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 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.

A Touch of Gray and Ounce of Wisdom, Tamar's Redemption Thursdays

 Hope and Encouragement for Moms

Once again the breakfast bar at our kitchen counter was strewn with homework papers and books. There was no place for a cereal bowl or even a spoon. I was frustrated. How many times do I have to tell her to put her stuff away? It was late. I was pooped.  She’ll hear about this in the morning.

Yet, the morning came, and I was unusually chipper. Amazing what rest can do.

She stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen on her sleepy mission to prepare for school. I had a choice. I could conjure up my frustration from the night before and let it fly. Or I could pull her aside, place a loving arm around her shoulder, and turn her toward the breakfast bar. Then ask calmly, with a lilt in my voice and a grin on my face, “So my dear, how do you expect anyone to eat breakfast with all your stuff on the counter?”

I chose the latter. I chose it because I’m a bit older, grayer, and wiser these days. You see, I’m parenting for the second time around. I have four mostly grown and launched children who have flown or nearly flown from the nest. They were my guinea pigs. I tried all sorts of parenting experiments on them. Thankfully they lived. And they do tell about it.

Yet in the middle season of my life, with my nest appearing more empty than full, God brought me new test cases—three little girls. Sisters. Filled with pain. Needing a mom. And believe me, I feel woefully inadequate for the job. Most days, I shoot up prayers for wisdom on a moment by moment basis.

But on this morning, I had an extra ounce of wisdom.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You are forgiven,” I said. “And loved.”

You see, I figure she can’t hear those words enough.

And truth be told, neither can I.

What words do you long to hear today? Perhaps your kids need to hear them too.

Rocking Around the Relationships

I could hear the frustration building in their conversation, two young mothers discussing Christmas gifts for their kids. The questions of how many presents, what kind of presents, and comments of Johnny wants this and Susie wants that, were bubbling forth like froth from freshly poured root beer. I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was just sitting in a rocker next to them soothing a colicky baby in the church nursery and remembering . . . remembering what it was like years ago when I had the same questions, the same overwhelming feeling, and the same stress. Still, I was trying to mind my own business—really.

Then one of them turned toward me, making it my business. “What do you do for your kids at Christmas?”

“Yeah,” the other mother said, “with your seven kids and all, do you do a Pollyanna exchange or something?” (She was still trying to wrap her mind around the size of my family. I could tell. This happens often.)

I smiled and thought, Yep, adding three more kids to our family two and a half years ago has put a strain on our budget, but it hasn’t come to that yet. “No,” I said, “my kids get three presents just like Jesus did. A wise friend shared that idea with me years ago. It’s helped me manage the Christmas stress throughout the years.”

“Wow, that’s a great idea!” the first mother said.

“Yeah!” the other agreed.

Then mother Number One got serious, leaned in, and nearly whispered, “But did your kids ever say anything? I mean . . . were they disappointed that that’s all they got?”

She wanted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“You know, I don’t remember any comments, but it’s a fair question. I think I’ll go home and ask my two children who are now young adults.”

It’s enlightening having honest conversations with adult children. Some things you want to hear, some things you don’t. Ah, but having a relationship with your kids—ROCKS! So I asked them, individually and privately, how they felt about receiving just three gifts at Christmas.

Here are their responses:

First Born, “It never really bothered me except one Christmas, when I was hanging out with my friends, and I heard about all the stuff Joe got. But you know, I really don’t think the three present “thing” has hurt me at all.” (He's a social worker. He thinks about the overall affect on a life in terms of permanent damage.)

Second Born, “Only during times when kids were comparing their stuff, but that’s not what Christmas is about. It’s about family. It’s about being together.” (He's our social one. If there's a party, he's there.)

We long as parents to give our kids an amazing moment each Christmas morning. Believe me, I get that. I still try to have at least one present each child opens up that makes their eyes sparkle and makes me feel like I’m the best momma in the world. But we all know it’s not about the gifts or my feeling like the best momma. It’s about the relationships. It’s about belonging. Being known. Being loved. And together celebrating the relationship we can have with God. For long ago, he sent His son just because He longs to be in relationship with us. And He thinks being in relationship with His kids—ROCKS!

What are you doing to keep your stress level low this holiday season?


Don't forget to leave a comment to enter my fiftieth blog post celebration. See previous post.

Protecting Our Kids: The Foundation (Part Two)

Piglet: "How do you spell love?"

Pooh: "You don't spell it. You feel it." (A. A. Milne)

A wise statement from a bear whose head is stuffed with fluff, don't ya think? Pooh and his friends always make me smile and long to climb into the pages of the book and spend a day in The Hundred Acre Wood. If only life could be that innocent, that safe, for us and for our children.

But the statistics shout even if we ignore them. One out of every four girls and one out of every six boys will be sexually violated by their eighteenth birthday. Sexual abuse is an epidemic. It won't just disappear. So how do we, as loving parents, begin to inoculate our children against this heinous threat? Let's dissect the wisdom from our little friend, Pooh.

We spell love in many ways for our children. We provide food, clothing, and shelter. We help with homework, taxi them to games and concerts, take them to their well checks once a year, and the list goes on and on. But we can spell it forwards and backwards, upside down and right-side-up, and if our children don't feel loved, we've opened the door wide for an abuser to abuse. Children who don't feel loved are easy targets for perpetrators, and perpetrators are looking for easy targets.

So how do children feel loved? I'll defer to the experts on this one and recommend two books. (I know, I know, who has time to read? I promise you, these books are worth the time.)

In his best selling book, How to Really Love Your Child, Dr. Ross Campell encourages parents to convey love to their children through four areas: eye contact, physical contact, focused attention, and discipline. It's my favorite parenting book. A friend recommended it to me long ago. I needed it. I'm a "doer". I like to get things done--check things of my list. "Doers" buzz right by Dr. Campell's first three principles. Believe me, my kids are better off because I read the book and now that I'm entering take-two of my parenting (foster children), it's time for me to read it again.

The Five Love Languages of Children, by Dr. Gary Chapman and Dr. Ross Campell, is another great read for parents who want their children to feel loved. The authors divide how children (and adults) "hear" love into five languages: physical touch, words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, and acts of service. I have a child who's a hugger. He grabs a hold of his momma often. His momma, who's not a hugger, but a quality time kinda gal, needs to grab a hold of her hugger often. That's how he best understands love. Great book.

Over the next several weeks I'll give you more tips on how to protect your kids, but nothing will give your kids more protection than your love communicated in ways your children can understand it, or as Pooh Bear wisely states, in ways they can feel it.

Building a relationship with your children where they feel loved and valued is the second step in protecting them from sexual abuse. Refusing to ignore the epidemic of childhood sexual abuse is the where we begin.

A Little Botox, Please! (Part 1)

He sat across the booth from us in Applebees with twenty-two years of wisdom under his belt. Not much when you compare it to my forty-five years of wisdom and my husband's forty-nine years. Put our years together and you get a grand total of ninety-four years of collective wisdom. Impressive. Intimidating. But not to him.

"Mom and Dad, I need to talk to you about something." Always good with eye contact, his gaze didn't waver. "I've been noticing the girls are watching too much TV."

I took a deep breath and forced my eyes to remain steady, locked in a smiling position. No Botox needed.

"You never let me watch that much TV. Do you know all the things I did when I was a kid because of that?"

He didn't give us a chance to reply.

His eyes still engaged, "I played with Lego's for hours. I read books. Made up games. Played..."

Twenty-two years of life. Most of them childhood. With his youthful memory, he had quite an exhaustive list.

Gotta admit, I was glad he remembered his childhood that way. Felt like a hefty paycheck to this underpaid servant to family and society. I wasn't so sure I'd kept the TV off enough. Even without cable, the temptation to use the entertainment box as a babysitter had gotten the best of me more than I care to admit (not that I counted or could remember if I had). And now with well over a hundred channels and beyond, this tired old momma and papa were loosing the battle, and my son noticed.

He continued. "They should be doing...and playing..."

At this point I really could have used some Botox. I'm sure my eyes lowered. I did my best to move them back into the smiling position. Giving my husband no room to interject, I said, "Luke, do you know who has to do all of that stuff with them at their ages? Me!" I wanted to plead my case with a little more passion, tell him that after nearly raising four children to adulthood and now having little ones underfoot again, I had a right to be selfish with MY time, and..., but I realized self-pity wasn't very attractive, and I was sure it was exposing itself in my eyes. Giving the muscles around my tired eyes another workout, I pushed my lids up again and smiled.

He nodded. His eyes compassionate.

I took a mental step backwards and listened to wisdom. Isn't this the kind of son you wanted? He's bringing a concern to the table, unafraid, with respect, with concern for others.

Again, not giving my husband time to speak (I struggle with that sometimes), my face softened, and I forgot about my eyes. "Thanks, Luke. You're right."

Then together, husband included, we became problem solvers. Our solution: No TV on school nights...even if their homework is done.

We told the girls that afternoon. I braced myself for the worst. We got very few complaints as the days turned to weeks which turned to months. Then one day...

Stop by next week to see if I made an appointment for Botox.

Confessions of an Imperfect Mom

“Mom, where are my cleats?”

“Mommy, where’s my back pack? ”

“Mahhhther, I can’t find any socks…”

I have to admit, I don’t always respond well when my kids whine because they can’t find their stuff. I’ve been known to quip back cynically, “I don’t know where your cleats are. I haven’t worn them lately.” Or I do my best martyr impression as I mumble under my breath for all to hear, “Am I the only person in this house that knows where anything is?” I never hear them ask their father these questions.

Oh, the never-ending demands of motherhood. It’s hard being the one my children rely on. Yet, I’ve found when I respond to my kids with frustration and cynicism, they tend to copy my tone and my attitude. And that’s not the kind of home I want. So I take a deep breath and try again...

“Your socks? Sorry… they’re in the pile of dirty laundry, kiddo.”

Well, no mom’s perfect!


A wise woman builds her house; a foolish one tears it down with her own hands (or mouth, in my case). Proverbs 14:1

Just Do It!

"So Mom, how did you do it? How did you keep going?"

"I don't know, Carolyn." She shrugged.

I spent this last weekend with my mom. Saturday she turned 82 years old! A survivor of The Great Depression and World War II, she's always been my hero. My present to her this year, as in the past two years, was time. Time to sit and chat, eat and play, praise and worship, and sit and chat again. Together. No distractions. Priceless.

"Come on, Mom, I want a formula." I pressed. "How did you launch six children into this world and keep your balance? How did you watch them make mistakes, learn about life, the hard way, and still keep going without getting depressed?"

"I never had time for depression. I had to survive from the time I was two. If I started to feel blue, I would just slap myself on the face and say, 'Come on, Doris,' and keep going. I don't know...I just did it."

I smiled.

"And", she added, "I trusted God was working in their lives, and I prayed. And He answered, not always in the way I wanted, and many times far better than I imagined. But He always answered. And...I thought about all the ways the Lord has blessed me...my, how He's blessed me."

And my gift of time to my mother became a timeless gift to me. Thanks, Mom, and Happy Birthday.

Wisdom at High Noon

It was a showdown of the parental kind. Our pistols were drawn. Who would be left standing?

He sat across the table from me at the local luncheonette. It was a time for just the two of us, a lunch for my second-born son and me.

He was barely nine months old when he first crossed his arms, stuck out his bottom lip, and drew a defiant line in the dirt. I knew instinctively that teaching him to honor his father and mother would be at the heart of many of our confrontations. Sometimes I wanted to declare, “This house just ain’t big enough for the both of us, Partner.” And there were many times that we engaged in a face-off, each daring the other to make the first move. Yet, even I was startled when my five-year-old son gave voice to match his obstinate body language.

It was high noon. Peering up at me from behind his turkey and cheese sandwich, he made the challenge, “You know, Mom, I know I can do anything I want to do and no one can stop me.” I mentally stepped a few paces back and resisted the urge to fire back with my “Oh no you can’t just do anything you want to” pistol. I was tired of that argument anyhow. It never seemed to work and as I sat pondering my next move, I had a Holy Spirit moment--the kind where words start flowing out of your mouth and you recognize they came from a power much wiser than yourself.

“You know Ben, you’re right,” I hesitantly agreed. “You can do anything you want to do and even I can’t stop you.” But my next words came like bullets in rapid fire, only pausing enough to cock the trigger and take my next shot. “You can steal a piece of candy from the store, but I’ll make you return it. You can say something nasty to your little brother, and I’ll make you sit on time-out until you’re ready to apologize. You can…” The list of bad choices and consequences continued until I nearly ran out of ammunition. I took one final shot. “Ben, you can do all of those things, but there is one thing that you have no control over and that’s my love for you. I lowered my pistol into my holster. My opponent sat speechless. He had met his match.

The showdown ended. Oh there would be many more to come, with a strong-willed child that is one thing that is for certain. But the Holy Spirit would continue to be there to give me the words of wisdom and in the end, my son and I would both be left standing.

Father, you care deeply about each conversation we have with our children. Help us to listen for your wisdom. Amen.