Weekend Revival

Fridays hate me.  That is a strong statement, but I can't remember a Friday night in months when I didn't at some point think this exactly.  I dread weekends.

I remember the days of lazy pajama-clad mornings, running into town in the afternoon just because, tackling an outdoor project when the weather was perfect. Refresh. Recharge. Rest. Weekend bliss.

I miss those days.

My weekends are hard. Packed full of cleaning and catching up. Consumed with activity in short bursts between feeding hungry mouths, playing referee amongst the kiddos, and finding the sweet spot of perfect sleepiness to achieve naptime success. No matter what we do or where we go, our weekends are just anything but restorative.

My logical brain tells me that in just a few short years, my wee ones won't need us to carve out time for a nap, and the necessity of constant supervision will lesson. I know we will master potty training...eventually.

Rational me realizes that this time of wrangling kids and watching Saturday and Sunday breeze by before blinking is short.  The mom in me delights in the time I get to see my kids since I work during the week, truly.

But the tired me leaves work on Fridays to race to martial arts class, knowing the weekend insanity has only begun.  Late for class, dinner on the run, notice a gray hair (ahhh!), disaster of a house that finally couldn't keep up with life for five days, cranky husband because he's done it all the whole week and needs a mental break from children, finally bedtime...and then, the worst: Grocery shopping. By myself. On Friday night. At 8pm.  I'm worn out after the stress of a busy week. I'm hungry because there is no food left in my house by this time in the week except whole milk (sometimes) and coffee creamer (can't run out of that).  But there is a task to be done.

And so I trudge to the store. Inevitably I am in the longest line, the slowest people before me. I'm cut off in the parking lot, the gas station lanes are full, and I close my eyes and whisper those words: "Fridays hate me."

Sure, I could go for groceries on Saturday morning. By myself with all three kids after breakfast. But by then I'm knee deep in dirty floors and scrubbing bathrooms, hopefully needing a shower after a 20 minute workout while the children are trying to do everything possible to hurt each other...or trying to climb on top of me while I plank. :) Yes, Saturdays are an option for groceries after the sleeping bear awakens and showers...slowly. Then we've spent the whole morning gone at the store, rushing back to make food, and before I know it, the twins are up from nap, and it's 3pm. My day is gone and I'm awfully behind. Ahhh the life.

And so Fridays it is. (Sigh)

For parents of young kiddos, weekends are a challenge. (Or maybe I'm alone here in my troubles...if so, please don't tell me you have it perfect or I might just cry)

For my family, there's always a bit of readjustment. The dynamic of two parents at home, expectations on both sides. A house to clean from the last week and prep for the next. Kids who literally want nothing more than to climb all over mommy and daddy. Work to be done, and lots of it, but no agreement on how much to do, who does it and when it gets done. Church is a delightful reprieve, but the circus to ready the kids to leave and the inevitable craziness of the morning leaves me exhausted, again, by mid-day.  By Sunday night I never feel like I'm ready for the week. I don't feel like I spent enough time with the kids, even though I've been home. To be frank, I feel anything but refreshed.

Can you tell my weekend attitude has taken a nose dive of late?

So in true Carrie fashion, I have decided recently to confront my troubles head on.  Why am I complaining when I have quite possibly the most patient and helpful husband I know?  Why am I complaining about a life that is incredibly rich in love and family and friends?  Why am I complaining in the midst of extra responsibilities and commitments that I not only asked for, but actually enjoy?

I am blessed beyond measure. And I'm also kind of a mess. :)

I can't continue hating Fridays.

What I need is a weekend revival. Small, consistent choices to notice the blessings instead of counting my frustrations. Appreciating the cashier who price matches even though I forgot my list. Being thankful for one hour of naptime freedom to plant some flowers in a long-neglected yard.

Intentional decisions to value my days, no matter the stress or trouble.

And then I had a weekend like this one. A powerful reminder of just how fantastic my life is. And why those little blessings along the way are important to seek out.

Color run with fun gals who make me laugh and embrace the mess. Purchased tickets to Wicked for my NYC birthday trip one month from tomorrow. Afternoon with kids who helped me vacuum and played in the laundry baskets that I emptied. Endless laughing at a twin who couldn't stop saying, "where's my fart gun?" (Seriously, this is my life with 4 boys and an obsession with Despicable Me 2). Stay-in date night with popcorn, pjs and seasons of Smallville. Sunday morning with cartoons and a happy family that miraculously was not late to church (for once).

And, most importantly, sharing in the joy today of watching my Sam get baptized in front of family and friends. Faith in a God who saves us, makes sense of the mess, and gives us hope.

All you weary ones, wishing that your weekends were a little more refreshing...take heart. I don't know about you, but I tend to see what I'm looking for. Anticipating overwhelming stress? That's what I see. But if I search out the blessings, I always find an abundance. What about you?

Seek, and ye shall find. 

Sleep Deprivation, and Other Perils of Motherhood...

After three people asked me with concerned looks if I was okay late this afternoon, I packed up my things, grabbed my purse and headed home. Done.

Bleary-eyed, no focus, shaky and exhausted. I knew it was bad, but by 4:30pm apparently no smile could conceal the truth: I am sleep deprived.

For four long days I've been up literally every single hour between 10pm and 6am with a sick child. We've tried trading off to get more sleep, but even when Ben takes a turn, I still wake up at the crying and end up going in the twins' room anyway.  We've tried bringing the feverish toddler into our bed, only to have him play with my hair and say repeatedly at 3am, "I ready to get up, Mommy!"  No!! And letting him cry it out doesn't really work when there is another little person in the same room as the sickie who you hope doesn't awaken at each scuttle. And so we continued. Four nights of "sleep" (I use that word hypothetically because it really doesn't seem like sleep) in 45 minute increments. Ouch.

I feel like I'm falling apart.  My brain is mush. I can't form a complete sentence to save my life, and last night when the kid had multiple doses of antibiotics and actually rested for a good multi-hour stretch, I experienced the unfortunate misery of being too tired to drift off. Tossing and turning for hours, waking once more with the now-recovering babe and catching a brief four hours of solid sleep before a jolting alarm reminding me of an early morning event. Four hours of sleep. After four long days of no sleep. Nice correlation, eh? 

I am no stranger to sleep deprivation. Sam slept through the night at 12 weeks, but as a first time mommy I thought 12 weeks was torturous. Toby & Gabe....I still can't quite fathom how we survived as two working adults with newborn twins and a preschooler. To be perfectly honest my memories of that time live in pictures only. I have no true recollection of specific days or moments, just a foggy haze of twinfancy. And yet, we functioned. How? I do not know. God's grace, family and friends, and a lot of freaking hard work, really.

So why does it seem so tough today after less than a week of little snoozing?  

I'm not used to it. 

After having difficulty kicking some serious upper respiratory ickiness that keeps popping up over the past 6-9 months, I got the surprising news last week that my childhood allergies have worsened significantly. And I have, apparently, developed asthma. Asthma. 

I can't tell you the irony. I just signed up for two 5k races in April. I just finished a 90 Day Body by Vi Challenge (awesome stuff by the way) and hit my goal - a healthy BMI for the first time since year one of marriage. And yet, in the same week, I'm diagnosed with a chronic disease. Lovely.

Adult onset asthma can be caused by a variety of things, but a big trigger for women....pregnancy. Uh huh. Thank you twinsies for body stress and hormones. Sigh. Tomorrow I get a PFT (pulmonary function test for those of you non-breathing-challenged readers) and Thursday I go for three hour allergy testing. Joy.

Why am I falling apart? 

Every mother sacrifices for her kids. We give up peeing in peace. We give up toned tummies. We give up sleep (already covered that one). We give up hobbies and romance and free time, not entirely but a lot. We give up breathing...okay, that's a stretch but still a little true perhaps in this case...

Willingly, we give it up. Without reservation. From pregnancy to birth to years one, two, three and more...every day, counting our blessings more than the the things we give up. 

But on days like today, I must confess I crave a teeny bit of what I lost.  It doesn't mean I love my kids any less, I swear. But trudging out to my car after work, the prospect of coming home to a house of laundry, runny noses, opening bills, managing chore charts, bathtime, kitchen clean up, filling out allergist pre-appointment paperwork, and fielding a million questions from the littles...didn't sound completely wonderful. I got wistfully teary dreaming of a fictitious life where I could just collapse in bed and sleep. Really sleep.

And then I walked in the door. Smiles on every face.

"Mommy!" 

"Mommy's home!" 

"I loves you Mommy!"

Did my heart good. Three precious boys growing up too fast...so I traded my blissful evening of sleep for movie night couch-time with the kiddos before their bedtime and then mine.

I'm tired.

This mom stuff is hard, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Seriously. Not a single thing.

Even sleep.

Stick With What Works

I like to do things well. That's not exactly newsworthy.

But the flipside of this is that I have a tendency to stop doing things that I don't find success in. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm not opposed to taking a chance at something new. I just end up not repeating the less than stellar results if it doesn’t turn out so great.

Over the course of my life, I have tried a lot of things. Ice Skating, Basketball (yes, yes I did…all 4 feet of me), Piano, Singing, Math club, Journalism, Politics (If Girls State counts), Cheerleading, Art, Tech crew for plays...

Some things stick around. Goat cheese? Delish. Some things don't. Frog legs? Nah, I'll pass next time. It's not the best trait to have because I tend to shy away from participating in things where I can't excel...like, for instance sports…of any kind. Or dancing in public.

When I ventured into motherhood, I knew I’d be faced with some serious pressure to perform. I am not crafty. I am not the best housekeeper. I am a decent cook, a better baker. My drawings are legendary for their lack of depicting what I’m trying to convey. All things creative really just don’t come naturally to me. Those skills are kind of essential when you need to teach your kiddos ABCs or learn to color pictures.  Kids don’t want organized bullet lists and a beautifully detailed meal plan. They want messy. They want imagination.

I wonder in awe at my family and friends and fellow mommies who are so very talented with all things kids and crafts day after day. In fact, now that I think about it, most of the people closest to me actually do excel in this area…an interesting insight into my subconscious need to surround myself with people who can do things I cannot, apparently.

I digress.

So, the bottom line: I didn’t get the crafty gene.  Unfortunately, it’s kind of a big one when you have kids. I already mentioned that if I give it a good shot and still can’t quite pull out a win, my next step is total and complete avoidance of trying it again.

So I stick with what works.  I bring packaged food to parties.  I do birthday meals out instead of trying to recreate the perfect dish in my home. I buy valentines instead of make them. I don’t even own cookie cutters. Seriously. 

But my mom’s training, my college internships, my PR degree and the endless supply of events I’ve planned professionally have perfectly equipped me for one thing:  I can plan a party.

It’s my skill. It’s my contribution.

I keep a running list on my phone all year of ideas, take pictures as the months go by of things I might want to include. I involve my kids in the process, designing the cake, choosing the theme. Rarely are the ideas mine, I will readily admit. I research for hours and meticulously plan every tiny detail.

I stick with what works.

I know. It’s silly. It’s possibly over the top.  It may cost too much.  It is (in the most recent case) a Pinterest explosion. But bear with me…it is my way of showing my kids that there is a fragment of mommy-ness inside. A little creativity. Some imagination.

And a whole lotta birthday love.

Birthday Boy with the Lego Block cake from Aunt Krystal

Block letters. Lego utensil holder. Lots of primary colors.

Design a lego guy.

Book exchange instead of presents. All the party fun without the need to break the bank. Oh, and guess how many legos in the jar. 

Sam's Speedway! Lego race car races. Hit of the party!

Thanks to an amazing gift from a college student, we had a giant mound of legos for fun building time.

Even the little guys wanted a turn at the races.

Buddies! Gabe, Toby & Dillon.

Happy Sam. Happy Parents. Happy Birthday.

Lots of ideas for the lego party were found athttp://projectmommie.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-lego-race-car-5th-birthday-party.htmlhttp://www.pinterest.com/source/sillyhappysweet.blogspot.com/

Lessons from Thundersnow

In another life (at least it seems that way) on a day much like today, two newlyweds in a suburb of Detroit donned puffy coats from Steve & Barry's and trudged down the hill through the snow to clear the church driveway parking lot before services the next morning. We lived in the warm and cozy parsonage as our compensation for serving the church in youth ministry.

Win for us: No house payment or utilities. Amazing financial opportunity for two young kids just embarking on our marriage journey...and allowing us to pay off an emergency appendectomy (lesson for those of you who think you don't need insurance!). 

Win for them: No more vacant property to be vandalized. And, best of all, onsite labor in the snow.  

I must confess that neither Ben or I fully understood the labor piece. We were newbies to Michigan. Blissfully unaware of the sheer volume of snow that was going to bless us with its presence. It seemed like a great tradeoff in theory...work for the church, live for free, and then be responsible for clearing the driveway and parking lot for Wednesday and Sunday activities in the event of snow. Done. No problem, right?

Until Thundersnow.

Have you ever experienced this particular weather phenomenon?  I hadn't. I honestly didn't even know it could happen.

In Michigan, snow blankets the ground from Halloween to Easter.  A snowstorm is a weekly, often daily, occurrence. Nothing stops. You learn to purchase extra necessities over time so there's no need for a mad dash to the store to stock up before it "arrives." Frankly, you'd live in a constant state of emergency if that was the case.  You learn to drive in it. You get to work on time because snow isn't an excuse for tardiness. Restaurants and schools stay open, and events still happen. It's not that the temperature is warmer or the snow isn't as bad. The real truth is that Michigan-ites are so accustomed to the wintery precip that they plow expertly, salt religiously and life goes on. Granted, they get way more snow than ice. But still. The sheer volume and frequency of snow there is a serious adjustment.

Especially when you are the one responsible for clearing the 1/4 mile driveway and parking lot twice a week. (Interjecting here that Ben says it was nowhere near 1/4 mile and I'm exaggerating. Probably true).

And so we learned quickly. We loaded up on hand warmers, wool socks and super attractive long underwear. We purchased boots, coats and gloves rated for a temperature we couldn't dream of actually being outside in. We (well let's just be real here..) I made a plan of attack: Ben would warm up the tractor while we loaded up the spreader with salt. He would scrape from the driveway entrance to the shed behind the sanctuary while I shoveled the church sidewalk and entryway. Then he would start on the parking lot, while I followed behind dutifully, making perfect parallel lines with the salt spreader. Great team. We could knock it out in under 2 hours. The lot was clear and the walkways were safe. Services and activities could continue on safely. No problem.

Until Thundersnow.

If you've never experienced this particularly amazing weather phenomenon, it is one for the record books.  The official definition (from wikipedia, but who's counting) is a heavy synoptic snowstorm that sustains strong vertical mixing which allows for favorable conditions for lightning and thunder to occur...In the United States...on average, only 6.3 events are reported per year. Thundersnow often produces snowfall rates in the range of 2 to 4 inches per hour. Snowfall of this intensity may limit visibilities severely. 

Imagine an incredibly powerful thunderstorm. Lightning stretching across the sky and thunder booming over and over. A torrential downpour making rivers in your yard and turning the scene outside your window a blurry version of what you know to be out there but can't quite see. Then picture in your mind this same storm, thundering in its strength, and replace the buckets of rain with snow. That, my friends, is thundersnow. 

It only happened once during our two year stint on Squirrel Road. But I won't ever forget it. Despite our standard protocol and best precautions, thundersnow defeated those two brave souls.

We had worked for nearly four hours, and the storm raged on. Our efforts were covered as fast as we could clear, and our muscles were sore with strain. Icicles dropped from every source on our blistery red faces. Eyes, nose, mouth. Beard (not mine...haha). Completely frozen. White-out conditions.

We finally called it.

As we collapsed inside our home, stripping off layers of sweat and snow-soaked clothing and huddling under heated blankets with our feet in warm water, out of breath from exhaustion, we picked up the phone. The church staff was understanding and apologetic. They did not ask us to risk life and limb, but we weathered the storm anyway, out of some sense of obligation and sacrifice, knowing that people were counting on us to get the job done. We had tried our darnedest, but in the end, the thundersnow won. All services and activities were canceled that week, one of the only times I can recall. 

It is a New Year. 

As I bundled up this morning to shovel the driveway in that decade-old teal puffy winter coat and slipped my familiar wool socks into the salt-stained zero degree snowboots, my heart breathed silent prayers of thankfulness. Because my winter gear has survived sub-zero temperatures before. I am prepared and equipped to brave the winter warning because I've been through it...many times. I have what I need. I know how to bundle up so I am protected from the elements. I know to take breaks, drink copious amounts of water, use my legs to avoid back injury and how to expertly avoid excess exertion, maintaining a healthy heart rate. I've got this.

Ben laughs at my willingness to tackle this stuff. Even during our time in Michigan, seeing the snow fall from the sky brought me joy and excitement. I looked forward to the workout. I wanted the challenge. During those long winters, I kept my mind occupied during the frigid swirling blizzards by beating my best time or tracing a perfect geometric path during the feat. What can I say...I'm a freak.

It's not so different than how I approach most things in life. I embrace the challenge. I attack the problem.  I define the issue and make a plan to survive.

But I'm not perfect. 

I forget. I forget my successes. I forget the times I've battled and won. I forget the times I lost but learned from it. And most of all, I forget that the road I've already walked has given me the tools I need to deal with circumstances I face.

I'll admit I'm an eternal optimist, but I just have to believe that we are sum of everything we've lived. You are who you are because of who you are.  You following?

Fights. Friendships. Faith. Finances. Relationships. Unemployment. Miscarriages. Broken Homes. Illnesses. Injuries. Pets. Babies. Jobs. Broken Appliances. Expectations. (Fill in the blank here if I haven't mentioned one of your particular struggles...) The good and the bad. All of it, swirled up and dumped down into one monstrous thundersnow. It rains down so thick there are times we only see the accumulation and not the individual flakes or the progress we've made. What we try to work through gets covered up and it seems all a meaningless mess.

But time passes by and the sun comes out eventually. We are so thankful for the good that when the hard times come again they seem that much worse. And, again, we forget what we've already survived. We don't remember the winter gear or the survival tactics that used to be second nature.  I am guilty of this more than I'd like to admit.

How do we forget that everything in our life has prepared us for this very moment?  Dare I say that everything in our life has happened to ready us for this very moment we are in.

My single biggest resolution for this new year is that my eyes will be open and my heart reflective. I am who I am because of all of it. I need to take the life I have right now, live it, and use it. Take the opportunities to exercise shoveling the snow because I can. Take the time to share wisdom with someone facing a challenge I've survived. Take the time to laugh and grieve and love with those who need it because I, too, need it. Forget the pity and press on with a smile.

Learn from the battles I've won (and lost) so that when I find myself in the midst of thundersnow once more, I'll recognize its power, understand its beauty and appreciate the lesson. 

I've been here before.  I have what I need.  I've got this.

Mission Accomplished

There's that moment. You know, the one where you've been driving bravely for an hour in ice and snow, white-knuckling the steering wheel, warding off the lurking fear down deep that you will get in a wreck, slide into the ditch, or worse, that the crazy cars around you will somehow cause a fatality accident and you won't get to kiss your babies again...Then you pull into your driveway. Or the parking lot at work. 

The moment.  

Your shoulders relax. You made it. You take a deep breath and say a prayer of thankfulness for arriving at your destination mostly unscathed.

My life has been filled with these moments lately. 

I hate to admit it, but I have been particularly frustrated by not having...more. I am desperate for beautiful wood floors, perfect decor dotting picturesque painted walls, and, most of all...a new car. 

My silver CRV is old. The paint is faded and the rubber seals are cracked. The gas gauge doesn't work, and it clicks and squeaks at random times. When I walk out to the parking lot and see my little boxy SUV amidst a sea of shiny, shapely vehicles from this decade, I frown a little inside at embarrassment.  

And then I remind myself that it is paid for. And that my high mileage Honda will run for a good year more at least.  And I need to be thankful for what I have.  And...I still don't care. (Just being honest!) I want a new car.

Or I did. 

Until one of those moments. 

After days of winter weather, I came to a renewed appreciation for my trusty CRV. This car is a beast. Stays on the road. Handles the ice and snow expertly.  And I've made it to work and home every day like a pro, enjoying that deep sigh of relief each time, as my shoulders relax. Mission accomplished.  

More than two and a half years ago, operation TWINS commenced.  Our mission: Get twins here safely and somehow pay for them, take care of them and continue on living and loving life. Our whole world changed. My sister April moved in with us as a tenant in an effort to help alleviate some financial burden as well as provide extra hands for the unimaginably busy twinfancy stage. Many moons have passed since that summer moving day, and in one week, our renter will leave her frigid abode downstairs and pursue new career ventures in St. Louis. 

Inviting someone to be a part of your inner circle, in your home, every day, for two years...it's a big decision. There have been good days and bad days during our time together.  Together in our home we've seen babies born, a grandparent pass, a debilitating chronic illness, some grueling brother-sister banter, a few birthday celebrations, and most recently a fluffy new puppy spreading her cheer. But the memories of April's time here that I will treasure most are the ones that don't make the life changing moments list. I'm talking about the every day. April is truly a part of our home. She knows our routines. She knows our life. She knows our kids.  And they adore her. Truly. Adore her. Toby & Gabe don't even know life without Aunt April, puppy Mela and Sadie (that is April's car in case you didn't know...hahaha).

April and I are opposites. For all the ways I am encouraging and positive, she is cynical and skeptical. I see the best. She sees the worst. It is the paradox of our relationship, with me constantly trying to help her glimpse the good, and April bearing with my eternal optimism for as long as she can stomach.  

Don't be confused. April is a kind-hearted and caring person, my best friend. We enjoy shopping and chick flicks and can sit for hours chatting happily.  She would do anything for the people she loves, and I (and my family) have been the recipient(s) of that devotion more times than I can count.  Reflecting back at the past two years, I literally cannot fathom what we would have done if she hadn't moved in. Seriously.

But there have been many times I wonder if living with us has helped her at all?  If she will leave with anything other than an appreciation for a reduced rent for a few years and some good times with my babies?  

Apes and I were talking on the way home from work one day this week. I was uncharacteristically negative about a situation at Sam's school and explaining my concern. April laughed, paused, and then with a smile in her voice said, "Now you won't believe I'm about to say something positive, but..." She proceeded to give me heartfelt encouragement, mentioning all the positives that could come out of the issue we face. We laughed comfortably with each other on the phone, and I pointed out that it had only taken me two years to infect her with my positivity. 

"Mission Accomplished," I said. And I meant it.  

Next weekend my family of 5 will stand at the window and wave as "Ant Apel" pulls out of the driveway in a moving truck and heads on her way.  The depth of our appreciation for what she has done for us cannot be communicated in words.

I know I say this often, but it's hard to believe we made it. She came. She helped. The babies aren't babies anymore, and the days are survivable. It's time.

Again, the moment.  

Shoulders relaxed. Deep breath. Many prayers of gratitude for reaching this point mostly unscathed.

The Balance

I want to be superwoman. It is an illness, really. And sadly unattainable.

How do I give 100% as a mother, 100% as a wife, 100% as a boss, 100% as an employee...?

There's simply not enough of me to go around.

Who do I choose to disappoint today? How do I keep it all together and not let someone down?

I don't have the answers.

I don't know about you, but it seems like the craziness of my days or weeks come in waves.  There's never just one kid sick. Or one issue to tackle. Never. It's one kid puking, then the other waking up in the middle of the night hit by the bug a day later just when you think you've escaped. Then the husband goes down with the pukes. And the house is scheduled to be sprayed for bugs. And you committed to bringing food to a function. And don't forget about the late work meeting and forgetting to pick up snacks for your kids soccer game. All within a few days.  (Notice I didn't mention sacrificing sleep to tackle triple the volume of laundry because you changed sheets so many times you can't count after late night vomiting parties...thought I'd spare you childless readers from the joys of mommy-dom).

And you pray. Pray hard. That you don't succumb to the illness circling the house, because when mom goes down it isn't pretty.

I love my life.

I do, really. But to be honest I don't love those weeks.  I feel like a failure. Because as much as I can try to convince myself that just surviving is worth it, I am letting someone down. I'm not spending time with my kids because I have to sleep and eat and clean the house with Clorox wipes to prevent another round of the puking and get ready for work the next day.  And I let my husband down because I tend to not be the nicest person to be around when I'm extraordinarily stressed and I can't always make it home when dinner goes on the table because I've had to stay late at work to make up for time off caring for sickies. And I let my work down because I'm distracted and exhausted and even if it is barely detectable, I know that I am slightly off my game.

In theory when my kids are healthy and our schedule is light, life is good. Life is calm. And the world is at peace.  In theory, only.

In reality I've found in my 5 years of motherhood that the craziness tends to creep in no matter what you have on the calendar. And I inevitably find myself walking that tightrope, trying to balance everything. Failing miserably on most days. Feeling guilty about everyone and everything I've let drop because I can barely keep my eyes open, much less keep on keeping on.

And so it goes.

I've been writing a book. I started the process nearly a year ago and have been struggling with the final chapter. This week I realized that I need to rethink my intent.  My original goal was to pen a practical "how to" for moms-to-be or mothers of young ones, with tips to survive the uncertainty and ways to enjoy the journey.  But the last week has changed my perspective a bit.

I think instead my contribution to the written word could be (should be?) a confession from real moms on how it really is.  How do we balance this mom thing with life?  It seems to be the elusive question moms everywhere around me have....and no one seems to be able to answer.

There are some who would tell me that there is an easier way to avoid the struggle of balancing family and work: Stay home with my kids.

Besides the fact that we do, in fact, have a family where one parent stays home (it's just not me), I really have to protest that suggestion on principle.  I have many friends who are home with their kids full time, and I'm sorry, but they have just as much craziness to juggle and just as much "work" to balance. No, they don't have to feel guilty about jumping up during an important meeting to run a child to the doctor, but on the flipside, their job never ends. Never. Ends. That's some pressure.

My sister-in-law recently shared that she had outlined her daily schedule. It added up to 23.6 hours worth of To Do's each day. I loved her text after this admission: "Deep breath, prayer, try again."  Isn't this what we feel like as moms?  Every single day: Deep breath, prayer, try again.

Most days I hit about 20% completion on my daily list. We're talking the normal things, the scheduled things and then my master list that includes dusting the blinds, cleaning out my junk drawer, organizing my receipts and touching up paint where my kids have thrown toys and chipped away my formerly immaculate walls.  These things never get crossed off.

Many years ago, before boyfriends and college and husbands and babies, I did a simple Bible study with a group of friends about Proverbs 31. The picture in this passage is of a woman who possesses true beauty and success in God's eyes. I have the book we went through still in my collection and although I've only read it once, the principles have stuck with me since before I could have dreamed of the life I now have. I read Proverbs 31 last night and was encouraged once again. Some people read these verses with resentment and frustration. Not me. What I see in this is reassurance. This gal is the ultimate woman. She is resourceful and lives with integrity. She is a manufacturer, importer, manager, realtor, farmer, seamstress, upholsterer and merchant. Her kids are well behaved and she is buff.  She works dang hard. She is beautiful both inside and out.

Could it be that God has designed us to be superwoman?

My very favorite part of this entire portrait is verse 25: "She is clothed with strength and dignity and can laugh at the days to come."

Who doesn't need that word of truth and encouragement today?  I'm pretty sure this means that we aren't meant to be so stressed and overwhelmed by balancing everything that we can't enjoy this life we've been blessed with.  As moms, we've got to just cut ourselves some slack!  We will not always be the rock star employee. We will not always win mom of the year.  But our kids still love us and somehow our jobs are forgiving (and amazingly flexible, thank you OCH). And our husbands appreciate when we stop being so stressed and give them some positive attention once in a while...(yes, I really did just say that).

In the midst of my crippling failure to keep all the balls in the air, I need to remember that I was designed with purpose. I love my job and my kids. I love my husband and all the crazy extracurricular activities we find ourselves involved in as a family despite our efforts to "cut back" on overextending.  Life is good. God is good.

And I learn somehow to give 100% where it's needed.  And I learn to leave my list sitting on the counter and take a walk with my family on a nice fall evening after a difficult week.

No, I'm not ever going to be the perfect picture of the Proverbs 31 woman. But I can work hard. And I can have strength and dignity, with a twinkle in my eye and a smile in my heart.

The Change

I am not normal. 

Not sure if you saw that coming!  But let's just be honest, here...who was surprised by that?  

Back to the point. Me. Not normal. Why, you ask? 

I like change. 

Most everyone else in my life hates it or at the very least avoids it.  But not me. When it comes to major life decisions or changes, I'm pretty rational. I deal. Good or bad, I take life as it comes and try to remain positive. (Thank you daddy, for practical reasoning skills and a uncommon ability to not react emotionally).

So imagine my surprise recently when I learned that others don't quite perceive me as flexible. 

A few weeks ago I arose before the sun and headed into work to prepare for a super early work breakfast. After the event concluded and the room cleared, I mindlessly picked up glasses and stacked plates. As I came to the coffee station, I closed the lid on the caramel macchiato creamer and thought for a fleeting second, "I wonder if that is good?"

You see, I'm not a coffee drinker.  I kind of think it is gross. Stinky.  And tastes like cardboard.  Ugh.  

Yes, that means this "Carrie" energy and positivity is entirely decaf. No coffee buzz to get me through the day or amp me up.  Not a single cup of joe was downed as I survived the agonizingly exhausting twinfancy. Give me my trusty water mug, and I'm set. 31 years and coffee free.

Until that day.

I poured a teeny tiny cup of coffee and then added some sugary caramel creamer.  Scratch that. I poured an entire mug of delish creamer and added a few drops of coffee. And then I sat at the table and took a sip. And another.  Stashed the creamer in my office mini fridge after clean up was done and pushed it from my thoughts. The next morning I sauntered into the cafeteria and grabbed the small styrofoam cup. Glanced sideways at my coworkers feeling like I was cheating on someone (myself?) and poured a cup. Added some (a lot) of the caramel creamer and downed the coffee in barely 5 minutes.  

And the habit continued.  

That week was particularly long and left my household running in opposite directions. As I sat in my office a few days later savoring the sweet aroma of fresh coffee swirled with caramel goodness, I texted my husband and said something generic like, "Oh, hey - I forgot to tell you I started drinking coffee this week." 

The response I got was nothing short of an interrogation. When? Why? WHAT??? Actually I'm pretty sure his actual text was, "Are you serious. Who are you?"  Ha.

That night he was stunned and asked more questions. I looked at him kind of like he was nuts and wondered aloud why it was such a big deal.  And his answer really did shock me.  I got a lecture on how in the 13 years he has known me and the 10 years of our marriage, I just don't change what I do. I am worse than a creature of habit. I am fiercely stubborn and set in my ways. I do things that I want, when I want, without excuse or apology. I make decisions and stick by them without fail.  I am who I am.  But I am...who I have been.  And will be, apparently.  

I couldn't believe Ben's reaction, honestly. I relayed the story to my coworkers the next day (who by the way had been laughing at my excitement and telling me that soon I'd graduate to the bigger cup...) and was surprised to find that they, too, saw my new-found coffee discovery as a symptom of something. Stress, perhaps?  I got some looks of genuine concern and surprise. My boss actually suggested I take a vacation when she found out I had joined the millions who started their day with coffee.

Turns out I see myself as a whole heck of a lot more adaptable to change than I really am.

Funny how self discovery tends to open your eyes to more self awareness.

My boys need a haircut. And I refuse to do it.  They have had curly mullets for way too long, but when I toil away at the office for too many hours, the one thing that gets me through is knowing that when I walk in the door, those sweet babies will run with glee to smack my lips with kisses and bury their soft curls into my neck as they squeeze and shriek, "Mama!"  My heart literally cannot handle chopping off the locks. Who is it hurting, really?  No one.  Except for today.  When the Walmart check out lady started calling Toby a "she." 

Oh. No. You. Didn't. 

I even said, "Stop kicking each other, boys!" several times while I tried to pay for my groceries, but still I got a "Well she needs to learn to defend herself" laugh from the peanut gallery. Ugh. Okay, I get it. I need to cut their hair so they don't have some gender crisis (not really, people, I'm just ranting here). Okay. I will embrace the change and cut the shaggy out of control bedhead.  But give me some coping time.

Who am I?

The weeks have passed and my coffee gets tastier by the day.

And another change looms ahead.  

My parents are selling their house.  For real.  This is the home where I learned to play basketball and spent summers riding bikes around the lake. The home with the big living room, big windows, big closets and big bedrooms. The home where we had birthday parties and graduation parties and wedding showers and baby showers. The home where I painstakingly wrapped garland and lights around the extra long banister every Christmas.  The home that bursts with jazz music booming from every room. The home where I fought with my sister and played barbies for hours.  The kitchen where my mom baked more pans of brownies than I can possibly remember, entertaining classmates, friends and boyfriends. The driveway where I had my first kiss.  The street where we walked to the bus stop every day for years.  The neighborhood with friends on nearly every corner.  The quiet dock down the street where the love of my life asked for my hand in marriage. The community with beautiful waterways and endless opportunities for outdoor fun.  The home I grew up in.

As my parents have shared their plans to move into a detached villa in a town not far from their current home, there are several things I know to be true.  

• #1 - My dad will be calm, cool and collected during the change. He will approach this logically and may have sentimental glassy eyes on moving day, but he has made the decision happily and is looking forward to the change. 
• #2 - My mom will bubble with excitement and will launch into future decor planning. She has wanted this for several years and is so happy to be making the change. But I am betting there are tears in our future as she packs up the life she has made in that three story abode built with loving hands.
• #3 - My sister may surprise me, but I expect her to take this the hardest.  (Her exact words to my parents in the early stages of this decision a few weeks ago were: "That's fine. You guys can pack and move. I'm going to chain myself to my room"). 

And what about me?  Before today, before the past few weeks, I would have said without hesitation that I will be fine.  In fact I said those exact words to my giddy mother this morning.  I am Carrie. Bring on the change. I am Carrie. See me roar.  

Will I really be fine?  I mean really, fine. I want to say yes. I like change, remember? Bring it on.

But then I pour that cup of coffee. That change took 31 years. 

By the beginning of September, my parents will have their house on the market and will have signed on their next dream home. It has plenty of space for all of us to stay (including you, April, and we will NOT make you sleep on the couch).  My kids will know this next place as "grandma & papa's house."  We will make another lifetime of memories.

Tonight I'm faced with the ridiculous (and slightly embarrassing) reality that I am secretly an emotional wreck like everyone else, I miss waking up to the sounds of woodpeckers and speedboats, and I don't want to cut the twins' hair.  

Does simply saying the words, "I am fine," make it true.  

Here's the thing...for me, it does. 

Bonus of being stubborn, perhaps. Or bonus of not being normal.  

See, I am flexible. 

Home is where my family is. 

And I'll always have coffee.  The big cup, of course.