Travels of a Wannabe Nomad

Memory Verses

9/23/2017

Do you ever think you’re maybe doing a half decent job at parenting just to be abruptly brought back to reality?

We’ve recently started doing Bible memory verses with Sarah, and this week’s verse is Psalms 56:3, “When I am afraid, I will put my trust in you.” She gets really excited anytime we practice, and she loves to recite it with her little best friend Mallory which is adorable. Mallory's mom (my friend Lindsey who is amazingly talented*) makes these epic cards with the verses we do every week.

Well today was one of those less-than-stellar parenting days where I feel like I’m running on empty. My patience is non-existent and the house is a disaster. So after (yet another) failed nap from the baby, we loaded up the car and I stealthily went through the Taco Bell drive through (see. sometimes I blog about healthy eating and love to lecture other people about the benefits of eating whole foods. but then I eat Taco Bell in secret).

I inhaled my cheesy Gordita crunch while driving down the interstate and chose to ignore Sarah’s persistent “what IS that mommy??” from the backseat. ("IT'S MOMMY'S SPECIAL SNACK"). At the bottom of the off ramp, I spotted a guy holding a cardboard sign who looked like a taco might cheer him up. So I rolled down the window and handed over the rest of the bag. Sarah was very interested in why I handed my special snacks to the man, and as I rolled up the window and pressed the gas pedal, I thought I would use this moment to redeem my other parenting fails by instilling a moral lesson. I said “that man was hungry, and the Bible tells us to feed those who are hungry.”

The second I said the word “Bible” her eyes absolutely LIT UP and slowly, she started saying, “when I am afraid…”

And in that moment, I actaully teared up.

She was making the connection.

It didn’t matter that I lost my temper 20 times with her that morning.

She kept going "...afraid, … I will put my trust…. in FOOD.”

She clapped her hands.

I actually slapped my forehead.
“Uhhhh. Baby… It’s not FOOD. We don’t want to put our trust in food. We put our trust in God.”

“Mommy I want a snack.”

...

Better luck tomorrow.

But in all seriousness, let us, as moms, give ourselves some grace. We are good at giving grace to our children, but not so much to ourselves (or our husbands!). God, the ultimate lavisher of undeserved grace, is never hesitant to shower me in blessings that I could never (and will never) earn.

On days like today, where I find myself just watching the clock, counting down to naptime (then bedtime), I CLING to promises found in scripture, specifically Proverbs 22:6. “Train up a child in the way he should go, even when he is old he will not depart from it.” I pray this verse over my girls, but more importantly I pray that even when I am not holding up my end of the bargain, that God shows me grace.

*my friend Lindsey Lo is super talented in all things art related! Check her out on Insta at lo_n_beh0ld

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The Stain

1/30/2017

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If I had a dollar for every time my friends say to me “that would only happen to you” I would definitely invest in a private island of some sort. But that’s usually what I hear when I relay a story that almost always involves humiliation (on my part) and laughter (on the listener’s part).

Take, for example, what should have been a relaxing date night last week. With a 2.5 year old and a newborn at home, going to the movies with my husband happens about as often as a total solar eclipse, and I’d been looking forward to seeing M. Night Shyamalan’s latest thriller for months. So with a purse stashed with candy and my trusty hand pump (since I would be missing a feeding with the baby), we set off for the 5 o’clock show.

We chose seats in the back corner of the theater so as to avoid any prying eyes since I would have to pump during the movie. I had done this once before when my oldest was an infant, and it had been no problem since it was completely dark and I could easily hide behind my husband’s big frame.

I stealthily withdrew the pump 45 minutes into “Split” and placed it under my shirt and pumped until I had a few ounces. I readjusted my jacket and switched sides. For some reason though, I wasn’t producing any milk (OR SO I THOUGHT!!) and after 5 minutes I decided to call it quits.

It was at this point that I saw a dark stain approximately the size and shape of Lake Michigan on my left leg. I frowned and touched my thigh. SOAKING WET. As in, dripping wet. Totally baffled, I furtively held the bottle up to eye level and saw to my unamused astonishment that I had indeed been producing milk. For my mom friends who don’t know this, when a Medela brand bottle is full to the brim, it will start back flowing out of the pump. I cursed my decision to change into LIGHT gray sweatpants moments before walking out of the door. Literally no other color can offer such contrast when wet. I hissed to my husband to go and fetch paper towels and when he asked “right now?” I hissed-shrieked “YES! Right now!” and frantically attempted to organize bottle and pump parts all while trying to remain still.

A couple of minutes later I see my husband starting up the stairs toward me, paper towels in hand. I snatched them and quickly tried to remedy the situation. Randy had the genius idea for me to change seats (duh!) and when I stood up, the feeling of wet cotton against my bottom confirmed my worst fears.

I can only imagine that I pumped roughly 8 ounces into my lap and chair while captivated by a story about a man with dissociative identity disorder. Meanwhile the milk stain spread quickly and without mercy to whatever absorbent material it could find.

I sat on the paper towels.

I peered to my right and imagined that I saw a couple of older people glance in my direction. A wild and uncontrolled giggle escaped my lips. I clapped my hand over my mouth. It was at this point that I was rendered completely and utterly incapacitated by a bout of such uncontrollable laughter I think I pretty well alarmed my husband. I could not contain the idea of what this must look like to my fellow movie-goers: a young couple sitting in a dark corner of a theater while one of them makes furtive movements underneath a jacket. Then the man fetches paper towels while the girl giggles uncontrollably.

If only life as new parents was that exciting.

I just felt like waving my arms and announcing ‘nothing exciting happening over here, folks! Just a couple of tired parents out for a much needed break.’

By the grace of God, somehow my pants dried to an acceptable shade of heather gray by the time the credits rolled, and we escaped the theater leaving nothing behind except a smell of sour milk.

The joys of being a lactating mother!

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Bucket Lists, Miracles, and Taco Bell

9/29/2016

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Some of you know I had a “pre-baby bucket list.” A list of small adventures and goals I wanted to accomplish before I had my first child because I (ignorantly) thought my life would be over once a baby entered the scene. Not ‘over’ in a depressing way, but over in that I wouldn’t be able to afford or have the time to do things I once enjoyed. Now that I have a 2 year old I can say that is mostly true, but it’s kinda like being sad that you can’t have a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner because you’re getting steak instead. Yeah, sometimes you want a grilled cheese, but steak is better. SO much better.

But I digress.

I have another bucket list—my lifetime (aka actual) bucket list. This bulleted list kept in Notes on my phone is full of more adventures and goals, but ones that will likely take a lifetime to complete because they either take a ton of time or money. Or both.

There are a couple of things on there that require zero money, maybe just a little time. Find and return someone’s lost pet. Learn to change a flat tire so I can help some random person on the side of the road. I also want to witness a miracle.

Well ladies and gents, I have. A bonafide miracle.

Let me explain.

I have a friend. I’ll call her Heather. Heather and I have kids really close together in age, and it was so fun going through pregnancy together 2.5 years ago. In January of this year, she found out she was expecting again. I was thrilled for her, and offered to watch her toddler while she and her husband went for their first appointment several weeks later.

But when she came to drop off “Liam” the day before I left for India, she was clearly frazzled. I gently inquired, and she scrambled around dropping diapers and dumping carrot sticks and puffs on the ground saying she had started bleeding that morning. My stomach plummeted, but I recovered quickly. “It’s probably nothing!” I reassured her. But I don’t think either of us was fooled by my would-be-nonchalant tone. 2 hours later, there was a knock on my door. And when I opened it, Heather was standing there with nothing but devastation on her face. She simply shook her head no. And we stood there for a long time embracing in my doorway and she whispered through tears that there simply was no heartbeat.

Fast forward to April, and I find out I am expecting. I dreaded telling Heather because of her recent miscarriage, but she was, of course, happy for us. You can imagine my utter joy when just a few short weeks later she gave me news that they were also pregnant again. “This is amazing!” I shouted. And I jabbered happily away about how our children would be the exact same age apart as our toddlers are. But Heather was hesitant. VERY hesitant about having joy in this pregnancy. She and her husband just simply did not want to get their hopes up again, and they told no one of their news. I committed to pray for her daily. And I did.

Weeks went by, and Heather and I texted each other daily about our current cravings (doritos, Trix cereal, lemon-flavored anything, and Taco Bell, to name a few) and nausea complaints. She was MUCH further along then she was in her last pregnancy, and I started to relax.

Then on a Tuesday, I got a text from her with those same words “I’m bleeding.” I stared at my phone and had no idea what to say. I offered to watch her little one while she went to the doctor, but after speaking with her husband, they decided to wait until the appointment they already had scheduled for that Friday.

For the next 3 days, I spent significant time in prayer for Heather. But I found myself not praying for a miracle, but instead praying for peace, for emotional healing, that kind of thing. Because, in my heart of hearts, I felt that they were going to be given the same news at their upcoming appointment: “I’m sorry, but there’s no heartbeat.”

I hated myself for my lack of faith, for my inability to even consider that my God may perform a miracle. On Wednesday night, I felt so convicted that I got out of my bed in the middle of the night and lay prostrate before the Lord. I prayed the same words that the father is Mark 9 cried out: “I believe, help my unbelief!”

This Gospel story resonates with me deeply: here is a father asking for healing for his terribly ill child, and Jesus answers him that it is possible, IF he believes. In his desperation, the father cries "I believe!" But in the same breath he confesses his sin--and his shame--“help my unbelief!”

So in the same manner, I confessed my doubt and fear to the Lord, and asked him to have mercy on me and to answer my prayer in spite of my unbelief. That he would show me grace out his goodness and overlook my shortcomings for his glory.

Friday rolled around, and it might as well have been that same Friday from that terrible day in February. Heather dropped off Liam, frazzled and hectic. I wanted to pray with her before she left. Man I wanted to. But I chickened out. What if I pray for healing then it doesn’t happen, Lord? Then she’ll be even more upset. So I let her walk out of my door. 30 minutes later I got a text that said “we’re on our way back.” Dread flooded my stomach. Surely there was only one reason the appointment would have been over so quickly. The same news.

10 minutes later a knock at my door. In the strangest deja vu moment of my life, I opened it to see Heather standing there. With a different look on her face. “We have a baby” she whispered through her tears. I don’t really remember what happened next but just like before we stood there for a long time on the doorway embracing through tears while I cried over and over “Praise God! Praise God!”

He is SO faithful. Even when I’m faithless. Praise the Lord.

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Thoughts on Turning 30/ Disaster Day

7/16/2016

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I have to admit—I have the most epic birthday ever. It falls on Independence Day, so not only is it the perfect halfway mark to Christmas, but it’s complete with fireworks and almost everyone having off work (well, except my husband, that is).

Notice I didn’t say THIS birthday was epic. In fact, it could go down in the books as one of the worst days of my life, so it was hands down the worst birthday. I posted a vague Facebook status about it, so for those who were curious about my disaster day, I thought I would give a quick recap.

The best part of my birthday was my mom surprising me for the week and coming back from Mexico (where she and my dad retired earlier this year) so I wouldn’t be alone when I turned the big 3-0. My sister and her husband joined us for the weekend, so we had a houseful of guests. The first sign of impending doom was my mom’s flight being canceled in Dallas. Long story short, she made it to Atlanta about 16 hours after her scheduled arrival time.

That night our downstairs A/C went out and left us with a balmy (read: choking humidity) temp of 82.

The next morning (July 4) dawned, and my mom insisted that I do something that I really wanted to do. So without hesitation I loaded up my kayak first thing in the morning before everyone else was awake, and my mom and Sarah drove me 25 minutes to the drop off point on the Etowah River. I kayak this section several times a year (or did before Sarah was born), so I told my mom roughly what time to pick me up and set out.

Well I hadn’t really considered that it hadn’t rained in almost 6 weeks, so the usual steady flowing river was basically a lake, and after an hour and a half of pretty steady paddling, I started cramping in my lower abdomen area.

Now I’ve often been accused that I'm too adventurous or risky when it comes to solo outdoor adventures, but seeing as I was 14 weeks pregnant, I was alarmed and felt that I should rest. But I knew that if I attempted to just float down the river I wouldn’t get to the take-out point for probably another 6 hours, and it was already baking at 10 am. So I called my sister (who happens to be a nurse) and she concurred that I shouldn’t be paddling any longer.

“Just drop a pin and send it to me, and Riley and I will find you.”

Now imagine someone who is completely opposite of me. A girl who really only experiences the outdoors when she exits her car to walk into the nearest store or dwelling. My attempt to explain to her that there WAS NO take out point for several miles fell on deaf ears. However, my discomfort wasn’t abating, so I pulled up Maps, located what appeared to be a road that came pretty darn close to the river, and paddled to the edge of the water. I sent my location (Nations Dr in Canton—see below picture) and scrambled up a 70 degree angle hill to a completely empty field minus grass that came up to my armpits. No power lines, no roofs or roads in site. Nothing. I scrambled back down, sinking halfway up to my calves in sticky mud and scrambled back into the kayak and floated another 800 feet or so before trying again. I saw a picnic table up on the bank, so I dragged the kayak a couple of feet out of the water, and, grasping onto tree roots and digging my nails into the mud, literally climbed to the top.

I was faced with a barn that was obviously a home. Literally out in the middle of nowhere with nothing (not even a dirt road) in sight. Had this been anytime after sunset, I would have turned around, dove back into the boat, and spent the night with the snakes and mosquitos before I would have approached this place in the dark.

Now I try not to make assumptions about people without knowing them, but there were signs that alluded to the owners' enjoyment of their second amendment right, and from the lack of utilities connected to the house I imagined the people who lived there being akin to the mountain dwellers out of Deliverance.

Now keep in my mind I left EVERYTHING in the boat save my flip flops and iPhone (which I tried to hold in obvious sight so I would appear middle class and somewhat sane). I tried to be as noisy as possible, but from what I could see there were no vehicles (not even a 4 wheeler) in sight, but I knocked on the front door anyway and praise the Lord no one answered. I was still paranoid that I was going to see a curtain being parted by the barrel of a shotgun pointing in my direction, so I tried to keep my distance from the house while keeping my iPhone out in front of me. Kind of like how a dog will trot around with his favorite ball showing it off.

To make a very long story short, the next hour and a half were spent tramping through the woods trying to locate Jessica and Riley. It was infuriating because we were obviously in the same place (I could hear dogs barking nearby, and I could hear them on the other end of the line). But where I was was obviously NOT close to the actual paved road Jess and Riley were on. Barbed wire and fences blocked my every attempt to get out of what I was starting to imagine some kind of torture camp in a horror movie.

After sneaking behind several mobile homes (which I sincerely hope were not inhabited based on the state of them), Riley said he was out of the car and was walking towards the dogs barking. I hissed “are you wearing a hat? Take it off!”

He seemed utterly unaware that he, a young male wearing a hat, was more at risk of being shot than myself, a young pregnant woman.

After crawling through barbed wire fences and encountering an elderly couple picking blueberries who thankfully did not shoot us, I finally met up with him. Since I had already walked several miles (and exerted myself 5x more than I would have done had I just stayed in the dern boat), it was decided that Riley would continue in the kayak, and I would ride with my sister in their car to the original pickup point.

Jess and I stopped at Chic fil A on orders from my worried mother, and I inhaled a milkshake as we went down the bank of a river at the park and watched butterflies in the shade while we waited for Riley. It was an uneventful waiting period, minus finding the largest tick I’ve ever seen in my life ATTACHED TO MY STOMACH. I screamed for my sister to remove it. After all, she’s the medical one. Which is ironic because she’s completely grossed out by this kind of stuff.

She refused, saying “no you do it!” And I responded with “IT’S GOING TO EAT THE BABY” rather hysterically. So she complied and managed to remove it, but only after using a green leaf as a kind of napkin. I was imagining being diagnosed with Lyme disease at my next pre-natal appointment, at which point I shrieked, “THEY’RE PROBABLY ALL OVER ME!” as I frantically stripped down to my underwear on the riverbank (did I mention we were at a public park?) After raking my fingers through my hair several times and pulling my disgusting clothes back on, I got the very good news that some dear friends of ours graciously came and fixed our A/C for us!

Lo and behold, about an hour and a half later, Riley comes paddling down the river. We hurriedly load up the kayak and rush back to the house to meet a couple coming to view the dining suite I have for sale on Craigslist. We beat them to the house by about 2 minutes, and I rush inside to greet my mom and baby and perhaps wipe my face with a paper towel, but the second I open the door I’m practically knocked over by a wall of natural gas. The smell was astonishingly strong. I rushed in and yelled to my mom about what was going on, but she was completely unaware that anything was amiss. A glance at the stove and I noticed that the right burner was turned about a half an inch to the left. No flame. Just gas pouring out.

My mom had a severe sinus infection last year, and has been unable to taste or smell anything since.

My mingled exasperation and alarm was put on hold as Jess, Riley and myself run around the house throwing open all the doors and windows when the doorbell rings. I usher the Craigslist lady inside, apologizing for the smell, and she seemed rather alarmed by the entire scene. I can imagine I was a strange sight: mud stained clothes, deranged hair with various flora and fauna poking out, and I’m sure a rather unpleasant smell myself (which was hopefully masked by the choking gas). After looking at the table for about 1 minute and being totally enraptured, she goes back outside to her husband.

10 minutes later, the smell is starting to get slightly better, and I wander out to the front to find the lady apparently arguing with her husband who was refusing to come inside. She confessed in a stage whisper that her husband was a builder and recently witnessed a million dollar home go up in flames because of a gas leak. I assured him that we identified the problem and had the house almost aired out, so he agreed to come in. I don’t know if it was all the nervous energy or just the bizarre circumstances that led to my appearance, but they left without purchasing the set.

Fast forward to the evening, and we’re all choking down steak that we thankfully grilled outside. I think we were all just ready for the day to be over. We enjoyed homemade ice cream with a cookie cake, sang a quick chorus of “happy birthday” and I pretend to blow out the candles, which, by unanimous decision, were left unlit.

My favorite section of the Etowah. Not including this trip, obviously.

It started out as a good day!

Cows running away from me.

I saw turtles, several herons, and a river otter!

"The Barn." Incidentally, I would love to live in a place like this.

Consolation-prize milkshake

Butterflies on the bank.

Riley saved the day!

For scale. Did I mention that I really have no sense of direction?

Please notice the unlit candles.

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Motherhood

3/23/2016

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Being a mom is so many different emotions and new feelings that sometimes I feel like a different person than I was before Sarah was born. I’m sure the scientific definition of being a parent is pretty straightforward: raising a child to independence. But it’s so much more than that to me, and I’m sure, to all mothers.

For me, motherhood is the perfect feeling I get when I sink my lips into Sarah’s chunky cheeks—and how it seems almost physically impossible for me to NOT kiss her a half-dozen times every time I pick her up.

Motherhood is the look I get from another mom when Sarah is having a meltdown. The one that says “been there, done that."

It’s the drop in the pit of my stomach when I hear the beep of the thermometer and see triple digits, and the worry that constantly threatens to overtake my peace of my mind. Motherhood is dealing with the the instant fear that hits so hard every time something happens to Sarah that it feels like a punch in the gut.

Motherhood is watching my relationship with my own mother grow and change, and it’s the way I look at my husband when he reads our daughter a bedtime story.

Motherhood is feeling like a fraud when I continually Google how to do almost everything, and watch other moms come to the rescue with advice and encouragement. It's the weight of Sarah on my chest when she finally surrenders to sleep in the rocking chair.

Motherhood is crying with a fellow mom when she suffers a miscarriage, and sharing in the broken-heartedness when a friend or sister battles infertility.

But let me also share what I think motherhood ISN’T.

It isn’t defined by whether you work or stay home. It’s not measured by whether you met your child for the first time in the O.R., the delivery room, the lobby of an orphanage or an airport. Motherhood doesn’t care if your baby was an “accident,” the result of years of trying and thousands of dollars spend in medications or procedures, or endless paperwork and home visits.

Motherhood isn’t determined by the presence or absence of stretch marks, weight gained or lost, C-section scars, or empty savings accounts.

Being a mother is so much more than all of that. For me, motherhood always comes full circle: it’s loving Sarah so much that her eternal destiny is my ultimate priority. It shapes the way I discipline and love her, and it pushes me to make my relationship with the Lord come first before everything else, because I know when Sarah sees the way her mom respects her dad, and how her dad loves her mom, it will lead her to a relationship with Him.

Motherhood is a gift from God; He lets us get a taste of what unconditional love looks and feels like so we can finally understand how much He loves us.

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I Still Call Her Baby

1/9/2016

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I feel like I amass any wisdom I posess from Internet memes.

...And the Bible.

But sometimes the memes are just on point. Like the one that said “don’t complain about getting older—it’s a privilege denied to many.”

Right?? I want to rejoice that Sarah is getting older. Many parents don’t get to experience that.

But I’m not sure how long I can get away with still calling her “baby.” Her actions and attitude scream TODDLER. Loudly. But I suppose my parents didn’t follow the conventional rules either—I’m still known as “baby” around the Troutman household—which is fine if you’re family (or if you’re familiar with Dirty Dancing) but I’m sure it can seem odd—especially if your mother isn’t too familiar with social media and confuses personal messages with posts on your wall. For example “hey baby. when you come out next week will you remember to bring that cooler with you? love, mom.”

My husband just informed me that I’m going to be 30 this year. This came as quite as a shock. Seriously, we just had a 5 minute argument I MEAN conversation about it. I was under the impression that I was 28, and I would turn 29 on my birthday in July. Alas, he is better at math than me and explained that if I was born in 1986, the big 3-0 is definitely happening this year*.

But I digress.

I want to delight in the fact that Sarah is growing, learning, and eating more than a full grown man. I absolutely reject the idea that a child growing up is reason for sadness. It’s a cause for celebration in my opinion. I want to rejoice in her milestones, not be depressed about something that I cannot change.

Even when I find my iPhone in the dryer.

Even when the baby shoes turn up in the refrigerator.

Especially when she learned to stall bedtime by requesting extra kisses and hugs.

Sarah is growing up. We all are. This year she’ll turn two and I'll be 30. But I refuse to be sad about either one of those facts. We’re both changing. But guess what? It means we’re alive. And last time I checked, that is a good thing. And no matter what, she’ll always be our baby.

*if you’ve never been confused about your own age, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’ve never been pregnant.

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The Mommy Olympics

10/20/2015

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Alright moms, if curling can be an Olympic sport, I don't see any reason why we can't vie with each other to win the Gold using the unique skills only mothers have.

The Mommy Olympics will be like gymnastics (lots of different activities all going on at once) so that the familiar deafening noise and chaos will put all parents at ease. Here are my ideas for the games and how they will be judged:

Event 1:
Quickest diaper AND outfit change of toddler who is one hour late for their nap. This is a timed event, though bonus points will be given to competitors of children who are having epic meltdowns. Honorary medal given to mothers of blowout diapers.

Event 2:
Beginning at the driver's seat of a minivan, competitors will sprint 100 yards carrying an overflowing diaper bag, then proceed to hand pump 6 oz of milk OR successfully mix formula (while blindfolded). Sprint up a staircase, feed the baby all 6 ounces (WHILE SINGING) and burp him/her. Fastest time from minivan to belch wins.

Event 3:
Judges will determine who has made the most appetizing meal that was cooked while a child cried holding onto your leg. NOTE: Barney will be blaring in the background and lego toys will be strategically placed around the work area. Bonus points will be given to any competitor who did not make spaghetti.

Event 4:
For time: chug 8 ounces of stone cold coffee

If you are interested in competing in the mommy Olympics, and/or desire to become more physically fit, try the below exercises in preparation:

Go up and down the stairs with the baby on your hip at least 37 times a day. Forget what you went upstairs for on the landing. Go back downstairs. Place your baby on the ground so she starts to cry. Remember what you forgot upstairs. Pick up the baby and go back upstairs.
Squat down to pick up your baby with one arm while you carry an overflowing laundry basket in the other arm. Drop all the clothes on the way to the washer. Change your mind about washing clothes and resume watching cartoons.
Fold clothes while your baby is awake so she can grab every item of clothing and throw it on the ground, thus ensuring you have to fold everything at least 3 times.
Run back and forth from the stove to the playroom every 45 seconds to make sure baby isn’t electrocuting herself while you cook dinner.

Wrestle with your child at each diaper and outfit change. Bonus points for attempting to reason with your baby. Delude yourself into thinking they understand you by saying things like “if you just stay still this will be over in 10 seconds!”
Race to the bathroom and pee as fast as you can before the baby realizes you’ve left the room and follows you.
Convince yourself that your baby will sit on your lap quietly during church service even though it’s in the middle of her nap time. Attempt to hold her during the ensuing tantrum. If you don’t have an infant but would still like the workout, go find a baby dolphin, force feed it some Redbull, and cover it in oil and try to hold onto it while it thrashes around.
Frantically fish toilet paper, leaves, and bottle caps out of your child’s mouth. Have a panic attack and convince yourself that she swallowed something that is not food-grade. Wait for baby to throw up then resume being slightly worried for 2 days.
Dance to the theme song of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse with exaggerated movements 3 times a day.
Dash downstairs as soon as the baby falls asleep and cram bottle parts and baby food jars into the dishwasher, arrange toys into haphazard piles in the living room, and frantically scrub dried food off the highchair arm rails while you inwardly calculate how many hours of sleep you will get if you fall asleep RIGHT NOW.
Drag yourself up the stairs and collapse into your bed. Remember that you didn’t brush your teeth. Roll off the bed onto the floor and crawl toward the bathroom because you can’t afford to have a cavity.

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A New Name

8/18/2015

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One of the best things about the Internet is the ability to feel connected to others. Pre-Internet, people often felt isolated in their behaviors or feelings, but today, there's at least one meme or buzzfeed article that everyone can 100% relate to. I laughed so hard when I saw a meme that appropriately described the tendency to turn down your car radio immediately upon realizing you're lost. Or when I found out that I'm not the only person who has imaginary conversations in their head in the shower with corresponding facial expressions to match the conversation that isn't even happening.

So I have a funny feeling that I'm not alone in skimming over parts of my Bible that I find... uncomfortable. I admit to hovering around the Proverbs or sticking to the few Gospel parables I was familiar with. I didn't like to read things that made me feel uncomfortable because it was... well, uncomfortable.

I particularly avoided a certain passage in Matthew 7. It read, "On that [judgement] day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.'"*

I think a modern translation of Matthew 7 may read something like "On judgement day, many people will say to me, 'But God, I went to church! I stuffed the boxes for Operation Christmas Child and gave to the needy. God, I volunteered at VBS and donated money to the poor!' And then I will say to them, "But I never knew you. Depart from me, you evil doer."

Every time I came to that verse I would hurriedly skip over it. I didn't like the way it made me feel. I also didn't like the way I felt in church whenever my pastor would talk about salvation, or the evidence of salvation in a believer's life.

My problem was that I never really thought I was that bad. I mean, yeah, I did things occasionally that my grandparents would probably be embarrassed by, but come on! I was nice. I graduated college early and had a good job and was in a long-term relationship with my boyfriend. I never really felt any strong emotion about my sin because deep down, I didn't think I really needed God because my sin wasn't this horrible thing. Not compared to all the murderers and child molestors. So when I read about Jesus being crucified on a cross for my sins, I just felt... apathetic? It was a story I had heard so many times, in so many ways, that it just ceased to have meaning to me.

I mean, I did EVERYTHING in church. I practically grew up there. I was in the Christmas pageants, I went on overseas mission trips, I fed the homeless, I sang (rather poorly) in the student choir. I went to Sunday School. But at age 21, I had a sudden realization that I was going to be one of those people who would stand, completely and utterly shocked, at the judgement seat of Christ at the end of the my life when God would say to me "I never knew you. Depart from me."

I was 22 years old when God finally gotten my attention. I had spent years shoving the nagging feelings aside, but on one completely ordinary day, and for seemingly no particular reason, I found myself face down in my apartment in tears, and I cried out to God for forgiveness of my sins. I prayed to him to change my life, and I immediately quit living in sin.

Then I put my pride aside, and went before a church I've attended and been involved with since childhood and was baptized. I felt I could almost hear a confused murmur when I stepped into the baptismal pool, but in hindsight, I can see that it was just the enemy trying to discourage me. Because other believers will ALWAYS rejoice in people coming to faith in Christ. And it doesn't matter if you're a pastor's wife or a meth addict; a student at a private Christian school or blue-collar grandfather.

Forgiveness is available to ALL. Jesus said in the Bible to repent (which means to stop living in sin), and confess your sins. Believe that Jesus is the only son of God, and that he was crucified, buried, and raised from the dead on the 3rd day. Then to daily follow him.

My pastor has always said, "no change, no Christ." Another way of saying it may be "check your fruit--check your faith" (Thanks for that one MB!). And what is fruit? Jesus talked about it a lot. He said good trees bear good fruit, and bad trees bear bad fruit. The Bible tells us what the fruit of the Spirit looks like in Galatians 5: "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control."

Sin will continue to be a struggle even for believers after they come to know Christ, but I can honestly say that I am different now. I still sin. I sin everyday. But it burdens me and I can't sleep until I ask for forgiveness. My "want to"s are different too. I want to go to church now. I want to read my Bible. I love spending time with other believers.

God changed my heart, and then I changed my name for him. He was always "god" before. For me, a distant and impersonal name. But now I call him the Lord. My Father God.

If these words make you get that feeling--you know--the one in the pit of your stomach? I have good news for you: that's the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is in charge of drawing you close to God. The other good news? God tells us in 2 Peter 3:9 that he doesn't want anyone to perish, but for all to come to faith through repentance. And some more good news: God tells us in James that all we have to do is ask God, and he will give it to us.

So if you wondering about all of this--I encourage to open your Bible and pray to the Lord for understanding. Feel free to talk to me or a pastor at a BIBLE BELIEVING church. I can recommend many great churches, podcasts, and other resources that can help you in your walk with Christ.

The Bible poses a great rhetorical question on the matter: "For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?" **

Just do me one favor and ask yourself this question. At the end of your life, when you are standing before God, what do you think you would do, and what you GIVE, to have your soul saved? And what kept you from doing it while you still had the time. Money? Pride? What other people are going to think?

Friend, don't let these matters stand in the way. There is too much at stake.

*Matthew 7:22-23
**Mark 8:36

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Things I've Pulled Out of My Baby's Mouth

7/13/2015

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Clearly, the title of this post suggests that the items I fish out of my baby’s mouth are numerous enough to warrant a list.

If I’ve learned anything from mothering a crawling (and now walking) baby/toddler, it’s that silence is the most terrifying noise in the world. Unless Sarah is asleep, she is constantly chattering, talking, crying, or making adorable baby noises. So when I hear nothing, I know it’s because she has something in her mouth.

I’ve read enough horror stories online of babies ingesting button-batteries and thumb tacks to give me nightmares, so I’m constantly on alert. Yes, I probably just need to baby proof better, but it seems unless I duct tape her mouth shut, it’s just inevitable that she is going to explore the world by tasting everything she sees.

Like a dog.

So without further ado, here’s my list of random crap I’ve pulled out of Sarah’s mouth:

a dremel head
the membrane to my breast pump
several pieces of the cover to the most recent edition of National Geographic
about 18 pieces of dog food
a strange nut I brought back from Africa.
an old-fashioned Skeleton key
a chunk of raw onion (she actually swallowed that…)
mud
sand
Rubber mulch.
several rocks
a bottle cap
the letter T scrabble piece
a piece of limestone that may or may not have been stolen from the Pyramids of Giza
the rubber cap on the end of the spring door stopper
a wad of toilet paper
One of those “Poisonous! Do Not Eat!” packets found in beef jerky envelopes. Points to the person at the park who left that on the ground under a picnic table!

I know there are so many other things I'm not even thinking of. Most were not food-grade.

But really, I want to hear from everyone else. What’s the craziest thing you’ve pulled out of your baby/toddler’s mouth??

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Flying Babies

7/10/2015

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Rewind 72 hours ago and I was crying my eyes out on an airplane surrounded by strangers. My 14-month old was also crying, but she did pause mid-tantrum, looking slightly confused at my wet eyes, to pry my fingers away from my face and examine this unprecedented sight.

It had already been a long day that started with an hour-long truck ride over forsaken dirt roads in the desert, a 2-hour flight and then another 2 hours of security screening, baggage re-checking, customs & immigration. So the by the time we boarded flight #2 of the day, Sarah had HAD IT. She wailed while we taxied around, screamed during takeoff, and absolutely had a tantrum for the first 30 minutes of the flight.

I’ve never wanted time travel to happen so badly before. Sure, I also fantasized about teleporting right to my parents’ new house in Baja and skipping the flight altogether, but more than anything, I wanted to travel back several years ago and behave differently to all parents traveling with small kids.

You see, I was THAT person. The one who instantly rolled my eyes as families boarded the plane, and the one who would sigh loudly if they sat anywhere near me. I made my displeasure known to everyone around me, and looked daggers at any toddler who dared drop a toy near my floor space.

How could I have been so blind to realize that the parents of these kids were at least 5 times more miserable than I ever was?? Maybe if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed I would have noticed the mom desperately trying to quiet her screaming baby, or the dad who was pointlessly trying to distract his 3 year from her hurting ears. If I hadn’t been so utterly self-centered, I probably would have noticed the humiliated expression on the mom’s face and heard the dad’s desperate pleas with his son to quiet down.

Nope, I was too busy concentrating on my own inconvenience.

If I could go back to those flights, I would have swapped out my sour expression and instead offered an encouraging smile. You know the one. It says “I’ve been there,” and it speaks more than words ever could.

And instead of muttering under my breath, I might have played a game of pick-a-boo behind my seat to give mom and dad a rest, or maybe even offered to keep the little one entertained so the parents could have a 2 minute break to walk the aisles or use the bathroom.

Well, I can’t go back, but we can all go forward. Please don’t do what I have done for years. And don’t do what the man sitting behind me did, and complain loudly about how long the flight is going to be. Or hide your face in your hands and groan in frustration like the flight attendant.

I’m blessed that I did have a few kind souls on the plane with me though—so thank you to the man to my left who said “I have five kids. I’ve been there.” And to the man to my right who said “I have four kids. Don’t worry--it gets better.” And to the woman who hugged me while we were de-boarding and said “there’s nothing you can do. Don’t worry about all the jerks.”

You are all better people than I am, and I promise to behave differently to moms, dads, and flying babies (and toddlers!) from now on.

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Memory Verses

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Bucket Lists, Miracles, and Taco Bell

Thoughts on Turning 30/ Disaster Day

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I Still Call Her Baby

The Mommy Olympics

A New Name

Things I've Pulled Out of My Baby's Mouth

Flying Babies

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