It's Almost Naptime

Our new estate

2019-03-29T12:09:00.002-05:00

Chez D #5

I sold a house.
I bought a house.
Then I moved.

Now the way that you just responded to that tidbit of Mis-life info will reveal oh so much about you and your sordid or non-sordid property exchanging past.

If you went "Oh! Congratulations! New house! Fun! Super duper neato for you!" then I know that either a) you've never done the sold-bought-move thing or b) it has been over two-ish years since you did the sold-bought-move thing.

However, if you just grasped my virtual hand and went "Oh. How are you? You need a hug? A glass of wine? Can I bring you a casserole?" then I know that you have done the sold-bought-move thing a) within the last two years or b) perhaps longer, but it was overly traumatic and you still shudder at the thought.

{You are so sweet a casserole would be lovely. Two, actually, because I have four teen-or-almost-teenagers and jeez louise they never stop eating. Rice, please, because I'm trying to go gluten free yet again and I will probably give up soon but humor/support me until then. Yes mushrooms are fine, we love the mushrooms. No allergies...maybe an unproven intolerance but don't worry about it beggars can't be choosers haha cabernet please...}

I am convinced that when moving, just like in childbirth, a blessed spirit of amnesia overcomes our minds and hearts and lo, our very corpora* and causes us to forget both the figurative and literal abuse we endured in order to procure our new humans slash homes.
All painful memories, gone {snap} in a supernatural moment,
when we gaze into our precious new babes slash walk in closets.
Otherwise the human race slash real estate market would {snap} cease to exist.

The last time we sold-bought-moved, it was hellacious.
Like, for real, my moving horror story can top your moving horror story hands down.

In 2013, we bought a lovely home for an overpriced Austin sum, closed, showed up on moving day and ... the sellers hadn't, you know, moved.
All their stuff, furniture, boxes, still in the house we now owned.
So my furniture? It went in the yard while they took their sweet time moving out of our house that we had closed on a week before.

And the house was filthy. Really filthy. Inside and out. Filthy, like, I told Eva, "I'll give you .25 for every pile of dog poop you pick up out of our new backyard" and she said "Mom I'm at $3.25 but I have to stop or I'm going to throw up"
BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE
they left tons of stuff in OUR new house and refused to pick it up and we paid hundreds of dollars to have their junk hauled off and I gave away a lot of it and THEN,
THEN,
a week later when they asked where an ugly rug was and were told that I gave it away on Craig's List they proceeded to
$UE U$
for
TEN THOU$AND DOLLAR$
for $aid ugly rug.

I told you!
Winner winner gluten free chicken casserole dinner!
Yeeeeeea me!!

Comparatively, this move? Piece of cake. We had sweet sellers, sweet buyers, a wonderful friend for a realtor, and it went off pretty seamlessly.

But even a pretty seamless move is a good 7.9 on the stress scale.

But, a week later, we are in.
All seven of us.

A week later, I feel like I've unpacked probably 75,545 of the 100,874 boxes. Each room is a good 50% normal.
I cooked a real meal last night.
I got my laundry room sorta organized.
We no longer have a ~~money pit~~ pool.
We can slash probably never will walk slash will still be late to church.
My closet here is so much better than the last one.
I can't find my earrings or my moisturizer, but...
No one has sued us {yet} {knock wood}
It doesn't feel like home, yet.

But it will. This I know.
Because if I have learned anything, it is that home is where my people are --
whre my little (ha!) people are, and where my big hairy person is.

We are here.
All seven of us.
Sleeping, eating, loving, arguing, already clogging toilets, here.
Which means,
we are home.

* Corpora, which I googled, is the plural for Corpus, which means body, which every Texan knows because Corpus Christi slash Body of Christ slash Spring Break slash South Padre Island. I'm not a Latin scholar, but I play one on the internet.

I {still} don't want my children to be happy

2019-03-13T13:43:00.003-05:00

"I want them to be happy," she gushed. "I want to be supportive of everything they want to do, but I do want them to have somewhat of a normal [life]. Finish out high school, college experience -- maybe because I didn't have that, I really want that for them."
- Lori Loughlin, 2016

I am the mother of five children, ages 8 to 15. This means that over the next decade of my life, college admissions are going to consume a great deal of time, energy, prayer, and probably, angst.

Knowing what awaits me, I have been intrigued by the scandal that broke this week about parents bribing college officials for their children's admission.
This article has very detailed, and very damning, information.

It is appalling. Prime examples of horrifically bad parenting. Even if we could afford to do what they did - which we can't - we simply never would. Easy to feel superior, isn't it?

Allegedly many of the children, some of who have graduated and are in the workforce now, had no idea that their parents had schemed in this way. Perhaps they first discovered that a significant portion of their identity was a lie when they checked twitter this morning.

Gosh, what a tsunami of emotions those kids must be experiencing.

Some of the parents, no doubt, paid thousands of dollars and told thousands of lies because the image they wanted to present to the world starkly conflicted with the reality of their son or daughter's academic abilities or inclinations. Sometimes their teens were active participants in the felonious charade. For those parents, I'm sure this was just the pinnacle of a lifetime of glamorized obfuscations which started within days of the births of those disappointing newborns.

But for some, maybe, it wasn't like that.

For some, maybe, they had good kids. Kids who didn't get in trouble, who did their homework, studied for tests, took ACT prep classes, and despite their best efforts, just didn't make the scores to get into the school of their dreams.

This could be my son in a couple of years.

Shep is a really good kid. A conscientious student. Usually with a straight A report card.

And Shep wants to play college football, ideally for Texas A&M. He wants to play college football with every fiber of his being. He works as hard as he can, obsesses about his weight, spins hours trying to improve his skills.

In three years, he will find out if all his efforts paid off.
They might not.
And my son might be devastated.
And then so will I.
Not because I care about football (I really don't), but because I care so much about Shep.

A friend told me recently, "a mother is ever only as happy as her unhappiest child" and I can attest to that truth. The bigger my kids get, the bigger their hurts get. I've sat by helplessly when one was in pain, whispering encouragement, rubbing backs, and praying desperately long after they've cried themselves to sleep. I've wished so hard that I could change their situations. I've wished that I had a genie in a bottle who could grant the wishes of my child's heart and spare us both from the ragged aches we were experiencing.

For some parents, the sham "Edge College and Career Network" appeared to be that genie. So those parents took the stopper out of that bottle and filled it with dollar bills, because they didn't want their child to be hurt. Or embarrassed. Or unpopular. Or to feel left out.

They just wanted their child to be happy.

Which reminded me of a little something I wrote nearly a decade ago, when these kids who will be leaving for college so soon still had recess every day and the vast majority of their heartaches could be solved with a lollipop and a good nap.

I really need to reread this in this stage of parenting, to remind myself that, as much as unhappiness hurts, unhappiness is the inescapable reality of this fallen world.

And when I try to cheat the system to make their unhappiness go away, what I am really doing is cheating them out of the opportunity for their Creator who loves them more than I do to use their pains and disappointments as catalysts to mold their characters, to teach them to pray, to experience his grace, to learn the uncomparable blessing of contentment, and to eventually, someday, to weep with gratitude and relief when looking back on those seemingly unanswered prayers.

Now, more than ever, I need to remind myself that often, when I cheat my children of their unhappiness, I cheat them of their holiness.

Here is that original post:

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 2010

I don't want my children to be happy

Dear Shepherd, Sissy, Maggie and Ikey,

Recently we were told by people whom we love and respect why they oppose our plans to adopt. One of the reasons given was that we would not be able to pay for your college education.

It's true.

You all have college funds - college funds which recently took a terrible hit - but "they" say that by the time you're 18, college will cost anywhere between $200,000 to half a million dollars each. You might as well know now, we won't be covering that. I'm telling you now, babies.

The people said that the day would come when you would look at us with resentment because you had to apply for school loans while many of your friends got a free ride from their parents.

Maybe you will. Maybe you'll resent us. I really hope not. But maybe I should tell y'all now why your dad and I have decided to do what we are doing.

I know you're going to think I am going off topic (I do that a lot) but several years I saw a story on a TV show about how the latest trend was for parents to give their daughters boob jobs for high school graduation (I don't know what they gave their sons.) When interviewing one of the moms, she said, "I just want my daughter to be happy." And as I tossed a throw pillow at the television, this really huge thought occurred to me: I don't want my children to be happy.

My goal as your mom is not your happiness, sugars. In fact, I spend at least half my day making you unhappy. If I had a nickle for every tear that falls in this home on a daily basis, we wouldn't need to worry about college tuition at all.

Happiness is fleeting, sweet babies. That means it doesn't last. It's a quick feeling that comes from a funny movie or a heart shaped lollipop or a really good birthday present. It's great. I love to be happy. But happiness is a reaction that is based on our surroundings. And our surroundings are so very rarely under our control. Even when - especially when - we think they are.

So no, I absolutely don't want you to spend your life chasing something that has so little to do with your own abilities. You'll just be constantly frustrated.

There are two things I desire for you, precious loves. There are two things that I spend most of my time as a mother trying cultivate in you. Happiness ain't one of them. (This means, sorry, no boob jobs for you.)

The first is, I want you to be content.

Being content is so much different from being happy. Being content is not based on your surroundings. Being content comes from within. Contentment is a spirit of gratitude. It's the choice you make to either be thankful for the things you do have, or to whine about the things you don't have.

Being content and grateful leads to consistent joy.

As you know, because I've told you lots of times, Paul talked about being content. Paul said that he had "learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." And Paul was in some rotten situations, kiddos, really rotten.

How could Paul be content whether he was in prison or if his life was literally a shipwreck? Because Paul was constantly seeking to be in the will of God instead of his own, was constantly sacrificing his own comfort for the sake of the gospel, and was constantly being confirmed, strengthened, and blessed by God because of his obedience. He was given a supernatural power - that means something kind of like magic, God magic - to do things that most other humans could not do. And guess what? The bible tells us (in Ephesians 1) that God will give you the exact same power! If you want it!

Which leads me to my second desire for y'all.

I don't want you to be happy. I want you to be holy. That means, I want you to seek that God-power to make you content. I want you to want the Kingdom of God more than your own kingdom. And that's hard, babies, that is so hard. And that usually means passing up a lot of what the world considers happiness. But it means that you will achieve blessings directly from God that most of the world never dreams of because they are too occupied with the achieving the perfect birthday present!

This means you may be poor, 'in want' as Paul said, and that's okay. It will never, ever be okay with the world for you to be poor. So you'll be up against the world. But not your dad and me, loves, because it was never our goal for you to be wealthy - at least not in the way that the world considers wealthy.

Darlings, we love you so much. You will never even grasp how much we love you until you have children of your own, and then you'll get it, and then you'll apologize for the ways you treated us ;) But our goal is not to please you. Our goal is to please our Heavenly Father. And nowhere in the bible does the Lord command that we save our money to send our kids to college.

But the Lord does command us to care for the orphan around fifty times. He does tell us to care for the poor around 300 times. He does tell us that when we care for the neediest, we are caring for Jesus Himself. And in chapter six of the book of Matthew, He tells us to seek His kingdom first, and let Him worry about the rest, like college tuition. Because it's all His anyway.

They said that one day y'all would resent us for using 'your' college money to go and get your sister out of an orphanage in Ethiopia and bring her home to you.

But I know my babies. Even at your tender ages, I know your hearts, and I have already seen you weep for the least of these. I know the prayers I offer up to God that He and not the world would shape the desires of your hearts. I am trusting Him to answer those prayers.

So, sugarbears - I just don't believe those people.

Love,
Mommy

Perspective

2017-11-21T11:11:00.000-06:00

My grandpa Chester died the year Walker and I got married (the week we got engaged, in fact-there's a story there). We had always gone to his farm in East Texas for the holidays, so that year while we were on our honeymoon, my mom and her sister got a beach house for Thanksgiving so it would be very different.  My mom has kept this tradition up with our family every year. 

We've gone to the same place for several years now. All of us look forward to it every year. Someone told me yesterday they had done some study about how the beach eases depression and lifts spirits - but I didn't need a study. I know this already. 

There is something about the sun and the waves and the wind that physically, emotionally, and spiritually recalibrates our bodies and souls. 

But more than that, looking at that giant ocean reminds me in no uncertain terms how very very small I am, and thus gives me incalculable comfort at how very, very big God is. 

Perspective is a wonderful and necessary thing. 

The sea is his, for he made it,

    and his hands formed the dry land.

Oh come, let us worship and bow down;

    let us kneel before the Lord, our Maker!

Psalm 95:5-6

your kid is a racist. and so is mine.

2016-09-21T06:30:00.000-05:00

I was a senior in college in Austin. I had a job in the after school program in an elementary school near campus. One day one of the kindergarteners, a little girl named Sonya, sat on the playground, buried her face in her knees, and wept.

"What happened?" I begged her to tell me. Finally she did.

"I was standing at the tree, and we all wrapped our arms around it. And then Hannah said she didn't want to hold my hand because I'm black."

When Hannah's mom came to pick her up, I told her what had happened. Horror spread across her face. "I don't understand!" she cried. "We are not racist! We don't even see color! Her own godfather is black! How could she say such a thing?"

A decade passes. Now I am the mother. We named him Shepherd. He was beautiful. He was smart. He was funny.

When he was twelve months and ten days old, his sister was born. When he was twelve months and fifteen days old, I sat on the bottom stair in our home, holding my peacefully sleeping newborn in my arms. Shepherd toddled over to me and his beautiful, rosebud-lipped sister. He looked at her. Patted her soft pink blanket. Touched her silken hair.

Then, with as much strength as his precious, adorable little hand that was attached to his sweet chubby little arm could muster, he slapped her hard in the face.

A decade, plus two years. Shepherd has three sisters now. His littlest sister is now in kindergarten, just like little Sonya. His littlest sister is also the same color as Sonya. His littlest sister is also the most extroverted extrovert. She loves new adventures and new friends. Begs me every day for a playdate. Lists each of her little friends and asks why they can't play today? Right now? "People person" was a phrase invented for the Bethies in the world.

Bethie also has a speech delay, which hasn't bothered her too much, until now.

The year has been going well, aside from the usual kindergarten end of day tired/cranky/sassiness. But Thursday, she tells me, "Momma, I had a very bad day today at kindagarten."

"Why, sweet girl? What happened?"

"Two boys who sit next to me at the blue table. They were mean to me."

"What happened? What did they say?"

"I told them to be quiet. They say for me not tell them what to do. Then they say that I talk weird, that I don't talk like them. Then! they tell me I not American, Momma! They say I not America!"

I used to cry with every Oprah, every sad documentary, every long distance commercial. It's possible I even sought these things out for the emotional catharsis. But then I became a mother, five times over. Three of my children are currently in puberty. My emotional cup runneth over.

I rarely cry over news stories anymore.

But today I did.

Today I read about a freshman girl at American University who had a banana thrown at her while she sat in her dorm room. A black girl. Another mother's daughter who I imagine as beautiful, and smart, and funny as my daughter. A girl who got accepted to American University, an upper middle class, politically liberal, predominantly white educational school in an expensive urban neighborhood.

A school that sounds exactly like Bethie's elementary school in Austin.

A decade from now. I see an 18 year old Bethie in her first year of college. The most extroverted extrovert. Who loves new adventures and new friends. The year has been going well. Then she calls me to tell me about a very, very bad day.

"Momma. They were mean to me. I was sitting in my dorm room studying, and someone came by and threw a banana at me."

Two freshman boys are under investigation at American University. Two smart boys. Probably from upper middle class, educated, politically liberal families. Two boys who saw that other mother's daughter but decided to make it very clear that according to them, she was not human. She was a monkey.

So they threw her a banana.

She didn't belong.
She should go back to Africa.
She not America.

Racism is taught people say.

But I bet, I just bet, that if you asked the parents of those two boys, they'd be as shocked as Hannah's parents. I doubt they are any white hoods hanging in their closets. I bet they'd say "But we aren't racist! We have black friends! We don't even see color! How could our child say such a thing?"

Fearing the different is inherent. Call it tribalism, call it social identity, call it xenophobia.

I'm a Christian.
I call it original sin.

We are all born haters. We are all born baby-slappers. We all naturally loathe, mock, and alienate the different. We all cling to what we know and who makes us feel secure and who makes us feel like we belong in an uncertain, unforgiving world.

We are all born racist.

Your child is racist.

My child is racist.

Because racism is not taught. Racism is inherent.

Five year old Hannah did not have to be taught to not want to hold Sonja's hand. One year old Shepherd did not have to be taught to hate and envy his little sister for dividing his mother's affections. Two little boys did not have to be taught to shame my daughter for "not being American," which is kindergarten speak for "you're different and you don't belong here" which could quickly evolve into "Go back to Africa."

I used to think that my children would not be racist simply because their dad and I are not racist. Therefore, we didn't really need to discuss it, especially when they were still so little and beautiful and smart and funny.

Racism is taught, right?
So we won't teach them racism.
Problem solved.

But now I realize how callow that was. Because both their dads and I are big readers. But I never expected my kids to learn how to read just because their dad and I read.

Not one of my five children had to be taught to throw food on the floor. Or to throw a tantrum. Or to disrespect their parents. Or to lie. Or to steal. Or to hit their siblings.

None of them have seen their dad or I do any of these things, yet somehow they were born naturals in each of these areas. If my children would became respectful, moral, contributing citizens purely by osmosis, I would have mothered several, perhaps dozens, more.

What I have spent the past decade plus doing is trying do is to UNteach these innate skills. To replace them with the inclination to honor and respect other people, both inside our home and outside of it. To see the image and likeness of God in each and every mean, annoying, hateful, tattling human they encounter, and treat them with dignity not because of how they behave, but simply because of the Image-bearers that they are.

It is relentless, grueling, frustrating work. Many days I gaze in shock and awe at the vitriol and evil they spew at each other - vitriol and evil that they did not learn from their dad and me. Many days I am convinced that they are unrepentant sociopaths and my life's work will all be in vain.

The only thing that keeps me hopeful is to know that other mothers feel the same way. That my own mother felt the same way. That hearts will change. That prayers will be answered. That my evil little sociopathic children are perfectly normal.

Because to sin is the nature of children.

Yet these children - who commit such atrocities on the people who share their very DNA, their tribe - these children are the ones we expect to be naturally loving and accepting to people who look different from them?

No.
Racism isn't taught.
Racism is inherent.

Love is taught.
Respect is taught.
Honor is taught.

Proclaiming "I don't see color" is a horrible thing for you to do to my child.

And to your child.

Because we all see color. Kindergartners see color. College freshmen see color. My daughter sees color every time she looks in the mirror.

Color is good. Color is what makes life colorful.

Saying color doesn't exist as a parenting technique is as effective as saying sex doesn't exist or stop signs don't exist or the internet doesn't exist. Haphazard at best, and deadly at worst.

And if you pretend it doesn't exist, you certainly can't rejoice in it.

Pretending you don't see color means you can't talk about how wonderful and un-boring God made the world and all the people in it. Pretending you don't see color means you can't discuss how amazingly and lovingly we were designed to be protected from the sun in Africa or to absorb more vitamin D in Scandinavia. Pretending you don't see color decreases the glory of a perfect bowl of pho or a perfectly melded salsa. Pretending you don't see color denies history, both the good parts and the bad parts. Pretending you don't see color mitigates the experiences, sufferings, and triumphs of entire groups of your neighbors. Pretending you don't see color means there was no slavery in this country nor a civil rights movement. Pretending you don't see color is lying to your child.

Pretending you don't see color means that you cannot examine your own heart and root out the inherent racism that may still exist within it. Pretending you don't see color means you won't examine it, confess it, grieve it, unteach it, and murder it, before you pass down a malignant inheritance to your child. Your child, who will one day go to kindergarten, or university, with my child.

Pretending you don't see color may break my daughter's heart at best. Pretending you don't see color may be deadly to my daughter at worst.

Pretending you don't see color will never teach your child to love, respect and honor other colors.

Please talk about race with your child. Now. Right now. Before kindergarten, if possible.

Because your child was born a racist.

But you have been blessed with an amazing opportunity to redirect their heart.

Further reading:

How to teach your kids about the nations
Help the children love the different people
Resources for talking to your kids about race and racism
Celebrating diversity in our homes
How white parents should talk to their young about race

A letter to my son

2016-06-11T16:36:00.000-05:00

Your mom at 23.

Dear Shepherd,

There's a big case in the news right now about a woman at Stanford, a prestigious university in California, who went to a party, drank way too much, passed out, and was raped by a 19 year old student. It's been all in the news.

And for the past few days I've been wondering how to discuss it with you.

You are 12 years old, not quite 13. You are on this teeter-totter between manhood and childhood. Which, just so you know, makes learning how to do the mom thing really tricky. I'm never quite sure how much to tell you, especially when it comes to things like sex, and drugs, and drinking, and my own mistakes.

But you've recently told me lots of very personal things. And I can't tell you how happy and honored that makes me, that you've confided in me. So now I'm going to confide in you.

Back to the girl at Stanford.

Here's the lowdown on the case: a 23 year old girl, we don't know her name, but we know that she's very smart and funny and has a job and a serious boyfriend. She's very normal. She goes to a frat party at Stanford with her little sister. Imagine your sisters in 10-15 years: Eva and Maggie at a college party. Or Maggie and Bethie.

The girl drank way, way too much, as always happens at frat parties. It's stupid and reckless and dangerous but it happens. You asked me before if I ever got drunk in college and I think I changed the subject. Now you know. I got drunk lots and lots of times in college. Way too many times. It was just what we did - it honestly didn't occur to me that there was another option. Just so we're clear: there is. Repeat after me: Drinking is not mandatory in college.

So. She's wasted, really wasted, can barely talk or walk.

Yes, your mom has been that drunk before. Not in 20 plus years, mind you. But yes.

It's hard to know whether or not to tell your kids this, by the way, because it seems like we're giving you permission to do the same thing. So let's be clear: I am not. Don't do that Shep. Don't ever do that. When you drink that much you *only* do stupid things. Trust me, you will not make one solitary wise decision when you are drunk. Every single thing you do when you're drunk will be stupid and dangerous. Say that out loud. Now. Say it. Out loud. Every single thing I do when I'm drunk will be stupid and dangerous. And some of those stupid things will change my life.

So she's walking out of the frat house, she's wasted, she's in stupid and dangerous territory, and she's lost her sister, and this guy named Brock, at Stanford on a swimming scholarship, finds her. She passes out back in the parking lot behind a dumpster. When you pass out from drinking, you're, like, in a coma. No one can wake you up. First you have a 'blackout', where you are conscious, but you will remember none of it later. Then you just fall into a deep sleep. This is when some people never wake up - the alcohol poisons their system so much that it shuts down and they die. The scariest part is, with alcohol you cross this line very quickly and never realize it. Just one beer can be the difference between living and dying.

Yes, I've passed out before. Once in college. It was freaking scary.

So, she collapses, and this guy, only seven years older than you - you, in a few very short years - sees her lying on the ground, helpless. He has a choice to make now.

If you were in this situation, what would you do? Think it through. If one of your sisters were in this situation, or I, or GG or Mimi, what would you want someone to do?

The choice Brock makes is this: he rips off her clothes and violates her body with his. And he took some pictures of her when she was naked, and sent them to his buddies. But then some other guys, grad students from Sweden of all places, ride up on bicycles, see him, yell, he runs, they tackle him and call 911.

One of the Swedish guys? When the police got there, he was so upset by what he'd seen, that he was sobbing - a grown man sobbing. He could barely talk to the police.

So rapist dude goes to jail, and his trial was last week. And, he blamed her. He said she came on to him, that she totally was okay with what they were doing, that she even enjoyed it. He also said he'd never done drugs, but his text messages showed he was a liar (yes, the court can and will seize your phone and read all your texts. The internet is forever.) The jury didn't buy it and he was convicted of three felonies. The judge got to determine how long he would go to jail for.

His dad wrote this letter to the judge. Read it and tell me what you think of it.

So the judge only gave him six months in jail, and the whole country is freaking out over that. He also got kicked out of Stanford. He was a really good swimmer, he wanted to go to the Olympics, and now he's banned from competitive swimming forever. And he has to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. And the whole country hates him. His life as he knew it is over.

So my fear is that you're thinking now, whoa, that's really harsh! I mean, that's not nice what he did, but they were both really drunk...

This is why we're talking right now.

Now read another letter: this one is from the girl's boyfriend to the judge.

And I've been a little obsessed with this story, for lots of reasons, but here's one of them.

My senior year at UT, I took a Women's Studies class. Yes, that's a thing. And no, it was not full of leather clad lesbians - in fact there was only one. The rest were very cute sorority girls. And me, and two guys. One was a boyfriend of one of the girls. The other was named Chris C.

And one night, I was out on Sixth Street, and I drank too much beer, and I ran into Chris C.

I knew him okay, he was cute, but I didn't know him well enough. But I was drinking. See up there, the part about stupid dangerous decisions.

He drove me back to his apartment, and we kissed - I'm sorry, I know this is grossing you out.

Just kissed. No big deal. I still remember what his living room looked like. Which you know his amazing since I have the absolute worst memory. There was a fireplace. I was sitting on the arm of his sofa. It was brown suede. He was standing up.

He told me to go back to his bedroom. I said no. He said yes, a little more insistently. I got a little worried, and I said, "I'm not going back to your bedroom." And then he said, "You can go back to my bedroom or you can effing get out of my house." Only he didn't say effing.

So I grabbed my purse and effing got out of his house.

Problem was, he lived off campus - way off campus, down Mopac somewhere. I had no idea where I was. I think I was north of Zilker Park somewhere. Far from campus! It was deserted. No buildings, nothing. And Shep, I was walking up and down the freeway in the middle of the night, terrified, crying, all alone, having no clue where I was, and there was no one around. This was pre-cell phone days, okay? I was totally helpless. Your mom. That was your mom. So many ways this story could have ended.

So how did it end? God totally saved me. In the midst of my utter stupidity and drunkenness. a white pickup truck pulled over and this woman got out, ran toward me, and said "Do you need some help??" In the car, she called Chris C. a slew of cusswords as she drove me home. Then she told me that sometimes we get saved by angels, and she was mine. She probably wasn't. She was probably just an Austin woman in a white pickup truck. But she may have been a real, honest to God angel in a white pickup truck. I still wonder.

So, he certainly never raped me. All we did was kiss, then he was a total ass, and I left. Big deal, right?

Here's what you need to know honey - that experience destroyed me. .

I went from being a confident, happy, I-can-rule-the-world 22 year old to an insecure, depressed, fragile little girl. I didn't want to get out of bed. The UT campus where I'd spent four years, that I loved, that I knew so well, suddenly became scary and full of danger and formerly cute college guys who were now all threatening. I had to make appointments to tearfully and humiliatingly explain to my professors why I was missing so many classes and not turning in my work. And get this - I still had to go to class with Chris C! I had to listen to him raise his hand and give proper professor-pleasing Women's Study answers, the same answers that deluded me into trusting him and thinking he was a good guy. A safe guy. I wanted to kill him.

Because the kicking me out etc etc was bad. Total jerk move. But here's what really happened to me that night: in one instant, my world was completely, forever changed by the revelation that any man, at any time, can do any thing he wants to me, simply because I am a woman.

Shep, just thirteen years ago you were in my tummy, and now you're six inches taller than me, and still growing. You're a kid and you can overpower me. You can overpower almost any woman. You roam the earth every day with that reality, even if you don't realize it.

I knew that before, in my head, but after that experience, I knew it in my heart. And it was terrifying. To this day, I see every man as a potential predator and take precautions to that end. Which, sadly, is actually a healthy outlook, one that I teeter-totterly teach to your sisters.

So why am I telling you all this yucky information? Especially when, like you said, "I'm only 12, and I really don't plan on ever raping anyone."

Because I don't think that Brock's mom every thought he would ever rape anyone, either.

Because Brock's dad still thinks he is gentle.

Because Brock's friends and family say that he's a great guy, that he was a great student, got great grades, liked to eat great pretzels. They are all listing what he did prior to that night. But it's not what we do that matters - it's what is in our hearts. And when Brock saw an unconscious, helpless woman, it wasn't his grades or his swim times but his heart that saw her as a mere body for him to do with as he pleased.

Probably, one day you too will be presented with a similar situation. Maybe even while you'll still in middle school.

When Jesus sent out his apostles, he told them, "I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves." He meant that naivete was not an option when changing the world. They needed to know evil to combat evil, without actually practicing evil. It's a teeter-totter.

This is how I feel sending you out into the world.
This is why we're discussing this even though you're still 12 and don't really ever plan on raping anyone.

It would be really easy for me to just say, be the hero, Shep! Be the Swedes on the bikes! Be the angel in the white truck!

But then it would all be about the things you do. And your dad and I have raised you and your siblings with more intent than that.

The girl wrote a long letter to the court too. It was amazing. Utterly amazing. I've debated about letting you read it because it's graphic. But I think you need to read it too, so that you can get to know her as a real person, not just a victim. Because I think it will sink into your heart.

And I hope my story will sink into your heart, which is why I told it to you, embarrassing as it is to me. I hope that talking about these things openly and honestly in the few years that I still have you will shape you into the man we know you can be.

We're doing our best to teach you that all people are image bearers of God, even when they are lying unconscious behind dumpsters. That all women are to be seen as your little sisters, or your mom, or your grandma, or your future wife, or your someday daughters. That women's beautiful bodies are inhabited by precious, unique souls that matter to God. That when you violate a woman's body, you violate her soul.

We named you Shepherd, after the Good Shepherd, defender and protector of the weak. Your dad and I have raised you to be a defender and protector of the weak. You know that the only way that women are weaker than men is physical strength - but height and weight and muscle mass combined with a darkened, selfish heart is a stupid, dangerous, oh so dangerous thing.

My prayer for you, Shep, is that the strength of your body always pales in comparison to the strength of your heart. So that when, not if, but when you see a woman who is defenseless, the snake in you recognizes that she is in danger in order that the dove in you will protect her from evil.

Protect her, Shep.

Love you so much,

Mom

notes from a referral

2015-03-08T21:33:00.003-05:00

...On July 20, 2011, age 11 months, Bayesh was seen by a pediatrician and was reported to have marasmus (severe malnutrition), stunted growth, plagiocephaly (asymmetrical flattening of the head with a flat frontal bone and an open anterior fontanel), a head circumference below average between -2 and -3 standard deviations, acute gastroenteritis (stomach virus), and diaper dermatitis (diaper rash). Weight at 5kg (11 pounds). It was reported that she has a scar on her right wrist joint. Her nutritional status was reported to be inadequate, her developmental status was reported to be not satisfactory, and her overall health status was reported to be not satisfactory at that time...

All a friend can do

2015-03-06T23:34:00.000-06:00

We moved to Austin from Spring, Texas in August of 2012.

A month later, the day before we got our referral, I got the news. The news from Spring that something was wrong with Jake, they weren't sure what, but they were pretty sure it was cancer, but they weren't sure what kind.

Days later, I got the other call. That it was cancer, and that it was everywhere. Everywhere. His legs, his pelvis, his abdomen, his skull, his jaw. The jaw part upset me so much. That his tiny little four year old jaw was full of baby teeth and cancer cells.

The news did not get any better.
It got as bad as news can get.

Michelle kept me updated in texts and calls. And I felt the frustration of being three hours away from my beloved Mardon, Jake's mom, where I couldn't help. I couldn't do Mardon's laundry or take her meals or watch her four other hurting kids or clean her fridge.

I constantly texted Michelle with desperate pleas asking what I could do.

She'd try to come up with small long-distance-doable tasks. But the reality is, when they diagnose your child with a cancer that kills 70% of it's victims, there flat out isn't much your friends can do.

Except pray. You pray a lot. You pray tearfully and desperately. You pray even though you are 70% sure that your prayers won't be answered the way you want them to be.

Then, after two years of torture, which is much longer than anyone thought he'd stay, the week comes where you keep your phone on you all the time and walk about in a daze and wake up in the morning scared to check your texts until finally the one from Michelle comes at about six that says "He's gone."

"We're waiting for the funeral home. She's cutting his fingernails now."

And the thought of cutting the fingernails of your 6 year old for the last time is too much, it's just too damn much.

So you hold it together until the kids are at school, when you finally let go with that soul coughing sob that you haven't experienced since the last time a friend lost a son.

And then what do you do?

Then, then every time your own seven year old son, the one who went to preschool with Jake, the one whose handmedowns you passed on to Jake, every time that son says, Mommy, will you tuckle me in?, you do it. You do it. You do it when you're tired, you do it when you're aggravated, you do it when you're in a hurry. You stop and you do it, every time, and you do it the best that you can, with extra kisses and extra tickles and extra prayers. You breathe in his hair and you feel his skin and you kiss his fingernails that need cutting. You savor it. You thank God for it. And sometimes, lots of times, you do it tearfully and desperately, for Mardon.

Because, aside the prayers - the never ending prayers - appreciating tuckling him in is the only thing that a friend can do.

Monday.

2015-01-12T18:01:00.001-06:00

I wear earplugs at night due to Someone's snoring.
Sometimes when I wake up I put them in the pocket of my robe.

I take a lot of vitamins in the morning.
Sometimes when I wake up I put them in he pocket of my robe.

Sometimes I reach into the pocket of my robe, pull out a handful of what is in there, toss everything in my mouth, and swallow it with a swig of coffee.

Dear Momma I saw at the Doctor Today With the Nine Month Old Triplet Boys,

2014-07-08T22:16:00.000-05:00

Dear Momma I saw at the Doctor Today with the Nine Month Old Triplet Boys,

I really want to say, first off, that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Because when I realized that in addition to your toddler daughter, there were three identical infant boys, and I had an instant spliced image in my brain of one half a pregnant-with-triplets you (you look fantastic, by the way) and the other half three babies all screaming at once at 3am, all I could manage to sputter to you was, "God bless you." And that's so not okay, because "God bless you" was one of those things people used to say to me, when I had four children under four. And I never knew how to take it. I didn't know if they had just insulted me or uttered a sincere prayer for me. I saw that same confused look on your face. I'm so sorry.

It's just that I realize now that for us mommas who are on the other side of the baby days, sometimes seeing little ones brings back a sort of PTSD of our very worst newborn night, when he wouldn't quit screaming for some unknown reason and then we turned too quickly and whacked his little head into the bedroom doorway and cried with him because we had previously suspected but now were convinced that we were the absolute worst mother in the history of ever. So when we see you with the circles under your eyes we start to sweat and shake a little and maybe aren't totally responsible for what we might say.

But I want you to know that what I really, really meant was, God bless you. God bless you with these babies. God bless you and your exhausted self. God bless you.

And what I really wish I had said to you, there in the hallway, is, "You are so blessed." Because I know that you realize that. When they are all asleep. You stare at them in their cribs, in their little footy pajamas and their little butts in the air and you bend down and smell their sweet little heads and you are hit with such a wave of love and gratitude that it knocks you to your knees.

But I know that there are other times, when one has whined for twelve straight hours and one has diarrhea and one has just broken that sentimental thing that was your grandma's that survived a century of countless children but was demolished within seconds of your child sighting it, after you were up all night with the other one who is teething and your husband is out of town because of course he is, I know it's easy to forget how blessed you are. So easy. It's so easy to get wrapped up in how sticky your floors are and how your laundry is never caught up and how skinny you used to be and how painful literally painful not sleeping feels.

I wish after I told you were were blessed that I said, "Listen. These are the hardest days of your life." Well, maybe for you, the hardest will hit in about a year when they are all walking and pulling books off bookshelves and discovering gravity and toilets, but you're close. Because these are the hardest days. They are so hard. It's exhausting, to be obsessed with every biological system and aspect of another human, not to mention several humans. Digestive, excretory, respiratory, neurological, endocrine, gross motor, fine motor, psychological, emotional. You're fully aware of all of them at all times of every day, and ha! that's just when they're healthy. Throw in a rash or stomach bug and it can push you right to the teetering edge of sanity. Sometimes your brain wants to explode. Sometimes your heart wants to explode. Frequently both at once. But then one of them breaks out in hives over, what? what? and you slam another Diet Coke and just soldier on. It's hard. It's so, so hard.

And then I wish I had looked you in the eyes and said, "But it gets easier." Because it gets easier. So much easier. For instance, I have five kids, and every one of them wipes their own behind. All five. The amount of my life dealing with poop has decreased by about 97%. Well, 96%. Not only that, but they all sleep all night. But wait there's more - they can make their own cereal, brush their own teeth, and - wait for it - they even put their own laundry away. One even makes delicious gluten free brownies with absolutely no help from me. Regularly. Yes I'm serious.

Every stage of parenting has its own challenges, I've learned. None of it is easy. But the manual labor stage of it, the pure physical exhaustion, will never, ever be at the level it is for you right now.

If you hadn't been freaked out by a perfect stranger looking you in the eyes and speaking to you intensely and passionately I may have gone on to tell you that my baby boy? The one who used to smell so sweet, and slept with his little butt in the air and would destruct everything that came within twelve feet of him? Well, he'll be 11 next month. And he stinks. I mean, true, manly B.O. I know, it's so crazy. And his voice just got really deep all of a sudden. And the hormones flow like lava, hot, burning, freakish, explosive lava around here. And I'm only one inch taller than he is and we wear the same size shoe but I still totally outweigh him, dammit . And tonight when he was in the pool my neighbor nudged me and said, "Oh my gosh, does Shep have abs?" He has abs, Momma. MY BABY HAS B.O. AND ABS.

AND ONE DAY YOUR BABIES WILL HAVE B.O. AND ABS TOO.

And you'll look at them and go, how did this happen? When did this happen? Where did my babies go? What smells like B.O.?

And you'll see another momma at the doctor's office with one or two or four babies and you'll hopefully be more encouraging that I was to you. But you will still think, God bless her. Because you will have learned that as hard as these days are, that God's grace is harder. Stronger. Unexhaustive. Always available to mommas who are at the teetering edge of sanity. And that grace will guide you through the baby years, the toddler years, the elementary years, the puberty years, and beyond. You'll need it in every stage, and it will be yours at every stage, just for the asking. Because that's what parents do, they obsess/love/go without sleep for their children. And while we're loving/obsessing over the babies in our home, our heavenly father is equally loving/obsessing over us.

Don't ever quit reaching for that grace.
It tends to feel the most powerful at about 3am when you're covered in bodily fluids.
At least that's been my experience.

God bless you, Momma.

I really do mean it.

God bless you.

It's a three year old thing

2014-05-16T09:05:00.002-05:00

Bethie is doing great. She started speech therapy and is learning to say "Yesssssssssss." She's energetic, smart, and hilarious.

But something pretty horrible happened last October.

She turned three.

Which means that now, every day at 11am, I pick her up at school. She is cute and charming to the teachers, to the teachers' aids, to the other parents, to the other kids waiting on the little steps. She says, "BUH byyyyye!" in her signature way and waves or hugs each of them as they all remark how adorable she is, her teacher gives me some anecdote about how nurturing she was to another child when he was crying, the boymoms say how they love her wardrobe and hairbows, and she prances to the her coach/Ford Expedition that awaits.

Then she hops in the car, all by herself, and I hold my breath.

If it is a good day, she looks at me and says, "Mama! 'Peech?" or "'Ome?" or "Go?"or maybe "Eat?" and launches into a modified version of Wheels on the Bus.

But some days it is one of Those Days.

And on Those Days, after her customary charm and prance, she alights her coach and just stands there. When I ask her to get in her carseat, she looks at me, squints her adorable little almond eyes, and says, "NO." So when I lift her up to physically put her in her carseat, she arches her back and slides down so that it is almost impossible for me to do the buckle, chanting, "No, no, NO Mommy! NO! NOOOOOO!" Then she holds up both of her little cute little hands and arranges her cute little middle fingers and shoots me a double bird.

Okay, not really. Her fine motor skills are not quite that advanced. They didn't have a lot of playdoh in the orphanage, you know. Had she had access to small muscle building toys I'm sure she would have perfected the double bird by now and maybe added a, what do you call it, when you put one hand into the crook of your other elbow? As if to say SHOVE IT, MAMA ?

Those Days, I don't like. Those Days I take a deep breath and wonder how long till I can get her into bed for a nap and hope that I have a Yo Gabba Gabba waiting on the DVR. Those Days I handle really well. Sometimes. Sometimes on Those Days I don't handle it well, because as much as I was hoping I would magically evolve into the perfect mother the moment we adopted her, dang it, it hasn't happened yet.

Yesterday, she took one of Those Days to a whole new level. Yesterday shall go down as Bethie's First Epic Tantrum.

It was about five o'clock and I was helping Eva rearrange her room. Bethie had had one fruit popsicle and came to me, face smeared in red, holding another wrapped in plastic, asking, "Ope? I wan more. Ope?" I told her no, one was enough. She screamed YESSSSSSSSSS. I said no.

She screamed NO! MOMMY! WANT! MORE!

And she threw the popsicle down on the floor.

I told her to pick it up.

She screamed NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

And slammed the door in my face.

Okay, this, this is the difference between boys and girls. I've had two toddler boys. One of them was very strong willed. Very challenging. But he never slammed a door in my face. Slamming doors in faces in a female thing. Slamming doors is a, I'D FLIP MY FINGERS AND MY TOES OFF AT YOU RIGHT NOW IF ONLY I HAD THE FINE MOTOR SKILLS TO DO SO.

Females slamming doors in faces has built an entire network, y'all.

Evangeline, sweet, mostly obedient, so conscientious almost ten year old Evangeline, who loves her little sister more than almost anything in the world, watched all this, wide eyed. Then she turned to me incredulously and said, "Who does she think she is?!"

Smirking at the irony, I opened the slammed door and said, it's bedtime now, little girl. NOOOOOOOOOOO! NO NIGHTNIGHT! NOOOOOOOOO! It's been a while since I undressed a child whose bones have suddenly turned into noodles, but the skills came back. Got the clothes off. Then laying her down on the bed, I crossed one of my legs over her thrashing legs while inserting two kicking feet into a pullup and pajama pants on still thrashing legs. Then pulling a top over a screaming, gyrating head.

I won. The pyjamas were on.

I didn't earn that Tantrum Management mommy merit badge for nothing, y'all.

Then I kissed her, told her I loved her, and put her to bed. She tried to run out of the room several times and we had to fetch her and lay her back down. She screamed. About 20 minutes. Then fell asleep. Deep, deep asleep. For fourteen hours.

Afterwards, Eva was going on and on about how unbelievable that was. She was amazed. She couldn't believe that her precious little sister had done that. Over a popsicle!

I said, "Eva. You know when I told you you were hard? That was you. THAT WAS YOU."

"Every day??" she asked.

I nodded. "Just about. Every. Day."

Her eyes were as big as saucers. "Wow."

Wow indeed.

Evangeline Rose was the. hardest. toddler. ever. She woke up in the morning, fought with me for approximately seven hours, took a nap, then fought me three more hours till bedtime.

For Halloween of 2006, when people asked what she was going to dress up as, I always said, "A witch," then muttered, "appropriately."

She was all of 25 months old.

And she was a terrorist.

I have a clear memory of me, very pregnant with Ike, at the very end of my frayed hormonal rope, looking at a beautiful, charming-to-everyone-ELSE three year old girl, who glared at me with squinted eyes as I said in a very pathetic Sally Struthers voice, Do you even love me? Do you? Because the way that you treat me, I don't even think you love me!

I blogged about that girl. I wrote this when she was exactly - exactly - Bethie's age. Later, I confessed to you here:

I recently told Walker, at the end of an especially hard day, "If Eva Rose and I were dating, we would have broken it off by now. We would both have said, "It's not you, it's me. You're great, really. I just don't think it's working out."

But we're not dating. She's my daughter. She's the result of my prayers and wishes. And, as always, God knew to answer the prayers that I never prayed, but needed. For I can no longer claim to be unaware of my own sin. I can never claim to be ignorant of my own need for the cross. I can never, ever deny my desperation for daily, sometimes hourly, redemption.

I think there was also another reason. I think that while God was refining me by the fire of one crazy strong willed toddler, he was also preparing me for the crazy strong willed sister who would follow her later. Those hard hard years were a grace in disguise. Because that first little girl? I birthed her myself. She had no traumatic background. She wasn't taken from all she knew before she became ours. There was no tragedy in her past. She had no issues, attachment or otherwise. Yet she almost caused me to lose my ever loving mind. Just about. Every. Day.

And now, she's helping me to raise her protege.

I have thought many times over the past year that I am really, really glad Bethie was not my first child, but my fifth. My fifth two year old. My fifth three year old. Because if my first child were adopted, I know I would be freaking out right now, thinking that tantrum, and all Those Days leading up to it was an adoption thing, an attachment thing, a parenting thing.

It's not.

It's a three year old thing.

Three year olds are narcissistic, irrational, demon-possessed little sociopaths.
Until five minutes later when they are adorable, cuddly, funny little puppies.

They are all like this.

All of them.

Whether you adopt them or not.

So, sweet little Bethie, with your adorable/evil ways, I'm on to you, girl. I know that October, when you turn four, will be the month of my deliverance. It will get better. I know this is not the Forever You, nor the Forever Me. I know that This Too Shall Pass.

I know that you are exploring, testing, seeing just how far you can push me. Seeing just how far my love for you will stretch.

Bring it on, pumpkin. Momma can take it. My love for you will stretch and stretch and stretch and it will never, ever break.

And I might even love you just a little bit more, the minute you turn four.