What I’m Into: January, 2015

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What I'm Into buttonI love being let into the minds and lives of other people. I hope that’s not weird. In grad school, we called this idea “filling the well”, which sounds better and less nosy. Basically, the premise is that by hearing what others are reading, listening, doing, and trying, you find yourself inspired to seek out things that spark your own creativity.

Anyway, there’s a lovely writer in the blogosphere named Leigh Kramer who does a link up called What I’m Into. Every month, I binge-read her linked posts and check out the ideas. And today, well, today I felt like playing along. (Spoiler alert: I’m definitely not as cool as everyone else – I didn’t see Parenthood last night.)

On the #Oneword2015 Front:

I’ve never been a New Year resolution person. I don’t like promising things I can’t be sure I’ll deliver, and let’s be honest. With three girls three and under at home, I’m a little… distracted.

What I do like is the idea of picking a word for the year. Incorporating a word into my everyday life seems more manageable. And after a rocky start to the new year, I realized that the one word that made sense to me for 2015 was this:

Expand.

When life feels narrow, I need to expand my expectations. When I feel hurt, I need to expand my ability to show grace. When comparison creeps up behind me, I need to expand in love. Simple concept, crazy opportunity for application. Expand. (For more on the quote and ideas that sparked my word, check out these amazing words from my friend and writing group compatriot Addie Zierman.)

On the Reading Front:

keepersI just finished Keepers of the Covenant as part of the Bethany House Blogger Book Review program. I know, I know. Historical fiction can be iffy. But I have a soft spot for history. I’ve also always been enamored with the story of Esther, the Old Testament queen who risked her life to save the entire Jewish nation living in Babylon at the time. This book doesn’t focus on Esther though – it tells the story from the perspective of the Jewish community. As a person, I loved getting lost in another time and place. As a Christian, I appreciated listening to how people wrestled with what to do when evil abruptly entered their lives. As a writer, I found the stories a little too neat for my taste. The characters wrestled with difficult questions, but their answers and responses were predictable. Overall, it was a good reason to wake up with late night book reading hangover.

gruffaloIn little girl land, we tend to read the same stories over and over. There’s science behind that – recognition, repetition, all that jazz. There’s also the fact that it’s a lot of effort to get everyone to the library. But once in a while, we manage, and this time, we came across a great gem called The Gruffalo. The rhymes are divine, the pictures great, and the story-line is spooky and funny. It’s a major hit at our house, and is requested to be told in spoken word form at least twice a day. No, I do not do outside performances.

On the Eating Front:

Pizza. My amazing mother-in-law gave me a great cook book for Christmas called No Need to Knead, and now I can’t stop baking. dunawayPizza has always been a challenge for me, because perfecting a thin crust that’s still chewy in the middle is IMPOSSIBLE. At least it was for me until I used Dunaway’s method. (Aged dough, 500 degree oven, cast iron pizza pan, 7 minutes flat.) Other winners? Foccacia, Kalamata Olive Filoncino, and Ciabatta to name a few. Plus, all three girls eat it no questions asked (it’s pizza, c’mon) which is a full WIN. Bonus: it’s fast, simple, and adaptable to what you have on hand.

On the Watching Front:

Downton Abbey is on again, and even though I missed two seasons, I’m happily diving into season five with hold-my-schedule-it’s-Sunday-night fervor. Otherwise, since we don’t have cable, we’re relegated to the land of Netflix, where I eagerly await the last season of Parenthood. (I know it’s on network tv now, but I hate commercials and love watching four episodes at a time. Netflix all the way.) Meanwhile, I’m working my way through Chopped (Netflix again)– a cooking contest where you have to use four mystery basket ingredients to make an actual palatable dish. (Think combos like tamarind paste, lamb top round, mustard greens, and coke.) I mean, why not.

On the Listening Front:

I’m sure this is old news, but Brandi Carlile came out with a new album that I’m loving. I also found a band called Man in the Ring on my Black Keys Pandora station; they play some great bluesy stuff that’s fun to cook too. Oh, and don’t forget about King’s Kaleidoscope – if you need upbeat songs to focus and center your day on what’s important, these guys are it.

IMG_7288On the Home Front:

I rearranged the living room to make room for a piano. Except that we don’t have a piano. So I keep stalking craigslist for something local, which isn’t easy. If you have any leads on a lovely old upright for a reasonable (or free) price, let me know.

There are only 8 weeks till spring, and I’m starting to plot the layout for our raised bed garden boxes. New on the list this year? Broccolini.

IMG_7230The twins are starting to be more aware of one another, and I can’t stop taking pictures of them. Seeing them interact is one of the sweetest things EVER. My twin mama heart overflows when they randomly hug one another.

There you have it. Life in the month of January. Go check out the other amazing ideas you’ll find in Leigh Kramer’s What I’m Into link-up, and don’t forget to tell me (and others) what YOU’RE into this month.

Please and thank you.

Looking Good Isn’t the Point

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There comes a time in every girl’s life when she notices her favorite pants fitting… well… differently.

For some, that’s the time to walk away from the mirror and focus in on something else, because ain’t no one got time for mirror-mirror-on-the-wall.

For others, it might just be the time to do something. To move. To wake up that body and remind it of its potential. (Or maybe just accept the fact that that woman cannot live in lycra alone.)

I believe we find ourselves in different camps of necessary activity based on where we are in life.

Last year, I had two feet firmly placed in camp Walk Away. My darling two year old and twin seven month olds were not very, hm, how should I say it… independent.

We were in full survival mode – sleeping whenever we could, rummaging into the back of the cupboards because it was so much work to get three tiny humans snow-suited and hauled in and out of the grocery store. Workouts consisted of lifting car seats, squatting to pick up toys, and running after the child whose hands were covered in applesauce. (Please let it be applesauce.)

If that’s you, congratulations. You’re going through what will prove to be one of the most physically challenging periods of your life, all for the love of another human being (or two, or three, or six.) You, Ms. Knight in Shining Armor, need to reserve every last ounce of strength to function.

That’s all. Function. That is what your family needs. That is what you need. That is what your body needs. Just function.

PS- I’m giving you a virtual high-five right now, because you’ve got this. You’ll get through it, and suddenly, your babies will be crawling and walking and talking and bargaining for FIVE M&M’s MOM, just FIVE.

Sigh. And then there’s camp Do Something. This year. This week. Today.

My camp.

But it’s not for the reason you might normally suspect. Sure, I could use a little less padding. Sure, I’d like my pants to stop eating into my midsection.

Honestly, this camp has everything to do with one fact: I need more energy.

And that’s not just a mama thing. That’s life. That’s Newton’s law of motion. Objects at rest stay at rest. Objects in motion stay in motion until acted on by another force.

I do best when I’m in motion – spiritually, creatively, and physically. So when I found out there was new local gym offering childcare, I shrieked. I called my mom. I begged my husband.

And the first night that I beeped my key card and walked in the door, I felt a little like I was coming home to a place I’d been away from for a very, very long time.

Never mind that after two days, I felt I’d been sacked by a wild rhino. Or that after a week, I was downing the Tylenol immediately post-workout. I figured what I really needed to do was schedule an appointment with the personal trainer and get a few ideas on how to build back up to where I wanted to be.

And then, the words I didn’t want to hear landed squarely on my shoulders.

You’ve got some strengthening to do. In your legs. Your core. Your back.

So basically, everywhere.

I don’t know why that surprised me. I know that my core is shot after having twins. I have mild diastasis recti, a wobbly knee full of torn cartilage from a previous injury, and chronic back pain on my right side. I haven’t been to a gym or taught fitness classes for over two years.

But still. Part of me was crushed.

And the other part wanted to go home and make homemade mac and cheese for supper. You know. The kind with cream. And four different kinds of cheese. And butter.

Sigh.

But I won’t. I won’t because health is what keeps me moving. Fitness is a pair of arms that can lift a child, or knees that can easily bend to read stories on the floor. In short, seeing my pants fit differently is only a byproduct of the real reason I want to get back into good physical condition.

Strength matters.

looking good Repeat after me. It’s not about looking good. My best friend and I were laughing about that last week. No matter how hard we try, we’re never going to be our college selves walking around lake Calhoun every day and subsisting on apples and leftover Chipotle. And you know what? That’s OK. (That’s really more than OK.)

The people we are now have grace with our shortcomings. But we also know that when we put the work in, we’ll FEEL better. And feeling better, not looking better, is TRULY, HONESTLY what matters most.

When creativity goes missing

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IMG_7177Forgive me for being quiet lately.

My creative process packed a rucksack and went whistling away down December’s open road.

It hasn’t yet come wandering back. And now I’m on a mission to find it.

This is easier said than done. With three small girls at home with me during the day, the needs are endless. Someone is hungry. There are booster trays to wash, and sink traps clogged with tiny trees of broccoli. There are miniature fights to break up. Frowns to tickle out. Books to be read.

Every day, creative ideas form and cluster like soap bubbles. And then I look at the clock. And my to-do list. And back to the clock.

Someone <skips a nap><cuts a molar><scribbles on the computer screen with permanent marker>. The soap bubble idea pops.

Everything falls in a swirl down the drain.

***

One of the authors I studied in grad school was a psychologist named Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, ($5 if you can pronounce that) who says, “Creative persons differ from one another in a variety of ways, but in one respect they are unanimous: They all love what they do.”

I fell into a slump after Christmas. The house felt claustrophobic and close – newly gifted items didn’t fit into my already less-than-perfect organization scheme. Suitcases from coming and going needed to be unpacked. Everything needed attention.

Finally, I gave in and spent two weeks using my free time (a precious commodity) doing things I didn’t necessarily love. I organized. I laundered. I folded. I scrubbed. I purged. I went to bed strangely stressed, and woke up tired even after eight hours of solid sleep.

I had no idea something was wrong until the night I put the girls to bed, kissed my husband, and went to worship team practice at my church. For the next hour and half, I banged out chords on that big black grand piano. I sang. Slowly, I fell out myself and into Grace.

Leaving the building that night, I felt lighter. It occurred to me that singing was the only thing I’d done in two weeks that was for sheer enjoyment.

Not because I had to. Not because I needed to. Because I wanted to.

Just then, I saw my creative process waving in the distance.

Deep breath. Right.

***

The last couple of weeks have been a study in balance, and slowly but surely, I can see my creativity levels start to build.

I’m baking bread. I’m making up stories for the girls. I’m going to the gym with a regularity that surprises even me. Today I’m sitting down at the computer, wading through the rhythm of putting words the page.

They aren’t perfect. They don’t have to be. I’m happily lost in my craft, and that’s the point. When I’m doing the things I love, I’m a better, kinder, more expansive version of myself.

Friend, if you’ve somehow found yourself in a similar creative slump, please take a deep breath. Ignore the overflowing laundry basket, put in a pizza, and schedule a block of time to get out and do something you love.

Let it overtake you. Change you. Give you new ideas. Your creativity is the truest expression of who you are. Don’t let it get away.

What Mary was Really Thinking

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garden_statue_maryTonight at our Christmas Eve service, I watched an amazing friend bring some of my musings about Mary, the mother of Jesus, to life. I cried. I laughed. I watched Mary step out of her stained glass, stone-carved perfection and become a real person.

Christmas is steeped in tradition. For me, Mary was a Sears nativity figurine in a blue robe that was always caught in some sort of ceramic breeze. She was beautiful. Untouchable. In my mind, she was perfect – the woman God chose to carry his Son. She knew what she was doing, right?

Then I became a mother, and I realized none of us really knows what we’re doing.

No matter how perfect every picture, every icon, every statue might make her look look, on the night of Christmas Eve, Mary was a scared girl in a cow barn laboring through clenched teeth.

I don’t know where you’re at this Christmas. But maybe you’re like me, wanting to hear an old story with new ears. If that’s the case, my version of a window into Mary’s thoughts is for you. Merry Christmas, friend. Merry Christmas.

****

Breathe. Breathe.

No room. No room? Who says “no room” to a pregnant woman? I know. I know. Census. Travelers. I’m thankful for a roof. But wow. I’m going to have a baby. In. A. Stable.

Breathe. Breathe.

Father God, I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know how to have a baby. This is my first time. And I don’t know how to handle it. It hurts. Do You hear me? It HURTS. For the record, my mother didn’t say anything about this part. It was all “your sweet little hands” and “just a few pushes.” Right.

Breathe. Breathe.

Joseph told me to lie down. Like it’s that easy. On straw. STRAW. Dry, dusty straw that’s been sitting in a barn for how many months. No thanks. Think I’ll stand.

Breathe. Breathe.

Father God, I don’t know how to be a mom. I mean, I don’t even have any diaper rags along with. How is this going to work? No really. He’s your Son, but he’s still going to need his diaper changed. Everyone says it’s instinct. I’ll see Him, and I’ll know what to do. But really, will I?

Breathe. Breathe.

Why does no one talk about labor? What is it – some sort of secret code? Rite of passage? How long is this going to last? I wonder if anyone left the inn early. I really want to wash without a bunch of cows around.

Breathe. Breathe.

Father God, keep Him safe. Keep me safe. Keep Him safe. Keep us safe.

You wouldn’t bring me all this way to lose your child, right? The angel didn’t say anything about that. He said I was going to have a Son. So it’s going to happen. I’m going to have this baby. Your baby. In a stable full of cows.

Forgive me. It feels a little…strange. Why here? And why me? Wouldn’t it have been better to pick a mother who’s already had children? Who knows what she’s doing?

God, I honestly don’t know where I fit in all this. I don’t know how to be a mother to your Son. I’m not perfect. I lose my temper. What if I mess up? Can I mess up? Are You going to be mad at me?

Breathe. Breathe.

Do you know the hardest part? Ever since I was a little girl, I loved hearing the shouts when firstborn sons were born. The family would get up on the roof and call out, and everyone below would stop what they were doing and clap or dance.

But no one knows we’re here. My firstborn deserves all the shouting in the world, God, but instead it’s going to be quiet on this roof. Silent.

Well, except for the cows.

Breathe. Breathe.

Hush little baby. Mama’s here. Daddy’s here. Father’s here…. Always here… Hush. Please come. Please come soon.

I love you.

In Plenty and In Want

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Thanksgiving came in a beautiful tide, activities and planning washing in and out of our weekend. There was family, there were friends, there were two gallon ziplock bags of the best leftover smoked turkey ever.

Somewhere in the middle of my celebrating, a family down the road from us faced a tide of their own, one that took their daughter away and wouldn’t give her back.

Gratitude is like a beach full of startled gulls, lifting and swooping in unison. They settle and the beach is thick with their presence. They leave and the emptiness is wide. Deafening.

Peru 124Some days, a house is brimming with life and activity. Others, the afternoon sky turns gray and everything falls to sadness.

The awful truth is that we must somehow live with them both.

The times of feasting and fasting.

The places where gratitude washes over our souls with all the goodness in the world, and the places left when the tide goes out, waterlogged sand crumbling beneath our feet.

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

Reality gives us no other choice but to accept it. The table is full. The bed lies empty.

But we have a harder time with the next sentence. The one where Job says, Blessed be the name of the Lord. Because whether it’s in plenty or in want, we get overwhelmed. Finishing the phrase is the last thing on our minds.

Goodness carries us into laughter and revelry, busyness and schedules, making it easy for the heart to forget its praise.

Sadness takes our breath away. We are rocked with confusion, questioning everything, our eyelids burning with salty tears.

In both circumstances, we often find it easier to say nothing.

And then Love steps in.

The party dies down, and friends begin helping with the dishes. Seeing their hands scraping plates draws gratitude back to the table.

A community gathers. Floods a sorrowing threshold with meals and cards. Offers anything. Everything. Slowly, heads are lifted.

Love goes to work, and somehow, our mouths remember the rhythm of the word Blessed.

Because rhythm leads to movement. Movement to awakening.

And Love stretches out its nail-scarred hands, teaching us how to be present to one another wherever we are.

Whole or broken.

Full or empty.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Why My Girls Wear Hand-me-downs

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Handmedows

You would have sworn it was Christmas. My girls were pulling items out of the box, shrieking in delight. My oldest daughter plastered a shirt against her front. “Isn’t it so cute, mama?” The little ones pulled out book after book, ooo ooo oooing in excitement.

The box didn’t come from an online retailer promoting the latest kid trends and stories. It wasn’t from grandma, and it didn’t contain anything with tags.

It was a cardboard diaper box full of hand-me-downs from a friend.

We are the last in our group of friends to have kids, which means there are three girls older than my daughters who are passing down clothes, toys, and shoes. The items cover each of their little bodies for a season or two, and then time is up. The sleeves are too short. The hems lets cold air reach newly exposed skin. The clothing moves on.

Inevitably, every season my friend Katie gives us a bag or box of things her daughter has outgrown. (I admire/adore her timeliness. Her bags are the only thing that reminds me I should be going through my own girls’ clothes.)

Lucia gets stoked about new books for the library.

Lucia gets stoked about new books for the library.

And every season, I love watching my oldest open the box or bag. She immediately puts on any dresses she finds. She grabs a top and says “hey, that’s Avery’s shirt!” But my favorite part of the whole procedure is the moment when Ellis proclaims, “That was so nice of Avery to share her clothes with me, wasn’t it Mama?”

Something more is happening besides us rounding out our seasonal wardrobes. My daughter is learning the joy of sharing. She’s not thumbing up her nose at clothes with the occasional stain or shoes that are already worn. She simply recognizes that her friend was kind enough to share with her.

Shouldn’t clothing warm us, body and soul?

I get it. My girls are not trend setters. We don’t model the latest fashions in your Instagram feed. And you know what? I’m fine with that. The lifestyle I’m sharing with my kids is one that doesn’t put too much value on what we wear. You know why?

Play clothes actually get dirty at my house. And contrary to Oxiclean’s promise, grass stains and dirt streaks and paint splatters don’t always come out. Eggs get dropped on the way back from the chicken coop. Shoes that aren’t waterproof end up in mud puddles.

But thankfully, I don’t spend my time caring for and worrying over the $38 on-trend sweater that’s now covered in ketchup and apple juice. I do my best to clean what I can, but at the end of the day, there’s no crying over ruined threads.

Kids are messy, and I love letting them embrace that. It means they are exploring. Touching things. Dragging their knees through soft earth, feeling their way into the real world.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the freshness of new clothes as much as the next girl. When my daughters need new things, or a few special occasion outfits, I’m more than happy to oblige. But for the bulk of their wardrobes, hand-me-downs are the perfect fit.

At least for the next six months.

Welcome to the season of giving, when it’s easy to think about stores and shopping and one-click purchases as the answer to every wish. But you know what I’ve been most blessed by? A neighbor who dropped off her son’s outgrown wooden train blocks and a couple of sleds. Or my friends, who’ve shared the clothes and dresses their sweet daughters bounced and danced in. 

Don’t underestimate what you have to give. Offer things your child is done with to a friend, a co-worker, the parents next to you at church, the woman you sit by on the PTO. The worst they can say is no, and the best they can say is a grateful, graceful thanks.

Confession: I don’t get “mommy wars”

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I read a lot of blog posts and articles about “mommy wars.” To be honest, I never really understand. Maybe it’s because I have two feet firmly planted in the passive aggressive soil of the Midwest, where most mothers would rather get the chicken pox again than have a confrontation involving breasts.

Or maybe it’s because the mommy war I’m most familiar with is an inside job. Top secret. One I don’t like to talk about much because it’s a little too personal.

It’s the war of feeling lesser than.

Lesser than strangers. Than friends. Than parents. Siblings. Even a former self.

Last week I wrote about the beauty of social media and its ability to connect us. What I didn’t write about were the times I put down my phone feeling tired, unequal, upset that my situation was a whole lot messier than the coordinated scene that just lit up my screen. Why?

Because lesser than jumps over our mama war arguments of bottles and organic cotton. It sprints past our comparisons on hair bows and sporty yoga threads and designer toddler mocs.

Lesser than settles in our spirits.

Lesser than deceives us into being a half-a$% person because we can’t do it better than X, prettier than Y, tastier than Z.

Lesser than is the great incapacitator. And when we allow that mindset into our day, we stop trying. Stop being our unique and beautiful selves. Stop becoming anything. Harboring these feelings of inequality does more damage than any mommy war over organic snacks ever could.

Call me crazy, but I don’t think anyone has time to deal with it. The business of living out our vocations to the best of our abilities has nothing to do with how someone else could do it differently. For better or for worse, our lives (and the people in them) are entrusted to us.

Thankfully, that doesn’t mean we’re going at it alone.

The New Testament book of Ephesians says, “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

057There’s a whole element of the supernatural going on here. I’m honestly reeling as I type. Does this mean God has already prepared the people, the work, the elements of my life for me before I even go into my day?

If so, shouldn’t I feel that much more empowered to approach them with grace and peace, knowing that my life, specifically, has been handmade for me – tailored for my abilities?

There is no room for lesser than here. There’s only the confidence to live my daily life above the arguments. The comparisons. The spirit crushers.

Today, I’m going into my morning knowing that the work that’s before me, from tea parties to flashcards with my girls, has already been planned. And friend, whether you’re holding a tired baby, kissing a sick spouse, plunking away at a work project, or making mac and cheese for the hundredth time this month, I hope you do the same.

Book Review and Giveaway

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Breaking news. I found time to read a book. Second, I finished it in three days. Third, it was a memoir about terrorism, Islam, and Jesus.

Did I throw you for a loop? Sorry – no talk of parenting and kid food and toddlerisms today. I’m a little too ramped up.

cover_bookinfoI don’t normally get so involved in what I’m reading, but Son of Hamas has woken up something in my life that feels like it’s been sleeping a little too long into the morning. It reminded me that God’s word is living and active. That it has the power to change the course of history. That one man inviting another to a bible study in the dusty streets of Isreal can, literally, save the lives of thousands.

These are strong words, but author Mosab Hassan Yousef  thoroughly backs them up with account after account of how his life changed from reading a New Testament and ultimately coming to know God the Creator.

The cover proclaims Son of Hamas a “gripping account of terror, betrayal, political intrigue, and unthinkable choices.” It certainly is that, but there’s another side to the story I wasn’t expecting. Son of Hamas exposes not only the beating heart of a much-feared organization – it exposes the truth about the Isreali-Palestinian conflict. The author realizes firsthand that peace will not come through talks and diplomats and warheads and borders.

Peace will only come through Jesus.

I know. I’m a Christian, and even I think that sounds a little trite. But Yousef made sense. If Hamas did not have Isreal to fight, they would find someone, or something else to be angry at. Someone would be wearing the wrong head scarf. There would be a bad price at the market. The root of their problem was self-righteous anger, anger that they believed Islam supported – by all measures and costs.

In a neighborhood bible study, Yousef details the first time he realized that the cure for anger could be found in the teachings of Jesus. Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:44-45).

Yousef references this verse after he returns to prison for the second time, noticing with shock that since reading Jesus’ teachings in Matthew, he no longer harbored anger at his captors. As the book progresses, readers see the author basing more and more of his decisions on what he’s read in the Bible instead of the teachings of Islam, and how God blesses him for it.

green-princeI’m not a political junkie, but as the book progressed past its slower, historical background beginning, even I started to recognize names and events. However, what I recognized even more was the quiet yearning that stood off the page as Yousef realized how much his life was changing simply by reading a New Testament.

As a whole, the book read more like non-fiction than memoir (a fact that I attribute to knowing that English was not the author’s first language) but still kept me turning pages past eleven o’clock, which is a pretty big deal in my world. AND, it’s now a documentary called The Green Prince. Intrigued? You should be. The trailer for this movie was what sparked me to read the book in the first place.

Now it’s your turn! Do you need something new to usher in your fall book-reading season? My giveaway for Son of Hamas starts today and ends Sunday. Follow the link below to enter the drawing! (And keep your fingers crossed that I figure out how to use Rafflecopter.)

Son of Hamas Rafflecopter giveaway

Son of Hamas was provided to me for review by Tyndale House Publishers as part of their blogger network.

Why Your Mama Blog Matters

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I have a confession. Lately, I struggle with blogging. It’s harder and harder to find pockets of time to write, and when I do, I find that a little bit of the party is over. We made it through pregnancy, we survived the first year with 3 under 2, and now…

Now we raise. All the adorable matching outfits are tucked away in a bin. Mismatched play clothes with mud and grass stains dominate the drawers. Every day I dance around keeping enough activities going to leave the TV off. Some days we win. Some, we lose.

And suddenly I find myself in a sea of mamas just like me, trying to do the best for their kids and trying to write about it once in a while, because writing makes sense.

Literally.

Writing helps us sort through what it means to give up one version of ourselves and take on another. Writing makes us speak in full sentences. Writing is a way to process all the broken pieces of the day and remind ourselves of their whole.

I read two very different blog posts this week. One was an open letter To Moms With Kids Under 5: This is Our Time. The other was Dear Stay at Home Moms, Please Shut Up.

One redirected my day, making me take stock of the special moments I usually want to pass up because I have a dishwasher to unload or two bottoms that need changing immediately. It calmed me at 4:00 am this morning when my daughter woke up because she had the snorts and just wanted to snuggle.

The other made me insecure. I thought of all the times I sat down with my friends in some sort of harried, exhausted state, gushing out my parenting struggles like a broken toilet. Was I now the annoying stay at home mom boop booping her minivan fob, looking all privileged and disheveled in sunglasses and stretch pants?

Both posts made me realize the importance of words. Words that matter.

Because they do. Your words. My words. All of us coming unraveled, untangled as we stare at our thoughts on the screen and wind them back into stories.

But it’s how we choose to re-spin and wind our experiences that matters most. When I’m stealing a few minutes in the bathroom, reading your blog posts or your articles on parenting, you have the power to leave me encouraged or disheartened.

As a writer, as a parent, as a person, what would you rather read?

Whenever I can, I seek out words that make me want to have and extend grace. Grace that is greater than all my shortcomings and frustrations.

So please keep writing. Processing. Sharing your heart for your kids, your frustrations in the day to day. Do it with love. Do it in a way that makes me see the shine under the layers of dirt, the silver hiding behind tarnish.

Why? Because I’m here, reading. Listening to your ideas. Tasting your recipes. Trying your method for getting your kid to eat peas. When I hear that you’ve succeeded, I find a little hope. When I hear that you’ve failed, I know I’m not alone.

That’s the beauty of our social media networked lives. I may not know you beyond the words you put on the page, and vice versa. But through those words, we come together. We share a minute or two of pausing in the busy of our days, and when we’re done, we are re-energized.

Somehow, brighter.

Here at the farm, we have a few favorite g-words. Grace. Gratitude. God. Gruyere. If this is the first time we’ve met, consider yourself hugged. Really, for real, hugged. I hope you’ll join in the conversation and come back again soon!

#Dofightgo – Guest Posting over at TwinTalkBlog today

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Have I raved about Twin Talk Blog lately? Seriously. I would have LOVED to have this as a resource when I was pregnant. (They started up just a month or two after my twins were born.) Luckily, Meredith, founder extraordinaire, keeps posting a variety of topics that relate to all sorts of stages with carrying, birthing, and raising twins. It’s a fantastic site, and if you are a twin parent, I highly recommend you start following it.

Today I’m guest posting a few thoughts at Twin Talk, and I’d love for you to check them out. Here’s the beginning to get you started.

3- IMG_6113 (800x533)DO, FIGHT, GO: WHAT I’VE LEARNED PARENTING 3 UNDER 3

A week ago I started writing a post called “What happens when you treat staying at home with your kids like a job.” Or something like that. The title was a mess. The concept was blasé. The post sounded like every other stay at home parent who’s ever tried to find meaning in the endless rounds of cheerios and diapers and play dough.I never finished it.I have a hard time finishing anything right now. My twins are at a very mobile thirteen months, and my preschooler (who’s not going to preschool yet) has ramped up her curiosity to a new level – namely, the third shelf of the pantry and the top of the refrigerator.

Which brings me back to the post I was trying to write. What my former job taught me about managing my days at home was helpful; it just wasn’t that interesting.

But have I stopped to think about what I’ve learned from staying at home with my preschooler and twins? It’s been almost a year and a half of this complete life change. There has to be something.

So after we put everyone to bed, I promised myself thought space. Yes. I had to make a date with my mind to think. It’s getting real, folks.

Here’s what I came up with. Keep Reading….