I devoured books on motherhood in the months when I was pregnant with my first child. That was seven years ago. Since the addition of two more children, time has accelerated, flinging schedules, old hobbies, brain cells, and predictable anythings (like reading parenting books) to the fan. So when I come across parenting advice in places I don’t expect, I’m pleasantly surprised. In this case, a priest named Henri Nouwen, and another named Father Gregory Boyle.
Though I’m a long-time fan of Henri Nouwen, I hadn’t read this particular book, called Reaching Out, until last year when I began researching more about hospitality, community, and living out this upside-down faith in Jesus. In it, Nouwen, who himself was childless, tells parents that children are strangers who God has brought into our homes for a time.
He writes, “It may sound strange to speak of the relationship between parents and children in terms of hospitality. But it belongs to the center of the Christian message that children are not properties to own and rule over, but gifts to cherish and care for. Our children are our most important guests, who enter into our home, ask for careful attention, stay for a while and then leave to follow their own way. Children are strangers whom we have to get to know. It takes much time and patience to make the little stranger feel at home, and it is realistic to say that parents have to learn to love their children” (81).
My children are not “little Adams (my husband) and Leslies,” they are little strangers—they are unique individuals. These tiny guests are the first tier of hospitality in my home. Do they feel welcome?
In my holier moments I’m able to remember that my children fit the definition of the “least of these” Jesus calls his followers to serve in Matthew 25. My children are the neediest humans I know. And they live under my roof (practically under my feet and in my hair on most days). Do I serve them with the same level of dignity I might serve anyone else? Do I speak to them with respect? (The answer, sadly, is usually no.) When I feed, clothe, wash, and carry these little ones, I’m feeding, clothing, washing, and carrying Christ.
The other priest who illuminated the next few steps of this messy maze of motherhood was the author of Tattoos on the Heart, a potty-mouthed priest whom I absolutely adore. His latest book, Barking to the Choir had me crying and cackling aloud on every page. What struck me most was the revolutionary way he approaches his ministry with gang members, drug dealers, and those seeking a different life at his ministry, called Homeboy Industries.
Boyle writes, “Homeboy receives people; it doesn’t rescue them. In being received rather than rescued, gang members come to find themselves at home in their own skin. Homeboy’s message is not ‘You can measure up someday.’ Rather, it is: ‘Who you are is enough’” (84). Boyle says, “When we are disappointed in each other, we least resemble God. We have a God who wonders what all the measuring is about, a God who is perplexed by our raising the bar and then raising it even higher” (27).
I was surprised that my mind immediately applied his words to my children. Am I rescuing them or receiving them? Am I disappointed in them, raising the bar to impossible heights—or accepting them for who they are, affirming my belief that they are enough? Boyle’s central message is that the greatest conduit for God’s love is tenderness towards one another. Am I tender towards the littlest guests hunkering down in my home?
For Mother’s Day this year I took each of my kids out for a date. (Last year, my greatest wish for Mother’s Day was to be alone All. Day. Long., but this year I had a change of heart.) At one point, my four-year-old daughter turned from her dandelion-seed-blowing to say, “I know I’m your favorite.” While my first thought was to panic because Am I showing favoritism?, my second thought was that I want to make it my goal to lead each of my kids to believe they are the favorite.
In the coming year, I hope my kids will feel more singled-out, adored, and received for who they are. I pray they’d know their value isn’t tied to what they do, but to who they are as beloved children of God. I know I need to believe this for myself as well: God is tender towards us, receives us, and welcomes us as strangers. We—each one of us—are God’s particular favorite.
On the eve of my twin’s fourth birthday, they asked when they would turn black.
“Why do you think you will turn black?” I asked.
“Because everyone else is black,” they said.
We lived in Somaliland, a pasty-pink white-ish family, surrounded by Somalis.
“Karissa isn’t black,” I said. She was the daughter of another white family.
“She isn’t four yet,” my kids said.
“Well, your mom and dad are white, so you are white.”
“That’s not how it works,” the twins protested. “What about Jack and Negasti?”
They were a brother and sister, black, older than four, with white parents. They were adopted.
“You came out of my body and daddy’s body,” I said, “so you are white. They came out of a different mom and dad’s bodies and then joined that family.”
My kids were not convinced and went to bed certain they would wake up in the morning, four-years old, and with new skin.
My kids are Third Culture Kids, meaning they have spent a significant portion of their childhood years outside their passport country. Our global life has given them a unique perspective on things from skin color to what it means to belong to a family or a country.
We often refer to Djibouti, a small country in the Horn of Africa where we now live, as our ‘adoptive’ country, the place that has taken us in. But this is a misnomer because we are not Djiboutian.
Adopted kids are fully, 100% part of the family that adopts them. I have adopted nieces and nephews and they are all in. That’s just one of the beautiful things about adoption: it is a grafting in, becoming one family across various borders.
Expats are not all in. We are not all in, in Djibouti. We aren’t Djiboutian. In just a few weeks, those twins who thought they might turn black will graduate from high school and go to their passport country for university, a place they have spent less than three years living in.
“Our daughter is five now and often asked by peers and adults whether she is Chinese or a “foreigner.” Well, it is the right question to ask as she is ethnically Chinese, but her parents are not, and she speaks some languages which they can’t understand. So, does the fact she was born in China make her Chinese? Is she Israeli/German, born Chinese? She is living with Western culture at home and with another one while outside … Being an adopted TCK can complicate things but can also make it easier. We feel our daughter’s unique TCK situation will teach her so much for the future and help her cope with some of the hardships she might face along the way, adoption related issues and others.”
No matter a child’s skin color or international location, their adopted or biological birth status, there is a natural longing to understand identity (American? Djiboutian? Chinese? Israeli? German?), a desire for home, and the search for a place to belong. Third Culture Kids learn to be creative in finding that identity, home, and belonging.
What does it mean to live in a country in which we have no ancestry, no legal claim, most likely no generational future? What does it feel like to have that country imprinted on the heart but left behind when career, school, health, or family choices compel a transition?
What does it mean to ‘return’ to a country we may not feel attached to in any way other than by nature of the color of a passport or a label on a birth certificate?
The imagery of adoption and Third Culture Kids is helpful, but limited. I would love to hear your thoughts on the interplay between these two topics, so rich with questions of identity.
Do you find connections between the two? What might be some unique questions faced by adopted TCKs? How might their adoption help them navigate life between worlds?
You can read the rest of Galia’s essay on adoption and TCKs, as well as many others, in Finding Home: Third Culture Kids in the World, a book of essays on loving, raising, and being a TCK. The book is based on the Painting Pictures blog series hosted on Djibouti Jones in 2012 and is available on Amazon.
About Rachel:
Rachel Pieh Jones lives in Djibouti with her husband and three children. She has written for the New York Times, Runners World, the Christian Science Monitor, Brain Child, and the Big Roundtable. Her next book will be published by Plough in 2019. Visit her at: Djibouti Jones, her Facebook page, Twitter @rachelpiehjones, and Instagram: @rachelpiehjones. Check out her award winning cookbook, Djiboutilicious.
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GIVEAWAY OF FINDING HOME!
We’re doing a giveaway of the e-version of this book of essays by various writers about what it’s like to raise or be a Third Culture Kid (TCK). To enter, simply sign up for my newsletter AND Rachel’s newsletter before this Friday, May 26th, midnight (MT) and we’ll draw a name after that and email the winner!
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This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!
Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:
I spent my very first Mother’s Day on a cross-continental flight, with my husband and lap-sitting infant—the same baby who had recently made me a mother.
All three of us had the stomach flu.
Let’s just say it was a complicated day.
Oh, the stories that tiny airplane bathroom could tell. Not to mention the airport terminal. Please don’t even ask what happened on the side of the interstate driving home.
My husband and son gave me a loving card and a thoughtful gift but—let’s face it—caring for a sick, squirmy baby on a long flight while feeling sick yourself is not the ideal celebration.
But then again, maybe it is.
Twelve years into motherhood now, with many peaceful Mother’s Days under my belt, I wonder. What more appropriate way is there to mark the first year of motherhood? Let’s face it—motherhood involves quite a lot of throw-up.
From “morning sickness” (that poorly-named wilderness of all-day suffering) to the drama of “transition” during labor, making a baby entails vomit and weird physical symptoms of all kinds. Then, the baby. That precious, wonderful child shares his or her bodily fluids so readily.
Everything about being a parent, and especially a mother, is physical. These children call to us in the deepest places of our bodies and turn us inside out. Goopy noses and flowing tears are wiped on our shoulders and jeans without a thought. Our precious little ones depend upon us for their very physical existence; they unabashedly demand our bodies for themselves.
It can be easy for us to get lost in these physical acts, the unrelenting pouring out of our bodies for the life of another. Furthermore, we’ve been trained to see very little spiritual value in our bodies and what they do, in meeting bodily demands.
And yet, when Jesus came we called him God-made-flesh because he took on a body. He did not appear as a cloud this time, or a fire. He became one of us. God-made-flesh didn’t spend his time in an ivory tower, distaining the messy, physical world in favor of the clearer and more controllable world of thought and idea. No, the baby who was born in a stable and celebrated by shepherds went on to teach about fish and bread, bread and wine, sheep and goats, wheat and yeast. He touched sick people, even lepers. I’m going to guess he saw quite a bit of vomit himself.
The Gospel he taught was incredibly physical and messy. After all, it is his birth and death that most captivate us—the messiest, physical moments of our lives.
For moms—and dads, and grandparents, and caregivers—we preach the Gospel in these same physical, messy ways. We love with our hands and feet, we surrender with our tired bodies, we give life with our wombs, breasts, and hearts.
I have three books to giveaway this month, so keep an eye out for them! This week, I’m giving away a copy of Long Days of Small Things: Motherhood as Spiritual Discipline. You can read my review here, but it’s a fabulous book to buy for moms of young children who need a breath of fresh air. Sign up for my newsletter by this Friday at midnight (MT) and I’ll send you a copy! Already signed up? Then like the Instagram or Facebook post I put up on 5/8 and tag up to four friends in the comments section (I’ll enter your name once per friend you tag)! Sorry, only U.S. residents and no bots allowed. 😉
It would make a fabulous mother’s day gift for a mom in the trenches!
Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:
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This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that, too. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!
It’s amazing what you can accomplish in 22 minutes. In 22 minutes, you can shower (no hair washing–that’s no longer a daily priority), get dressed and possibly even put on make-up. You can journal, read your Bible and contemplate the life and words of Jesus. You can clean the kitchen and maybe even sweep the dried up cheese and peas off the floor. You can (nearly) do a Jillian Michaels workout video. Or you can steep a cup of Bengal Spice tea, breathe in cinnamon, ginger, cardamom and cloves and sit down at your computer. Like I’m doing right now.
Why 22 minutes? You’ve probably already guessed. Only the best survival tool of motherhood: T.V.
With three children four and under, most days I feel like I’m operating in survival mode. Many days my husband and I grab each other by the shoulders in the kitchen, give those shoulders a shake, look one another square in the eye and proclaim: “You can do this. WE can do this.” Sometimes we even high-five. Lest I one day re-read this after gazing at pictures of my adorable children and wonder what the big deal was, let me explain.
My son never sleeps past 5:15 AM. Ever. (And YES, we bought the clock that turns green when it’s 6 AM–but we haven’t found a clock that forces your child back to sleep until they are supposed to wake up.) We wake up to variations of stomping down the hallway, our door squeaking, followed by, “Can I wake up now?” or yelling from down the hallway: “CAN SOMEBODY WIPE MY BOTTOM!?” Some mornings we have cuddles on the couch, but most days there is much shrieking, yelling, fighting and crying as my husband gets cheerios and raisins and situates the kids in front of the T.V. while he grinds the beans and makes us his home-roasted French press coffee (yes, we are coffee snobs–simple pleasures, my friends).
Every.single.event. is a battle. Who knew I would practically cry or throw my own tantrum every day over trying to get another human being to perform basic hygiene or reasonable habits? Brushing teeth, getting dressed, going to the bathroom, putting on shoes and socks and simply eating food are now events I need to mentally prepare for or else I will have a break down.
Mealtime with small children is the worst. Why do we bother giving them plates? The food spends more time on the table than on the plates and most days my son says “YUCK” after I’ve spent an hour cooking. And the crumbs. There are always–always–crumbs. Not to mention food smears, hidden “delights” and sticky railings. I smash cheerios into our cheerio-colored carpet on a daily basis. My son’s room has no pictures left on the walls (he pulled them all off and broke them), has crayon on the wall, a make-up stain on the carpet (from when they “borrowed” my foundation) and chunks out of the paint on the wall from when the glider chair became a carnival ride.
My children have very bad snot-management. It’s exactly as you imagine–and probably worse. I spend more time at the doctor’s office than I do with my closest friends.
Yes, they are cute and funny and say things like “tormado” for tornado, “nummy” for yummy and “bo-manna” for banana. There is love and laughter and hilarity in a way that I have never experienced before. Yes. But, mama who is in this boat with me–we know this is HARD. Here are some ways I am surviving–and even (in very small increments) thriving.
1. Monday Rituals.
My children take ONE bath a week (unless they are so visibly dirty that I’ll be embarrassed to take them anywhere). I am not usually a ritual-type of person, but this is saving me. On Mondays, we stay home. I put a load of laundry in, make an extra cup of coffee and herd the crew into the bathroom. I grab a book and attempt to read for as long as the baby stays happy flat on his back on the bathroom rug. Now that he’s five months old, I bathe him in the tub with other two. He splashes like it’s his job and the other two shriek and beg me to take him out. After this, we all put on “comfy clothes” and pull out their activity boxes and trays downstairs to do some simple non-pinteresty craft like gluing pasta or cotton balls onto construction paper.
2. The Children’s Museum.
We drive an hour to the Denver Children’s Museum nearly every week. It sounds crazy and like a waste of time, but I’ve discovered that this is the only way I can legally strap my children down for an hour while I listen to podcasts. At first I wondered about the morality of taking my children to a place where there were few rules and every part revolved around them. Then I discovered the freedom: Wait. A place I could take my children where I don’t have to tell them: “No!” “Don’t!” or “Stop that!” for an entire morning? Brilliant. This is the Christmas gift that keeps on giving–if you have a Children’s Museum anywhere within 60 miles of where you live, ASK FOR THIS FOR CHRISTMAS.
3. Exercise.
Fortunately, my husband doesn’t need to be at work until 9 am, so this is more feasible for us, but running for thirty minutes every-other day at 7 AM keeps me sane. I’m alone, outside and moving my body. But on snowy days, work-out videos on YouTube have also been a saving grace. Though they often get in the way (and more often get into mischief), these can be done with the kids in the room and they often try to join in.
On a morning run.
4. Nights out.
My husband and I schedule date nights at least twice a month. At times when money is tight, we go to Starbucks. On better months, we go for sushi or a movie. Last month we went barn dancing, which was cheap and so fun! Why don’t people dance anymore? This month, we realized that we can still bring our baby to the movie, which means we can stay out without the stress of wondering when the baby will wake up and need to eat. I also try and meet friends for coffee or a drink (now that I have a few friends–hooray!).
5. Hobbies.
Okay, so I don’t have much time for hobbies unless they involve my children since I am the stay-at-home parent. One of my hobbies is traveling, which happens um, never, now that I have children. So I’ve found a way to travel without traveling and have gotten involved in the International Women’s Club at the university near us. It meets the SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) criteria: during the day, before naptime, has other kids, snacks AND toys. I also love being outdoors, so I drag us all outside as much as possible. What do you love? How could you involve your kids in that?
6. Inventive Spirituality.
Sounds nutty, but it’s simple. Apart from the 22 minutes (or 44 … let’s be honest) that my husband and I have for quiet time in the morning, there is not a lot of space in my day for meditation, prayer or reflection. I am a part of a weekly Bible study, that I quickly do the DAY OF, but it provides the accountability I need to be in the Bible on a regular basis.
And I have a few apps and podcasts that help me think about spiritual things throughout my day:
You Version app: this has the Bible in many translations, but also has reading plans, devotionals and even devos and videos for kids. And it’s mostly free!
Laudate app: though I’m not Catholic, I have still loved this app. Here you can find daily readings, the liturgy of the hours, daily prayer, and a daily Bible verse. It was perfect for those early days of nursing when I was up at all hours.
The Practice Podcast: Better than a podcast and more than just a sermon, this podast provides a whole worship experience with a message, music and questions for reflection.
Pray As You Go Podcast: This is a daily prayer, scripture and meditation guide. It has been perfect for mornings when my husband goes on a run and I am preparing breakfast for my kids because we can listen to Scripture (often read more than once) and start our day in the right headspace. Thanks to Megan Tietz of Sorta Awesome Podcast for this recommendation!
7. Using My Brain.
This is a hard one when you live in Daniel Tiger World, but it is so necessary. I listen to podcasts any time I can, am in a book club and am involved in online communities related to racial reconciliation and social justice. I write to think (which is why I haven’t written as much these days …. when my body is tired, my brain stops working).
8. Trying to Be Sweeter.
I don’t have a saccharin personality. There was a good reason I was a middle school teacher not a primary school teacher. But I’m trying to sweeten up and learn the love languages of gush and snuggles. I’m trying to tune the tone of my voice so that I don’t always sound so eager, angry or frustrated. I’m learning to pretend I’m peppy.
9. Noticing Small.
Some complain that people use Instagram as a way to make their life seem perfect. I’m using it to notice the beauty in mine. John Updike famously said that he wanted to “give the mundane its beautiful due.” I’m striving to do this. I’m chasing beauty in my ordinary, mundane, boring life as a mom. And if Instagram helps me do that, then it is a worthy tool.
10. Permission to be Imperfect.
I can’t tell you how many times in the last five months I’ve had to rewash a load of clothes. And I think there is a direct correlation to how large your library fines are and how many children you have. My counters need wiping, the floors are strewn with toys, my bathroom looks like a science experiment and sometimes I strap my kids into their car seats in the garage long before I’m actually ready to leave the house. I let my children ride the toy horses at the grocery store five times as I check out (this is actually my most brilliant discovery yet–not only bribery, but one cent bribery!). BUT. They are clothed, fed, washed, and cared for. And even if I am sometimes merely surviving … they are thriving.
I need to remember that–and so do you.
You are doing good work, mama. You are loving the best way you know how with the time, energy and resources you have been given. And do you know what your kids are going to remember twenty years from now?
YOU.
They are going to remember that hike you took them on, the way you laughed at their jokes and tickled them until they couldn’t talk. They are going to remember the songs you hummed as you scrubbed pans and the way you smelled when you snuggled next to them in bed. They are going to remember the dance parties in the kitchen, how you let them help you make waffles and the way you prayed with them before bed. They will remember that you did the voices as you read, sat with them on the floor and chased bunnies together in the front yard. Mama, you are doing an amazing job. You do you. Keep up the good work. And don’t discount the value of a 22 minute reprieve (in fact, don’t feel guilty about that even for a second). Most likely, it is just the breather you need to make you an even better mama in the end.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted…” (Eccl. 3:1-2 KJV).
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Colorado is yellow in the fall. Aspen strike the treeline of the Rockies with such a brilliant yellow, that you nearly have to squint your eyes to take them in without being blinded.
My husband and I passed these flowers blooming in a neighbor’s garden on an evening walk a few weeks ago. “Have these always been here?” my husband asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m pretty sure they only bloom in the fall.” Though it’s a bit cliche, those perfect yellow blooms got me thinking about this season of motherhood, asking myself, Am I blooming here, or just biding my time, hoping that this season will pass quickly? A week and a half ago, I took the one-month old baby and fled to my parent’s house over the highest road in the nation. I just needed a nap. My parents took care of me, fed me, held the baby and allowed me to rest for nearly 48 hours. On the majestic drive home in the early hours of the morning, I forced myself to spend the two hours in silence. I attempted to clear my head and just listen.
In the silence, I began to formulate a list of priorities. Watching the center line kept me from careening over the edge, much like keeping my eyes on Jesus is holding me from sailing right into the tired mama’s tendency towards postpartum depression. My list right now is simply this:
Sleep when I can Exercise daily Get outdoors daily Eat healthy food Seek God Talk to another adult But I also felt like I needed to remember my husband. For the past few months, we’ve been high-fiving one another and passing on the baton in the relay-race of parenthood. We are partners and team-players, but are we lovers, friends and companions? This newborn’s needs must come first right now, but is my husband a close second? So we are instituting weekly one to two hour date nights for a couple months and getting better about being intentional with one another. I’m trying to remember to make eye contact and really see him even when I can barely see straight because of sleeplessness. It’s been a week and a half since my assessment and I am feeling more emotionally healthy. On the days I don’t walk alone, I strap on the baby and push us out of the house for a walk. The exercise and fall are ministering to my weary soul.
I will be the first to tell anyone that I am not a pinteresty mom. I don’t do crafts or cutesy activities. But in a moment of weakness last week, I drew up a simple scavenger hunt for my kids to do during the “hike” part of our walk.
The kids looked for animal tracks in the hardened path, picked up sticks and were delighted when we discovered three apple trees along the way. I tried not to smack the baby as I hoisted a stick up to dislodge the apples, yelling at my kids to get out of the way so they didn’t get hit in the head. Our mouths full of sweet apples, we laughed at one another and delighted over the special unexpected treat.
It was one of the first times I have felt fully present with my kids in a really long time.
Over the past few months, an image has come to mind as I’ve thought about my life as a mother. So many times, I feel like I am sitting in the stands while my kids are out on the field playing. But I am the type of disengaged spectator who is scrolling through social media on her phone, wishing she were anywhere but here.
I see my kids as an interruption.
Instead, I hope to be not only paying attention to them, but their greatest fan. In his book, Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson said that he always knew that his mother adored him. I hope the my kids will be able to say the same of me. A friend sent me a verse several weeks ago that had spoken to her as she prepared to have a baby of her own. It has also come to mind over the past days and weeks as I’ve struggled to be content in this season of life that can feel so restrictive and confining. “Trust in the Lord and do good; Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness” (Ps. 37:3 NASB).
The word that stands out to me is “cultivate.” Cultivating requires staying in one place and tending to my garden. Patience, persistence and attention are needed if I am going to see my seeds grow. This is the season of staying put and doing the back-breaking, repetitive work of watering, weed-pulling and guarding from both frost and heat.
This is the season of loving when I see very little return for my love. It is the season of tilling hard soil and wondering if my words will ever sink down deep. And the verse that follows is one that ironically, I clung hard to in my many years of longing for a husband and children:
“Delight yourself in the Lord; And He will give you the desires of your heart” (Ps. 37:4 NASB).
It is not just in delighting in nature, my “me time,” my husband, or my children that I will find the soul rest that I seek. It is in delighting in my God. Nevertheless, my prayer in this season is this:
“Lord, Help me to listen more than I speak, read more than I write,
laugh more than I cry, praise more than I criticize and be more than I do.”
Many friends have texted me over the past few weeks asking how the transition to three kids is going. The fact that I haven’t had a chance to write a blog post (and am now typing this standing up while my infant is strapped to my body) should tell you something. But for what it’s worth, here is a quick list of what having three kids looks like up to this point. So far, having three kids looks like… going to the grocery store at the end of your “date night” (in which you held the baby the entire sushi dinner, ignoring the looks the server gave you as you drank a glass of wine WHILE nursing.)
always saying yes to the coffee. nursing your baby in the Moby wrap at the pumpkin patch (that’s a 301 skill, people). feeling guilty for sending goldfish as your son’s birthday treat at school.
accepting ALL the help anyone is willing to offer. doing three loads of laundry a day.
not sweeping the floor. wiping three tiny bums all day long. nursing with or without a nursing cover in public.
lowering the standards for personal hygiene for everyone in the family. adding 15 minutes per kid to get out of the house.
being told every.single.time you leave the house with all three children, “You have your hands full, don’t you?” Yes, yes I do.
wondering how to answer when your mom asks if you got any sleep last night. praying that the screaming in the other room while you’re nursing doesn’t mean your other two kids are murdering each other (there have been bite marks…). someone is always, always touching you.
congratulating yourself on brushing your own teeth and hair (bonus points for make-up). feeling lousy for not spending time with your other children or husband.
not feeling sexy. Ever.
thanking God that someone invented a way for you to wear your baby so you could cook dinner, eat, write, give your son a haircut, and go anywhere “hands free” (ahem, holding the hands of your other two tinies, that is). wanting to high-five everyone in the preschool drop-off line because not only were you on time, but you managed to get everyone inside without injuring themselves. asking for three extra weeks of meals on your meal plan so that your mom says, “You’re STILL getting meals?” Yes, mom.
accepting that showering is a luxury.
someone is always, always crying (and sometimes it’s you). your husband majorly picks up your slack and though you mostly want to yell at him for no good reason (hello, hormones), you know he is the one holding the house together and you love him for it. eating the proverbial crumbs under God’s table because you are just too tired to be a spiritual “success.”
LOVING my minivan. Seriously. wanting to kiss the friend who spontaneously stops by to take your two-year-old for the morning. letting go of all illusion of control.
loving my mother even more than I already did.
marveling that you operate on so little sleep.
trusting that this is a short season in the scheme of things and that one day you will actually miss this.
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Some have told me that three is the hardest transition, though I hoped it wouldn’t be true. I’ll let you know what I really think when I emerge from the fog! For now, I wouldn’t say we are thriving, though we are surviving, so keep the meals coming!
I had the privilege ofwriting over at The Mudroom a week (or two) ago and with all the life shifts, I am just now getting around to sharing it here (quickly…all three children are sleeping!).
Legs curled under my body, I stole a few minutes from studying to sit on the floral couch in the chapel hidden in the attic of Williston Hall, scribbling in my journal. I’d sometimes sneak in here for an hour of quiet between classes since it was in the middle of campus and my dorm was a much farther walk away. Suddenly, the door burst open and a woman in her early 40’s entered with her two school-aged daughters. She peered around the room, eyes wide. “I spent so much time here,” she whispered. “And it hasn’t changed at all…”
In her, I saw my future self. What will life be like when I’m 40? Where will I have gone? What will I have done? I thought. Later in the day as I crossed Blanchard lawn on my way to class, I passed some alumni visiting for their twenty year reunion and one of them stopped me to ask for directions. Before turning away, though, he said, “Enjoy this. These are the best years of your life.” The “best”? So it’s all downhill after college? I thought. Sad. Now that I am nearing 40, I understand more of what that man meant. From his life of mortgages, insurance, bills, retirement savings, car payments and parenting, what my dad’s description of college as “living with your friends and studying a bit on the side” sounds pretty amazing.
****
I now have two teeny children who I avoid taking to the grocery store at all costs. But when I do, I catch some grandmother fondly admiring my two blondies and I know what she is about to say. “It goes so fast. These are just the best years!” she’ll call over from the other aisle. And if she’s especially anointed that day, she’ll add, “Enjoy them!” Another woman left much the same message on one of my blog posts about motherhood recently. In fact, I think she actually used the words, “Those years with little ones were the best years of my life.” …continue reading at The Mudroom. ~~~
If you are not currently a parent of toddlers or preschoolers, please feel free to skip this post or pass it along to someone who is in this stage of life—I won’t be offended. But hopefully this will be helpful to those of you in the middle of this insane time of life where we actually get excited about our kids’ poo. My son is currently three months shy of his fourth birthday and my daughter is 23 months old. We tried this foul business almost exactly one year ago and I was so scarred that I’ve put it off until now. If it weren’t for the fact that I will soon have THREE children in diapers at once, I’d probably wait even longer, but that thought alone motivates me (along with the fact that we already put down a deposit on my son’s preschool where he must be potty trained by the end of August). I’ve read the books and done my research. I’m armed with stickers, fruit snacks, juice (well, mango tea…I forgot to buy juice), movies, a froggy potty, rags, cleaning products, a bajillion undies, a doll to train, pull-ups, a reward toy and promises of going out for ice cream and calling grandparents with the good news. But here’s the thing…my son couldn’t give a rip. That toy has been sitting in my closet for an ENTIRE YEAR. So I’m going into all of this knowing full well that it will be a battle of the wills…and I’m determined to win. After last year’s sad attempt at using the naked bootcamp method of staring at your kid’s naked bum for three days straight without leaving the house and not having a single hit in the potty, this time around I decide to relax. I’m okay with naked, but will keep the kids in undies if at all possible (and shorts with an elastic band, too, for my son so he can get used to pulling them off and on).
I’m starting to accept that I’m not a cutsie parent who does sticker charts, dances and elaborate parties–and that’s okay. Kids all over the world learn to control their bowels completely without the help of Pinterest. I also let my husband off the hook and decided to do it during the week instead of over a weekend. So here’s how it went for us… Pre-potty training (trying to gear myself up) (Saturday): I sat in an Adirondack chair with a cup of tea and let the kids run around in the backyard in their underwear all afternoon. My son had one big wet accident on the carpet in his room at 6:30 pm, but held it otherwise (even though I asked every 15 minutes if he needed to go). My daughter peed in her underwear 4 times (and I finally put a diaper on her right before dinner). (Sunday): Skipped (Monday): More backyard nakey/undie play time in the afternoon. Brought the little potty outside, which my daughter sat on for over 15 minutes without going, then promptly peed on the patio. I never saw my son go, but I suspect the wet undies weren’t from playing in the plastic pool. The Real Deal
I decided to just go for it. We pulled up the rugs and I committed to staying home all day for four days, but was ready to bail if it was terrible. Here’s my “method”:
show them what I want them to do by demonstrating myself and with a doll
set a timer and take the kids to the potty every 20 minutes
have my son sit on the actual toilet normally with a step stool (we have a pretty small/low toilet) and my daughter on the portable one
make up stupid songs about pee as they sit there for at least two songs (Twinkle Twinkle Little Star is a good one for this 😉 )
don’t make a big deal out of accidents
RELAX and enjoy lounging around watching movies or laughing at my kids playing in cute undies outside (this is why I waited for summer)
Also, last minute I decided to go cold turkey with my son even at night and naps because I figured he’d just hold it until I put him in a diaper. We put a waterproof mat under his sheet and a portable potty in his room at night and naps and hoped for the best… Day 1 (Tuesday): Not terrible. I started out the day bawling on my husband’s shoulder because my son kept announcing that he was NOT using the potty (hey–pregnancy hormones are for real). But I rallied and we ended up having a low-key morning of cuddling and eating popcorn on towels on the couch. All day long, I marched both kids to the potty every 20 minutes. Neither ever went during these times. My daughter was the first to pee in the portable potty. She went while she was watching T.V., but I suspect it was just luck because I probably changed her undies six times throughout the morning as she played around happily without even noticing the rivers she was leaving on the wood floor. Later in the morning, my son announced he needed to go potty, then went in the regular toilet like it was no big deal. I was so happy that I CRIED. Honestly. I never thought this day would come. Hugs, cheers, kisses and high fives seemed to be enough of a reward and he didn’t even mention previous promises of rewards. He went once more right after his nap in the portable potty–all by himself in his room without prompting. No pooping all day. No accidents, either. Hallelujah! Day 2 (Wednesday): Failure… Neither kid went in the potty all day long…not once. My son started out the morning by unloading his bowels into his undies twice in 20 minutes. Throughout the day, we continued parading to the potty every 20 minutes with no results. During non-nap times, we watched movies and the kids played outside in the backyard. My son held his pee from 8:30 am until 5:30 pm (nine hours!), then let it whoosh after sneaking into another room. My daughter started resisting sitting on the potty and would go on the floor minutes after our bathroom trips. Hopefully vinegar will be enough to cover any potential smells… Feeling discouraged. Day 3 (Thursday): Success!!! We woke up at 5:30 am to my son shouting, “Mommy, Daddy, I pooped in the potty!!!” It was his first time. We stumbled into his room, admired his “present” in the portable potty, gave hugs and high fives and “let” my son flush it down the toilet. Grandparents and uncles were called later in the day. The second time he went #2 was right before his nap–alone in his room. He also peed in the potty two or three other times throughout the day and stayed dry otherwise (even at night and naps!). I didn’t even bother taking them every 20 minutes because my son never once went during any of these times, but always went of his own initiative. Oh, the strong-willed child. So frustrating, but so lovely in their ability to surprise you. Later in the afternoon, he remembered the promised toy he has admired in my closet for the past year and we decided it was finally deserved. I had my daughter in her undies in the morning as they played outside in the sprinkler, but gave up and put her in diapers in the afternoon after more accidents and no hits in the potty since the first day. Day 4 (Friday): An Outing. My son has been dry for over 24 hours (sleeping times included), so I decide to attempt an outing. We went out for frozen custard and french fries–at 10 am. I put my daugher in diapers, but brought a change of clothes for my son, a towel and threw the froggy potty into our van for good measure. About 30 minutes into our time at the restaurant, my son said he needed to use the potty, so we rushed into bathroom and he bravely scooted onto the much larger public toilet to do his business. I was glad it wasn’t an automatic one, because I wasn’t ready to deal with that trauma. He did it! More cheering, hugs and alerting of the family members. We headed to the park for a little bit after that and made it home without any accidents.
1 Week Later…
Up to now, my son has had just one accident and has stayed dry while sleeping–for an entire week. In that time, he’s gone at church, at restaurants and even peed off the hiking trail with daddy. We’ve jumped right back into life as usual and trust him to tell us when he needs to go.But what’s surprised us the most is how this new skill has transformed him. He is more confident, willing to try new things and glows with pride in himself. He can control something very important in his little life and this knowledge empowers him.
~~~ Here’s my take-away: 1. Wait until they’re older, not just “ready.” My son was very content to stay in diapers forever, so I couldn’t just wait for him to tell me he was ready, but I think the fact that he was older made it all go so much more quickly. I keep thinking of it like picking fruit–would you rather pick fruit prematurely and have it sit on your counter for a week to ripen, or just wait and pick it when it’s good and ripe? My son was ripe and ready for this. My daughter? Not so much. But she’s two next month and we’ll try her again when the time seems right. 2. Relax. Don’t take it too seriously and be willing to wait if it doesn’t work for you right now. 3. Be willing to go against “the books.” My son certainly didn’t follow the potty training script–he never ONCE went when prompted, stayed dry at night and naps from day one, and seemed more motivated by our smiles and praise than by stickers and prizes. Ah, parenting. I never thought I‘d see the day when I‘d look in the toilet, see a huge turd and start smiling and clapping.
If you make a pro/con list about whether or not you should have a third child, I guarantee you the answer will be no. I know, because I actually wrote that list.
On the con list? It’s more expensive to travel. You need a larger table at every restaurant and a bigger car. There’s less parent (time/energy) to go around. You’ll need more college money. And you have to change your parenting strategy from “man-to-man” to “zone” defense.
There really is no logical reason to have more than two children—especially if you already have one boy and one girl like I do.
But when you take a good look at the pros, you’ll find that though there are far less of them, they are weighted differently than the cons. How can “new life” or “a soul” not be a better reason to try for a third than any other monetary or convenience reason?
Don’t get me wrong. Three is not for everyone. Honestly, I was more of an “even-numbers only” gal, myself. Growing up as one of three siblings, one person is inevitably left out. The phrase “three’s a crowd” was coined for a reason.
But after having two kids, I still felt that spooky “someone is missing from our family” feeling. Since negotiating with my husband for two more kids (and so arriving at my “even number”) was a tougher sell than just one, I conceded to “just” three kids. Five months later, we were staring down at a faint pink line on our dollar store pregnancy test, excited, but going into it all with eyes wide open, wondering how we were going to handle yet another one.
If you’re in the market for three, here are some of the reasons that have helped me overcome the overwhelming list of “cons” you may be staring at on your pro/con list right now. 1. Three is a small “big family”
Large families are boisterous and lively. “I’m bored” moments are rare because there is always someone to play with (or annoy). Your family is the party. So three is a nice compromise for having a big family without having a huge family. Having three kicks you up from the 1-2 category of families to the 3-4 category which equals more chaos, but more life and bustle. 2. One of my children will have a same-sex sibling
I would love for my daughter to have a sister. Growing up with two brothers, I always wished I had one. But if we have another boy, a wise friend of mine pointed out that it is often more difficult for men to find friends later in life (especially after marriage), so having a brother is a built-in guarantee that they will always have a male friend in the world. As for being left out, the one sibling who doesn’t have a brother or sister will get to brag to their friends about how understanding they are of the opposite sex because they had TWO brothers or TWO sisters.
3. More chances my husband and I will be cared for in our old age
Though it’s not generally something we think about during our young-ish child-bearing years, one day we will get old and need help. And with western society spinning with a surprisingly fast centripetal force, flinging our families farther and farther apart, the more children we have that will still be close enough to care for us in our feeble years, the better. 4. We get one more chance at perfection
Poor, poor first born child. Son, we had no idea what we were doing and you were essentially an experiment for us in parenting. We only pray that we did not screw you up beyond repair by all of our failed experiments.
But with number three, hopefully we have learned a thing or two and have a chance to incorporate our wisdom and experience into raising a more obedient, compliant and calm child (insert sarcasm).
5. Life is “supersized”
When we had our second child, we felt like the work didn’t just double, but increased exponentially. I’m not naive enough to believe that going from two to three will be any different.
But just as the grunt work, sleeplessness, frustrations, anxieties and stressors have increased, so have all the counterparts. The giggles, dance parties, hugs, kisses, snuggles, invented words, and heart-bursting love have also increased right next to the difficult parts.
~~~
Although I am not quite as idealistic and swoony as I was with my first pregnancy, I’m still in awe that I get to experience this mystery one more time. Even now, my little one is kicking in my belly and reminding me that I will never regret choosing life. Though we still haven’t chosen a name for our son, God has always known what he will be called.
Three is not logical. But I’ve always been more of a believer in going with your gut than with logic anyway. So if you feel like you want a third–why not? Rip up the pro/con list. Your life is probably chaotic already, so really you’re just adding more life to the party (or more party to the life…).
~~~
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We spent Christmas at the nursing home, visiting my husband’s 94-year-old grandfather. Normally a vibrant conversationalist, each visit since he moved into the home a few years ago the conversations have gotten shorter as his mind loops back to the beginning of the conversation. This time, the span was shorter than ever, including just one simple question about our children, “How old are they now?” he would ask. And then he’d comment on how he forgets that children show intelligence beginning at such a young age. He’d pause as other people talked, but soon would ask again, “How old are they now?” with the same genuine interest. If my daughter lives to be 94, it will be the year 2110, which blows my mind. It feels like a very long time. And yet as soon as pregnant mothers pass from the random-stranger-warnings of, “Enjoy your sleep now!” they are hit with the next words of wisdom, “It goes SO fast!” But there are days when it certainly doesn’t feel like it’s going fast. I had given up on the hope of having children. I was very much single on my 30th birthday and even after I got married a few years later, I told myself that I probably wouldn’t be able to get pregnant (to protect myself from disappointment). I eventually did get pregnant and then I told myself I’d probably miscarry or else there would be a serious problem with the baby. But there wasn’t. Apart from the Guinness Book of World Record-breaking long labor and a couple days in the NICU for a possible infection, we had a healthy boy. And it was love at first sight. I actually looked forward to waking up and seeing him in the middle of the night. Two years later, I had another sweet baby, a little girl. Now my kids are three and 17 months and I’m realizing that this parenting thing is no joke. The terrible twos were true to their name and other very helpful people told me to expect the threes to be even worse. Throw a new sibling and a cross-country move in there and you may as well double the tantrum quota each child is committed to fulfilling. But lately, I feel God has been whispering something hardly intelligible into my ear: Enjoy your kids, Leslie. Enjoy them. Smile at them. Slow down. Laugh, dance, talk and pretend with them. Learn how to be a child again. I feel much like Robin Williams in the movie Hook, who returns to Neverland as an adult after discovering he is Peter Pan. I have forgotten so much. When I was little, I always wanted to write a journal to my future self about what it’s like to be a kid so I wouldn’t forget. But I have forgotten. I now sit with the throngs of adults that watch children playing and say in a tired voice, “Where do they get all that energy?” This summer I was in a multi-generational women’s book study. I felt like I was following along behind the older women, gleaning from their every scrap. One seventy-year-old woman shared that as she looks back at her life as a mother, she wishes she had enjoyed her kids more at the time. She regrets missing out on them. But sometimes I feel guilty for my blessings. I feel ashamed that I have healthy beautiful children when so many of my friends can’t get pregnant. Or when others long to get married and are still waiting for God to bring along the right man or woman. I hesitate to enjoy what God has given me out of guilt. But that is like me giving my son a bike and him never riding it because the neighbor boy doesn’t have one. It seems heroic, but he is actually depriving me of the pleasure of watching him enjoy a gift my husband and I wanted to bless him with. God delights in watching His children take pleasure in the blessings He gives them even more than I enjoy my children’s happiness over a gift I give them. Solomon writes, “I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and to do good in one’s lifetime; moreover, that every man who eats and drinks sees good in all his labor–it is the gift of God” (Eccl. 3:12-13). What are God’s gifts to you right now? Are you allowing yourself to enjoy them? Yes, my life could be harder and I’m sure that there are times in the future when it will be, but am I enjoying life and all of God’s gifts right now? Or am I letting Satan steal my joy? I’m praying that God would help me to love like crazy and stop holding back. I want to accept that He is elated to see the look on my face when I open His good gifts and delight in them as He intended. And right now, He is inviting me to enjoy my children.
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Rachel Pieh Jones lives in Djibouti with her husband and three children. She has written for the New York Times, Runners World, the Christian Science Monitor, Brain Child, and the Big Roundtable. Her next book will be published by Plough in 2019. Visit her at: 
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