave the room, Annie told me that she figured out what to say to Sammy if he says bad things again.

“Oh yeah baby, what’s that?”

“Jesus love you Sammy, and so do I.”

Yet again this child, this amazing child, has humbled me. What else could one possibly say that would be any better?

One of my biggest fears about Annie going to school was situations just like this. Everything in her world has been sunshine and roses, and I’d like to keep it pristine for as long as possible. I’m sad that this sort of thing is already happening in the second week of Kindergarten. But I am so encouraged by my daughter’s response to it.

I think every parent believes that their child will change the world – someday. Last night was the first time I realized that my little girl was already out there doing it.

So last night, and again today, every time I think of them I am praying for Sammy and for Annie. And if you can spare a moment or two, I’d love for you to do so as well. Annie asked me last night if I prayed for her while she was at school and I said yes.

“Well then could you say two prayers tomorrow? Because I’m kind of nervous.”

“Absolutely baby. And remember that God is always with you, ok?”

My little kindergarten missionary. I couldn’t be more proud of her.

So 2 years from now I should be doing great

You’ll have to forgive my neglect of this little blogging endeavor. You see, I made myself a promise a couple weeks ago, and staying off of the computer was a big part of it. The last month + has been non-stop fun and games at our house. Not only were we blessed with a visit from the very popular Cousin Erin and Aunt Beth, but we’ve also been having a countdown of sorts. And it all ended today. Today, you see, is a big day here. Today is Annie’s first day of school.

For those who don’t talk to me every day this probably comes as a surprise. The plan was to homeschool, and homeschool we did last year. My little girl already knew all of her letters and numbers and sounds, and teaching her to read was fun and surprisingly easy. Watching her math abilities grow was amazing (I never thought I’d be able to say that about a child of mine!). Exploring new concepts together was one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done with her.
But unfortunately, trying to do all of this while also nurturing her two little sisters was more than I could handle. Either Annie’s day was scattered and unstructured, or her sisters spent too much time in front of the TV alone while I worked with Annie. Either way, it wasn’t as it should be.

Which brings us to this summer – our last days of unadulterated fun. I promised myself that I would treasure every moment. That I would not tell her “Not now” or “Maybe later” – that I would get my priorities straight for once, housework and sewing and everything else be darned. And enjoy her I did. But sadly all good things must come to an end…which brings us to present day.

Being what I hope is a good mom, I have been very careful not to mention to Annie how emotionally devestated I am by her growing up. We’ve talked about all of the fun things she will do, the friends she will make, the lessons she will learn. And my little social butterfly is going to love it. I’ve properly bit my tongue and encouraged her. And so yesterday we had this little ‘Going to School’ party:

Annie chose Corn Dogs, homemade potato chips and dip, carrots and grapes, and cheese sticks.

Aren’t her little school bus decorations cute? She’s so proud of her newest art subject.

Pappap and Grama joined us for lunch.

And Annie got lots of new Hannah Montana goodies for school. We also gave her the gold cross necklace below, to help remind her that God is always with her, even when we aren’t.

Could she BE any cuter? She picked the shoes herself, to be cool like her (21-year-old) cousin Haddie.

Just outside the school:

You can’t really see it, but the tag hanging down is a luggage tag with family pictures in it.

And here she is with Ms. Kristen, who so far seems pretty wonderful:

I walked out of the room just moments after the above picture was taken. I gave my girl a hug, wished her a good day, and looked back from the doorway to see her opening her pink Play-Doh and talking to her tablemate Savannah. I blinked back tears all through the hall, but of course there were dozens of other excited kids and nervous moms nearby, so I couldn’t cry yet. And when I got to the car, wouldn’t you just know that I was surrounded by other first-day kids. Of course I can’t cry there. So I had to leave, and pray that I didn’t wreck the van on the way home because I was crying so hard I couldn’t see.

I’d like to say that my day got better from there, but it didn’t. I cried off and on all day long, made worse by the flu-like illness I seem to have developed yesterday. I know it’s hard for all mothers to watch their babies grow up. Perhaps especially so for stay-at-home moms like myself, who have never had daycare or babysitters or pre-school to soften the blow. There was no easing into this one. Yesterday she was all mine, and today, and everyday for the rest of her life, she spends half her time with strangers. My heart is aching – I feel like a piece of me is missing. And of course it is – a very special, very important part.

This isn’t just any kid. This is the little girl who believes that the Little Einsteins are real, because she met them in Disney World. The girl who gets $5 a week in allowance and saves every penny of it, and just last Sunday voluntarily took out $40 of her Disney money to donate to the church building fund. The daughter who, when she watched me put on makeup last month pointed out that it doesn’t matter what we look like, it’s what’s on the inside that counts. I was so touched. “I know baby, you are so right,” I said as I wiped my eyes and dusted powder on my nose. She looked at me for just a moment. “Then Mom,” she replied, “Stop doing that. God doesn’t care what you look like, and neither do we.”

How can a child so small be so wise? So kind? So completely selfless? And how long can that last now that she is OUT THERE in the cold hard real world? How long before a kid tells her that the Little Einsteins are just costumes, or that she is anything less than incredibly beautiful? How long before both of our hearts are broken by the cruelty that exists in childhood?

So today was the day that I had to finally face all of those fears, pray for God’s blessing and protection over her, and watch my baby walk away on her own. I know it probably sounds melodramatic to those of you who aren’t mothers, or haven’t gone through this yet. But just as sure as I feel this loss, I know that millions of other mothers are feeling it too. And I’m sad to realize that it won’t ever go away. This is it – she’ll never come back. She’ll never again be my little baby – we’ll never again get those five-and-a-half glorious, uninterrupted years of togetherness.

I’m excited for her, don’t get me wrong. I know she’ll love it, and I know there are great things to look forward to as she grows up. But today has been far from great in this mother’s book.

And now you’ll have to excuse me. It’s almost 2 and I need to dry my eyes and pick up my missing piece. Tonight will be better.

PS) The title is derived from this handy-dandy little heartbreak calculator. Seems that, yes indeed, you really can Google anything. If your heart is broken (and I sincerely hope it isn’t), you can figure out when you’ll be on the mend here.

My failings as a mother

Last night it occurred to me that I’ve been keeping my children alive more than I have been raising and nurturing them. And that is a disturbing realization.

Everyone here has been sick for quite a while and I think it’s only understandable that you muddle through in times like that. It’s hard to take care of other people when you’re feeling bad yourself. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic to their ills, I truly am. But I’m not as patient as my father. I’m not as kind as my mother. When three children spend an entire day crying and moaning, by about 3 pm I want to cry myself. By 7 pm I’m angry. And I am embarrassed to admit that.

I operate on an average of 4 hours of sleep per night and I’m drained. Believe me, I wish I could sleep more but for the foreseeable future that’s not the case. My dad recently gave me an article about the effect on your emotions when you don’t get enough sleep. This isn’t the same one, but it’s close enough. So maybe there is some explanation for my feelings, but that hardly makes it excusable.

I’ve always felt that, once you have kids, you matter a whole lot less. They come first. I know that comparison about the oxygen mask and how you can’t help anyone if you don’t help yourself first, but whatever. That goes against my every instinct as a mother. My girls are my whole world, and they are the most important people in my life. (I don’t feel bad saying this because I know my husband would say the same) So my own wants, needs, desires – they’re all pretty far down on the list. Yet now, it seems I’m not even putting them first. If I were, wouldn’t I be nicer? More patient, more kind? My daughter asked me yesterday if I had time to play a game with her and I nearly cried. Do I have time? But everything about me lately tells her that I don’t have time for her.

I am not the faithful servant that God deserves, the devoted wife I promised Chris I’d be, the selfless mother my children need. As Jo March said, I am hopelessly flawed. And while that’s depressing to accept, I know it’s true. But God forgives me. My husband accepts me. But my children…oh, my precious little angels. I worry about them. I’m afraid my inadequacies will do them irreparable damage. When I lose my temper and yell over torn books or whiny requests, what kind of example am I setting? Will the image of their mother the crazy person be burned into their psyches forever? Or worse yet, will they not see me as crazy and instead think this is normal, acceptable behavior that they will someday repeat with their own children?

I’m not sure what happened here. I look back over the past few weeks and months and I don’t see any monumental event, no big changes. But somehow I feel Satan has slipped in and I’m having trouble locking him back out. I don’t want to be this weak. I don’t want to be this grouchy. I’m normally a pretty positive person and I want that version of me back.

I’m making this very humbling pubic confession as a way of keeping myself accountable. Please don’t tell me that I’m a great mom – I’m not. Not even close. But I want to be. And I’m going to try to do better. I’m always telling my girls how much I love them, how important they are to me. But those are just words and talk is cheap. Now I’m praying for help to show them what a mom really should be. The kind of mom I have. The kind of mom my girls deserve. The kind of mom who always has time.