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.

Whole30 Week 1

A couple of years ago I was struggling with exhaustion, not an "I haven't slept enough" fatigue but a bone-tired, no energy no matter what sort of tired.  The fact is I was averaging at least eight hours of sleep a night, so adequate shut-eye probably wasn't the culprit.   I found myself slogging through the day with barely enough energy to stay three steps behind my children.  Keeping up with them wasn't an option.  Bribing, cajoling, and begging them to take a nap was.

I acknowledge that the relentless, harried pace of my schedule contributed to my lethargy, but I refused to believe that was the only cause, so I began to study more intently the effects of nutrition on energy.  I could have easily gone to the doctor, explained my situation and been prescribed medication, and while I appreciate modern medicine, I believe that we are too dependent on popping a pill to fix every ailment.  Hippocrates said, "Let food be thy medicine and medicine thy food."  I've come, like him, to believe that diet and exercise are more critical to preventing and relieving health issues, serving as preventative medicine instead of a bandaid to hide symptoms of a deeper issue that could be cured with proper care of the body.  Several months of reading everything I could find led me to my decision to go Paleo.  Within months of beginning a Paleo diet, I noticed remarkable changes in my energy levels.  I no longer wanted a nap every afternoon and was sleeping soundly at night.  These were just two of many beneficial changes.  I was soon hooked and have followed the diet pretty closely for almost two years.

The close of summer, though, found me wandering from my normal Paleo diet.  I blame Chick-fil-A's frosted lemonade for the slip.  Granted, the employees weren't forcing my car through the drive-thru at least once a day.....have I mentioned how good those things are?  This daily slip led to my adding goat cheese to everything I ate.  Who knew it could be so good on eggs?  Throw in travel, and I soon found myself straying from my normally healthy diet.  Within weeks, my face began to break out, and I found my arthritis flaring up, so essentially I was an elderly teenager.  I never went back to eating wheat or bread, but I did allow sugar and dairy to creep back into my diet. When I returned from a recent vacation feeling bloated, achy, and lethargic, I knew it was time to regain control.  Enter Whole30.


Whole30 is not a weight loss plan or a crash diet.  Whole30 is a thirty day challenge to participants to reset their body and remind it what benefits come from eating a diet of whole foods free of processing and sugar.  Essentially, for thirty days participants commit to eliminating dairy, grains (including rice, quinoa, wheat, etc.), sugar, Paleo cheat treats (baked goods that use coconut flour or another Paleo-approved flour), and alcohol from their diets.  What do I get to eat, you ask?  All the vegetables, fruit, and meat I want.  There's no counting calories or portions.  The main focus of Whole 30 is to allow your body to heal and reset the signals your hormones receive.  At its most basic, food carries signals that tell your body what to do.  Good food gives good signals; bad food signals mayhem and chaos.  Think of that guy in the Allstate commercials who wreaks havoc.  Sugar, gluten, and processed foods are "mayhem" wreaking havoc on your body.  Whole30 is Allstate, coming in to help repair the damage.


So, that's how I ended up beginning Whole30.  For more information on specifics of the diet, Melissa and Dallas Hartwig's It Starts With Food and more recently, The Whole30, outline the whys and hows of the plan.  The purpose of this post is to recount my first week of the program in an effort to share the pitfalls, frustrations, and victories I experienced.  The first two days are not fun, as in root canal, someone ate your last cupcake, you misplaced your I-phone, not fun.  For two days, you feel as if you have the mother of all hangovers, at least that's what I've been told it feels like....  This, apparently, is your body fighting your denying it of sugar.  It's in essence throwing a hissy fit.  This passes, so hang in there.  Really, keep telling yourself, the good stuff is coming.  I allowed myself green tea with its small amounts of caffeine.  Once, when I attempted a shorter version of Whole30, I gave up caffeine entirely.  I will not make that mistake twice.  Dallas and Melissa do not require that from me to be successful on this plan, so grab a cup of black coffee and ride the first few days out.

The third and fourth days I found myself rather moody and irritable with a lingering headache.  I tend to believe I am upbeat and optimistic.  Those were not words I found others using to describe me on days three and four.  Part of what led to my desire to throw things was the inordinate, overwhelming amount of planning it requires to plan and implement meals that don't come out of a box or bag.  Seriously, women apparently once spent all of their twenty-four daily hours in the kitchen.  So, heads up, this plan takes planning.  It's worth it, but it's overwhelming.  You've been warned.  Another aspect that makes this frustrating is that it's difficult to grab something and run out the the door.  Even snacks require planning.  It. Can. Be. Done.

I found it helpful to plan my breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the week then shop at the beginning of the week.  It was critical to my success.  I also did much of the preparation at one time.  My crockpot and I became best friends in the process.  I roasted an entire chicken then made homemade bone broth in the crockpot, which I then used to prepare three different soups.  I spent much of my morning in the kitchen but in a few hours, I had lunches for the entire week.  I also chopped vegetables for meals that I planned to make later in the week then stored them in the fridge.  Make a large pan of cauliflower rice (enough to last the week), throw in a meat and veggie, and you've got a "rice" bowl.  You're welcome.  For breakfast, I relied on eggs, a meat, and fruit.  So to sum it up, prepare, prepare, prepare.  Depend on the crockpot.  Soups make great make-ahead lunches and dinners.  Also, sugar hides everywhere, so if you used canned broth or tomatoes, read your labels.  Pom tomatoes are fantastic; the only ingredient is tomatoes.  Imagine that!

By day five, I was beginning to feel human and on days six and seven, Eureka!  I finally felt a surge of energy. I also found myself sleeping more soundly, though oddly, I kept dreaming that I was cheating on Whole30.  I'd wake up feeling guilty for raiding the cheese counter and the deli, which fortunately, didn't happen.  Again, the biggest obstacle I overcame on days five through seven was making sure I had meals planned and prepared ahead of time.  For me, I found it difficult to eat out, so I made all my meals at home.  I am also attempting Whole30 solo.  While my husband and children are not officially participating in Whole30, they are beneficiaries of the meals I'm making.  They eat mostly gluten free anyway but not strictly Paleo, but we are inching toward that goal, so I tried to find recipes that we could all enjoy together.

Some of my family's favorites are beef stew (my kids thought the parsnips were white potatoes and loved them), roasted chicken, curried short ribs, sesame orange chicken, and we are discovering more.  (Not all of these are Whole30 compliant but are Paleo.)  My children also love this beef jerky recipe, which we use for snacks.  I've found the cookbook Eat Like a Dinosaur to be an invaluable resource in getting my kids to accept Paleo without complaining.  Seriously, at one point, my crockpot was like Pavlov's bell.  Every time I placed it on the counter, my children would lie in the floor and cry, "Not gluten free again, mommy!" It was delightful.  While they haven't fully accepted Paleo, they are curious and often pleasantly surprised by what emerges from mom's giant slow cooker.

So, while I'm still eagerly awaiting the full energy surge, and I'll admit, weight loss, that should accompany Whole30, I did see positive changes in the first seven days.  My body apparently got over its hissy fit and is now accepting a month of no sugar, though there are moments where I'd love a piece of dark chocolate.  My skin has already cleared up and my tummy is noticeably flatter.  For me, though,  the biggest benefit has been a return to increased energy and improved mood.  I feel more upbeat and peppier than usual.  I'm even eager to see what challenges and changes week 2 will bring.

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  

Bathroom Remodel

After ten years in the making, our bathroom remodel is finally complete!  Here are the before photos to remind everyone what it looked like before.

Pink retro just wasn't working for us anymore, so we decided to go more modern......here's our new bathroom!