That Time Jesus Got Buried Under Christmas: Just In Case You Need an Excuse Not to Decorate

This year, I pray that I may be content in the stable. That I may find beauty in the meekness of a humble manger and not try to manufacture it everywhere else. Jesus is easily found in spaces untouched by the desire to put our own greatness on display. I have to be careful not to hide him.

To the Mom Whose Hands Are Full

We are so close to returning to civilization, our hands totally free. They will no longer be filled with a tiny hand as you cross the street or with that squishy little body in the rocking chair; we won’t have to use them to spoon-feed a mouth or turn the pages of a book; we won’t use them to haul around a bag full of 18,000 essentials or to clean up twice as many messes.

keeping our kids separate, keeping them from experiencing God

When I Realized My Family Was My Idol

In all of our protecting and in all of our keeping them separate what if we are not only protecting them from all the bad but we are preventing them from ever seeing God DO ANYTHING GOOD. They never experience any moments that make them say, “HOLY CRAP. Did you just see that? This God is AMAZING. Heck yes I believe!”

That Time Hayes Pooped at the Grocery Store

It’s been one of those weeks. And it’s Wednesday.

I have found that “those” weeks are placed directly after the really awesome weeks, as not to inflate my sense of mom-awesomeness. Momsomeness? Mawesomeness? Mmk. Last week was Clark’s first full week back to school (for practice and inservice) and the Lord taunted me with a smooth and breezy week to break me in to this new life. Monday, I got the babes decked out in their Steer red, white, and blue for Booster Bash at the football field (only to realize the event lasted a full 8 minutes); I toted them to the grocery store Tuesday and got $180 worth of groceries without any tears; entertained in the stands Thursday night at the football scrimmage; and then got all children to bed by 8 (first time in the history of EVER) Friday night while Clark was off scouting; I swept the floor almost every day, dished out less than three spankings throughout the week, and cooked dinner 5 friggin’ nights.

So what I’m saying is I should have seen it coming. Pride cometh before the fall.

My first mistake was cheating on Hayes’ diet restrictions and eating 2 … okay 3 chocolate chip cookies. And three scoops of the dough. Then, I tried to drink a cup of decaf coffee and TURNS OUT decaf coffee is not so decaf. Google it. This led to a rough few days which led to a rough few nights which led to a grumpy mother which led to “Y’all watch a movie on the iPad while mommy lays on the bed” which led to time outs and bad choices and stomping feet and “Well hell, I can’t parent right now. Can I quit?”

Then we ran out of food.

My plan to go to the grocery store alone on Monday night failed when Hayes screamed till 11:30 so Tuesday morning with the brood it was. I foolishly texted my friend who offered to keep one of them, “They usually do okay as long as I crack open some muffins.”

Pride goeth before the fall.

I wrap Hayes on me, load Hattie in the front of the cart and Charlee in the back. We are on Aisle 5 with approximately a third of the cart full when I get a whiff of stank. Hayes always picks the most opportune moments to poop his pants so why not now? As I shuffle us all towards the bathroom, I’m mentally digging through my diaper bag trying to determine if I even have wet wipes and a diaper. Because I’m so on top of things, I do. But because I’m NEVER on top of things, and knowing that this was certainly a blowout (as that is the only type of dirty diaper that exists in Hayesville), I definitely do not have a change of clothes for him.

** sidenote — Flashback to two weeks ago when I did the walk of shame out of a restaurant bathroom with a naked Hayes while eating lunch with a sweet couple we’d just met that took us out after church. Did I learn my lesson? No. I am a gamblin’ man and a loser. **

I unload the cart of children, grab the diaper bag and usher them into the bathroom to survey the damage. For Hayes, not too bad. It got on his pajamas (because why should babies wear real clothes in public) a little bit but I wipe it off with a wet wipe. Totally fine. I bathe him in wet wipes and saddle him back into the Sleepy Wrap but the screams don’t stop as expected. I mean, he’s at a full-fledged 10.

As I’m attempting to shove a paci into the mouth of a feral kitten, I see Hattie’s shorts on the floor of the bathroom and hear Charlee sweetly coercing her in the stall, “You can go tee-tee in the big potty! Here. Take off your diaper.” SAY WHAAAAT? “NO MA’AM! You can NOT! DO NOT REMOVE THE DIAPER!! DIAPER DOES NOT COME OFF!” (Baby still screaming. Elderly women walking in and leaving again.) “Put your shorts back on right now.” (Hattie crying, Hayes crying, Charlee looking at me like I’ve lost my dang mind. It’s fine. I have.)

I’m furiously beebopping the baby back and forth when I think, “His bottom was really red I think. He probably had that poop in his diaper for a while. Do I have any diaper cream?” Of course not. He’s never had a rash before. Why would I have diaper cream? I unload him back out of the wrap and undress him again to find a bright red bottom. I dig through the diaper bag in desperation and find nipple cream… it’s probably the same thing, right? Without googling “Can I put nipple cream on my baby’s diaper rash” I lather that bad boy on and stick him back in as Hattie continues to attempt to put her shorts on upside-down. Unsuccessfully. While sitting on the floor of the Wal Mart bathroom. What. Ever.

Internally I debate, do I just leave the basket of groceries and get in the car and leave? A day of hunger won’t kill them. Will we survive this trip?

We get her shorts situated, I bounce Hayes back and forth for another couple of minutes and he finally calms down to a 2. Then we make our way towards the door. I half expect there to be a crowd gathered outside of the bathroom exit trying to figure out what all the commotion is but only a couple of people are staring. I try to smile a “I’ve totally got this under control” smile as I wipe away the sweat dripping down my temples.

I load the girls back into the cart and proceed to give them a pep talk (“I need both of you to listen to mommy and follow directions RIGHT NOW … “), Hayes passes out in the wrap, and we press on. They ended up doing great and we now have food and we made it home and I still like them.

What I’m saying is I’m now doing all my grocery shopping online.

These are the days, my friends. Tomorrow will be better. Because tomorrow we won’t have to go to the grocery store.

What My Two-Year-Old Taught Me About Asking for Help

“I don’t want you to help me! NO! NO! Don’t touch it!” she screamed as she aggressively jammed the “outie” part of the zipper against the “inny” part of the zipper over and over and over again to no avail.

“Charlee, we have to go. Let’s make a good choice. Would you rather get frustrated and cry or just ask Mommy for help?”

No response as she repeatedly attempted to “DO IT ALL BY MYSEE–EE–LLLL–FF!”

Five minutes later I gathered her limp body off of the living room floor, exhausted from the sobs and the tireless slamming of the jacket against the wall. She had clearly chosen to “get frustrated and cry” as opposed to the alternative, “ask for help.”

Sadly, she gets this from her mother.

I recalled a few months earlier when I had also had my very own “zipper moment.” I had been checking my watch every 38 seconds to see if Clark was off work yet only to realize he wouldn’t be home for 4 hours and 38, no, 37 minutes. Will we all still be alive by then? I could make no such promise. Hattie was 5-months-old and had recently arrived at her “I have acid reflux; WHY THE HECK CAN’T ANYONE FIGURE THIS OUT” stage and Charlee was 22-months-old and getting a head start on the Terrible Twos. And I was done. Mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually depleted.

Charlee was in her room throwing a fit about fruit snacks. I sat on the foot of the guest bed holding the littlest crying one, bouncing up and down like a rabbit on 5-Hour-Energy, trying breathlessly to control my aggression, hoping not to approach the threshold for Shaken Baby Syndrome. As I bounced, I remember audibly repeating, “Please. Stop. Crying. Please. Stop. Crying.” Maybe one out of the three of us would listen.

Then my phone rang. It was Clark.

“Hey Babe, I’m gonna be home late today.”

I couldn’t get a word out of my throat. I felt a huge knot form and before I could stop he could hear the sobs from the other end of the line. “O…. kay….”

“Has it been a bad day?”

Um. No. It’s been fan-freakin-tastic. Can you hear the two of them? They’re screaming because we’re all having so much fun playing Candy Land and creating educational crafts.

“Call your mom. Tell her to come over. She would love to help you.”

“O… kay…”

“No seriously. Call her. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

“O… kay… Bye.”

Ten minutes later my phone rang. This time it was my mom.

“Hey, how ya doing? Clark called and said you might want some help. I’m on my way over right now.”

My husband knows me way too well. He knows my independent, youngest-child, I-CAN-DO-THIS-ALL-BY-MYSELF heart would never surrender and actually ask for help. Are you kidding me? I don’t need help. I am perfectly capable of handling this motherhood thing on my own, thank you very much. I got myself into this gig and I can get myself through it with my teeth gritted and my fists clenched. I’m a REALLY good mom, DANG IT, and REALLY good moms don’t need help.

But can I tell you how happy I was that he called her? I let out a breath. I could see light through the darkness and hear birds chirping amidst the heaving.

I’ve struggled with asking for help my whole life, but it took me 6 months with two children to finally bring to my attention that this was a real issue, not just a quirk or a personality trait. I knew my resistance had a lot more to do with pride than I cared to admit. God began to show me that asking for help isn’t a show of weakness but in fact the ultimate sign of strength and humility, the admission that I am not God and I was not created to do this alone.

It’s okay to need help. It’s okay to admit that today has sucked. Hard. It’s okay to need a second to come up for air every now and then. And it’s even okay to call your mom (or sister or neighbor or BFF) to rescue you… when you’re 29.

In Exodus 17, Moses has just brought the Israelites out of Egypt. But while traveling they are attacked by the Amalekites and forced into battle. Moses, in his old age, heads to the top of the hill with Aaron and Hur while Joshua chooses the strongest men to go down to the battlefield.

Moses raises his staff as his men fight in an appeal to God for help and enablement. “As long as Moses held up his hands, the Israelites were winning, but whenever he lowered his hands, the Amalekites were winning” (Ex. 17:11). Moses is old and tired. An entire battle is a long time to keep your hands raised up in the air. Thankfully, he has help. Verse 12 says, “When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up — one on one side, one on the other — so that his hands remained steady till sunset.”

I also feel old and tired most days. I also feel like there is a battle raging under my roof most days. And I also, like Moses, can see a difference in the outcome of my battle when I hold up my hands in surrender, in an admission that I can’t do this on my own. Sadly, my arms get tired pretty quickly.

God knew they would. He didn’t create me or Moses or you to hold up our hands on our own. He never expected us to fight our battles in isolation.

But I am not Moses. And I lack the humility to admit that I need someone else to bring me a rock to sit on or someone to prop up my hands. So I just watch my army go down in flames because I am too prideful to admit that I need reinforcements.

I need encouragement.

I need validation.

I need coffee.

I need help.

I have plenty of Aarons and Hurs that are willing to prop up my hands and pull up a rock. And so do you. It’s just a matter of asking.

So are you more like Moses or Charlee? Will you accept the help and win the battle? Or would you rather lay on the floor in prideful determination, throw a fit and refuse to accept the perfectly capable help that stands inches away?

I have chosen to be a two-year-old much more often than I care to admit. Perhaps it’s time to listen to my own advice.

Jordan, would you rather let yourself get frustrated and cry or just ask for help?

FINE. It takes a village, right? Well, welcome to my village. Care to pull up a rock?