Tag: motherhood

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What Two Celibate Priests Taught Me about Mothering

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.

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links

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A Confession: I Am a Tiger Mother {guest post}

By Nichole Woo | Blog

There’s this thing in the air. You’ve likely been exposed — especially if your kids’ activities (too) have incapacitated your social life.

Symptoms.
This “thing” is both infectious and highly contagious. It incubates in competitive environments, attacking parents’ vulnerable nervous systems. Symptoms range from elevated heart rates and involuntary clenched fists to sweaty palms and irritability.

These symptoms exacerbate during children’s performance “events” — school art shows, music recitals, spelling bees, the monkey bars . . . any place where parents are sizing up their offspring’s abilities to those of their peers. It is common for symptoms to worsen at sporting events, most notably during soccer games. (Scientists hypothesize that this correlates to a high incident of player distraction, from factors like butterflies, dandelions, and somersault-worthy grass.)

Symptoms are accompanied by overwhelming angst, culminating in feelings of frustration and inadequacy. Often, parents channel this emotional intensity to their own children through sideline “cheers”, the “look”, or the barely audible swear word. They believe that, applied effectively, this pressure will prompt superiority: The win, the score, the MVP, the not-just-a-participation-ribbon, the top performance. Progeny victories appear to usher in brief periods of remission. Ineffectively treated, however, symptoms will reoccur and worsen, often resulting in long-term damage to the heart.

Detection.
I began noticing infected parents – especially moms – right out of the parenting gates. There were many on my beat: The boasters of super-latching babies in lactation group, and the exuberant church moms swopping milestone stats on sleeping, sitting, rolling over, and speaking. (Either that or they were referring to their dogs . . .)

As my children grew and my circle widened, I feared an epidemic. The infected surfaced at toddler music classes (best shaky egg form), after school language programs, swimming lessons and tumble-bees gymnastics (“Tuck your head on that somersault, dang it!”). I playfully christened these women “Tiger Moms”, from Amy Chua’s controversial work, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.

I scoffed at the pressure parents placed on their kids to perform. It seemed every move since birth was calculated to usher their offspring out of mediocrity and on to the Ivy League, Julliard, the NBA – or at least one of these. I pitied each overly-ambitious disease carrier and their poor, defenseless children.

Until the day I glanced into the mirror, and saw orange and black stripes.

Diagnosis & Denial.
It was my husband who painfully and lovingly held up that mirror. I was vexing about some recent “Tiger Mom” encounter, when he interjected “You know you’re one, too, right?” There is nothing like realizing you are the thing you ridicule. It’s even better when your spouse exposes the hypocrisy. (The “for worse” part of my marriage vows are never lost on me.) I jokingly shrugged him off, knowing he was right.

Acceptance.
It wasn’t the title that gnawed at me so much as grasping why I deserved it. There was no denying I exhibited the symptoms. Simply put, if my kid landed on top, I was gratified — at least for a while. Anything less opened the ugly flood gates of discontent, until their next chance to shine. It’s why I felt a competitive tension whenever my kids performed, and why I constantly sized up their “opponents” in the classroom and on the playground. My radar constantly detected others like me. We prowled in the same territory, always cramming that one extra thing into our kids’ packed schedules. (Because someday, it just might matter to MIT if they can say “Where’s the bathroom?” in 12 different languages. . .)

Honest dialogue with a close friend exposed the truth: This wasn’t about my children, or their greater good. It had nothing to do with them realizing their full potential, learning the value of hard work, or becoming the best version of themselves.

It was all about me.

In my twisted version of reality, their victories meant I was “enough.” My parenting abilities were enough. Their upbringing was enough. Even my genes were “enough.” My “enough-ness” was intrinsically tied to their success, all the while exposing them to my illness, too. I could see it in their eyes every time they searched mine for approval and came up short. My “Tiger Mom” mentality was eating away at their self-worth. I either tamed it, or surely I would contaminate them.

In my twisted version of reality, their victories meant I was “enough.” -Nicole Woo

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Treatment.
Earning my stripes was effortless. Losing them meant painstakingly shedding my pride. It required me to expose the darker underbelly of a value system I’d thought was godly. As it turned out, mine just pretended to be. Finally, I recognized a comparison worth making — His values next to mine:

Threaded through Scripture’s pages, I found God in relentless pursuit of His beloved. Us, valued not for what we did (He had that covered), but for who we were. Imperfect, fallen, flawed — but masterpieces nonetheless; His workmanship, His image bearers. And just in case there was any doubt about our worth, He bought us back at the highest price possible, the price of His only Son’s blood.

No plastic trophies or gold medals required. Not from me or my kids. Not from humanity. My futile quest to net value through the likes of these now seemed absurd. Here was the antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

Recovery, and a Science Fair.
I wish I could tell you that I’m completely cured, and that I’ve lost my “Tiger Mom” credentials. But that “thing” still lingers in the air, and my tiger sometimes still rears its ugly head.

Recently, I strolled the poster board labyrinth of our school’s science fair. I’d like to say I spent that time celebrating the amazing learning on display. Instead, I secretly scrutinized each one, assuring myself of my kid’s place on the podium.

The symptoms came roaring back. But this time, I prayerfully applied His antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

And that was enough.

About Nichole:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nicole Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins. Visit her blog at www.walkthenarrows.wordpress.com.

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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:

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links.

My “enough-ness” was intrinsically tied to their success, all the while exposing them to my illness, too. I could see it in their eyes every time they searched mine for approval and came up short. My “Tiger Mom” mentality was eating away at their self-worth. I either tamed it, or surely I would contaminate them.

 

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The Two Week Wait

No one ever talks about the woman’s longest wait. The two weeks between attempting to conceive and waiting to see if you were successful in getting pregnant is agony.

You are acutely aware of every tinge, flutter and nauseous feeling (even if it’s just the garlic bread you had for supper). You may take your temperature daily or at least take your emotional temperature, wondering if this or that feeling is a sign the cells are multiplying. That life is forming even as you sit typing at your desk or wash up the evening dishes. You wonder and you wait. You pray prayers for life to be formed, then tell yourself that you’re being silly because life has already been initiated—or it hasn’t.

You open your calendar four times a day, checking again to see how early you can take a test. You Google it and wonder if it’s worth it to spend an extra $10 on the tests that promise to deliver the news four days earlier. I can wait, you tell yourself. But then you break down and take the test two days before you know it’s time and experience the first surge of emotion.

Disappointment.

Relief?

But then hope.

Maybe it was negative because you took it too early. So your rush out to Dollar Tree to buy more tests so you don’t have to feel guilty about wasting money on taking early tests. Annoyingly, the tests are too high on the shelf to reach, so you have to get a high school-aged employee to assist you. You try not to feel embarrassed, telling yourself you’re an adult and it’s none of her business anyway.

“How many?” she asks.

“Five,” you mumble, trying to ignore her raised eyebrow.

You tell yourself to just wait until you get your period and then you’ll know for sure, but it’s impossible to sit back and wait at this point. Because your life may be about to change completely. Or you may be back where you started. If that’s the case, you think, I’m definitely having more than one glass of wine tonight.

In the two week wait, you are often alone. If you have experienced many months of these waits, you may stop even mentioning it to your husband because he still doesn’t know what to say even after all these months. You cringe when acquaintances ask you if you want to have a baby or if you’re “trying.” “We’ll see,” you say.

And so you sit with your hope, and cradle your heart to try and shield it from the threat of sadness. You tear open yet another test—this time you are a day late, so the results should be accurate. But only one strong pink line appears.

You hate that line—or the absence of it’s companion. To combat the disappointment as you bury it in the trash can, hoping your husband won’t notice there is more than one in there, you tick off all the reasons why you’re glad the test is negative: you can have that margarita with dinner tonight, ride a roller coaster this summer, gorge yourself on sushi, or run a half marathon after all. Life is simple again. Your body is your own. At least for another two weeks.

You try to manage your jealousy when you spot women at church who have gotten pregnant so easily (or so you assume). Doing the math, you discover that if you had conceived when you planned, you would have been as far along as so-and-so. Then you feel angry with yourself for going to such lengths to compare yourself.

Your story may linger here. It may include more insensitive questions, experimental methods and more loss. It may require embracing a new way, plan or hope. It may not end the way you wanted.

Or one month that is many months later than you would have liked, you take a test—two days early again—and you lean over the counter to peer into the tiny plastic window. You see a faint pink line. The sign of life. And it is only then that you realize that the wait has just begun.

(For the record, I wrote this exactly two years ago, so it is not about today. Just FYI. See this post😉 )

***

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 (5/11) 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:

***

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!

Blog Post: The Two Week Wait. No one ever talks about the woman’s longest wait. The two weeks between attempting to conceive and waiting to see if you were successful in getting pregnant is agony.

**Contains Amazon affiliate links.

Picture from Google Images, Creative Commons.

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The Physicality of Motherhood {guest post + BOOK GIVEAWAY!}

By Catherine McNiel | Facebook

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.

We love with our hands and feet, we surrender with our tired bodies, we give life with our wombs, breasts, and hearts. @CatherineMcNiel

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All this—and so much more—we willingly take on for the privilege of creating, bearing, sustaining, and giving life.

So, what’s a little throw-up on Mother’s Day?

Raise your air sickness bags with me. Here’s to life.

About Catherine:

Catherine McNiel writes to open eyes to God’s creative, redemptive work in each day—while caring for three kids, two jobs, and one enormous garden. Catherine is the author of Long Days of Small Things: Motherhood as a Spiritual Discipline (NavPress 2017). Look for her second book (NavPress) in 2019. Catherine loves to connect on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, or at www.catherinemcniel.com.

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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:

***

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!

 

**Contains Amazon affiliate links.

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Laundry Overload: Simplify Laundry

A few weeks ago I asked about laundry on Facebook and got more comments than I’ve ever gotten about anything. So while there are both horrific and glorious events happening in the world, humanity ultimately finds solidarity though the universal act of laundry.

Please know I’m writing this piece more as a journalist than as an expert and that I’m still very much in the experimental stage. But I ‘ve tried out some of my friends’ techniques over the past six weeks, and I think you will find some new ideas to streamline, or at least get control of, the laundry chaos in your life.

Also, for the record, my kids are age 1, 3 and 5. We have a (purposely very large) washer and a dryer, and as a carry-over from my five years living in China without a dryer, I still hang-dry all my own clothing (except for socks and undies), but no one else’s :-).

So how do large-ish and large families do laundry? Here are some tips I’ve gathered from friends, podcasts and strangers on the internet:

To Sort or Not to Sort?

Pretty much everyone with more than three children advised stopping the ridiculousness of sorting kids’ clothing into colors and just dump the whole lot in the washer on warm. Back in the olden days when everyone used powder detergent, clothes used to bleed more than they do now, but if not sorting makes you twitchy, one friend swore by Shout Color Catchers to prevent colors bleeding (5 out of 5 stars on Amazon, too!). 

For adult clothes, we sort by light, medium and darks in our bedroom,  but I stopped sorting the kids’ clothing by color for the past six weeks and it’s been a great change (I stopped buying white clothes for kids a LONG time ago, anyway!)

Sort by Room

Sort according to where you store the clothing so it’s easy to put the clothes away. My two oldest share a room, so I wash their clothes together. I keep the baby’s clothes in our room, so I wash his clothes with ours (which gets tricky because he has sensitive skin and I’d rather use Charlie’s Soap and no fabric softener on his clothes … still figuring that one out.)

Sheets and Towels

I changed the sheets every other week for about a month, and then got lazy. I know it’s gross, but I knew farmers in China who didn’t shower for six months, so that helps put things in perspective for me. But in my ideal world, I’d use the Lazy Genius’ tip and wash all the sheets and towels pretty early on in the day (because putting sheets on the bed is the most annoying task ever–especially right before bed when you forgot), so I could put them right back on the beds and not even bother folding them first. And the towels can just go right back on the rack. I’m okay not sorting and washing all the sheets and towels and washing on warm, but my mom swears they must be done on hot or we will all be overtaken by bacteria. Just go with your gut.

I also heard a recent podcast where the woman got rid of all her towels and bought white towels for the whole house so she could just wash them all together and bleach them when needed (though I haven’t had much success with white, personally).

All in One Day or Spread Throughout the Week?

There are advantages and disadvantages to each. For me, it comes down to my answer to this question:

Will I actually put the clothes away after I wash them?

If the answer is no, then doing them all in one day is a better solution to the laundry problem. If I will be disciplined enough to put them away, then doing a load a day may prevent the despair of having to dedicate one whole day of my life each week to laundry.

That said, I’ve been trying out the “laundry day” phenomenon and I actually kind of like it. One day a week we have to stay home. I throw the kids’ clothes in first and set a timer. I make tea, give the kids a bath, and then we do other at-home-with-little-kids-things like paint, bake or glue pasta onto construction paper. I hate to say it, for the most part it’s kind of relaxing.

Lately, I’ve been washing the adult clothes last. I save them to fold after the kids go to bed and my husband helps fold while we watch T.V.

“Involve the Kids”

I laughed hysterically when people mentioned this, but thought I’d give it a try. One friend said she has her kids doing their own laundry by age 7/second grade and that I should have them learn ASAP–several other friends said theirs were doing it by middle school. I’m still a couple/few years away from that, so here’s what I did:

1. Have the kids sort: The first day of our newly instituted “laundry day,” I dumped the kids’ clothes in the middle of the carpet and had them sort them out themselves. That mostly worked.

2. Have the kids fold: Then I demonstrated how to fold them and nearly fell over when my 5 year old folded ALL off his–and they looked better than they do when I fold them! My 3 year old daughter lost steam after folding two shirts, but I couldn’t believe my son was capable of doing this and I had no idea! I did sit on the floor and turn them all right-side-in just to make it go faster, but I was amazed! (can you tell by the number of exclamation points I’m using?)

3. Have the kids put away: I finished folding my daughter’s clothes, then had them put them all away in their drawers. My daughter dumped them on the floor in front of the dresser first, but my son did it without unfolding them.

(Also, my one year old helps me transfer the clothes from my washer to the dryer. I put them in front and he scoots them in!)

4. For older kids (this is from my friends): give them their own laundry baskets or hampers to pre-sort their clothes into light and dark. Give them each a day a week to wash, dry, fold and put away (yeah right, but maybe?). OR I kind of like this idea:  do all laundry on the weekend, then do a family folding party together in the evening while watching T.V.

Stupid Socks

The most brilliant advice I read was to buy all the same color and type of socks so you don’t even have to go through the weekly madness of trying to match socks. The families with the highest number of kids don’t even bother matching them, but just have a “sock bin.” I’ve also found that even though my kids are 1, 3, and 5, they can all wear basically the same socks.

I also heard a tip about having kids put dirty socks in a washable laundry bag immediately after wearing them. Some people line a small box with it and put it by the door, then you just scoop up all the socks, cinch the bag shut and throw it in the washing machine. That way socks can’t wander away from their match into Sock Never-Never Land.

Hide Your Laundry Baskets

I used to wash, dry, and fold the clothes, then they would sit in laundry baskets until I needed to wash more clothes again. Because of this, I banned myself from even using laundry baskets other than to transport unfolded laundry to the couch for folding. That’s worked for me. Once the clothes are folded and on the coffee table, they go straight into the drawers. This is why washing according to room also works well for me.

I also find that not having too many laundry baskets is a good solution. It’s like the “empty closet” problem–you will always eventually fill up excess storage space in your home. Laundry baskets work the same way. So, in theory, I don’t really need more than one large basket if the clothes aren’t going to hang out there.

You Don’t Have to Fold Everything

One of my friends doesn’t fold her kids’ clothes at all. And it’s true that they mostly just get bunched up in the drawer anyway. I tried not folding, but I couldn’t do it. Plus, they wouldn’t fit in the drawer. Another friend said she doesn’t fold play clothes. Personally, I don’t fold underwear, but everything else gets folded. And you can avoid folding sheets and towels by using the tip above and just putting back on beds and in bathrooms immediately after washing them.

In Summary (and some other random tips):

  1. Only buy wash-and-wear clothes.
  2. Get your kids involved.
  3. Don’t buy white clothes for kids–ever.
  4. Don’t sort kids’ clothes before washing–and wash on warm.
  5. Sort by room.
  6. Get rid of excess laundry baskets.
  7. Always put clothes away immediately after you fold them.
  8. Buy all the same sock colors and types.
  9. Do something fun while you fold like watch T.V. or listen to a podcast.
  10. Wash everything on the fastest speed possible.

What works for you? I’d love to hear your tips in the comments!

10 TIPS FOR SIMPLIFYING LAUNDRY

Here are some other good resources on this very hot topic:

The Lazy Genius Does Laundry

Jen Hatmaker had a hilarious rant about laundry which led to them buying 28 new laundry baskets.

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Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. Our theme for next month (April) is “books and writing.” I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

**Contains Amazon affiliate links

Laundry Overload: How Families Do Laundry--I asked all my friends how they simplify doing laundry with 2+ kids, this is how they responded.

 

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5 Simple Meals for the Witching Hours

I love cooking, but I do not love cooking when I have a toddler hanging on my leg, a three year old whining for cheese and a five year old running laps around the kitchen island. My mother-in-law calls from 4 to 7 “the witching hours,” so meals for us have become simple to stave off child wizardry. I am not a food blogger, so you will not get pretty pictures or perfect measurements, but for what it’s worth, here are five meals that are making my life easier at meal time. I’d love to hear yours as well, so fell free to leave links in the comments here or on social media!

1. Frittata

I make this every single week. And yes, we buy 4 dozen eggs a week. I mostly use this recipe by The Pioneer Woman, but I’ve found that it is very forgiving if you want to use less eggs, more cheese, or different veggies. I’m not a fan of olives in my egg, so I skip that part. I make this at least once a week and find it’s a great “clean out the fridge” dish to use veggies that are beginning to wilt. Here’s my take on it.

Ingredients: 7-12 eggs, about 1/2 cup of milk, shredded cheese–whatever you have, even parmesean, works, about 1/2-1 cup, onion (1/2 cup), 1 clove of garlic, crushed, veggies like broccoli, spinach, kale, potato, peppers. Bacon or sausage if you happen to have it.

Saute veggies first, then add egg, cheese and milk mixture. Cook one more minute, then throw the pan in the oven for 10 minutes at 400 degrees.

2. Pasta with Garlic & Veggies

Cook any kind of pasta separately, then cook veggies like zucchini, grape tomatoes, Kalamata olives and sauté in butter or olive oil. Sometimes I add a can of diced tomatoes and thyme, oregano and basil. Combine with pasta, then top with parmesean cheese. Add browned sausage if you have it.

Also, plain pasta with butter, garlic powder, salt and parmesan cheese is a NO SHAME DINNER at our house. Bonus nutrition points if you scrape together a salad, though.

3. Italian Soup

(A little less “simple,” but you can make it ahead and freeze for later, so kind of simple).

Sautee veggies like carrots, celery, mushrooms, and zucchini with garlic and onion, then add salt and pepper and some spices like thyme, oregano and basil. Add 8 cups of chicken broth and a can of diced tomatoes and a can of drained white beans. Bring to boil and add in browned sausage or frozen meatballs. Add spinach or kale more toward the end right before you eat. Top with parm cheese, eat with French or Italian bread.

4. Black Beans and Rice

We have a rice cooker, which makes life so much simpler since I seemed to always mess up rice somehow. So cook white, yellow or brown rice and in a separate pot cook two cans of sodium-free beans. If you have more time, saute onion, garlic and pepper first, but if you need something quick, just use garlic and onion powder. I also add salt, pepper, cumin and chili powder. Bring to a boil. Again, if you have time, cook tilapia or any kind of fish, really, in olive oil, sprinkled with Cajun spice, or cook some chicken with salt, papper & garlic powder in olive oil. Top with cheese.

(Can you tell we’re not gluten or dairy-free…?)

5. Frozen Shrimp with Rice, Grits or Pasta

I just started liking shrimp last year, so while we don’t always have the budget for it, I try and snag it when it goes sale in the frozen section. I was surprised that my kids actually love it. I never thaw it out first, just melt butter in a large pan and saute 3 or 4 cloves of chopped garlic. Add the shrimp and cook about 10 minutes, then put on top of rice, grits or pasta. For each of those carbs, be sure to add a tad of butter so they’re not so dry.

I mean, butter + garlic = delicious, so of course this tastes amazing;-) You can google Cajun recipes to snazz it up a bit, but those don’t make the “simple” list. Eat with a salad so you get some veggies in there.

What are your most simple meals to make during the witching hours? Please tell.

***

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

*Contains Amazon affiliate links5 Simple Meals for the Witching Hours

 

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The IHOP Days of Motherhood (#threekids)

(I wrote this in February of 2017, but it still holds true.) 

The IHOP Days of Motherhood

The middle-aged woman at the checkout aisle across from me quickly looks away as I glance up. My five-month-old is strapped to my chest, sucking on the side of the baby wrap; the other two kids are now riding the one cent plastic horse ride next to the lotto ticket kiosk. I wonder what the woman is thinking as she watches me drop coins on the floor, lecture children and bag my own groceries with a baby strapped to my chest.

It could be, “What a precious mom—she’s doing such a great job.”

But I suspect it was, “Thank God that’s not MY life.”

These are the days when my husband fears he’ll come home from work and find I’ve abandoned them all. I’ll call him from an IHOP off the interstate somewhere in Nebraska and say,

“Oh, that motherhood job? I quit. I decided I can’t do it anymore.”

And so instead of running away forever, I’ve escaped for two hours. It’s seven degrees below zero today, but the sun is streaming through the window, spotlighting the stardust lazily floating in the air. For once, this coffee shop is nearly empty and I have the couch spot by the fireplace with the mosaic table all to myself. Men are talking loudly in the back room. They began their meeting with prayer and I hear church words punctuate their conversations like “Old Testament,” “Bible” and “Communion.” I don’t even mind, because—for once–the voices do not belong to anyone related to me.

These are the weeks when my nose is right up against the oil painting of my life and all I see is a blob of sticky paint. I can’t get enough distance to know that this week, this day, this moment of juggling a sick, crying infant while my other two children beg for more milk, more cheerios, more love, more attention, more, more, more is a mere dab on the canvas. A stroke of grey on blue.

Nap times, Monday through Friday, look like this: We finish lunch and my two-year-old hands me a board book about an acorn, while my son chooses The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I swaddle the baby and get him situated to nurse, guarding his head with my hand as the other two scramble onto the couch, all bruised elbows, knees and wet noses.

We read a picture book about a small acorn waiting on the ground as each animal approaches and asks that the acorn serve it in some way: scratch its back, provide shade, shelter or food, which it promises to do when it becomes a big, strong tree. The acorn begins to break apart, sending roots down and leaves up. Eventually, the acorn disappears entirely and a tree stretches out and up. The other animals run to make good on the promises made in it’s infancy.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Edmund is playing hide-and-seek and thinks he is following his sister into the wardrobe when his feet crunch on snow. He discovers a magical world in an ordinary closet. I slide the bookmark into the binding, easing off of the couch without disturbing the still-nursing baby. My older son protests, begging me to read more.

“Time to go potty,” I say.

I momentarily lay the baby on the guest bed and hoist my daughter into her crib, making sure she has her baby dolls, water and blankie. She immediately turns on her tummy, hugging her water cup to herself.

“Goodnight, Mom,” she says, pretending she’s a teenager instead of a two-year-old girl with pigtails.

I scoop up the baby and meet my son in his room, waiting for him to wriggle his feet under the sheet before bringing it to his chin. He turns and snuggles closer to me as I sing the usual three songs, pray and receive “two kisses on two cheeks,” all with a baby attached to my breast.

By the time I close the door, I feel the baby go limp and gently lay him down in his bassinet in our room. Pausing, I smile at the miracle of three children in three beds, quiet. Creeping down and pushing the button on the hot water kettle and throwing a tea bag in an oversized mug, I sit down at the computer. Just as the aroma of black tea infused with cardamom and cinnamon begins to seep into the room and the thoughts begin to flow, footsteps echo in the hall.

“Just need to use the potty,” my son announces. I hear soft cries coming from our room. Sighing, I get up from my chair to retrieve the baby.

***

Last Thursday I got everyone out of the house after much weeping and gnashing of teeth to go to Bible study, but found an empty, unplowed parking lot when I arrived. It had been cancelled. No way was I going back home.

Plan B was a coffee shop where my children made such a shrieking, toy-snatching scene while I was nursing the baby that an irritated man snarled at them, “This is a COFFEE SHOP.” As if that means anything to a two-year-old.

So Plan C was to brave the snowy roads and drive an hour to the children’s museum because even if I had to drive 20 miles an hour, they’d be STRAPPED IN–the only legal way to physically bind my children for an hour. The car was quiet the entire way, which I counted as a gift from God Himself. At the museum, I sat dully watching the children play, too exhausted to even pull out my phone. I enjoyed the hours of not having to say “No,” “Don’t” or “What were you thinking???”

The baby screamed the entire ride home and my daughter woke up in hysterics when we pulled off the interstate at our exit. I convinced my husband to meet us at a restaurant because I still couldn’t bear the thought of going home.

Friday I dragged all three children to the doctor’s office and let them play with the germy toys in the lobby. An hour and a half and 75 dollars later, the doctor confirmed my suspicion: all three children had colds and no, there was nothing he could do. The baby had a fever that night resulting in neither of us sleeping and my son threw up all night and morning—of course this all happened AFTER the doctor’s appointment.

I talked to my high school best friend on the phone, who is laps ahead of me in the motherhood race, with an 11, 13 and 15 year old. After venting about my disobedient, selfish, irrational, unkind children, she sent me a string of texts, which I read when I got up with the baby at 2 am.

She reminded me of the time her four-year-old daughter poured water on the head of a girl during the girl’s birthday party. Her daughter had also been responsible for breaking up the playgroup my best friend started because she was such a terror. Plus there was the time her teacher had informed my friend that her daughter was the worst student in class.

But then my friend detailed what her now-thirteen-year-old had done that day. She woke before everyone else, got dressed, made breakfast for her daddy, did homework and then helped her younger sister with her homework. She cleaned up the living room, then played the piano for the congregation at church that evening.

My friend ended her text with this: “My take is that your son is going to be the brightest, most successful in his class. And since daughters are amazing, your daughter is going to be your future bestie. And the baby, well, he is bound to turn out wonderful because … well … as my mom always said [my friend is the third born] … the third is a charm.”

Eyes burning with tears, I stood in the darkened kitchen, phone in one hand, sleeping baby in the other. Friends like this grab my arm and drag me back for the distance needed to give me a view of this life canvas I’m living. One day my children will provide food, shelter, comfort and shade for themselves and others. One day they will be strong, tall and be able to stand on their own.

But today, they are tiny and vulnerable. And the lifespan of an acorn is a stroke of the brush in the huge painting of their life and mine.

Today, though it is cold outside, the sun is shining in this coffeeshop and I have the gift of a morning to breathe. A sliver of space to remember what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I step into the ordinary wardrobe and for just a short time, I remember the magic and feel the crunch of snow at my feet. I am gathering strength. I glance out the window at naked branches, then write:

Bare trees showcase blue sky.
Branches weighted with snow sigh
in joy of bearing their beautiful burden.

On Motherhood: Bare trees showcase blue sky. Branches weighted with snow sigh in joy of bearing their beautiful burden.

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I am ready to go home, to do this. I am ready to be a mom again.

***

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

*Contains Amazon affiliate links

These are the days when my husband fears he’ll come home from work and find I’ve abandoned them all. I’ll call him from an IHOP off the interstate somewhere in Nebraska and say, “Oh, that motherhood job? I quit. I decided I can’t do it anymore.”

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Mom Fail #3,477

I forgot pajama day. I picked my son up from preschool (*yes, we started preschool in January) last week and I watched, horrified, as all the children filed out of the classroom wearing PJ’s. My son came out wearing jeans with torn knees and a batman T-shirt. Now, on the scale of world catastrophe/human suffering/poverty, this ranks low, but when your full-time job is mothering, then missing PJ day at school feels like ultimate failure.

My husband dropped him off at school and neglected to mention it to me, probably because he knew I would have rushed back to school with PJ’s for my son. But instead of telling my son how terrible I felt, that I was an awful mother, and I’d make it up to him by buying him ice cream, I waited to see if he’d mention it. He didn’t. I looked at his little face, scrutinized it for sadness and saw a happy little boy with a construction paper craft dripping with glue in his hand. Phew, deep emotional scars averted. I hoped.

I don’t know if it’s because I used to feel capable and reliable—in my pre-kid days, I mailed notes to friends, called my nieces and nephews on their birthdays, sent out Christmas cards, and brought meals to new moms. But something about having three children has made me the worst friend, housekeeper, wife, neighbor, cook, and Christian person. And it’s not even making me the best mom. I win at nothing. Guilt strangles me at every turn.

I took the kids on a walk in the afternoon, pushing my one year old in the stroller as the other two kids rode far ahead on the sidewalk. I didn’t even feel nervous that they were out of sight because the roads in our city have such wide shoulders.

Moving from Chicago with her narrow lanes, Colorado’s wide roads used to feel strange and unnatural to me, but now I’m thankful for the extra space. As I thought about this, something hit me.

Mothers are gifted with wider roads. We are given the largest margins possible that allow us to veer off the sidewalk and not get run over because of our carelessness. God gives mothers more space.

There are times in life when we will be able to make meals for friends, send Christmas cards with hand-written notes, lead book clubs and groups at church, teach Sunday school, be the room mom, the soccer coach or the friend who watches friend’s kids on a regular basis, but these years when we have tiny kids at home are not those times.

Last year I went to an elaborate Christmas party put on by a friend.

“I wanted to do a party, too, but when I saw you were throwing one, we decided to just come to yours,” I said, embarrassed by my laziness.

She looked at me hard.

“I would have never attempted a party like this when my kids were little like yours,” she said. “I just started doing this last year when my youngest turned eight.”

It’s taken me nearly six years, but I am ready to say yes to support, self-forgiveness, and grace, and no to guilt. I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am.

I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am.

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And I’m ready to let myself off the hook, put my achievements, abilities, and education in storage for the season, and pat myself on the back for getting dinner made, children clothed, occasionally bathed, and teeth brushed (okay, so my husband mostly does the teeth).

Yes, I forgot PJ day. But if my son reads this one day, I hope he doesn’t hold on to all of my missteps and foibles, but remembers how I read him books, sang him songs, let him “help” make waffles, tickled him relentlessly, danced with him in the kitchen, told him about Jesus, took him to parks and museums, and occasionally even got down on the floor and pretended to be a wolf, tiger or octopus caught in hot lava.

If you are on the other side of this season and see one of us at the grocery store wrangling our one, two, three or more kids in the cart, will you please smile at us? And will you tell us something we really need to hear?

Can you please say, “Mama, you’re doing a GREAT job.”

At any rate, I know God sees me, holds my guilt and smooths my hair like the tender Father he is, whispering as I fall asleep, “I know, honey. I know you feel bad, but I also know you’re doing the best you can. And you know what? That is more than enough.”

***

[*Aside: For those of you thinking, “Wait, I thought they weren’t doing preschool this year” … turns out my very structured little boy didn’t appreciate my free spirited/unstructured/spontaneous ways, and afternoon preschool three days a week during the (theoretical) naptime of the other kids = a (theoretical) break for me. I still follow too many #unschooling moms on Instagram, though, wishing I were that mom … wait, this post was supposed to be about letting go of mom guilt/comparison … and I’m actually off Instagram for Lent, so that helps 😉 ]

 

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

Mom Fail #3,477. "I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am." --Leslie Verner

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The Sacrament of Childbirth {for SheLoves}

I wrote this post for SheLoves Magazine. It’s probably the most personal thing I’ve ever written.

I was shocked by how similar childbirth was to watching my father-in-law die. There is the pacing, the patience, the impatience, the watching for signs of death—or life. The living room transforms into a tunnel where the outside world is fuzzy and out of focus and inside, all senses are heightened. As the time for birth—or death—nears, erratic breathing ushers a soul into another world. There is pain. There is relief. There is hope. There is life in death.

Death and birth are undeniably spiritual for the person who’s spent time in that sacred space. Something, Someone, is invisibly present in the room with you at the gate. I’ve stood at that gate—a portal to the other world—four times now. Once, as a soul went on to the next world, and three other times, as my body welcomed three souls to this world.

Childbirth is natural and supernatural, real and ephemeral, earthy and otherworldly, you are lost forever, and find yourself anew. Birthing is raw, primitive, immodest. You abandon propriety, trusting the process. An imprint of Eden, you are naked again—and unashamed. As a woman in labor, you follow a script written thousands of years ago that billions of women have followed. You are not the first, but that does not diminish, but rather enlarges the sacred space you are given permission to occupy.

Heaven heaves spirit breath beneath the thin veil of the natural world, sending reality floating up as you tenderly hold the edge of the sheet, gasping at what lies beneath.

You glimpse the divine, who weaves numinous tendrils of time, matter, rhythm and grace to draw this new being out of your body and into the world. You are not alone. The Creator is coaching, whispering, caressing your sweaty hair, kneading your tense shoulders, clothing you in the timeless mystery of mothers who have entered this transcendence…

continue reading at SheLoves Magazine

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How to Wreck Your Daughter {A Review of ‘A Voice Becoming’} + A GIVEAWAY

If you have a daughter, A Voice Becoming provides practical ideas for how to walk beside her with intentionality and humility as you guide her into what it means to be a woman.

We didn’t bathe or use toilet paper other than crumpled-up leaves and ferns for two and a half weeks. As an 18 year old, in-coming college freshman from the suburbs of Tampa, Florida, this rustic experience in the Upper Peninsula of Wisconsin wrecked me. Carrying 25 lb backpacks, we hiked, canoed, hiked some more, spent the night alone and shivering on the shore of Lake Superior, then, leaving our bags to be transported, we ran ten miles back to camp.

As a professional educator, I can testify that experiences are better teachers than books, writing papers or listening to lectures could ever be.

Blisters, freeze-dried food, digging holes for a fire pit (and “toilet”), and leading nine other girls using only a compass and 1960’s logging topo map smashed my nose up against the window of discovery.

Who was God? And who was I apart from my family? I wasn’t sure, but walking into the room the first day of freshman orientation sure seemed less daunting after encountering my physical capabilities and deficiencies.

Ancient cultures often subjected their pre-teens to rituals and experiences to celebrate and honor the rite of passage of children becoming adults. Noticing a void in these types of rituals in American culture, Beth Bruno planned an entire year of adventure, homework and exploration of what it means to be a woman for her 12 year old daughter.

She set out to wreck her daughter, then wrote about it in A Voice Becoming: A Yearlong Mother-Daughter Journey into Passionate, Purposed Living.

Instead of prescribing how to live, she wanted her daughter to discover a paradigm of being that “elevates God to being so big we can’t fully understand Him and yet small enough to intimately know us” (p. 22). Beth planned a year to examine what breaks God’s heart in hopes her daughter’s heart would also break for those things.

Raising daughters requires us to do some soul-searching of our own. Who do we want her to become? How do we as mothers help her get there? How does our story impact hers? Though my daughter is just three years old, as her mother, I am already laying the foundation for the type of woman she will become.

If you have a daughter, A Voice Becoming will provide practical ideas for how to walk beside her with intentionality and humility as you guide her into what it means to be a woman.

Everyone else is vying to raise our girls—the internet, T.V., schools, their friends, and even Sunday school teachers. But what if we mothers took our roles as our daughter’s first teachers more seriously? What if instead of waiting for her to absorb the messages of the culture around her, we equipped her with the tools she needs to analyze, assess and one day even alter that culture?

A Voice Becoming is a challenge to women to step away from lackadaisical parenting and take back our girls. Beth models a move from passivity to actively engaging our daughters and walking beside them as they encounter the world.

She expertly weaves biblical stories, as well as her own tale of “becoming” throughout the book as she tells the story of guiding her daughter from the launch trip, through the five scaffolds of her year of Becoming, then culminating in a “legacy” event tailored to her daughter’s interests. She spends eight weeks on each of the five scaffolds: women lead, love, fight, sacrifice and create, integrating service projects, films, books and articles for her daughter to analyze throughout.

It would be difficult to read A Voice Becoming without being moved to action. That action requires purposeful planning to implement. It forces us mothers to excavate our own pasts to uncover and share our stories with our daughters. Planning this rite of passage for our daughters exposes our own fears, questions, gifts, and passions, so beware.

If you have a daughter under the age of 18 and long for her to love God with her feet and not just with her lips, I highly recommend reading and implementing the ideas in this book. Although some of the suggestions may be out of range for those with modest budgets, Beth provides creative ideas for funding and planning your daughter’s Becoming year.

In the final pages of A Voice Becoming, Beth’s activist heart bleeds with these words: “I want to be a hope-pusher, a darkness-disrupter, a justice-warrior, a grace-clinger. As I lead, love, fight, sacrifice, and create, I want to bring the fullness of who I am to the kingdom of God” (p. 162).

As mothers, one of our greatest privileges in life is to walk with our daughters in their journey of becoming strong women who love and live lives of love in a broken world; A Voice Becoming is a welcome companion on this journey.

As mothers, one of our greatest privileges in life is to walk with our daughters in their journey of becoming strong women who love and live lives of love in a broken world; A Voice Becoming is a welcome companion on this journey.

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***

WIN A FREE COPY OF A VOICE BECOMING!!!

ThA Book Review of A VOICE BECOMING {plus, A GIVEAWAY!}is week, I’m giving away two free hardback copies of A Voice Becoming.

One will be to those who comment on my Instagram post by midnight (MT) of January 18th and tag friends you think would be interested in this book. I’ll enter you one time for each new friend you tag!

Another will be for new subscribers to my newsletter between now and midnight of January 18th. Sign up for my mid-month digest and end-of-month SECRET NEWSLETTER here: 

On January 19th (my birthday, just FYI;-) ), I’ll announce the Instagram winner in the comments section of that post and email the winner of the newsletter sign-up!

 

You can buy A Voice becoming from Beth’s site or here on Amazon:

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

BETH BRUNO traded the Blue Ridge for the Rocky Mountains after two decades in mega cities. Upon graduating from Northwestern University in Chicago, she and her husband moved to an even larger city, Istanbul, where they led campus teams with Cru. Ten years later they moved to Seattle where Beth received an MA in International Community Development and launched a nonprofit aimed at preventing domestic minor sex trafficking. Beth regularly speaks and trains around the topic of trafficked youth, including interviews with local radio stations and lots of coffee with the FBI, Homeland Security, and local law enforcement.

**This post includes Amazon Affiliate links.

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