The Wisdom of Tears: When to Cry with Our Kids, When to Cry with Our Pillow

I remember it well, weeping in her arms over a lost love—a high school breakup. I poured my woes out onto her shoulder. She listened. But when I pulled back to wipe my tears, my pain paused. I saw her eyes. I noticed her tears.

My mother was crying with me. And her tears gave me comfort.

A burden carried. Together.

I struggle to keep my mouth shut when I listen to a mom convey a painful story involving one of her kids and she quickly adds, “But she didn’t see me cry. Yep, I saved that for my pillow.”

 

Photo courtesy of David Castillo/freedigitalimages.net

 

I want to say, “Cut! Can we rewind here? Let’s chat. Tell me, how did this help your child?” Not that I’m an authority on this. I’m not. I’m a mother who was once a child. That’s my experience. But I like to think about these things. And I have a question.

Is it always good to hide our tears from our kids?

On that fateful day in high school, when I thought my love life was over, I know my mother’s tears helped. She cried, but remained in control. Her tears were for me, not about her. I felt so loved. Heard. Treasured. She centered me.

Then she spoke words of encouragement with a summery, “This too shall pass.” And I moved forward.

Many years later, my husband and I adopted a daughter. (Obviously, my mother was right. My love life wasn’t over.) And I sought wisdom on adoption. Somewhere I read that between the ages of eight and ten, our daughter would begin to understand the intricacies of adoption—that there was loss involved in her adoption story. She would grieve.

And grieve she did. I’d find her in various chairs, at different times, off and on, throughout the next several months, all curled up. Tears rolling.

“What’s wrong?” I’d ask.

“I miss my birthmother and birthfather.” She has apraxia of speech and struggled to converse, but she found the perfect sentence to convey her feelings.

“It’s okay to cry,” I said. “I’m so sorry you hurt. You can cry as long as you need to.”

And time passed and so did her tears.

I don’t remember if I cried with my daughter through that time. But I’m sure I cried for her. She hurt, so I hurt.

But Anna was just beginning to move from concrete thinking to the abstract, from knowing she was adopted, to understanding what adoption means. My tears could have confused her. Children can see our tears and assume they are responsible for them. So they stop their tears in order to make mommy happy. And then they don’t get to be children. They choose to become comforters and bypass their need for comfort.

So should we always hide our tears? I don’t think so. But with each child and in each situation, we need to ask, “Is this a time to cry with them or for them? Will they understand they didn’t cause the tears?” Then we pray for wisdom.

And if a few tears fall freely, before our child can understand them, we can be quick to explain, “Mommy’s crying because . . .”

And smile.

 

The Rise and Shine Movement is committed to allowing children to have a childhood, so one day, they are free to be adults. Allowing our children to grieve is one way to achieve this.

The Wisdom of Relationship: Navigating the Whitewater of Life with Your Child

It was like the first day of Jr. High School all over again for me. With a lump in my throat, I stood at the top of the cliff and looked at the water below—the whitewater.

I was on mission. A step-out-of-my comfort zone mission. A kid mission. A momma on a mission. Take the Middle-Girl-Child on a get-away, that hopefully she’ll never forget, and talk about life, boys, sex, and Jr. High. And to do this, I had to love the twelve-year-old in a language she could understand and that meant—whitewater rafting.

You see, she’s a true-blue tomboy.

I had taken her older sister on a mission a few years earlier. Similar goals. Different language. The oldest is a bit more like me. We are not tomboys. So our adventure began at Asher’s Chocolate.

Yep, the oldest got to pick out a pound of chocolates. The only rule—eat them whenever you want—no restrictions. Then we drove to the salon. Manis and pedis, please! An hour later we, and our shiny nails, were off to the Pocono outlets for a little shopping and then my brother’s condo for a sleepover with chat time, junk food, and a movie. Oh, it was delightful! I knew how to pull this off. It was right up my comfort ally. I know the language. I can speak chocolate, shiny nails, and shopping.

Now I found myself at the top of the cliff, waiting in line, to traverse down primitive stairs etched into the side of the river bed, trying to look the part. But shaking in my water shoes. So much like my first day of Jr. High.

I looked around at my peers, my fellow whitewater rafters. All different shapes, sizes, ethnicities. Most were playing it cool, excited for the venture. But I wondered if any were nervous, like me. And I wondered if my soon-to-be junior higher was feeling a bit bubbly in the tummy as well. As I stated before, she’s a tomboy. If she was nervous, she wasn’t going to show it. I’d have to ask.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” she grinned.

“Me too.”

So unlike Jr. High where no one admits anything that might not be safe to admit. I was glad she felt safe with me. And I was glad I had sucked it up. Whitewater rafting was sure to provide more metaphors and word pictures to draw on to get Middle-Girl-Child through Jr. High, not without some bruises, but intact.

Before I knew it, we were preparing to enter the raft.  Two other adventurers joining us, a  play it cool lanky male, in his early twenties, and his, do you love me, do you really, really love me, girlfriend. (A writer can assess personalities, both strengths and character flaws, in a few short minutes. It’s a gift and a curse. Trust me.)

“So are you ready to be our captain?” Mr. Lanky, male child, soon to be man, asked.

“Ah, yeah,” I said, swallowing hard, wondering When will I learn? Why did I raise my stupid hand?

You see, before we left the rafting adventure center, they placed us in groups. Then they asked, “Who has ever done this before?” I raised my hand all strong and proud. “That’s your captain, folks!”

Note to self, I must tell Middle-Girl-Child to never raise her hand in Jr. High with a prideful attitude, unless, of course, she’s ready to accept all the consequences. Yet, I was pleased, another word picture to add to my lessons in How to Succeed in Jr. High without Really Dying.

 

So there I was, folks, in the back of the raft, paddle in hand. And like it or not, I was in charge, incredibly grateful for the rafting refresher course given, in fifteen quick minutes, back at the adventure center. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had to go on.

Mr. Lanky Boy, soon to man, was sitting to my right, Ms. Please, Please Love Me, directly in front of me, and my Middle-Girl-Child diagonally forward to my right. Our guides pushed us out into the river. Our six hour adventure began. And it was an adventure indeed.

Let me just stop and say, Mr. Lanky has no idea how many times I wanted to take my paddle and knock him and his annoying little comments right out of that raft. Hey bud, you don’t need to prove your manhood here. And stop speaking to your girlfriend like she’s stupid. And, yes, there were even a few times I wanted to smack Ms. Do You Love Me, Really, Really Love Me up side her pretty little desperate head. Honey, you’re worth more than this. Let him go, tell him to come back when he’s a man. But they were far more interested in their relationship dance, which was pitiful to watch, than getting us past the boulders and keeping us all in the raft.

However, I refrained. I chose to view it as more fodder for my lessons in How to Succeed in Jr. High without Really Dying. And I actually rallied all my momma instincts and reached long and far to keep Mr. Lanky and his gal in the raft on several occasions. Just call me Elasti-Momma.

But when I wasn’t focused on keeping the river rats and myself in the raft and we had some time to float and drift, I thought of all the ways whitewater rafting is like Jr. High.

The unseen boulders - Our guides told us that it’s not the boulders on the surface, making the most noise that can be the most dangerous. It’s those quiet, hidden masses of rock that can sneak up on you, that can send you flying out of the raft.

 Jr. High - Peer pressure. It’s quiet. Sneaky. It can send you places you don’t want to go.

Our instincts - Our guides also informed us that when you’re about to hit a boulder, your    instinct will be to slide your body away from the boulder. You want to move toward it, distributing your weight in the raft, so it won’t tip up into the air and dump you all into the water.

Jr. High - Fears. They will keep you from taking risks, good risks. Move toward your fear. Have courage.

My metaphors continued.

But then we encountered more and more whitewater, again and again. And I noticed something. When we were paddling, especially toward a boulder, the raft would pitch in directions I didn’t want it to go. I often felt like I was paddling alone.

Then wisdom surfaced. A wisdom that spoke quietly. The kind of wisdom that speaks from having done this before, from parenting for the second-time around and knowing that in parenting, one plus one rarely equals two.  I listened.

You can give Middle-Girl-Child all the word pictures you want comparing Jr. High with whitewater rafting. Word pictures are good. But what good are they if she goes through Jr. High thinking—she’s paddling alone?

 
So I spent the rest of the day, attempting to stay in the moment, simply enjoying the trip with my daughter. Because if I’ve learned anything over my twenty-six years of parenting it’s this:

The battle against most of the perils of Jr. High and beyond

 are best fought on the field of relationship.

Later, on our ride home, I spoke wisdom, in as few words as possible.

“I’m wondering. When we were on the river, did you ever feel like you were paddling alone?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I did.”

“I did too, especially when we were heading right toward a boulder. Jr. High can feel a lot like that. And sometimes you’re going to feel like your paddling alone. What are your dreams? What are the things you most want to do with your life?”

She’s a thinker. She had a list and shared them with me.

“I want those things for you too. And I’m here to help you get there. To help you achieve those dreams, I believe, God has placed in your heart. But here’s the thing, sometimes in Jr. High, you’re going to feel like I’m not paddling with you. You’re going to want to go one direction and if I think it’s not going to help you achieve your dreams, I’m going to steer you in another. But please know, when we were on that raft, facing that whitewater, no matter how it felt, I was always paddling with you. And no matter how you feel in Jr. High, you are not alone. I’m paddling with you.”

 

Sometimes the best wisdom we can share with our kids is to just shut-up and be there—be fully there.



If you would like to continue to read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog here. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.

The Wisdom of Bread Crusts, Novels, and Naps: Encouragement for Too Pooped to Party Mommas

I remember riding out of the church parking lot, the back of the mini-van stuffed with kids, passing by one empty nest, middle-age mother after another, my jealousy brewing. I thought  . . .

Ms. Blonde. I bet she’s going to recline on her sofa this afternoon and read a novel. An empty nest meant more time to relax, uninterrupted.

 

Mrs. Auburn. I bet her husband is taking her to lunch. An empty nest meant some extra cash, less cooking.

The Brunette. I bet she’s going to a quiet house to take a nap today. An empty nest meant more time to rest, refuel.

I know these things, because I was once so close to the empty nest, I could see it. Feel it. Almost touch it. But if you remember my story, you know, just as I was near the end of my full nest, three precious little girls flew in.

And, yes, on this particular Sunday morning, this Second-hand Mother, the Mother of the Cottage was having a woe is me moment. Wondering how I ended up in a mini-van. Again. And who the heck were all these kids.

So I did what I usually do when I’m overwhelmed and feeling like a scum. I cried out to the Lord of the Heaven’s. “Why me? Why now? Why? Why? Why? Help!”

But when I finally stopped whining and listened to the CD playing softly in the background, I heard this song--not just the music--but the words. And I found the strength to ride on, in that mini-van, home to make lunch.

 

 

So if today is one of those days, you know, those days, and you’re wondering if this service, we call motherhood, is worth it? Give yourself a few minutes, and hear these words above life’s noise. And during nap-time, if you can just let the dishes sit in the sink, the laundry lay in the pile, recline on your sofa, read that novel, munch on those leftover P and J crusts, doze-off. Let’s not let those empty nesters have all the R&R!

 

 

If you would like to continue to read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog here. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.

 

The Wisdom of Simple Prayers

The Handsome Aging Husband had to go slow in his relationship with The Three Little Girls. Father-figures weren’t safe. And he did. But there came a time when it seemed natural for him to tuck The Three Little Girls into bed at night. So, he did.

Then one morning after such a time, the eldest of the three, the eight-year-old mother, came bounding into the kitchen, a smile lighting her face. “Last night when Uncle Ken was praying, he thanked Jesus for making me special and asked Jesus to keep me safe. I liked that.”

 

Image courtesy of tungphoto/freedigitalimages.net

 

And the Mother of the Cottage smiled. She liked that too.

If you would like to continue read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-Hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog here. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.

The Wisdom of Slow

It’s been five years since The Mother of the Cottage said, “Yes,” to the Lord of the Heavens and opened her home to The Three Little Girls.

Five years.

Time. Where does it go? In those five years, I’ve moved from my early forties to the later. Fifty is approaching. Fast and furious. Crazy!

And the girls are growing. Growing in stature. Growing in trust.

They didn’t trust us when they came. Nor should they have. I knew this going in. Each reaction, each day, was going to be a test. And sometimes I passed. Sometimes I failed. I knew in my heart of hearts that as much as I wanted to be a healing balm, I am not the Healer. I would add my own flaws to the mix.

I pray they are few.

My husband’s exam was even more challenging. He had to go slow. Slow to speak. Slow to react. Slow to touch. Father figures weren’t safe.

So he went S.L.O.W.

And one day he received his blessing for slow.

The eldest, she saw much, experienced much. The protector of her little sisters. The eight-year-old mother.

We were hanging out on the deck of my sister’s vacation home. Playing a game. Our older kids doing their thing. Acting out words, so others could guess.

That’s when I witnessed his blessing—the A on his exam.

And it took my breath away.

 

She was giggling. A joyful, no holds barred moment. And just as naturally as all my kids, she forgot her reserve and hopped up on his lap, her arms surrounded his neck.

And, for me, time stopped … just long enough to capture a memory.

 

 

If you would like to continue read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-Hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog here. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.

Expectin' Perfection? Wisdom from a Second-hand Momma

She stood at my front door. Tears in her eyes. A toddler in the stroller, by her side. “I blew it,” she said. “ I yelled at her. What’s wrong with me? I wanted this child more than anything. I’ve never done this before.”

She had waited years for a baby. Untold doctor visits. Countless procedures. Numerous miscarriages. Endless tears. But then her joy was complete. A baby girl. Healthy. Strong. Beautiful.

And sinful.

Image courtesy of Clare Bloomfield/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Yeah, sinful.

I know. Who has a heart to call a precious, wanted, and longed for child sinful?

I did. Let’s just say, I was a bit stressed out that day and was a year's worth of dirty diapers, temper tantrums, and a few yells ahead of her.

“Mary, she’s sinful just like the rest of us.” I said. “She’s going to get on your nerves, pluck your feathers, make you mad, do things wrong.” The words slid off my tongue. I didn’t even know if she believed in sin or hem, hem . . . sinful children. It was one of those moments when you hear your words and think, What the heck am I saying? She’s going to think I’m nuts! Just call me Frank.

But I continued, invited them inside, while attempting a softer approach. “You can’t beat yourself up over it. You’re not going to do this perfectly and that’s okay. Motherhood is hard.”

Mary still reminds me of that morning and my word choice. We laugh. Her baby girl is all grown up now, a lovely woman. She had survived her mother’s first yell and probably several more along her way toward adulthood.

And Mary and her daughter are the best of friends.

Parenthood is hard. We all blow it from time to time. Even a momma like me, parenting for the second time around. But sometimes, the best gift we can give our kids is to not expect perfection from them or ourselves.

Some Momma Battles Are Best Left Unfought

I’ve been thinking a lot about boys lately—my boys. I have three of them, one taller and meatier, and two not-so-tall and on the lean side. They’re all adults now, so we talk about stuff—stuff you don’t chat about when they’re younger because all you’d get is a grunt, a groan, an eye roll, and little perspective. Now they indulge me. I like that.

Today I was talking with one, of the not-so-tall ones, who is on the lean side. He said something that I thought was worth posting (with his permission, of course).

He said, “Some people were meant to move boulders and others were meant to climb them.”

Imagine courtesy of Sura Nualpradid/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 That made this momma smile. Smile from my gut.

You see, for far too long, he’s felt bad about not being able to physically move boulders. I’ve observed that it’s tough being a not-so-tall, lean young man, in this world that honors height and strength. I would imagine it’s even harder when the taller, meatier males decide to demonstrate their strength using your lean body as their weights. This happens. I’ve witnessed it, not from his taller, meatier brother—he’s a gentle soul, but from others.

You stand there, as his momma, watching, as all the dudes laugh it off, but you notice—not everyone’s laughing. It’s all you can do not to march up to the big guy and stamp on his foot and yell, “Put him down. NOW! You ... YOU, BULLY!” But you don’t, because you know that would only make your son feel worse. He doesn't want his momma fighting his battles. So you watch. You wait. You pray. And you guide him into other areas to build his confidence.

And on that day, when he realizes that he was meant to climb boulders, you celebrate and cheer him on as he climbs.

A Lesson from a Little Boy and a Big Tornado

I smiled as I listened to the little boy, an Oklahoma tornado survivor, give an account of the reunion with his dad, after the devastation, during a radio interview.

“I saw you [his father] and I just jumped, because I knew you’d catch me,” he said.

He jumped because he knew.

He jumped because he trusted.

What a beautiful image, after such a devastating tragedy—a son jumping into his daddy’s arms with abandon, without a second thought.

I love that!

And then I imagined—a different child, a boy or a girl—after a different kind of devastation saying,

“I saw you and I just told, because I knew you’d listen to me, believe me, and take action.”

The child tells because he knows.

The child tells because she trusts.

And then I smiled as I thought, If adults would begin the conversation, regarding sexual abuse, with the kids they love, more children could live life without a devastating secret.

I love that!

Image courtesy of Ambro/FreeDigitalImages.net

When we teach our kids about sexual abuse, we build a trusting relationship with them. It’s summertime. Time to relax. But don’t relax until you’ve talked with your kids. Begin the conversation. Build the bridge. Break the silence. RiseAndShineMovement.org

Not Feeling Like an Amazing Momma? Advice from a Second-hand Mother

“I could have been an amazing mother if I could have just parented our kids a week at a time,” I said, confessing to my husband.

“You are an amazing mother,” he said—always the encourager.

“Well maybe so, but I just had the best week with the girls. We baked, did crafts, read stories, I didn’t even need to worry about dinner. If I didn’t have to worry about cleaning this house and cooking, I’d be the most amazing mother!”

Can you relate?

It’s the stuff we have to do in life that gets in the way of our amazing. I know this, because, you see, I’m a mother parenting for the second time around.

My four kids were nearly grown, launched, out-a-here, when God brought three little sisters to my door step. We started keeping them a week at a time. A momma for a week. It worked.

I had time to plan. I knew when they were coming. The dates scratched on my calendar months in advance. Craft ideas planned and purchased. Check. Meal ideas, planned and groceries purchased. Check. Check. A thorough cleaning before they arrived. CHECK. I was ready. My ducks were in a row. And, perhaps more honestly, I knew there was an end. I could shop and clean next week. It was time to play and do mother stuff. The fun stuff.

Image courtesy of Stewart Miles/FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

 And I was AMAZING! And I felt AMAZING!

Then came a summer.

Then the summer ended.

And then . . . the point of no return. Literally.

They came. They stayed. Oh, and yes, they conquered.

I could barely breathe. So much to plan. No time to plan.  So much to consider. No time to consider. It was no longer camp at Aunt Carolyn’s. It. Was. Life.

“Sorry kiddo, I can’t help you with that puzzle, I’ve got to go make a grocery list.”

“Stop what you’re doin.’ Everybody in the mini-van, NOW! We’re outa milk.”

“Sorry Squirt, I can’t read right now, the cat just used the mound of dirty laundry for his litter box.”

You would think because I’d already parented before, it would have been easier. I’m a second-hand mother for crying out loud. Ha! So much for thinking.

Oh, if motherhood, well . . . could just be motherhood. If we didn’t have to be a maid, a teacher, a personal administrator, the cook, the house keeper, the taxi driver, the recreation director, the “If you don’t get this right, you’re going to screw up the lives of three otherwise healthy human beings” director. Yeah. Did I miss anything? (Please feel to comment below.)

I don’t know about you, but sometimes, I’d just like to parent a week at a time. So then I can feel amazing.

But somehow I think it’s in the feelings where I can lose perspective with AMAZING.

My kids do need clean underwear, whether doing laundry makes me feel amazing or not.

My kids do need meals, whether grocery shopping or making dinner makes me feel amazing or not.

My kids do need a semi-organized home, whether cleaning up makes me feel amazing or not.

Yes, I think we can be amazing mothers, whether we feel that way or not.

Can a Mother Find Rest? HOPE for Too-Pooped-to-Party Moms

I sent my pal an email today. We had bailed out of the last day of a training conference last week to go home and be moms. I wrote, “So glad we didn’t go Saturday. I needed to be a mom and rest—not sure rest and mom fit in the same line, but somehow I managed to do both.”

Is life tugging at you? Are you too pooped to function, let alone party?

Yep, I get that way too. I no sooner run toward one end the see-saw and the other end soars up into the air. My stomach rolls. I do a flip with a twist. Land with bent knees. A jolt. Facing the opposite direction. Racing toward the other end, I attempt to bring balance back to this thing called life.

Exhausted. Grumpy. Overwhelmed. Out of balance. Dizzy.

This does not make for a happy contented Carolyn. This does not make for a peaceful, contented mom. And if mom ain’t happy . . .

So how did rest and motherhood collide for me last weekend and land in the same sentence on Monday?

I ignored a bunch of crap. Yeah, crap. Crap like dusty furniture, sticky floors, and dirty laundry. Crap like weedy flowerbeds, empty flower pots, and grimy porch furniture.

And I played. Yeah, played. My daughter had a craft project she wanted to complete for a teacher who is retiring. So we hopped in the mini-van, went to Lowes, and got our supplies. Then we made a mess. A big mess. But in the mess, we made a gift for someone else. And a memory.

 

Image courtesy of Lisa McDonald at FreeDigitalPhoto.net

I don’t know how you play. Perhaps for you, a craft project is torture. I get that. But have you played recently? Do you remember how? Take some time to reminisce and then play. Play with one of your kids or all of them. Play until you giggle. Play until you don’t care about the mess. Just play. And in the play, I promise you—you will find rest.

  

We will always have the crap. But we won’t always have our kids. I know this to be true, because I’m a momma parenting for the second time around.

When was the last time you played? I'd love to hear about it. Add a comment, and I'll draw one winner at random for a FREE copy of Nowhere but Up: The Story of Justin Bieber's Mom. The winner will be posted next Thursday. So, be sure to stop back.

Share this post with a friend. I humbly thank you.

A Little Man, a Yellow Bus, and a BIG Attitude

Ben was only five years old and three foot nothing. But on this day, he had the confidence of a six-foot-three, two hundred pound male.

He stood next to his four year old little sister, Anna, by the front door. We watched her bus pull up to the curb. I opened the door to let Anna walk out and Ben slipped right out with her. “Ben, where are you going?” I asked.

With one hand on his hip and the other around Anna’s shoulder, he said, “I’m walking her to the bus. No one’s gonna pick on my sister!”

Image courtesy of Arvind Balaraman/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It was one of those Moma-proud moments.

My heart was already weary for Anna’s future. Starting her in home speech therapy at age two and now sending her out to a therapeutic nursery school was more than I was ready for. To make matters worse, that BIG little yellow school bus just seemed to swallow her up each morning and spit her out each afternoon. And when she had come home in tears the day before and had told me in broken sentences that someone had teased her, I was done. So done! My Moma heart hurt.

But I never noticed Ben had taken it all in. He had remembered Anna’s tears from the day before and when that BIG little yellow school bus pulled up, he was ready.

I continued to watch in amazement from the door. He marched his attitude and his sister safely up to the bus door and said, “Bye.” Then he stared at the bus, hands on his hips, as it drove away. His mission accomplished.

I don’t know if Ben’s presence made an impression on the teaser on the bus, but I do know the teasing stopped.

I also knew that I wasn’t the only one who was concerned about protecting Anna. She had a BIG older brother who would be watching out for her too. And my Moma heart danced.

This weeks prevention tip:

It’s a lonely place, attempting to protect our kids by ourselves. But we don’t have to do it alone. When we speak about sexual abuse to those around us, we break the silence and draft others on our team. Because the more we speak about it, the more others know about it. And when we work together, we protect our kids better.

Your Fifth Chance to Protect Children and Win a Prize (Poster #5)

Remember, I want you to be free to be everything you were created to be.

Sexual abuse damages a child’s heart, mind, and soul. It takes away a child’s voice, their ability to trust, their sense of worthiness, their freedom to become all they were created to be.

We take many actions to protect our children from harm, car seats, safety latches, bike helmets, etc… And actions often speak louder than words. But we can never go wrong adding words to our actions. “Remember, I want you to be free to be everything you were created to be” are precious words our children (no matter their age) need to hear. They help you build a strong, sturdy bridge of communication with your kids when you speak with them about sexual abuse. Speak them often, so your children’s hearts can hear the whisper.

This week's poster

Please see contest rules and help us protect kids by sharing our poster/s on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/RiseAndShineMovement), Twitter(https://twitter.com/RiseNShineMove), and Pinterest (http://pinterest.com/RiseNShineMove).

 When we work together, 

we can protect more children.

Thank YOU!!!

Your Fourth Chance to Protect Children and Win a Prize (Poster #4)

Remember, No Matter What, We Will Always Love You.

We take many actions to protect our children from harm, car seats, safety latches, bike helmets, etc… And actions often speak louder than words. But we can never go wrong adding words to our actions. “Remember, no matter what, we will always love you,” are precious words our children (no matter their age) need to hear. They help you build a strong, sturdy bridge of communication with your kids when you speak with them about sexual abuse. Speak them often, so your children’s hearts can hear the whisper.

This week's poster

Please see contest rules and help us protect kids by sharing our poster/s on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/RiseAndShineMovement), Twitter(https://twitter.com/RiseNShineMove), and Pinterest (http://pinterest.com/RiseNShineMove).

 When we work together, 

we can protect more children.

Thank YOU!!!

Your Third Chance to Protect Children and Win a Prize (Poster #3)

Remember, you can tell me anything. 

We take many actions to protect our children from harm, car seats, safety latches, bike helmets, etc… And actions often speak louder than words. But we can never go wrong adding words to our actions. “Remember, you can tell me anything,” are precious words our children (no matter their age) need to hear. They help you build a strong, sturdy bridge of communication with your kids when you speak with them about sexual abuse. Speak them often, so your children’s hearts can hear the whisper.

and/or

Please see contest rules and help us protect kids by sharing our poster/s on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/RiseAndShineMovement), Twitter (https://twitter.com/RiseNShineMove), and Pinterest (http://pinterest.com/RiseNShineMove).

 When we work together, 

we can protect more children.

Thank YOU!!!

Your Second Chance to Protect Children and Win a Prize (Poster # Two)

We take many actions to protect our children from harm, car seats, safety latches, bike helmets, etc… And actions often speak louder than words. But we can never go wrong adding words to our actions.

Remember, I am here to protect you

are precious words our children need to hear. They help us build a strong, sturdy bridge of communication with our children when we speak to them about sexual abuse. We must speak them often, so our children’s hearts can hear the whisper.

This Week’s Poster for Our Contest

Please see contest rules and help us protect kids by sharing our poster on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.

 When we work together, we can protect more children.

Thank YOU!!!

The Best Laid Plans of Dogs and Mommas

I had to cancel a lunch date with a heart friend today. (Heart friends are friends you can open your soul to, they see the yuck and still love you.) We were headed to one of our favorite spots—Sweet Memories in Emmaus, Pa. It’s a tea room with a whole lot of whimsy and the best coconut cake ever. Don’t like coconut? Sorry. When you can’t eat chocolate, you develop passions for other sweets. Hey, a girl’s gotta have a vice doesn't she? But I digress.

Image courtesy of Grant Cochrane/freedigital images.net

Anyhow, this special pal takes off work almost every year to give me the best Christmas present ever—herself, Sweet Memories, and a little thrift store shopping. I’m as passionate about our girlfriend date as a dog digging up his favorite bone. Nothing will come between me and our special day. But today I had to cancel. Why? 

A sick kid.

Sick kids can change even the best laid plans. And believe me, seven kids and nearly twenty-six years of baring the title, “Momma,” have led to many of my best laid plans stamped “Mission Aborted.” And can I be honest with you? Could you be my heart friend for a minute? Sometimes I've handled the shift in my plans with grace and well, sometimes I've handled them not so gracefully. I’m not going to divulge the details; I don’t want to lose your friendship. Just know that my face without grace ain't pretty, girlfriend.  

But today, I chose grace. I’m not sure why exactly. Perhaps it was because when I told my husband last night about my impending mission to abort, he felt sad with me. He understands the sacrifice we've made, laying down our nearly empty nest in the decision to parent three more kids. No judgment on his part. Sweet grace.

Or perhaps it was the grace granted by my heart friend when I called her to abort the mission. We have years of friendship recorded in our history books. She knows I would be with her if I could and that children get sick. Grace. We felt sad together for a moment, but then searched our calendars for another date.

Image courtesy of John Kasawa/freedigitalimages.net

So I put on my grace face today. I don’t know if I’d call it pretty, pretty sounds cheap pared with a word like grace. But I do know this, to my sick child—it’s beautiful!

And my coconut cake? I’m sure it will taste just as good in a month or two. Today I’m savoring something greater, something lasting. Because sometimes a girl can have her grace and share it too.

Children given grace feel safe and secure. And they are more likely to tell us when something doesn't feel right or they've experienced something inappropriate. We need to strive to be heart parents.

What Do We Have to Lose?

I remember the giggles and the gasps shared quietly on the playground. I remember our conclusion as to how babies are made. It was creative, straight from my best friend and my fourth grade imaginations. But we were dead wrong. Not even close. According to our fourth grade wisdom, baby-making involved candle wax and fathers with the skills of master sculptures. I'll just leave it at that.

Image courtesy of Phaitoon/FreeDigitialPhotos.net

I’m not sure if either of us truly believed our deduction or for how long. We were two nine year olds with a question and no answer. So we did what children do, we created one.

Children are going to discuss issues of sexuality whether we give them accurate information or not. Pedophiles know that children without accurate information find it difficult to tell when they are violated.

What do we have to lose by giving children the information they seek? What do we have to lose by protecting our kids from those who seek to take away their innocence? I can’t think of anything. Can you?

A Parable about Potty-parts (Part 2)

*The following is the continuation of a fictional story I told you last week that is based on a true life possibility. You were the momma or the poppa in the story. Oh, and remember, you have a daughter named Krista, age 5.

Last week on Tamar’s Redemption:  Krista told you while displaying a mouth-full of chicken nuggets that Brady touched her “potty parts”. In addition she’s revealed that Brady is a big kid and he touched her during recess. Before you could process what she was saying, she told you that her friend Gaby is getting a dog and she wants one.

I gave you a test to see how you should respond to Krista. You were wise. Smart. You chose answer D regarding how to respond to Krista’s disclosure.

 D. You say, “Krista, I’m glad Gaby is getting a dog. We can talk about dogs later. Thank you for telling me about Brady and that he touched you at recess. It’s always good to tell me about things that bother you. Right now, I’d like you to tell me a little bit more about it.” You calmly ask open-ended questions like: “Where were you during recess when this happened? Who was there? And then what happened? And then?

Our story continues.

“Can you tell me how old Brady is?” You ask.

“I don’t know, but he’s in fifth grade.”

“Where were you playing at recess?”

“Near the swing set.” She stops eating her nuggets. “With Julia and Katie. But Brady said he wanted to play a game.” She looks down at her feet.

“It’s okay, Krista. You can tell me. What happened next?”

“Brady said the game would be fun, but we could only play it down over the hill.” She stares over your shoulder.

“Then what happened?”

“He told me to come with him, that I could go first.”

You gently wipe a crumb of nugget breading from her cheek. “Then what happened.”

“I went. I . . . I didn’t like the game.”

“Tell me about the game, honey.” 

“Brady told me that I couldn’t or he would tell everyone that I like him and  . . .”

You tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “And what?”

“He said he would tell everyone that I touched him.”

“It’s okay. Remember, you can tell me anything. I won’t be mad. What happened next?”

***

I’m going to end the version with the open-ended questions here.

But what if you hadn’t asked open-ended questions? Your conversation may go something like this.

                                                                    ***

 “Krista, we’ll talk about dogs later,” you say. “How old is Billy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he in fifth or sixth grade?”

“Fifth, I think, maybe sixth? I’m not sure.”

“Were you playing with your friends or just Brady?”

She stops eating her nuggets. “With Julia, Katie, and Brady.”

“Well, what were you playing, some kinda touching game or something?”

“No, yes, no. I mean . . . we were playing on the swings and then down over the hill. I don’t like Brady. He makes me mad.”

“Where did he did he touch you, on the front of your bottom or the back?”

“I told you. On my potty-parts.”

                                                                 ***

Image curtesty of David Castillo Dominici

Leading questions can confuse children. They want to give the correct answer, but when you give them choices they feel they must choose one of your answers. However, these answers may not be the correct answers at all. Keep your questions open-ended, and when you have enough information to know that something questionable happened, contact the authorities. Trained forensic investigators understand how to gently find out what really happened to your child and if further investigation is needed.

Teaching our children the proper names for their private parts helps them communicate clearly. When we listen, ask open-ended questions, and don’t jump to conclusions, we find the truth.

Assaulted by the Green-eyed Monster

Prologue

"It's not fair! She always gets invited to sleepovers." I could see the green ooze rising up in child Q's eyes as she spewed forth her injustice.

"Not true," I said. "You were just at a sleepover a few weeks ago, and you certainly have been to more birthday parties than your sister."

I could see, by child Q's pursed lips, scrunched nose, and squinted eyes that my opening arguments were not going to win the case. In her mind, an injustice was done. And there was no way to rectify it.

Chapter 1

Ah jealousy. It creeps up on us. Twists our thoughts. Grabs hold of our hearts. I can see it clearly when it glows green in the eyes of the little women in my life, but what about when the green ooze rises up in me? It's hard to see with green goop in my eyes, so I don't notice it at first. But for me, this is generally how it goes.

"You got your book published? How wonderful!" I say to the smiling author.

She beams back at me, displaying a full set of perfectly whitened teeth and sporting a California tan.

I grumble inside. She's just too perky. I bet that little perky personality landed her that book deal. I bet she doesn't have any kids at home either, or her perfect husband sent her off to some remote beach house with a blessing spoken through shining white teeth, "Go ahead, Darling. I'll make dinner, help the kids with their homework, and even do the laundry while you're away. Don't you worry about a thing. And, Sweetheart, feel free to stay until your book's written . . . from the dedication to the epilogue." (And believe me, I've had worse thoughts, but one can't write such things on blogs about redemption—lest you think I haven't been redeemed. ;)

Yep, the green-eyed monster gets me sometimes, and when I finally take a peek in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. It's U-G-L-Y!

Imagine courtesy of Xedos4/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Chapter 2

So how do I slay this monster? I begin by praying for my victim—the one I thought all of those nasty thoughts about. I pray for her success. Then I think, Maybe that book deal has taken her years of blood, sweat, and tears. Maybe underneath all her pretty teeth is a person who has tasted pain far greater than I've ever experienced. What if her husband or child died tomorrow? Would I still be jealous? Do I really want her life? Or mine?

And somehow, I don't feel so jealous anymore.

Epilogue

The morning after the sleepover was dreary. The sister's eyes were heavy with fever. She had missed the sleepover.

Child Q sat eating her cereal, healthy and strong. And I, having lived a few more years, having had to slay a few more green-eyed monsters, took the time to pass along my hard-earned wisdom. “Hey kiddo, let me tell you a story about how I once raised my sword and slayed a green-eyed monster.”