Do-over Please?

I walk into the dining room, which also doubles as our classroom.  The table is barely evident for the stacks of books and papers that cover it. I announce it's time for school to which my daughter rebuffs, "I'm not doing school today."  Her eyes narrow in determination and her arms cross her chest in defiance.

"That's not a choice," I respond.  "Now, where's your math book?"

"I'm sitting on it."

"A, come on, hand me your math book and let's get started."

"You can't make me," her voice is quiet and cold.


That helpless feeling fills my body.  She's right.  I mean, I could physically move her body from the book while she kicks and screams, but I can't force her to actually do the math.  "Well, if you aren't going to complete your school work then you can vacuum.  I lean over to pick something up as she tosses a book in frustration.  I look up just in time to catch the corner of the book in the cheekbone.  The culmination of a long morning of defiance and a rotten attitude.  I jump up and grab my face.  Tears of pain spring to my eyes.  "What is wrong with you!" I shout.  Jesus, help me, I think. I don't know how to parent her when she's like this.  "You," I say, pointing wildly like some deranged lunatic.  "I need you to go to your room."  My finger flies toward the stairs as if she needs directions to her bedroom.  "I don't want to be around you right now."  My stomach sinks.  I know that wasn't the right thing to say, but I'm truly at a loss, and my eye is throbbing so intensely I swear it's visibly pulsating.

I walk downstairs to alert my husband, who's helping our son. that I need to leave for a little while.  He looks at my eye, winces, and let's me know he's on it.  I jump in the car and erupt into sobs.  This is probably not the right course of action according to all of my parenting books on strong-willed children, but the introvert in me desperately needs to create distance and to be alone to process everything.  I drive a mile to McDonald's and order an large unsweet tea through heavy, wracking sobs.  I pull to the drive-through, eye-swelling, tears pouring.  The cashier is probably so unsettled by the crying maniac at her window that she refuses to make eye contact.  I know I need to deal with this properly, so I offer this prayer on the way back home:  Lord, I'm weary.  I'm baffled.  I don't know.  I just don't even know where to start.  Help.

I arrive home to see my husband teaching Annie multiplication of two by two digits.  "I'll take it from here," I whisper.  A looks up, tears brimming, and says, "I'm sorry the book hit you, Mommy."  I'd like to say the day improved from there, but alas, we had already pulled the thread and unravel it did.  My daughter, who is lovely 85% of the time, has difficulty pulling the emotions together once they start to get out of control.  Thank you, pre-teen hormones combined with a naturally spirited-temperamental personality.

An hour later, I find myself locked in another battle with my headstrong daughter.  "We need to leave for piano in ten minutes."  I walk into the dining room to find her desperately trying to complete fifteen minutes worth of written piano homework.  "A! You've had seven days to complete that."

"I know," she cries.  "I'm not going to finish."

"That's a consequence of your poor choice.  It's time to go."  I'm met with frantic wails, but I reiterate that she must face the music.  Minutes later, her piano teacher opens the door to greet a sobbing nine-
year-old and a harried mom with a bruised cheek.  I shake my head and assure her we're fine, just a little battle weary.  While A is in piano, I decide to walk the neighborhood and reflect on the day, otherwise known as beating myself up for all the parenting errors I made that day.

I was giving myself a good mental lashing when I heard Luke 22:31 (not audibly-the day hadn't been that bad) "Simon Peter, Satan has asked to sift you like wheat."  How strange?  What has that to do with a bad parenting day?  I thought about it again. "Simon Peter, Satan has asked to sift you like wheat."  Now, I don't know what happened in the heavenlies that morning when I asked God to guide each step of my day, but it certainly felt as if Satan had been sifting me, more like holding me upside down and shaking me by my ankles.  My thoughts drifted to Peter's denial of Jesus just hours later. Peter screwed up big time, but......but, Jesus forgave him.  Jesus gave Satan permission to sift Peter, perhaps, because Jesus knew that's what it would take to strengthen and to prepare Peter for the work ahead.  Maybe that's where the Holy Spirit was leading me. Because when it comes to parenting, I wish I just failed three times a day rather than ninety, and I don't always feel up to the task.


With each step of my walk, I recalled every mistake made that day.  Pushing too hard, shouting, emotionally distancing myself because sometimes it's just so hard, and that's how I protect myself from the outbursts of an emotionally charged child.  Peter failed Jesus in Christ's darkest hour.  He even denied he knew him, yet Jesus lovingly rebuked Peter simply by asking three times if he loved Him.  Gentle Jesus who's mercies are new every morning.  Jesus, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry for all the ways I fail you, fail her.  Help me. Help me be the mom she needs, the mom you created me to be.  Washed in the cleansing balm of forgiveness, I continue to think about my beautiful, tough-as-nails daughter.

I'm an eternal optimist.  A sometimes makes Eeyore seem downright jovial.

I'm a people-pleaser.  She seriously could not care less who she pleases.

I'm a diligent hard worker.  A seeks out the path of least resistance.


I was expecting a min-me and God blessed me with something wild, wonderful, and unpredictable, yet to a woman who does not like her clear-cut goals and plans interrupted, that's scary.

A and I are so opposite, yet God gave me her because He knows we need each other.  I'm not going to lie.  It is sometimes so difficult to parent her.  There are days that though, I love her madly no matter what, I mean wildly love this bronco of mine, there are days, it breaks my heart to say it, that I don't always like her.  Just fleeting moments of this child isn't very nice.  Of course, parenting her is usually a delight, but on those days it's hard, it's back-breaking, bone-weary hard.  All those qualities that will create a wildly successful adult who refuses to accept rejection and laughs at the idea of following the crowd; those qualities are wrecking her mama.  Yet, I won't give up on me or on her.  Just as He's perfecting me and making me new, He's doing the same for her and has trusted me with assisting Him in the process.  I slow my pace as I near her piano teacher's house.  My grace is sufficient for you because My power is made perfect in weakness.  That's really what it's all about isn't it, Jesus?  In parenting, in marriage, in life.  God uses all situations to bring us to faithful dependence on Him.  He supplies strength to the weary, especially the weary mamas of the world.

A walks out of her lesson.  I greet her with a smile and take her arm as we walk to the car.  "I forgive you for hitting me with the book and for losing it over school.  Do you forgive me for not handling your defiance in the best way?  I'm sorry I yelled, but I though my eye was going to fall out."  We giggle.  I stop her, turn her to face me, kneel and take her shoulders.  "God tells us His mercies are new every morning.  Let's pretend it's morning and have a do-over."  I pause then continue, "You know I love you more than life, right?"  She nods.  "I mean it."  I feel the tears sting."

"Mommy, let's go.  You're being embarrassing."  I stand and she takes my hand.  Once in the car, I start to turn the ignition when I hear, "Mommy, I love you."  I don't bite back the tears but allow them to flow.  Parenting is literally the hardest job on the planet, but never forget, it's without a doubt the most rewarding, especially when you remember that God, through you,  is creating a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Working and Homeschooling: Finding Balance

I toss a stack of books into the leather ottoman that discreetly stores my children's textbooks.  A and C gather pencils , clean excess paper and schoolwork off the dining room table then rush off to read silently for half an hour while I dress for work.  My husband and I discuss dinner and practice schedules, and I leave a few last minute instructions with the kids before I head out to the library where I will spend the next five hours tutoring.  My husband steps in to handle the afternoon duties of shuttling the kids to practice, feeding them dinner, and preparing them for bed.  When I return home from work, I will run upstairs where my two little ones are waiting patiently for books and good night hugs, thus ending another day for our homeschooling family.

An oft-repeated comment I hear from moms who wish to homeschool is "I'd love to homeschool, but I have to work."  I'm often greeted with looks of surprise when I share that not only do I work but so do many of my homeschooling friends.  Working mom and homeschooling mom need not be mutually exclusive.   In fact, working while homeschooling can provide real-world learning experiences for your own children.

While working and homeschooling is possible, it isn't always easy.   If you decide to tackle working while homeschooling, you might need to rethink your vision of work.  It probably isn't realistic to assume you can maintain a career as a full-time doctor or lawyer and adequately school your children without reevaluating your schedule, especially when your children are young.  In my family, my husband and I both run businesses from home and are able to swap easily between work and school.  My son often works on his math and spelling while my husband fields business calls in his office.  C enjoys watching his dad in action.  If you happen to be a nurse, you could possibly schedule shifts for weekends or evenings and school on off days and in the mornings.  As children become more independent in their schooling, which is ultimately the goal (self-directed learning), schedules can resume a more traditional path.

Finding balance in work and homeschool is often the most difficult challenge, and some careers more easily allow this balance.  Here are a few traits, compiled from conversations with working homeschooling moms, that successful homeschooling moms tend to share.

1.  They work from home or work in careers with flexible scheduling.  

I run a tutoring business and meet with students in the afternoon and evenings.  This leaves the morning free to school my children.  I also schedule one weekday free for field trips and have chosen not to work on weekends to protect family time and worship.  I also teach one day a week at a co-op that allows my children to come with me to work and even provides childcare.  If you excel in a certain subject area and enjoy working with children, tutoring is an excellent career.

My friend, Jennifer, works the early morning and evening shift at a local YMCA.  She's home during the middle of the day with her children.  Any job that allows a split-shift is ideal.  Retailers will often allow this.  My friend, Michele, is a rep with Premier Designs.  Most of her work is completed at night, and she simply schedules jewelry showings around her children's schedules.  With a little research, you can find many careers that allow for flexible scheduling.  I have friends who monogram, friends who bake, friends who edit copy.  With ingenuity, most hobbies can become entrepreneurial endeavors.

2.  They include their children in their work.

If you run a business from home, your work provides an ideal learning experience for your child.  What better real-world experience than to allow your child to watch and to even participate in the running of your business.  Michele, a rep for Premier Designs, allows her young daughter to place labels on catalogs and assist in creating hostess packets. She even incorporates her business into their homeschooling lessons.  I, too, try to incorporate lessons from business into homeschooling.  Recently, my daughter was learning about sales tax.  My husband displayed several receipts from his business and illustrated for my daughter how his business charges and pays certain taxes in transactions.  We were then able to discuss how the government uses our tax money. 

Early in my homeschooling career, I bemoaned the fact I had to work, feeling it took time away from my children.  Now, I view it as an opportunity.  My children
experience a true laboratory of learning as they observe my husband and I tackle the day-to-day challenges that come with running a business.  They understand how entrepreneurship works.  As society changes, more and more people will work from home or will run small businesses.  They will learn how to better balance aspects of home, work, church, and family from experience rather than theory.  Michele's older children have shown an interest in entrepreneurship as she's shared her business with them.  In fact, several young homeschoolers run successful businesses now.  They are already honing the skills necessary to developing a successful career.

3.  They create balance in their lives and have a support system.

The key to successfully creating an ideal work/homeschool environment is balance.  When I first began homeschooling, I had just started my business.  I was trying desperately to build a network while also trying to both research curriculum and create a homeschool.  I was teaching 18 hours a day, either my own or children of my clients. I experienced burnout and was staring down the long, dark road of depression.  I realized that to adequately provide for my family, I needed to find balance, so I decided to trust God's promise to provide and prayerfully considered what was absolutely necessary to include in my day.  I narrowed the focus of my business to just include ACT/SAT tutoring, I turned down several volunteer and work opportunities, accepting only those I truly felt called to do, and I decreased my work hours.  Within months, I felt my health and faith restored, and my children learned a lesson by watching their mom evaluate her schedule and make difficult but necessary choices to improve her family's quality of life.  I also taught my children that it is okay to say no, even to good things because better opportunities lie ahead.  I hope I also taught them a lesson in having faith.

The moms I know who handle this successfully also carve out time in their day for themselves.  This may be a bible study, hour at the gym, or twenty minutes with a book.  It's also important to spend quality time with your spouse.  Give your children positive associations with work.  Michele places ten percent of her jewelry earnings in a "fun jar" and the family reaps the benefits of her hard work together in an enjoyable activity.  This, too, is an example of balance.  Money is tithed, saved, spent, and enjoyed.

Successful working homeschool moms also ask for help and delegate responsibilities to their children.  Your child is capable of cleaning the bathroom and of preparing simple meals.  Enlist the help of your spouse.  My husband is a true partner in our homeschool and folds laundry with more precision than I ever could.

So, yes, if you feel led to homeschool but feel that it's impossible to reconcile that calling with your need to work, know it's possible.  There are thousands of moms balancing work and school and not at the expense of their children but to their benefit.  Though it isn't always easy and requires a true evaluation of priorities and expectations, there are many fulfilling careers that fit your desire to contribute to your family's income with your desire to homeschool.  

What To Really Expect When You're Expecting

My baby sister is expecting her first baby.  As the youngest of two sisters and a brother (all parents), she will be the fortunate recipient of our advice and words of wisdom.  Of course, she could read about what to expect in any number of books, if she's looking for the tidy, sanitized version.  I find it my duty, though, to draw back the curtain and show her what to really expect in the months and years following her pregnancy, so my sweet G, I present "What to Really Expect When You're Expecting."

1.  Enjoy your pregnancy.  Relish every quiet, peaceful, uninterrupted moment of your pregnancy.  Go to bed at 8:00 pm if you feel so inclined.  Sleep in until noon.  Sit down at a table and enjoy all three courses of your meal.  Read a book.  Binge watch Netflix.  Then say good-bye to all of these activities for 18 years.  It's okay; I'll pause while you take a moment of silence.

2.  Once the baby arrives, well-meaning, often childless, or perhaps forgetful, people will advise you to sleep when your baby sleeps.  Pshaw......Don't listen to them.  When else will you catch up on Days of Our Lives and Reddit?  Stefano and Marlena are not going to wait for your baby to grow up, sis.  You may also want to use this time for minor activities like eating and showering and maybe, running the vacuum.  It'll be good for your princess to adjust to napping with noise, especially if you plan to have a little prince in the future.

2.  This may come as a shock, but there will be days you won't shower.  Your child will leave the house looking like an ad for Kelly's Kids and you will leave looking like an extra for the Walking Dead.   It's all right.  No one will judge you.....no one, except maybe that group of moms at Kindermusik who all look like they stepped out of the pages of Vogue.  They will judge, but who cares?  Those are not your people.  Trust me, there's a whole cast of Walking Dead extras stumbling sleepily across playgrounds and through the aisles of Target.  Plus, you watched an entire episode of American Idol and didn't drop the baby when that spider ran out of the closet.  High five!

3.  If you plan to nurse, prepare for your milk to letdown at the most awkward times:  singing in the choir at church, lecturing students on participial phrases, checking out at the grocery store, making a deposit at the bank.  You will be your very own Leaky Cauldron, and I'm not talking Harry Potter, friend.  This is a magic all of its own.  Buy lots of those little pads for your bra and be prepared because milk happens.

4.  Speaking of breast feeding, there is no such thing as pumping discreetly unless you work on an airport runway or at a bar with a heavy metal band.  That pumping noise can broadcast through steel walls.  If you pump in your classroom during your ten minute planning period, lock the door.  That's a difficult one to explain to the poor administrator who waltzes through the door.  Hang a sign that says "Pumping in Progress."  No one will come near your room.  Forget, leave it up the rest of the day, and catch a nap.

5.  I know you teach aerobics.  Bless you.  Plan on having a co-teacher for those five to ten times you have to dash off to the restroom during jumping jacks.  Trampolines?  Forget about it unless you also carry an extra pair of pants for you in that giant diaper bag you'll be hauling around.


6.  There will come a day when your precious is about three months old where you will want to venture out to the mall, just to make sure Jesus didn't return and leave you behind.  Don't bother.  Once you load the stroller, diaper bag, baby carrier, wrestle your little bronco into the seat without pinching off a finger, remember you're wearing pajama pants, go back inside to put on blue jeans, you'll be too tired to turn on the ignition.  The good news is the baby finally drifted to sleep after hours of attempting to put her down for a nap earlier.  Always keep a book or magazine in the car for this occasion.  Put on sunglasses and turn off the ignition.  It will appear you are reading, while you, too, catch a nap.  If your husband surprises you for lunch, pretend you just got into the car.

7.  Never say never.  Everything you learned in that child development class you took in college, all those precious parenting strategies you tucked away for when you had children will not apply when your child is projectile vomiting on your Karastan area rug or when your angel decides to decorate the kitchen counter with permanent marker or shred the stack of essays you were about to grade.  You will say that thing your mom always said and you swore you'd never say, and to add salt to the wound, it will leave your mouth in her voice.  You will find yourself saying things like, "Please don't bite your toenails until you at least wash your feet."  Or, "What did you think would happen when you shoved a grape up your nose?"

8.  The baby-apparatus companies will tell you it is impossible to rear your child without forty-five gadgets and three different cribs.  Please remember our parents did this with drop side cribs and walkers on wheels sans baby gates.  We just rolled to the next landing where our parents set us upright then we'd keep toddling along.  Thousands of generations of babies survived without designer diapers and boppity-boopy seats.

9.  Your friends will change a bit.  You'll swear to all of your childless friends that you guys will be BFFs forever, and you will with one or two, but your endless talk about how your baby smiled, pooped green, spit up, made adorable cooing noises will begin to wear thin.  You can't help it.  At this moment, your whole world revolves around someone who is 20 inches and weighs ten pounds and can shake the foundation of your house with screaming at 2 am.  If you do manage to keep silent about your little love, you won't be able to follow their conversation about the latest episode of Downton Abbey because you nodded off during the evening news.  It may seem intimidating or impossible at first, but before you know it, you'll be surrounded by a group of mommas who love to discuss breast milk storage and The Runaway Bunny as much as you.

10.  Finally, and seriously, your life will be rocked in ways you never imagined.  When the doctor hands you that tiny miracle from God, you'll never look back.  No amount of sleep or size 6 jeans or grown-up conversation over a glass of wine in a real goblet will ever tempt you to go back to life before this precious love.  Your and Jordan's lives will be given purpose you never imagined as you nurture this child into an adult.  The joy, even on those days when this child is ten and drives you to your knees before the throne of God in anxious, befuddled prayer, will far outweigh any burden.  Those first days can be lonely, but soon, so soon, you'll find your routine, hit your groove, and wonder why you didn't enter the wonderful world of parenting sooner.

So, baby sister, congratulations.  You are embarking on a journey that will forever transform your life.  You will wake up in ten years and realize you are gentler, more compassionate, more patient, kinder, more joyful, and more loving than you ever thought possible.  You'll thank God for using this precious miracle to cultivate within your own life the fruit of His spirit.  Now that you know what to expect, fasten your seatbelt, and enjoy the ride!

The Magic of Reading to Older Kids

A and C snuggle in tight, one under each arm.  I open the pages of Because of Winn-Dixie and begin to read.  Silence, rapt attention, interrupted now and then by a chorus of giggles when our furry protagonist finds himself the center of a mishap follows.   Today has been declared electronic-free day, which is usually met with whining and pleading, but as soon as I crack open the pages of that book and allow the story to captivate my children, no shiny contraption, not even X-box can lure them from the magic currently igniting their imaginations.

At the close of each chapter, both children chime, "One more, mommy, please!"  Though dishes pile in the sink, laundry overflows its basket, and dust sits on the furniture, I, too, am drawn into the tale and give in to my children's pleas.  (My family has this quirky inability to put down a good book until it's finished.)  Though, they are both capable of finishing the story on their own, I wouldn't miss this time with them, so I continue to read until we reach the final page.  For four hours, we lose ourselves in the world of a girl and her furry companion.  I close the book and resume my housecleaning, leaving behind a lively discussion of the novel, two voices excitedly reminiscing about the highlights of this charming book.

I join the conversation briefly, asking, "How did Opal use her loneliness to help others?" My children ponder for a moment then offer astute answers.  We talk about how we can apply Opal's kindness to our own daily lives and think of examples of people we know who face loneliness and how we can help to ease their melancholy.  In a few minutes, A and C rush off to play, and I'm left to meditate on a morning spent sharing a story with my children.

Reading aloud to my children is one of my greatest joys as a parent.  I'm serious.  I love stories.  I love hearing stories and telling stories.  Even as an adult, I never tire of stories.  As a child, I would walk through my back yard, past Mr. Ritchie's house, to my great-aunt Flap's where I would sit on her porch and listen to her tell stories.  I could sit there for hours.  Many of my favorite childhood memories involve her lemonade, cookies, and yarns.  Every time I recall sitting on that porch, I'm filled with a warmth and comfort that transcends the years; I'm transported to the glorious, carefree world
of childhood, and instantly the heaviness and weariness of whatever the adult world is currently pressing onto my shoulders is immediately lightened.  Stories, in their own magical way, do just that, and that's what I want to share with my children each time we sit together and read.

As an educator, I cannot adequately stress the importance of reading aloud to children of all ages.  I read aloud to my middle schoolers at least five minutes every day.  I read at least once during class to my writing students, seniors included, and they love it.  If I ever need to capture the attention of a class, I grab a book and introduce a snippet of a new world to my students.  Without fail, that book usually tags along home with at least one student who must finish the story, even the most reluctant of readers.  I could go on and on about the educational benefits of reading aloud and did in this post. For this post, I want to focus on the benefits of reading aloud as a parent.

I'm no parenting expert.  For the love, I don't feel qualified to offer any parenting advice, but I know the power of reading aloud from my experience as a child, a mom, and a teacher, and I've seen what those few minutes a day can do for my own relationship with my children.  Stories connect us.  Think about how many conversations you've had with peers and even strangers over a book you discover you've both read.  Every time I pull a book off the shelf and pull my children into my lap or next to my lap for my ten-year-old, we create a memory, a shared experience that can leave us both transformed.  It's a deliberate pause in my day to share something wonderful with my children.  Please don't think I read four hours a day to my children.  That's a lovely exception.  Many days it's one chapter or five minutes, but regardless of the amount of time, it's time my children and I cherish.  I will fail them in a million ways, but I pray when they think of me one day, they'll focus on these quiet moments.

Reading aloud also opens the door to meaningful conversations, especially with older children who are trying to navigate the awkwardness of middle school or the drama of high school.  Most books provide a meaningful theme for conversation.  My daughter and I read through the entire Harry Potter series together and what followed were important discussions on friendship, loyalty, peer pressure, and love.  Literary characters provide great examples of what to do and what not to do.  Those sometimes awkward conversations we'd like to have with our pre-teens and teens, those discussions that are often met with eye-rolling and sighing, can be held under the guise of discussing a great book together.  If the idea of reading a book aloud to your teenager is uncomfortable, read the same book as your child and discuss it together.  Sometimes pulling conversation out of my normally reserved daughter is difficult,  but a fail-proof method to start dialogue is to ask her about the book she's reading.  She will talk for hours.

Storytelling has been the means of preserving the memories of cultures for years, providing entertainment but also creating a shared thread that weaves together people across the ages.  Even Jesus used stories to challenge, to explain concepts, and to engage His followers.  Stories provide an entree into the hearts and minds of our children as they connect to favorite characters or are appalled by antagonists.  Reading aloud to our children is a critical way to connect with them long past the years of preschool and elementary school.  In those times where our children claim to crave independence but desperately still need our guidance and attention, a book provides the key to connecting and to enjoying our kids, not to mention the fostering of a lifelong love of reading.

My children and I have a list of about fifty books we'd like to read together, and while each novel provides an unknown adventure for us to share, it also offers a memory to be created, a bond to be forged, a life to be changed.  I challenge you to create a list with your kids and carve out the time to read together.  Those five minutes a day could forever enhance your relationship with your child.

What I Learned When I Fell Off My Bike

 I'm typing this with basically one hand.  My right hand keeps getting in the way because it's wrapped in a cumbersome hot-pink cast thanks to a broken bone below my thumb.  How did I break my wrist?  By rushing into a burning building to rescue.....no, actually, I fell off my bike, three times.

This is me the day I received my bike for Christmas.

Four hours later I was sitting on the asphalt holding my wrist crying.  Apparently, clip-in pedals are difficult to master for someone who began the year wearing an orthotic boot.  On my first attempt, I stopped the bike before trying to unclip.  This was followed by wobbling precariously on two skinny tires before I toppled to the ground, feet still clipped into the pedals.  That will also leave a nasty bruise on the shin.  The same thing happened the second and third time.  All culminating with me shouting, "Help," to my husband who even if he'd been Superman had no shot of reaching me in time.  The process ended with me slamming my wrist to the street, finally breaking it.  Now, I'm a forty-year-old mom with a bright pink cast.  Cheers!



Fast-forward to a week after my incident where I'm taking my son and daughter to the book store to spend their Christmas gift cards.  Unprovoked, my daughter pipes up from the back seat, "Mommy, you know kids watch what you do more than they listen to what you say."
"That's true," I respond.  "Mommy really does try to set a good example for you guys."
"You mean by falling off your bike and breaking your wrist?" she inquired through a chorus of giggles.  I joined she and her brother in their laughter and didn't really answer her question, yet I pondered her question the rest of the day.  And here's my response:  Yes.  Yes, I do think I set a good example by breaking my hand on my bike.

Before you decide I also hit my head in the fall, let me explain.  I often tend to take the path of least resistance, sometimes opting for the safety of the sidelines.  Not always.  Sometimes, I'm inexplicably fearless.  I began my own business with nary a clue about business; I homeschool my kids and run marathons, but lately, I'm tired.  Living fearlessly takes effort.  Often, at least in my case, it hurts.  As a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom who runs a business and teaches writing classes part-time, I find myself exhausted.  So often, after my kids go to bed, I'm tempted to mindlessly peruse Facebook or binge-watch Lost rather than prepare lessons, plan meals, or work on projects that need my attention. It's easy in my busyness to lose sight of what matters and stretch myself to new limits.  Rather, I grow complacent, lazy, listless and blame my schedule for the fact that I've failed to accomplish anything meaningful.  That's where I fail to set a good example for my children, those times I settle for half-done and good enough. I find what often lurks behind my procrastination and laziness is fear:  a fear of failure, a fear of not being good enough.

The bicycle, though, was a gift that represented the pinnacle of a year of comebacks and the hope of the exciting new year that lies ahead.  I battled injury to run my tenth half-marathon.  I battled more injury to complete my first triathlon.  I learned to say "no" to commitments that didn't fit my family.  I said yes to riding 67 miles with my husband in preparation for completing my first century.  The bike symbolized taking it to the next level, getting off the sidelines, and jumping into a sport that sometimes terrifies, yet always exhilarates.  My children watched me crash into the pavement three times, but they also saw me get back up and remount the bike two times. The final time I knew I had broken my wrist, so hopefully, I taught them a teensy bit about discernment.  Still, I refused to be defeated.  Call it stubbornness or stupidity, I prefer tenacity, which by the way, isn't easy to parent in my own offspring.  I have discovered that success in sport so often translates to success in life.  Running 13 miles gives me the courage to try a new business idea.  Riding 50 miles on a bike makes completing a home improvement project seem effortless. But, injury also holds immense value and teaches just as many lessons as the successes.


So, just as much as I want my children to successfully navigate their bikes, I also want my children to fall off their bikes (not literally) because it means they had the faith and gumption to get on them in the first place.  I believe God calls us to live life fearlessly.  Over 300 times in the Bible he tells us not to fear.  Don't get me wrong.  I don't think He invites us to live foolishly.  He calls us to be wise.  I probably shouldn't have attempted clips my first time on my new bike.  It probably wasn't wise to attempt clips on a downhill surface made entirely of asphalt.  But, I don't want to teach my children to avoid going out on a limb just because they might get hurt.  I want them to step out in faith, trusting God to guide them.  I'm not saying I want them to live dangerously, but huddled on the shore in fear is no way to approach life.  While I don't want my children to take foolish, dangerous chances, I want them to get off the sidelines and join the game.  I've learned more from my injury and failure than I've ever learned from my success, and one lesson they've both taught me is to lean entirely on God.  Failure reminds me that I'm not in control and that I don't have to be.  I just have to be willing to say yes to life and trust Him to handle the rest.

I want my children to see me fall off my bike because it means I got on.  I want my children to see one of my ideas fail because it means I tried.  I want my children to read my rejection letter from a publisher because it means I sent a manuscript.  It's okay if my children miss a note in the recital because it means they took the stage.  It's just fine if my children don't make the team because it means they tried out. I have no problem with my children not getting the lead role because it means they auditioned.

So, yes, my dear ones, I rode my bike and got hurt, but I'm going to overcome this obstacle, get back on, and ride smarter.  To me, sport, particularly the bike, is a metaphor for life.  There are times you are going to get slammed to the pavement by failure, unkind people, foolish decisions, and circumstances beyond your control.  But don't stay on the ground nursing your broken wrist.  Get up, get better, and go try again.  Follow this example not the bad ones like how Mommy throws toys under the bed when guests are coming rather than picking them up.  Be like this Mommy.  The Mommy who continues to get up and ride.  Because, to quote the dish towel hanging on the oven, "life is a beautiful ride," but you can only enjoy it if you're on the bike following the One who's marking the path He created just for you.  

The One Where I Open Up About My Struggle with Body Image

I quickly post pictures of me taken at the finish line of the Gulf Coast Triathlon without examining them too closely.  I just completed my first triathlon, and these pictures need to get to the world wide web as soon as possible.  The people need to know.  Later, when I've had time to recover, I scroll through the photographs taken by family and friends.  I pause on the one of me proudly holding up my finisher's medal, and I am disgusted.  My first thought isn't, "Look at what you just accomplished after years of battling injury.  You go girl!"  No, sadly, my first thought is, "Who is that big girl?  I look so fat." What should be my most triumphant moment in a long time reduces me to tears of frustration as I pore over every flaw, picking apart each inch of my body with a negativity I wouldn't reserve for my nemesis.

Me at the finish line of the Gulf Coast Tri

The old critic, the one I thought I'd long buried, resurges with as much vigor as she had when I was struggling to make it as a model in my early twenties.  Rather than see the athlete who survived, what I, perhaps dramatically, like to refer to as the near-death drowning experience on the 300 yard swim, finished third in her age group on a ten-mile bike ride, and hammered out two miles to come in fourth overall in my age group, I see a fat girl, and I've worked too damn hard on staying healthy to allow that girl back into my head.  

To understand my story, we must travel back to my middle school days, the place where tall, awkward, nerdy kids like me thrive.  This is where my body image issues began.  As a junior high cheerleader, I was at least two inches taller than the next tallest girl.  While my teammates' tiny, athletic bodies tumbled and flew through the air, I more or less thudded.  I recall on photo day, the photographer pointing to me and saying, "Big girl.  You line up in the back."  I'm sure he meant tall, but "big girl" echoed through my head the rest of the day.  (I was also the only person who forgot to bring white socks, so tan sock girl would have also been appropriate, but alas, big girl it was.)  No matter what the occasion, I was always a giant among tiny, muscular athletic people.  

As I entered high school, someone, perhaps noticing my discomfort with my Amazon-ish-ness, mentioned that models were tall, so I began to appreciate my height a little more.  I had also been told that I looked better in pictures than I did in person, so I began to send my photos to agents, hoping to get noticed.  I also knew models were ultra-thin, so I began dieting, and by dieting, I mean starving myself, and when the starvation become too much, binging and purging.  I knew exactly where to place my finger in my throat to bring up any meal.  Running water hid the sound of my retching, so no one was the wiser.  My weight fluctuated based on my level of determination.  Once I began pursuing modeling in earnest, though, I became so strict with my diet that I only allowed myself a few pretzel sticks each day.  Anything more and I dealt with an inordinate amount of guilt.  I also exercised for hours a day.  I dropped from 145 to 130, but that still wasn't good enough.  Any professional I met insisted that I still needed to lose weight.  I remember speaking with someone I had met in California and her first greeting was, "How's your weight?"  In the following photographs, I was still deemed too heavy for high fashion.

When I once looked at these photos I picked apart every flaw, every ounce of flab, a maelstrom of  self-condemnation.  Now I see a beautiful, young woman who needed a healthy relationship with food.

So, I dropped another 22 pounds, weighing a paltry 108 when I left home and moved to Atlanta to pursue modeling full-time.  I remember dancing in the fitting room the first time I buttoned a pair of size 3 Calvin Klein jeans.  I was exhilarated!  My dance was short-lived, though, when the exertion almost caused me to pass out.  My family grew so concerned with my weight that my mom forced me to watch the Karen Carpenter story and explained how talented she was, yet how her life was cut short from anorexia, but for once, I felt powerful and in control.  I couldn't control the responses of agents or that sense of restlessness and uncertainty about my purpose, but I could control my weight, and I controlled it like a czar.  I didn't care that I was listless or losing hair by the handful; I ignored the anxious pleas of those who loved me.  For once, I was skinny, and as a result, "beautiful".

I continued this ridiculous lifestyle for months.  I spent my time trying to book fashion shows or print jobs.  No matter how small I became there was always someone there to remind me of any flaws.  Then one day I woke up and simply decided to step off this crazy train.  I was sick.  I was tired.  I was dying inside, and I needed something to bring me back to life.  For years, food had been my enemy, not fuel for my body.  It was my foe, and I needed to learn the delicate balance of friendship, so I moved home and began college.  I also discovered a love of distance running, one that most likely saved my life.  It's impossible to starve yourself and run, so I began reading about nutrition.  Slowly, through prayer and the love of those around me, I began to see my body as the miracle it was.  My legs grew strong and muscular and propelled me through ten mile runs.  I threw out my scale, and to this day, rarely weigh myself.  I could be perfectly fine and at ease with my body, but one wrong number on the scale would send my day spiraling out of control, and a maelstrom of self-condemnation would suck me into a frenzy, ruining my day, so I tossed it and used the fit of my clothing as a gauge.  Bit by bit, I began to make peace with my body.

By the time I married and began to have children, I felt healthy and whole.  I arrived at the place where I  honestly didn't think about my weight.  For the first time in my life, I liked myself and my body.  From time to time, I'd see a photograph and cringe, but I would quickly quiet the critic in my head and move on.  Now, I focused on my marathon and half-marathon finishes, the twenty-six hours of labor that produced two beautiful children, the power it took to cycle 67 miles of a hilly course.  So, my response to my photograph at the finish of my first triathlon shocked me.  I thought I was finally over this body image nightmare, but I'm not.  I still have moments where I long to be that 108 pound girl in the size 3 Calvin Kleins, and you know what, that matters more now than ever because I have a daughter.

I've fought so hard for her to maintain a healthy view of my body.  I've never allowed fashion magazines into our home because I know how easily it is to fall into society's trap that shouts from every newsstand and grocery store aisle in the country:  This is true beauty.  We see it every time we walk into a store and find "skinny" jeans staring at us from every table.  I've never used the word fat or referred to my body as anything but strong and healthy, but that doesn't mean the self-loathing doesn't sneak back into my mind when I step out of the shower and notice the paunch that greets me in the mirror or the dimply thighs peeking out from my swimsuit.  I don't want my daughter to feel that way about her body.  I desperately want A and me to believe that we are beautifully and wonderfully made.

No matter how hard I fight, it's so difficult to prevent my daughter from internalizing society's idea of beauty.  Recently, she came to me and asked why her legs got fat when she sat, and I wanted to scream at the stupid fashion industry and ask where she heard the word "fat".   Instead, I explained to her that it wasn't fat she was seeing, it was muscle, and those muscles propel her through the water when she's swimming her 50 yard breast stroke, they are powering her forward as she bikes up a hill, they are providing her the strength she needs to cross the finish line of a 5K.  I flexed my thighs and showed her my running/cycling muscles then we compared who had the biggest muscles.  Because that's what I want her to see when she looks at her body:  power, promise, potential.  I long for her to see a capable, beautiful body that has the ability to bear children, run marathons, and inspire others.  But, it will be an uphill battle.

Right now, my girl doesn't know, but she's learning.  She doesn't quite fully understand that "thinner is better" or that she can only be accepted and loved if she's perfect, and I'm fighting hard not to send her that message.  Yet, the truth is she will listen more closely to my actions than my words.  Moms, it's time we stop spreading that message with the way we treat ourselves with the way we speak about ourselves.  Every time we look in the mirror and scowl because we don't measure up, regardless of what we speak, we say to our daughters, "I must look a certain way to be satisfied."  While we can't protect our daughters from the messages that society sends, we can equip them with the truth that their value is not based on their body type.  We can build within them a mindset that sees the impossible standards of beauty as a ridiculous myth that no longer needs to be perpetuated.

I'm realizing that as a mom and woman, I personally cannot transform what society values as the standard for perfection in beauty, so my child will grow up in a world that values women for our brains and contributions rather than our bodies, but I can transform my values.  And you can control yours.  What if, when we looked in the mirror, we practiced seeing what was beautiful? What if we start there?  What if we list every day all the things our bodies are capable of accomplishing?  What if we stop using the word fat or disgusting or hideous when talking to ourselves about our bodies?  What if we focused on a healthy relationship with food?  What if we exercised for strength and fitness rather than to sculpt an ideal that has been airbrushed beyond recognition and DOESN'T EVEN EXIST?

What if we learned to love ourselves and see our bodies as God sees them?  What if we sent a message with our money and stopped shopping at Victoria's Secret and Aerie and any other retailer that uses the sexualization of women and preteens' bodies to sell something?  What if we purchased from companies that revere women and use real women to advertise their products like Dove?  What if we stopped buying the lies and started rewarding those who are honest?  You and I individually might not make a difference but if we collectively shouted then maybe someone would start listening.

I don't share my struggle with many people; in fact, outside of my family and close friends, I've never shared it with anyone because I fight to keep it buried in the past where I hope it will let me alone.  I'm realizing, though, that I'm wasting my experience by keeping it to myself.  I believe that God never allows us to walk through a difficulty without somehow using that experience to help, to inspire, or to heal someone else.  My journey, though painful and frustrating, has value.  All of our stories do.  It's through the sharing that we heal and grow stronger and understand that we often fight the same battles.  I grow tired of hiding the flaws and fighting alone, so moms, let's fight this one together for the sake of our daughters and our sons.  Let's encourage and remind each other that each of us is beautifully and wonderfully made.

What Are You So Afraid Of?

My daughter rushes to where I am working and exclaims, "Mommy, I want to go to camp this summer."  I nod, noncommittally and respond, "I'll check into it."  It's still a couple of months until camp, so there's still time for her to change her mind, right?

Time throttles closer and each week, A asks, "Mommy, have you signed me up, yet?"  I look at my nine-year-old and sigh.  "Are you sure you're ready to spend an entire week at camp?  You won't be able to call or see us at all.  No texting either."  Way to crush her joy, Scrooge.  Should I mention the bears?

"Oh, I know.  I really want to go."  Hesitantly, I fill out the online form then sit with my finger perched precariously above the send button.  An entire week at camp.  My mind checks off the list of all that could go wrong: she could become homesick, she could get injured, bitten by a spider, or worse, a snake.  What if a crazed maniac rampages through the camp.....why is my head even going there?  She could throw a tantrum and embarrass herself.  What if she doesn't know how to make her bed, put on her sunscreen, spell a simple word?  What if there's nothing she'll eat?  What if the other girls are unkind to her?  What if those socialization fears others have about homeschoolers are founded?  What if I miss her?  The silent litany continues as my finger wavers between the close button and the send button.  Finally, I take a deep breath and press send, registering my baby girl for camp.

As I ponder my hesitancy to send my daughter to camp, I realize that many of my fears are rooted in a deep-seated insecurity about my own parenting skills and how her behavior will reflect on my own lacking as a mom.  The other fears are genuine concerns about her welfare so far from home (really camp was an entire hour and a half away.)  Most, though, lie in an inability to let go and come to terms with a daughter who is growing into a young woman.  I'm halfway through the critical years of parenting, and this will be the first real test of how well we are preparing our girl for the real world.  I suddenly find myself wanting to cling and hover rather than release, which is pretty much the point of parenting, the releasing, not the hovering.

It seems that I'm not the only parent who struggles with releasing my grip on my children.  One need not look too far to see the disturbing headlines.  From Psychology Today, "Helicopter Parenting:  It's Worse Than You Think."  This article proceeds to detail how the parents of 25-year-old graduate students are calling admissions offices to assist their child in getting admitted.  Parents are actually tagging along on job interviews, and the kids are welcoming it.  I can just picture the mom dabbing her tongue to a napkin and wiping Johnny's mouth half-way during the questioning.

The Washington Post paints the same bleak picture with its article "How Helicopter Parents are Ruining College Students."  Colleges have become surrogate parents for kids who can't resolve conflict with roommates.  Deans are dealing with "she took my shirt without asking."  Police are being called to set mouse traps for skittish coeds.  We're paralyzing our children.  Rates of anxiety and depression are skyrocketing among children because we aren't allowing them to fail, risk, or make decisions.  Colleges can't keep up with the demand for counseling.

I find myself caught in this trap so often as a mom.  It's so easy to coddle and protect.  Society is so obsessed with coddling and protecting that I sometimes find myself questioning parenting decisions like sitting at a picnic table reading while my children play one hundred yards away at the playground.  I remember walking to the park with my siblings from my grandparents while the adults chatted and canned vegetables.  My mom couldn't see us or hear us.  My cousins and I spent our days winding through the countryside not to return home until dusk with narry an adult.  Is it really that dangerous for our children or are we watching too much CSI?  Isn't it ridiculous when "free range" parents are arrested for allowing their preteens to ride the subway alone?  The damage from micromanaging everything
from our children's science projects to career decisions isn't minor or short-term.  It's affecting them well into the future, leaving employers and future spouses baffled.

Every day offers a new opportunity to allow my children to safely take risks and to fail.  We, as a society, must change our attitude concerning failure.  We've begun celebrating failure when it forces us to try harder.  Our homeschool mantra is mistakes are ok because that's how we learn.  Children who are allowed to fail in the safety of their homes become more resilient adults.  Of course, we shouldn't allow our children to take dangerous, life-threatening risks, but most risks aren't that dramatic.  How we teach our children to handle failure is critical, which means despite a deep desire to prevent them from ever feeling pain, we have to sometimes watch them fall.  Preparing a path filled with lollipops and daisies is not preparing our children for the dog-eat-dog real world.

So often, I find myself stepping in to rescue my daughter from messes she created herself, but I have to remind myself that I'm not preparing her for life.  I'm handicapping her.  When she doesn't practice piano or finish a project, I must allow her to bear the brunt of the consequence that choice brings.  Sometimes its easier to save our children because it preserves the peace.  We don't have to deal with tantrums or breakdowns or bad grades, but that short-term ease will result in long-term detriment.  I often find myself praying for the courage to stop taking the path of least resistance.

My own mom taught me two very valuable lessons as a young woman.  When I tried out for cheerleader my junior year, I didn't make the squad, and I was devastated.  I lived in the era before parents filed lawsuits to get their kids onto teams.  If you weren't good enough, you didn't make the team, and that year I simply wasn't good enough.  My mom empathized and encouraged me to try again next year.  That afternoon, a male friend had sent flowers and stopped by to see how tryouts went.  My ego was so bruised that I refused to respond.  Rather than excusing my behavior or filling my head with a bunch of nonsense about how I was robbed and how I should have been chosen/the judges were blind, my mom called me out and reminded me that the world didn't revolve around whether or not I made cheerleader.  I learned to graciously accept disappointment and moved on to a very satisfying year as junior class president.  I wasn't placed on the team when I didn't deserve to be, but I survived and learned to deal with disappointment and embarrassment.  My mom taught me the world wasn't just about me and when at first I don't succeed to try again or to try something new.  My mom chose not to create in me an attitude of entitlement but one of humility.  (Thanks, mom!)

When I was a freshman in college, a naive eighteen year old, my mom allowed my sister, who was a junior in high school, and me to drive to Virginia to visit a friend at UVA during spring break.  I remember my mom handing us my dad's giant bag cell phone, explaining roaming charges, then waving as we backed down the driveway.  This is the point where I would have run headlong down the drive and jumped onto the back of my sister's little red BMW and tagged along, (mother/daughter weekend anyone?) but if my mom had concerns, she didn't register them.  She stoically stood by as my sister and I drove off into the sunrise.  My mom gave us the gift of a lifetime, and despite her desire to hang on, she chose to let go, and I'm sure pray without ceasing, allowing my sister and me to reap the benefits that weeklong road trip.  My mom taught me to trust God and to trust my children.

When it comes down to it, my children aren't really my own.  They are entrusted to me by a loving God who loves them even more than I.  He's asked me to prepare them for the world.  He's assured us that in this world there will be trouble.  Our heavenly father doesn't smooth the path for us, so why do we think we should smooth the path for our children?  Yet, he does reassure us that He's overcome the world and that He will never leave us or forsake us.  He even reminds us that trials develop endurance, endurance develops character, and character develops hope.  The Creator of the Universe designed life so that the trials and obstacles develop our character and ultimately our hope.  Those don't come without the trial.  This is what I cling to whenever I find myself parenting from a place of fear rather than from a place of trust.  Each time I choose fear, self-preservation, or ease, I rob God the opportunity to develop my character and the character of my children.  I also exhibit a lack of trust.  My children are going to get hurt; my focus needs to be on helping them learn to handle it, not preventing it from happening.
Think on your own life.  When have the biggest breakthroughs come or the most valuable lessons been learned?  Is it through the trials or in the ease?

I arrive at camp at the end of the week to find my baby girl beaming.  She's eager to introduce me to new friends.  (See homeschooling kids aren't socially awkward.)  She isn't sunburned or stinky.  In fact, she's glowing and is eager to tell me all about movie night, canoeing, swimming, singing, and all the other adventures she experienced that week.  She did get homesick, and not only did she get homesick, she threw up when she ate something that didn't settle with her.  And, you know what else, she survived.  It was through the homesickness that her friends were able to rally around her and show her support, thus deepening the friendships.  She survived a moment of vulnerability and learned to lean on others.  She learned that she can survive a week without her mommy, and I learned that I must be doing something right because the counselors shared what a lovely, polite girl she is.  Most importantly, A learned that she is resilient, capable, and strong.  Lessons she would probably not have learned sitting in the safety of her home.

Dear Mom of a Strong-Willed, Spirited Child

Dear Mom of a Strong-willed child,

Hi, I see you there hiding in the bathroom with the door closed, crouched in fetal position, rolling back and forth on the floor, cataloging every rotten thing you ever did to your parents, wondering if any of those are the cause of this madness, while your child rampages through the house like a little Napoleon charging through Europe.  The question "why" scrolls through your mind like the ticker on the bottom of the nightly news.  The voices, those outside your head and those inside, condemn you for not being good enough, strong enough, disciplined enough.  I know you watch in horror as your sweet angel goes from compliant to defiant in a nanosecond, leaving you feeling baffled and ill-equipped.

You battle insecurity, wondering if you are the only person who ever feels this helpless, hopeless, inadequate, unprepared, unequipped, unhinged, alone.  Is it you?  Is it something she ate?  Is it something you ate during pregnancy?  I see you sobbing into the soft fold of your elbow as you collapse face-down into the dining room table, tears rolling gently onto the well-worn copy of The Difficult Child, wondering if your child will ever outgrow this stage.  You look at your shoes in shame when she comes unglued in public, stealing glances at all the other moms, wondering how they
manage to keep their children on the straight and narrow.  Your child is five and you already wonder how you are going to handle those tricky teenage years, if you can't even handle a kindergartner.  I see you, and I'm here to tell you that you are not alone.

I am the mom of a difficult, strong-willed, spirited daughter.  There's a litany of terms to describe the 10-15% of children that drive their parents to their knees at least once a week in defeat or in prayer.  I prefer to refer to my girl as spirited, so that's my term of choice from this point forward.  Listen, 85-90% of the population cannot relate to us, so for now, let's just leave them to their angels and discuss ours.  This is not a post to let you know that I've got this all figured out.  No, friend, this is a post of camaraderie, an I've-got-your-back sister, I'm here for you.  And, ultimately, it's a post to share some insight into what I've learned along the way.

First of all, your dear darling was wired this way.  For most spirited children, it's a matter of temperament.  Sure, parenting can exacerbate or decelerate some spirited tendencies in children, but for the most part, to quote Lady Gaga, your baby girl or boy was born this way.  Let me share my experience.  My daughter throttled out of the womb and into the world with an intensity that said, "I am here; hear me roar."  My spirited child could shatter glass with her vocal chords at two weeks.  I do not exaggerate when I say that I did not sleep a full night for over two years.  Friends suggested cry-it-out.  Five days later, I had my arm draped over her crib, head languishing on my arm resembling a cast member of The Walking Dead.  My little bit lay red-faced and screaming with as much vigor as she had on day one of our little Ferber-izing session.  The only one crying it out was me.  A-1. Mommy-0.  My husband and I would lie her in the crib then crawl out
on our stomachs like navy seals exiting enemy territory only to sleepwalk back in five minutes later when her wail raised the roof.  I remember visiting my pediatrician who commented on my zombie-like appearance.  When I explained A's behavior, he commented that I had my work cut out for me and recommended a medication for reflux.  Needless to say, the only person with gastric issues was mommy.

Once I dropped her off at a friend's so I could grab a few seconds of a coveted nap, but before my
head could feel the sweet embrace of my pillow, the phone rang and my friend's desperate plea on the other end sounded, "I can't do anything with her.  She won't stop crying.  You have to come get her."  I don't remember the drive there or back, but I'm pretty sure I was bawling.  My husband and I would seek sweet relief at church only to have the sermon interrupted by the nursery pager and the desperate, "You have to come calm your child."  I attended bible study at a local church, where without fail, before Beth Moore's big hair could fill the screen, a haggard nursery attendant would whisper from the door, "Mrs. Johnson, A won't stop crying."  For the love!

Rather than calming down as she grew older, my spirited wonder's temperament intensified.  Now, at bible study, nursery workers called my attention to her aggressive behavior toward other little ones and she was only 18-months-old.  This is the child who ran up to another toddler on the playground, grabbed her hair, and would not let go despite the desperate pleas of me and the other child's mom.  When one of my best friends brought her sweet girl to visit, A pushed her down.  My husband and I read and studied and attempted a variety of discipline methods.  Eventually, my girl matured and grew into a really delightful girl, but her temperament continued to be wild shifts of intensity followed by periods of calm.  Fast-forward to age nine, where her tantrums now appear only once every few months, but when they do, bless the parent who crosses her path.

What I've learned about spirited children is that they are very sensitive, intense, persistent, and impulsive.  The Difficult Child presents the following questions in its introduction:  Do you find your child hard to raise?  Do you find your child's behavior hard to understand? Are you often battling your child? Do you feel inadequate or guilty as a parent?  Is your family life sometimes affected by your child?  I can answer most of these with a "yes" on many days,  and I imagine you can, too.  What has been freeing for me is understanding that my child is normal, perfectly normal, she's just more impulsive, distractible, intense, irregular, persistent, less adaptable, and more sensitive than most children. Research has shown that this 10-15% of children require a different approach in parenting than the more easy-going 85% out there, those like my son.

Understanding how temperament plays into your child's behavior will help you better understand how to parent your little firecracker.  So, if it took you two years to find a pair of jeans your child would actually wear, ones that weren't too icky, scratchy, with a button that wasn't too hard, etc., or if you've ever spent four hours trying to find a pair of flip-flops that didn't hurt, or if exposing your child to a new experience can send her into a downward spiral, then welcome to my world, and here are a few tips that help me manage those days when I want to turn in my resignation as a mom, and yes, I've actually wanted to do this.  If anyone tells you it's wrong to feel this way or that they have never felt this way, then they are raising some kind of Stepford children, so ignore them and move on.

1.  Parent the child you have, not the child you wish you had. 

I know this may sound harsh, but it has been critical for me as the mom of a spirited child.  It is okay to mourn the idea of the child you had when you carried her in your womb, the compliant child who shared your interests and didn't complain about the way a grain of sand makes her shoes unwearable or lose it over the most seemingly insignificant things, those annoying things like her brother sneezing.  I have been blessed with an incredible daughter who I love more than life itself.  She is strong, bright, creative, intelligent, decisive.  She is a gift that challenges me, encourages me, and improves me.  I didn't expect to give birth to such a powerhouse.  I didn't expect a daughter who would challenge me every step of the way, who would question every motive, who would test every boundary, but that is who I've been entrusted with by a loving Heavenly Father, and I trust that He would not have blessed me with such a strong, spirited daughter if he didn't think I could handle what it takes to parent her.  For me, realizing that A requires a different parenting style helps me seek ways to understand her temperament and parent more effectively. She feels more passionately, worries more intensely, and behaves more impulsively than I would.  Those aren't faults to be bemoaned; they are traits she's been given for a reason, and it is my job to help her manage and mold that intense personality into one that will benefit the world.

2.  Ignore the naysayers.

There are people, people you love, who will tell you that this temperament thing is a bunch of hogwash and if you were just tougher, stricter, fill-in-the-blanker....then your child would never utter a peep of defiance.  They convince you that you are the problem, that you aren't a very good mom, that if that were their child, she wouldn't behave that way.  I encourage you to give them a call the next time your child is having a nuclear DEFCON-1meltdown and invite them to come work their parenting magic.  I'm sure you could destroy your relationship with yo
ur child by coercing her into compliance in an authoritarian my way or the highway sort of way, but people, until you've dealt with a spirited child on a tear, I don't know.  The second you draw that line in the sand, she's crossed it just like Caesar crossing the Rubicon, sword ablazing.  The thing is, I could take away everything forever and in the heat of the moment, my child wouldn't care.  She. Would. Not. Care.  For her, whatever consequence is worth those few minutes of expressing her intense frustration.  

Here's the rub.  Your child doesn't want to behave this way.  She doesn't.  My girl comes to me after trying to handle this firestorm of intensity and says, "Mommy, I don't know why I feel this way.  I don't want to, but I don't know how to control my emotions."  Yes, it is frustrating for me as a mom, but I feel my job is to teach her how to manage that intensity, to give her tools to calm herself and to more effectively deal with and channel that intensity and frustration, not push her further off the edge.   Most spirited children have very intense emotions and don't know how to handle those, especially in the heat of the moment.  When I asked my daughter what would help defuse her tantrums, she sincerely responded, "Mommy, I think a hug would help me calm down."  Amazingly, this simple tactic at the time my child seems the least huggable, seems to work miracles at calming her down and helping her regain control.  

Do not misunderstand.  I'm not encouraging you to eschew discipline.  Your child needs effective discipline that teaches her to control her intensity.  Recently, my daughter threw a cup of tea into my Macbook destroying it.  I mean, even the computer repairman, was like, "Dude, I'm so sorry but she shorted the entire hard drive.  Aw, man, a 2015, too."  Once A calmed down, we reevaluated the incident.  I admit I pushed her by insisting she finish her schoolwork even though she was tired and moving closer to the emotional edge of frustration, not understanding the assignment.  I failed to recognize and respect her warning signs that she was losing control.  Rather than helping her manage her emotions, I intensified them.  Ephesians 6:4 reminds us not to exasperate our children, but to bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.  Colossians 3:12 admonishes parents not to embitter our children lest they become discouraged.  These verses are reminders to me as the mom of a spirited child. A still has to understand the consequence for losing her cool, though, so she is "earning" the cost of the computer through extra chores, and I'm working with my youth pastor to find opportunities for A to volunteer with elderly members of our church to help them in their home or yard complete tasks that are difficult for them.  She will work through volunteering to recover the cost of the computer.  My goal as a mom is to make this not a horrible memory for our family but a learning opportunity for A on the reality of consequences for poor decisions in a positive way that benefits her and others.

Many well-respected authors, psychologists, and parenting experts have written hundreds of books on the topic of strong-willed, difficult, spirited children.  It is not just your child.  This is a real concern for many capable, loving parents.  Know mom,  your child's temperament has a lot to do with her responses.  It is up to you to study her temperament, her moods, what pushes her buttons and lovingly, gracefully give her the tools to manage and control that onslaught of intensity that often culminates in a tantrum.  I know that is so much easier said than done, so treat yourself with grace, too.

3.  Don't be afraid to ask for help.

The episode we now refer to as the "computer incident" just about pushed me over the edge.  I've never felt like such a failure as a mom.  It was one of the worst tantrums my daughter had thrown in a while, and after months of smooth sailing, I was left blindsided.  I wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.  I'm serious.  I frankly didn't want anyone to know what I sometimes dealt with in managing my daughter's temperament.  I didn't think anyone would understand, and if I reached out to someone, I believed they would condemn me as a mom.  Raising a spirited child will wear you out.  There are nights you collapse into bed after a day of battling everything from what you served at meals to handling the fact that her brother drew air and it bothered her.  Most of the time, my daughter is a delight to parent, but sometimes she is moodier, less optimistic, and more negative than most children.  She's easily discouraged with a task, she's slow to warm-up in a group, she's hesitant to try new things.  It's just who she is.  I'm a very optimistic, I can do anything kind of person, so there are days our personalities clash.  And, it's hard to admit that there are times when you just don't have a clue how to handle that dissonance, but my husband lovingly convinced me to call a friend who is a family counselor.  

I called my friend and began the conversation with a desperate, "I need help!"  She gracefully listened to my story and reassured me that I am not alone, that my child is normal, that this is her temperament, and that I am fully capable of parenting her.  She offered practical suggestions on defusing the intensity of a situation before it spiraled out of control and recommended ways to help A manage her emotions.  She even confirmed what I had read in so many books written about strong-willed children.  Rather than scold me for being a parenting buffoon, she acknowledged that I am not the only mom caught in this struggle.  That call changed me.  I know that seems over-the-top, but for the first time, I had professional confirmation that my daughter is normal, that she needs to be parented differently than my compliant son, and I had tools.  Just the simple knowledge of knowing you're not alone can give you the resolve you need to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

4.  You and your husband are the best parents for your child.

You are enough.  You are capable.  You just need help and guidance sometimes.  You need encouragement.  Surround yourself with people who offer a shoulder to cry on, who call you to the carpet when you're being a wimp, who love you and your children unconditionally, who will take your little ones to the park so you can grab a pedicure or even a nap.  Know that yes, you have a child who is challenging to parent, but that doesn't make you a bad parent.  Dear mom, God has entrusted you with the 10-15% of children authors pen special books about.  Gra
nted, there are days you wish you had been given an easy, compliant child, but where would the fun in parenting that child be, right?  Your child needs you.  Not an expert, not someone who is cooler, prettier, more capable, you.  You are enough.

5.  Trust that God is equipping you to parent your child and through this transforming you into the woman He wants you to become.

Parenting my spirited daughter has changed me so much.....for the better.  She reminds me that life is meant to be approached with fire and intensity.  She sharpens me, as iron sharpens iron.  Through her, God is truly transforming me.  I'm more patient, self-controlled, compassionate, and humble.  Ultimately, I'm more dependent on Jesus.  This self-assured, self-righteous, prideful, got-it-all-together girl is anything but.  God is teaching me to run to Him and depend on Him to sustain me and fill me.  Then, I am better-prepared to parent A and C.  Even though my son is "easier," it doesn't mean he isn't challenging, as well.  He appears to have inherited my stubborn streak.  I'm growing to believe that no matter what temperament your child, one purpose of parenting is to drive us to utter dependence on Jesus, and in my case, it is working beautifully.

If it helps, I, too, was a spirited child.  My children love to hear the story of how when I was fourteen, my mom asked me to clean my bathroom.  I haphazardly wiped down the sink.  Upon inspection, my mom discovered my half-hearted attempt and called me out on it.  I responded by grabbing a can of Comet and tossing it wildly throughout the bathroom.  When the dust literally settled, I looked into the gilded-gold mirror hanging in the bathroom and saw reflected a look that resembled a portrait of George Washington, complete with the powdered wig.  It took hours to vacuum all the powder from the carpet, sink, and shelves.  My tantrum cost hours of pointless work, as did many others I threw as a spunky child and teen, so every time my girl lets loose, I remember that, I, too, was once the girl staring back at me, desperate for a patient mom who was willing to guide and help her gain control.

And, finally, dear mom, I don't have proof of this, but I believe the world is transformed by spirited children.  I firmly believe, based on some biblical evidence, that the apostles Peter and Paul were spirited children.  I believe Lydia, the competent business woman mentioned in Acts was a spirited gal.  The Proverbs 31 woman has spirit written all over her.  Margaret Thatcher.  I imagine she gave her parents fits.  All those gals in the Senate and the House.  Those are not weak women.  Jane Goodall, Abigail Adams, Florence Nightingale, Elizabeth Blackwell.  It takes spirited girls to challenge the system, to question the status quo, to fight injustice.  Weary moms, trust God to guide you in parenting your firecracker, and believe that He is using you to mold that girl's fiery temperament into a catalyst that will set the world ablaze for good.  That trust is how I get through those days that short-circuit not just my computer but me, as well.  You have a wonderful opportunity to rear a girl or boy who could, with their spirited intensity, transform the world.

So, get up off the bathroom floor, take a deep breath, say a prayer, look at your reflection in the mirror and tell that puffy-red-eyed girl, "You can do this."  Remind yourself that you are capable and that your child needs you.....you.  One day, over a cup of hot tea, we'll laugh about how our doctors and teachers and humanitarians and ministers once left us in tears on the bathroom floor, and we'll marvel at how God used faithful, willing moms to influence these spirited children who grew up to become world-changers.

Let us know grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.  Galatians 6:9