7 Quick Takes about Sea World, Flesh-Eating Bacteria, and Realizing You Don't Know How to Tie Your Shoes

It's 7 Quick Takes Friday!

—1—

Happy Halloween! The costumes are done, the candy is bought, and it's smooth sailing from here on out. 

During trick or treating, nothing is an emergency situation anymore. Everything loses its urgency. Your homemade bat wings that took me 3 hours to figure out are coming apart? Oh well, only a few more houses to go! Your Viking helmet is chafing your forehead and you can't see because the spray paint is melting down into your eyes? Oh well, we only have a few more houses to go!

Even if it's the worst day ever, Halloween ends with going home to eat chocolate. I just can't think of many bad things to say about that.

—2—

We're still sick over here. My voice came back, but I'm still waking up at 4am wondering why it sounds like Sea World over here with all these kids and their croupy seal-barking coughs.

However, the timing of our colds coincides with the outbreak of Ebola in West Africa in such a way that it takes the fun right out of complaining about it in public.

—3—

It was "Bring a Stuffed Animal Day" in my son's class at school. The problem is, we don't have a lot of stuffed animals. I purged them all a little while ago, but there are a few throughout our house. He chose to bring this one:

Plush flesh-eating bacteria, complete with a knife and fork? Check!

His teacher thought it was a jelly bean and asked him about it. He informed her that no, it was actually a "person-eating germ" and it ate people by "cutting their skin off with a knife and fork." In retrospect, I'm surprised that conversation didn't earn him a trip to the school psychologist for the afternoon.

—4—

Seriously, I am pretty surprised. His school is sensitive about things that may or may not have to do with violence. Last year he had a goofy dream that somehow involved his classmate Blake and a sword (I can't really tell you the details, I'm only capable of listening to my children describe their dreams for about 6 seconds before my eyes glaze over) and when I said, "You should tell Blake about it tomorrow" he told me, "I can't. We aren't allowed to say 'sword' at school."

—5—

We bit the bullet and went shoe shopping. It was every bit as annoying as I expected it to be, except more expensive and there was less in stock.

Apparently neon sneakers are in. Like three glow-in-the-dark intensity shades of neon encasing your entire foot and tied up with a neon shoelace. My daughter is not a neon person, and took forever trying to find the least bright pair. This is the best we could do.

At least we'll never lose this pair.

—6—

In other shoe-related angst, I've decided that few things in life can make you feel as dumb as trying to teach a 6-year-old to tie their own shoes. I try to keep up the pretense of being an intelligent adult, but there always comes a point when the child gets stuck and gives me a sideways look, and I buckle under the pressure.

You just can't maintain a surface level of coolness while yelling, "I don't know, okay? I don't know how to tie my shoes unless I'm watching myself do it! Just give me the other one and I'll tell you where the stupid bunny goes next."

—7—

It's too late for us (we've already committed to a method and both our heads will explode if we have to start over,) but I may try this method next time I teach a small human how to secure their footwear. I stumbled across it while Googling all my life problems.

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I'm a Beautiful Mess, and So Are You

Here is a list of stupid things I've done as of 2:44pm today:

• Forgot to have my kids pack their lunches for school
• Miscalculated when I needed to leave for volunteering at my kid's school and showed up late
• Just remembered I'm in charge of planning a women's conference at church this Sunday
• Went to pick up books on hold at the library that had already expired and been sent back
• Ordered a PB&J sandwich off the kids' menu for my peanut-allergic child

Normally I pride myself on being an organized, functional person, but some days I don't feel very confident about that assessment of myself.

This is your brain.
This is your brain on motherhood.

Sometimes it just feels easier to give up on myself and say I'm a forgetful person, a sloppy housekeeper, and a bad mom. 

Here's the thing, though: I could also make a list of everything I've done right today, and it would read like Supermom's resume.

Sometimes I am forgetful and sloppy — but sometimes I'm superhuman in my ability to manage our crazy schedule and keep the house neat (temporarily, for a brief amount of time, for a specific purpose.) 

That's just how life is.

One minute you're basking in a compliment on your parenting skills from an onlooker at the playplace, and the next minute you're serving your daughter food that will kill her at Panera Bread.

(She's fine, by the way.)

Too often, I'm shocked to look around at my current reality and wonder, "Did I just stumble through a wormhole into an alternate reality?" Here I was, feeling like I had the hang of this life thing, and then suddenly realize I forgot 3 important birthdays this week, nobody has clean underwear left, and I was supposed to buy a gourd for my oldest to decorate like a book character for class tomorrow. 

What I take away from my busy, messy, disastrous day so far is that you aren't either on top of things or a total mess. You're both. And that's just what a good mom looks like.

I may not have it all together, but my oldest two children just came home from school happy to see me. My daughter was excited I volunteered in her class. My oldest wants to tell me about her latest favorite book from the library. 

I love my kids.

Life is good.

There just aren't enough hours in the day to be on top of all the things all the time, so be easy on yourself today. Every one of us is a beautiful mess.

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29 Lessons from Ten Years of Parenting

Hard to believe I've been a mom for 10 years.

From 2004-2014, we've lived in 5 different apartments/houses and had 5 children. We've celebrated 26 birthdays, packed crayons and Cheerios for church 560 times, and changed diapers for the better part of 3,650 days.

We have no idea what we're getting into. (2004)

Before my first was born, I had a vague notion that parents more and less had it all together and did everything deliberately according to their parenting philosophy of choice... needless to say, I've since learned that is ridiculously untrue.

Here are some other things I've figured out in the last crazy 10 years.

1. For the first two years of a child's life, parenting is pretty much just managing their bodily fluids.

2. When you're sick, sleep-deprived, or both, it isn't a good time to be doing big-picture evaluations of your life. In actuality, you probably aren't the world's most horrible parent and/or human being. Get some sleep and think about it when you feel better.

3. Kids don't mind having the same thing for lunch every single day. They actually like it.

4. It only takes 2 minutes to go from utterly adoring your children to wanting to sell them on eBay.

5. It takes a very special person to enjoy baking with children. Some people seem to enjoy cleaning flour off of every conceivable surface in the kitchen while the kids fight over who gets to lick the spoon. If this isn't you, accept it and move on.

6. Kids need a compass in life. Whatever religion or belief system you use to guide your life, teach it to your children.

7. Establish a family identity. Make your kids feel that they belong to something special by being a part of your family. (Our family identity is "mental institution," and it seems to work for us.)

Comatose on a family hiking trip. (2012)

8. You will Google "how to clean X out of Y" about 100 times per year. You'll also be astounded that somewhere, someone else's toddler has done the exact same thing yours just did. Yours colored on the microfiber couch with an orange Sharpie? Mine, too! Yours spilled Comet cleaner with bleach on the carpet and poured apple juice on top of it? So did mine! It really makes you feel that we parents are all connected.

9. Sometimes you'll pretend you don't know your child is in the other room unwrapping every Band-Aid in the box and sticking them to the floor so that you can have a few more minutes of peace and quiet.

10. The "mommy wars" only exist to the extent that we participate in them. For the most part, all moms know it's a hard job and we're all doing the best we can.

11. It's perfectly okay for good moms to think their children are really weird.

Wearing waffle block armor. (2010) 

12. No matter how cute they are, babies fart like grown men and occasionally shoot poop up their back and into their hair.

13. As a parent you'll find yourself saying things you never thought you'd say out loud, such as "Please stop rubbing your cantaloupe on your forehead" and "Put down the sword and stop trying to cut your brother's head off. It's time for family prayer."

14. It's great to feed your kids wholesome, organic foods free of sugars, dyes, and preservatives. It's also okay to have "cereal night" for dinner when you're just really, really tired.

15. All kids eat their own boogers at least once. Even yours.

16. When you find a system that works for you in organizing chores, streamlining bedtime, or whatever, enjoy it while it lasts. Soon it won't work anymore and you'll have to find a new system.

17. The things that you're stressed out about right now probably don't matter as much as you think they do.

The Evans family: bed jumping before it was cool. (2006)

18. When you're really angry at your children, try whispering instead of yelling. It will get their attention much faster.

19. The mom who arrived at church on Sunday with her six children in matching, ironed clothes and cute hairstyles had to get up at 4:30 in the morning in order to do it.

20. You'll be tempted to stay up late finishing things after everyone's in bed. It's usually not worth it to trade a few hours' productivity today for a crappy, tired 24 hours tomorrow. (I like to test this theory 2 or 3 times a week to see if it's still true. It is.)

21. You're not the maid, so expect your kids to clean up after themselves and pitch in to help the family.

22. Never, ever interrupt a toddler who is playing quietly on her own.

23. There should be two big parties thrown in every child's life: their birthday, and the day when they can buckle their own seat belt in the car.

24. When your kids start school, they'll bring home the equivalent in paper of one small tree per week.

25. You'll resort to sneaking kids' crafts, art projects, and school papers out to the garbage bin in the dead of night so they don't realize they're missing.

Stuck in the dryer again. (2011)

26. Protect your family time as your children grow older. They'll want to fill up all their time with classes, lessons, sports, and playdates. Keep family time sacred.

27. Twice a year (Christmas and the end of the school year,) you'll be asked to contribute toward gifts for everyone who's ever taught, coached, tutored, or interacted with your school-age children in any way. Your budget may need some tweaking.

28. People will always have opinions on your family size, parenting style, etc. Don't let a rude comment from Random Grocery Store Stranger make you forget what's best for your own family.

29. Pray for your children and forgive yourself when you don't do everything right. There's no way to be a perfect mom, but lots of ways to be a good one.

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Why Don't Kids Open Gifts at Birthday Parties Anymore?

The birthday parties my kids have attended lately have been different from the ones I had growing up. They don't open presents.

Gifts go in a designated spot and sit there while the kids play some games, take their favor bags, and go home hopped up on cupcakes and ice cream. We can only assume that the birthday child secrets herself in a closet and goes through the stack after everyone else leaves.

It seems a little weird to think of her going through a big stack of presents later on, without a single soul to say "thank you" to, as if they came from nobody at all. It's a missed opportunity to practice gratitude.

It's also disappointing to everyone else!

When my kids get invited to a party, they put a lot of time into choosing the right gift and sometimes spend an hour or more creating a ridiculously elaborate birthday card. When I ask, "Did Jack like his present?" and they shrug, "I dunno, he never opened it," it's a real let-down for them.

They wanted to see him open their gift, and they wanted to drool over what he got from everyone else. They don't want a thank-you card written by Jack's mom two weeks later in the mailbox.

I think I understand the logistical concerns. Unwrapping presents at a party is hard: you've got to corral the guests, make sure nothing gets broken, and there's often a crying episode for one reason or another. But I still argue for the return to the custom of opening presents at a kid's birthday party.

Every kid needs to know how to look someone in the eye and express thanks, and in my experience, I've found that most kids need all the practice they can get.

Kids don't enter the world knowing that it might be considered rude to, say, run screaming from the room because they unwrapped a birthday gift that contained socks. 

(Yes, that's actually happened in our family.)

We laugh about it now, but what was an embarrassing situation then was also a good moment to teach that when you get a gift you're not crazy about, you find something to like about it and say thank you.

Kids don't know these things unless they practice, and they have to practice over and over.

I wonder if the disappearance of gift-opening at birthday parties is a sign that the art of gratitude is dying a slow and undecorated death.

I've seen fill-in-the-blank thank you cards for kids touted in a parenting magazine that read something like: "Dear _______, Thank you for the ___________. It's awesome! Love, _______."

The magazine raved about these easy-to-complete letters for little kids who can't write a lot yet, but I just about died. It reminded me of junk mailings that stick your name in the blank ("Dear Jennifer, I have an exciting opportunity for you to own a time share in Costa Rica...")

Needless to say, I'm not a fan of the form letters.

What I am a fan of is the joyful mayhem at birthday parties where gifts are opened in front of everyone. The kids are all so excited to give their present, jumping over and other yelling "Mine next! Mine next!"

Take that away, and the gift becomes the equivalent of the cover charge to get into the party. If parents really and truly don't want to open gifts in front of everyone, I think the next best thing to do would be to request "no presents" on the invitations, or to pick their child's favorite charity and ask everyone to bring something to donate instead.

I guess there are all different philosophies about birthday parties out there. Some parents would rather not open presents at the party and find other ways to teach their kids about gratitude instead.

But I've got 5 children and no time, so you'd better believe I'm making the most of every party. If I'm throwing one anyway, I might as well toss in a lesson on manners while I'm at it.

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7 Quick Takes about Clean Dishes, Having Memory Like a Goldfish, and Remaining Silent while Children Trash my House

It's 7 Quick Takes Friday!

— 1 —

One of my favorite parts of being a mother is the conversations I overhear between my children, both heartwarming ones and silly ones like this:

Brother: What if you were taking a shower and ten thousand dollar bills came out of your shower?
Sister: There's no such thing as a ten thousand dollar bill.
Brother: [unfazed] But what if there was??

This is the same boy who a few weeks ago turned to me out of the blue and said "If you were a skeleton and you went upside down and drank water, it would come out your eye holes."

— 2 —

Phillip and I have spent the last week dancing in front of the dishwasher like kids on Christmas morning, waiting for the cycle to finish so we can pull out our sparkling glassware and hear the angels sing.

For the past month we've torn apart the dishwasher looking for clogs, tried new kinds of detergent, and finally just given up and started washing the dishes by hand. No matter what we did, they just kept getting cloudier and cloudier.

Who wouldn't be embarrassed to have people over with dishes like this?

Enter Cascade Platinum. Ordinarily too expensive for a practical person such as myself to buy, I used this rebate form to get it for free (okay, I did pay for the stamp.) But look at this picture — do you see the custard dish in the middle of the rack, the same dirty one pictured above? Of course you don't, it's so crystal clear it's invisible!

Do you hear those angels singing now?

Cheapskate Jenny and Jenny Who Likes Clean Dishes are going to have to duke it out when the Cascade tablets run out and a decision has to be made.

— 3 —

Phillip and I have different sleep personalities. I like to chat in bed before going to sleep, he likes to shut his eyes and go to sleep immediately. As a compromise, we usually talk for a while and then he tries to think of a tactful way to say goodnight. Here is one of his less-successful attempts:

Me: [after a lull in the conversation] What are you thinking about?

Phillip: ...How to politely end this.

Me: [stony silence]

Phillip: What? That wasn't it?

— 4 —

I avoid the phrase "bane of my existence" for fear of overusing it, but if I used it it'd be to describe shoes. My children have the lovely habit of coming downstairs 3 minutes before it's time to go out the door to church or school and announcing that none of their shoes fit. I'm not sure if they think I have a magical shoe cache hidden under the floorboards or what, but it always ends in tears. It seems like this happens once a week, and half the time there is still plenty of growing room left in their shoes. Maybe my children are just insane.

As a result of yet another "I don't have shoes" morning, this is what 2 of them wore to school on Thursday (for the record, it was 47 degrees and rainy.)

Yes, those are sandals. At least one of them put socks on underneath.

So it's time to visit the shoe store, where we each have our jobs: I hold the baby while trying to crouch down and assess the fit of shoes by feeling for their big toe ("Wiggle it harder!"), the toddler scatters shoes throughout the aisle, and the older ones try on every pair in the store and declare them all uncomfortable. I ask, "Well, are they the uncomfortable that will get broken in and become comfortable, or the uncomfortable that will just stay uncomfortable?" They stare at me blankly.

— 5 —

A friend (who I've know for about 4 years now) and I decided it was time for a girl's night. We picked a new restaurant, sat down at a booth, and were perusing the menu for several minutes before I looked up at her and asked, "Have I been here before with you?" She looked around and after a moment said, "You know what? I think so." I made a mental note at that point to find more friends who are equally/more forgetful than me so I don't annoy them.

— 6 —

A nasty cold hit our house this week, and some of us fared better than others. I've spent three days so far without a voice, the first few days of which it felt like someone was punching me in the throat every time I tried to swallow. Bonus: the kids think it's cool when I cough because I sound like a Minecraft zombie.

— 7 —

Speaking of losing your voice: it's really hard to issue authoritative commands in a hoarse frog-whisper. So I don't recommend it for moms who want their kids to clean up after themselves, stop fighting with each other, or get stuff done.

I can only croak out so many words, and I'm not about to waste them on non-emergency situations. So basically, unless you're doing something that will likely end in putting your eye out, you're getting away with it in our house this week.

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How to Mingle the Socially Awkward Way

My sister-in-law Megan, who's getting her master's degree in speech language pathology, was recently awarded a big deal scholarship. As part of accepting the scholarship, there was an awards dinner in her honor and she invited Phillip and I to be her guests.

The catered dinner was tasty and the speeches interesting, but the mingling beforehand. Ah, the mingling. It made me realize something: I don't know how to do it.

And it's crazy, because I'm a social person. I love friends and getting to know new people. You can count on me to introduce myself to the visitor at church or start chatting up the other mom at the mall playplace every time.

You might think it's just that I don't like small talk, which really isn't it. I have no problem approaching a random stranger and striking up a conversation. In fact, I like to do this. If I could just go to a function, meet one person, and talk to them for the rest of the night I'd be completely happy.

It's moving around. It's circulating. I'm lost when it comes to group socializing.

The first few minutes after we arrive are the worst. I get my drink (water, of course) and stand there feeling like a potted plant, mentally chiding myself, You're standing too stiffly! Relax! And then mentally retorting, I know! I'm trying, okay?

What do I do with my posture? Where do I put my hands? Crossed over my chest is unfriendly. On my hip is brash. Limply at my side is weird.

Okay, I've stood there awkwardly for the requisite time period. Now I need to go find someone to talk to. How am I supposed to do that? Everyone else in the room is already part of a group, engaged in a conversation. How do I insert myself into one of those?

I suppose I could just wander around with my little plate of finger sandwiches, creepily hovering near groups waiting for a break in the conversation and hoping they'll let me in.

Oh, there's a group with a gap in it! I could just lodge myself in there and start nodding at what they're saying and laughing along at their jokes... would that be weird? What if I don't successfully make it into the group and I'm kind of stuck halfway in and halfway out? Do I need to excuse myself before leaving?

Even if I successfully manage to get in a conversation, the trouble isn't over. I'm worried about when the other people in the group will want to keep circulating and move on. Isn't there like a 10-minute time limit on these things? 20 minutes? I don't know.

What if they start talking about something I know nothing about? What if I have nothing to contribute to the conversation? If we all run out of things to say does that mean it's time to revive the conversation with a new topic, or is it time to cut our losses and go find someone different to chat with?

I also become ultra-conscious of my hands. I feel like I'm gesturing too much as I talk, or not enough. Am I over-analyzing my hands? Do other people over-analyze their hands?

If I've got a drink or a little plate in one hand, that cuts my worrying-about-what-to-do-with-my-hands in half, so that's good. But then I'll be eating, which means I'll probably have a mouth full of food when someone asks me a question. And I get nervous, which translates into chugging my drink or going to town on my food. So then I've got an empty plate or glass in my hand.

Another thing I have no clue how to do: exiting a conversation. How is this done smoothly, especially in light of the fact that you're all milling around the same room and may well run into this person again over the course of the evening?

I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to just wait until conversation flags and then awkwardly back away. Or to say abruptly, "Well, I'm done talking to you now." Seriously, you're mingling at a party so you both know you don't have anywhere you really need to be, you just want to go talk to someone, anyone, who isn't them. How do you say that without saying it?

Some people are really good at this mingling thing. At the scholarship dinner, I watched one person after another working the room like a boss. They seemed to just know how to flow seamlessly from one part of the room to another making friendly small talk, like a bird knows how to build a nest or Monarchs migrate to Mexico every winter.

It's like they don't even know that there is some kind of complicated social choreography going on around them, they just go with it.

What I took away from the scholarship dinner is this: God has given me a lot of strengths, but mingling at parties isn't one of them.

If you're ever sitting next to me on a plane, rest assured that I'll strike up a conversation with you.

If you're watching your granddaughter on the playground, I'll ask how old she is and chat for as long as you want.

But know that I'll be extremely awkward if I meet you during forced-mingling hour at a social function.

It's just not my thing.

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What Motherhood Taught Me about God: Our Constant Reliance on Him

Put on your Sunday School hats and name some good ways to learn about God. You probably said things like prayer, scripture study, and church worship. Those are at the top of my list, too.

Unfortunately, I'm also really good at saying, "Well, I know that, but..."

For instance, "Of course I know God's timing is best, but [insert reason I continue to act/think like this isn't true]" or "Yes, God is forgiving, but here's why it doesn't really apply to my current situation."

Clearly the message about who God is wasn't always sinking in. Something a little more constantly in-your-face was in order: He made me a mother.

You see, I believe that God is my father. By letting me experience parenthood myself, He's given me more insights than I can count into how He feels about me.

This post is the first in a series about some of the things I thought I knew — but as a mother I'm finally beginning to understand — about God.

*  *  *

Try to remember back to the last time you watched a wildlife documentary. Did you ever notice that in the animal kingdom, almost every other species is really self-sufficient from a very young age?

Baby giraffes are up and walking around an hour after they're born. Sea turtles hatch, find their own way to the ocean, and swim away to find food and defend themselves.

With those facts in mind, think about a baby human. Completely immobile and practically blind at birth, babies depend on their parents to take care of their every need, all the time, around the clock. For crying out loud, the natural reflex of a 4-month-old is to pick up random objects and shove them in its mouth! 

Maybe one of the reasons we come into the world so helpless and so dependent on our parents for everything (and why we stay that way for a long time,) is to remind us of our utter dependence on God.

Sometimes I get so busy with life that I forget my own reliance on God. He needs to remind me that everything I have is just on loan from Him, and He uses symbols to do it. The Israelites gathered manna daily for 40 years in the wilderness; I have the constant stream of needs of 5 little people who call me Mom.

In 2012 Russel M. Nelson, an apostle from my church, told a funny little story:

Recently, Sister Nelson and I enjoyed the beauty of tropical fish in a small private aquarium. Fish with vivid colors and of a variety of shapes and sizes darted back and forth. I asked the attendant nearby, “Who provides food for these beautiful fish?”

She responded, “I do.”

Then I asked, “Have they ever thanked you?”

She replied, “Not yet!”

Parents love their children. God loves all of us, no matter how we behave toward Him or fail to acknowledge Him. Of course our actions might cause us to miss out on some of the blessings He would have happily given us, but no matter how unruly we are we just can't escape the fact that we're children of God, and parents do good things for their children. God makes the "sun rise on the evil and on the good" (Matthew 5: 45.)

Many of the things we do for our families are done quietly. We make meals, read books, give rides, wash clothes, and teach, teach, teach. Each small act of service is easy to overlook, but that's just what a parent does.

Likewise, so much of God's help is orchestrated quietly in the background of our lives. It's given regardless of our asking for it and regardless of our thanks. Even though we depend on it, it can be missed or taken for granted if we're not paying attention.

I have no doubt that if He'd wanted to, God could have designed life so that babies didn't demand so much of their parents. But He didn't, so there must be a lesson in it for me somewhere.

Jesus told us to become like little children, and little children depend on their parents. Oh boy, do they depend on their parents: some days I feel overwhelmed by kids asking me for help, stories, snacks, and signatures on permission slips — usually all at the same time.

It doesn't always help me to be patient in the moment, but I try to listen hard for God's voice in the cacophony: "They need you all the time, just like you need Me all the time."

Then I take a deep breath and try to do better that day, being more willing to seek, recognize, and thank my Heavenly Father for His constant presence in my life.


For more posts in the "What Motherhood Taught Me About God" series, check out:\

• Becoming Like Little Children
• Our Infinite Worth
• His Perspective Is Better

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7 Quick Takes about Pinterest Fails, Signs with Boston Accents, and Other Hazards of Being a Mom

It's 7 Quick Takes Friday!

— 1 —

My children always receive lots of craft-themed gifts. Learn to tie friendship bracelets! Create purses from patterned duct tape! Make your own pop up book!

While they're always excited about the idea of these crafts-in-a-box, in practice what they really want to do is sit around reading, drawing, or playing. We are just not a craft family. 

Sand art kit my daughter received for her birthday in the spring. Of 2012.

So here's how it usually goes around here. They receive one and it goes to our craft graveyard to die dining room, where they have a nice big table for a work surface. The box sits there unopened for 6-12 months until I threaten to throw it away, whereupon the kids spend a happy hour working on it before they never touch it again.

I don't even remember when this paint by number kit
entered our house, but it's looked like this since June.

— 2 —

Then again, I shouldn't talk. Here is my latest brilliant project, making whimsical mosaic stepping stones for our flowerbed. 

Pinterest fail.

What's that you say? You see no stepping stones? No, but this mess did sit on our dining room table for a long time (I won't tell you how long because I'm embarrassed) and the stones are nowhere near finished. 

At this point I'm barely keeping up the thinnest pretense that these things will be done before it starts snowing. 

— 3 —

I need to take my car in to replace a recalled part, but have put it off for a while. Mostly because auto shops should have the line from Dante's Inferno inscribed above the door: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." 

Best case scenario, the repair is quick and I only have to endure 30-60 minutes of containing a teething baby and a toddler in a 10'x10' waiting room with nothing to entertain them except the coffee machine. Wait, that's the best case scenario?

— 4 —

My daughter never stops talking. Most of the time I'm the target of her constant running monologue, but every now and then she'll deflect it into her toy phone. 

Apparently camo and stripes do match, as long as they're both pink.

I overheard her pick it up, yell "7-8-9!" and then say, "Hello? I have a magic phone. I have a phone that's magic so I can't hear you, but that's okay..." and she proceeded to talk the ear off of whoever she was pretending was on the other end. 

Later I asked who she was talking to and she answered "Sawastic Joe," whatever that means. We don't even know anyone named Joe.

— 5 —

I've been noticing lately that there are dust jackets all over my house with no books in them. I don't really understand this. Who has been taking them off, and why are they doing this? 

Does this mystery person find that the books are much lighter and easier to carry without the dust jackets? Or does s/he simply want to be surprised when opening up a random blank hardcover around the house to read?

— 6 —

Usually the messages on those portable light-up signs on the side of the road are about construction, road closures, or general safety reminders. You know, boring stuff. But I passed one on 495 (keep in mind that I live in New England) that read, "Wear yah seat belt. Make yah ma proud."

— 7 —

Last summer I attended a motherhood discussion group hosted at my church. As an icebreaker, the group leader told us to turn to our neighbor and tell her the grossest thing you've ever found as a mother. I don't even remember what I said then, but I know I could top it now.

Gross: Finding poop in the toilet because someone forgot to flush.
Grosser: There's also no toilet paper in the toilet.
Grossest: None of the children will confess to the poop-and-run, but you know that hiding somewhere in the house is a pair of soiled underwear waiting for you to find it.

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Joining the Miscarriage Club

This week a friend rang my doorbell with a box of maternity clothes I'd lent her and burst into tears.

Somehow she got out the words that she wouldn't be needing them anymore. She'd lost her baby.

I'm not a crier, but I cried with her that day. My own miscarriages had been years ago, but those emotions came rushing back with a ferocity that surprised even me.

I guess you never forget.

My first miscarriage blindsided me in 2007, after the perfectly normal births of my first two children. We hadn't yet announced the pregnancy; we'd decided to wait until 12 weeks "just in case."

And even though I'd felt deep in my gut that something wasn't quite right with this pregnancy, I still hadn't given any real thought to the fact that "just in case" might actually happen.

It never dawned on me until I started bleeding that getting pregnant didn't automatically make you the mother of a healthy baby in nine months.

I made a frantic call to my doctor's office. Surely they'd tell me what to do, how to stop this. I was told to stay hydrated and put my feet up. In other words, there was nothing anyone could do.

Honestly, I was shocked. I'd always believed that Phillip and I were in charge of our family planning, but here I was, losing a baby. This was completely in God's hands, and completely out of mine.

Nobody talks about pregnancy loss. I didn't know it would be so hard on me physically, or that it would be such a long process. At its height the cramping was as painful and intense as labor, and I was sore and exhausted for days. The bleeding goes on for a week or more.

I walked through the next several weeks in a fog, feeling alone. Every woman, I think, goes through it alone no matter how much support she has.

No one else has experienced the raw physical and emotional connection with this pregnancy, or felt the equal devastation when it's lost. No one else is in the bathroom with you for those terrible minutes and hours and days, watching clots of blood and tissue pass.

After a while, life has to start again. Someone has to go back to work. Kids still need to be bathed and fed. Somebody has to go grocery shopping. You begin interacting with people again.

Maybe you hadn't announced the pregnancy yet, in which case you feel like a big fat liar, walking around pretending that the worst thing imaginable didn't just happen to you.

Or maybe you'd already told everyone, and now you face the task of re-opening the wound again and again every time someone asks about the pregnancy.

Telling another person about your miscarriage for the first time is awful. I don't know what it is about simply forming the words and saying them out loud, but somehow it makes everything crash down on you again. It gets better but never goes away.

Before I had my first miscarriage, I didn't know anyone who'd experienced a pregnancy loss. After I began talking about it, people who'd had one or two or more came out of the woodwork. I found myself a member of a very large club that nobody ever wants to be in.

Knowing what I know now, here's what I would say to someone experiencing a miscarriage: Find other women who belong to this club. If you can't find them in person then find them online.

Talking to them will help, I promise. Sharing your story with someone who's been there before will help.

My second piece of advice would be to prepare for the insensitive comments. Truthfully, there's no way to prepare for them. But know that they happen.

Anything that follows the words "at least" is the worst possible thing to say to a grieving person, but someone will say it to you anyway.

Some well-meaning soul will point out that you were 'only' X number of weeks along, as if that will make you feel better.

And some people won't even count it as a real loss. They'll say things to you they wouldn't dream of saying to a bereaved parent of a baby who was one year old, or even one day old. They'll say "aww, that stinks," and then they'll ask if/when you're going to try to get pregnant again. They'll imply that if you just have another baby you won't be sad anymore.

Many people won't understand that you're not just disappointed because some theoretical baby will not appear to you in the future as you expected. You already had a baby, it was so close it was a part of you, and now it's gone. People will not understand that.

It takes a long time to heal emotionally from a miscarriage. People expect it to be easier than other losses. Even I expected myself to "get over it" faster. I'd be fine and then some reminder — putting away a box of baby things, or maybe even nothing at all — would trigger a breakdown.

Years later, those emotions still bubble up from time to time. I think I never fully dealt with them all. My miscarriages happened before anyone other than Phillip knew I was even pregnant, so not many people know about my miscarriages. Sometimes it feels like I'm the keeper of some horrible secret.

That, and the lack of closure, is what kills me. There's no memorial service, no decent burial. No mother feels good about the final resting place of her miscarried child. It feels wrong not to have any momentos, aside from maybe an ultrasound picture if you were able to get one, of this little person who affected your life.

I read somewhere the suggestion of planting a tree or bush in memory of your baby. I think I might do that someday. I have a hard time thinking about my miscarriages with anything other than sadness, but maybe seeing three thriving bushes in my yard would make me happier when I think about those little souls.

My heart goes out to my friend, and to all the other women in our terrible club. I hope that however we do it, we can heal and find peace.

That someday, we might be able to think about those angel babies and smile.

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