My expectations were probably too high. My daughter is not quite six, after all. But, we regularly run laps around the yard, and she routinely beats me and her brother in races, wherever.

So, when I saw that there was a Girls on the Run 5K taking place not far from our home, I signed her, my mom, and I up almost immediately. I knew there would be a lot of young girls in the race, and thought it would be fun for us to do it together.

Saturday morning came, and we drove to the Topeka YWCA. We even had our cheering squad (Erv stayed home with his grandpa)….don’t they look excited?

I wanted to make sure that she knew that we would go her pace, whether she wanted to walk or run, but that it was very important that we just keep going. We couldn’t stop, or we’d be stuck somewhere on the trail. We were going to finish, because we had no choice.

Three generations!

We started off at the back, and I think she may have been a little embarrassed. She held onto grandma’s hand, as I tried to convince her to jog a little, just to the stop sign! How about to the corner?!

No. No running. “My feet hurt. I can’t go anymore. I want to stop.”

I was frustrated. We had a cop car right behind us, as the “tail” of the race, and as soon as we went from the road to a sidewalk, that one cop car turned into three policemen on bicycles. Right. Behind. Us.

Oh, but we weren’t last the entire way! For a small part of it, we were next to last.

Our cheering squad apparently got pretty bored, waiting for us.

But, we kept on walking. We didn’t let the bicycle police behind us unnerve us (much), even when the policeman on a motorcycle joined them. My mom is a master of distraction, and while I continued to be…yes, a little aggravated at my daughter for her whining, she made us all laugh and try to forget that we still had a mile to go, or one more block, or just around this bend.

By the end, I had gone from grumpy to proud. I was proud of my girl, who was the youngest child (not in a stroller) in the race. Maybe she could have run a little more, whined a little less. But when we (FINALLY) got to the finish line, wouldn’t you know that there were a lot of people still there, waiting to cheer her on.

All in all, it was a good day.  She was the only one of us three that got a medal at the finish line (that’s what happens when all of the attention is on you), and she’ll be showing it off to her kindergarten teacher tomorrow at school. She says she had fun, and really wanted me to give her some of my medals from previous races. I told her she had to earn them, thankyouverymuch.

She was pooped, but a trooper. And yes, those are streaks in my mom’s hair….somehow we two adults got stripes sprayed in, but not the kids.

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I’ve come to call Lady Jennie my friend, and I’m so glad that she’s sharing with you all here today.

The Double-Edged Sword

A Lady in France

I’ve always seen myself as the type of person who is filled with plenty of hope, but zero expectation. After all, expectation requires something more than hope – it requires faith. And though I have faith regarding all sorts of things, it doesn’t seem to extend to the domain of expectation.

Let me give you an example. When it was time to enroll in a 401k plan at work, I only joined for the principal of the thing – not because I actually thought I would live long enough to enjoy my retirement. There was nothing in my stunted expectations about the blessings to come that could have been defined as “great.”

But hopes! Oh, those I’ve had from my earliest childhood. Great hopes.

I hoped that I would be given a prince of a husband, and that our marriage would be filled with love and humor. I hoped that I would have a large, healthy family, with perhaps two biological and two adopted children. And I hoped that my words and actions would make a difference in the world, so that my life and death would not be in vain.

In many ways, my hopes were all realized, and sometimes as literally as a dream come true. When I was eighteen, my dream of marrying a French man, set me off to study in Avignon in hopes of meeting him. When the semester was over, I forgot about the dream (except for a three-year hiccup with a French man who would not have done for me at all), only to stumble into the arms of a man who wanted to marry me … one who happened to be French.

But I didn’t expect to be living in glamorous France as an overweight, middle-aged mom, so that my children’s classmates make fun of me, and I have trouble finding clothes outside of the supermarket. (I’m a size sixteen to eighteen). No, I expected that I would be as elegant as the dream evoked – the tight jean, tiny Gucci belt-wearing maman with strappy black sandals and hair pulled back in a loose chignon. (My hair came out after my babies did).

I didn’t expect that I’d still be on anti-depressants after all these years. I didn’t expect that I’d be unable to drink all the fine wines because of a past drinking problem, or that I’d have to forego the delicious croissants, pastries and baguettes because of a gluten intolerance. I hoped for the prince of a husband and I got him.

I hoped for the French dream and I got it as well. But in return, I was handed much I didn’t expect.

My hopes of having a large family were also realized as I gave birth to a beautiful daughter – a confident, talented, athletic girl whose thought process reminds me of my own girlhood. And my middle son, the spitting image of his handsome father with his gorgeous blue eyes, has inherited his dad’s meticulous attention to detail instead of my continual state of distracted overwhelm.

Even my youngest son, who I felt so guilty for having instead of adopting because I was afraid of overpopulating the world, has proven to be Affection Incarnate. At four years of age he already knows how to make the ladies swoon, taking my face tenderly in his chubby hands, as he looks me in the eyes and says, “T’es belle maman,” before leaning over to kiss me.

I had already been given my large, happy family. So I didn’t expect to have a surprise fourth pregnancy, one I would have felt too guilty to plan, but which I embraced as a blessing from heaven – only to find myself on my hands and knees in the shower at three o’clock in the morning, the entire room turning white as I stared at the mass of blood, the little head and spinal cord, the tiny legs and arms in their restful fetus position, and the small eyes that would never open. I didn’t expect that.

I’ve come to realize that expectation is a double-edged sword. On one hand, expectation can come as a demand, like, “Okay God – I expect you to give me this. I deserve it. Why shouldn’t I have it?”

I’ve never been very good at that kind of expectation. I’m more the type of person who will say that about sorrow. “It must happen to someone, so why shouldn’t it happen to me?” As far as blessings go, the most expectation I can summon is something meager, along the lines of, “God, I would really like this thing to come my way, but only if you think it best.”

Maybe in a way, I’m afraid to expect things because I will only set myself up for disappointment. I don’t know – that seems like a cheap way out. It kind of says to me that God is not good and he doesn’t know how to give good gifts so I better not shoot for the stars. But if I’m going to have faith in God at all, that is definitely not the kind of faith I want to have – a wimpy, half-hearted, “I’ll bury my talent in the ground” type of faith.

On the flip side, expectation can also come in the form of assumption. I might think I’ve submitted to the overall “better plan, grand scheme of things,” only to realize I have a very precise expectation about the conditions that surround the blessings I’m given. Like woah – I said I wanted this, but I totally thought I would get the whole package to go along with it. You know, like the classy French-looking woman to go along with the dream French husband, or the four perfect pregnancies to go along with the big happy family ideal.

To expect is to climb another rung up the ladder of hope because you believe you are actually going somewhere. To expect is to still hang on to that ladder with one hand, when life steps on your other one, crushing a part of your dream and tossing it to the ground.

Expectation is a double-edged sword that would be better served in pushing me to believe, and even demand, while letting go of my tight grip on assumption. It’s to hold on to the belief of good things to come as I set aside for retirement, hug my prince of a husband who loves me as is, and look upon my three surviving children who do, indeed, constitute a large healthy family. It’s to continue to have faith in the good things to come, even when it makes me afraid to do so.

After all, the definition of faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you do not see.

And that sounds an awful lot like great expectations to me.

Follow Lady Jennie’s incredible story on her blog, A Lady In France, on Twitter, and on Facebook.

This week…..busy but seemed to last forever.

May 12

Mother’s Day! I had a great one. Still floating on the fumes from Listen To Your Mother, we went to lunch and then I took a nap. It was awesome.

I’m so lucky to be their mom.

May 13

Ivy, who’s real birthday is in July, had her faux-birthday celebration in kindergarten on Monday. Gluten free brownie mix for the win!

May 14

I love this picture of my girl grooving before school.

May 15

Kids are awesome (those are big books that unfold into cars).

May 16

I spent way too many hours cleaning the house for a window consultation, and then most of the evening with the window guy in our house. At least this girl enjoyed all of the time she got to spend looking through my wallet. And also, when did her legs get so long??

May 17

School is SO almost out for the summer.

May 18

Ivy, my mom and I did a 5K Saturday morning (more on that later), and then we came home and my girls and I put in our garden…finally.

She wrote out all of the markers for the garden, and I can’t get over how cute it is….she started at the top and went down, some letters backwards. But with excellent handwriting! And so proud of herself.

She was introducing her website/business Gadanke to her fellow Blissdom attendees, and I know for a fact that people remembered those works of art more than most of the other “cards” we were given (or handing out ourselves. Ahem.)

In fact, as soon as Katie contacted me about potentially doing a giveaway of her journals, I ordered one for my niece’s birthday, because I just knew she would love to record her summer memories in one of Katie’s Travel Journals.

This photo was taken from gandanke.com….I would take a picture of the one I got, but the packaging is so perfect that I don’t want to open it before my niece does!

Check out these kids’ journals that Katie makes (and all of the incredible details!):

Totally getting this one for my soon to be 6 year old’s birthday!

And here’s something that I SO wish I had had when I got married. A wedding journal, specially made to organize all of those wedding cards, and places to write down favorite memories of the wedding day and marriage.

I am so pleased to be able to give away a $30 gift certificate to Gadanke.com so one of my lovely readers can choose their own beautifully crafted journal, journal accessories, story catching kit, or any of Katie’s products.

To enter, visit Gadanke.com and tell me what you would use your gift certificate on!

For additional entries, you can also do any or all of the following (please leave a separate comment for each entry):

Follow Katie on Twitter

Subscribe to Katie’s newsletter (through which you’ll get regular discounts!)

Follow Katie on Pinterest

Giveaway will end at midnight central next Friday, May 24th. Winner will be chosen from all valid entries via random.org.

I was not compensated for this post/giveaway, and I purchased the journal that I got for my niece. I’m just pleased to be able to introduce you to Katie’s beautiful work! And all opinions, of course, are my own.

This is the piece that I read for Listen To Your Mother this past weekend. It originally appeared at Studio30 Plus last fall, but it was much shorter. 

“The Wondering”

I was making dinner the other night, and my oldest son (who’s almost seven) was sitting on the floor on the other side of the island, reading a book (probably something about pirates, or Halloween).

Without looking up, he turned his attention to me.

“Mama, can you tell me again how my dad died?”

I’ve told him and his five year old sister about their dad many times in the last couple of years. Not going into too much detail, but showing pictures and making sure that they know who he was and what he was like.

“Sure, bud.” I say as I cut up the cauliflower for roasting.

“He was driving home one night when a lady that should not have been driving hit his car and killed him.”

I’ve never gone into many more details than that, unless one of my two oldest asks me a specific question.

“Were you wondering where he was?”

OOF. The knife stopped mid-air as I sucked in my breath and felt my heart start to race.

I didn’t want to say, as I tried to catch my breath, that yes, I was wondering where he was. I didn’t say that I called his cell phone 15 times in the span of an hour because I knew he should have been out of his class by then, one of the few classes left in his college career. That I, his barely pregnant wife (so early in my first trimester that we were the only two that knew, save for our obstetrician), was driving home from my own class, on my way to pick up my then-one-year-old son. That I made a couple of extra calls to my parents, who were babysitting, to find out if they had heard from my husband. That I must have left a dozen messages on his phone and that it was possible that the paramedics, who were probably cutting him out of the car at that very moment, heard the phone ring.

And ring, and ring.

I didn’t tell him that they must have left the phone in the car as they loaded my husband, his father, into an ambulance and took him to the nearest hospital, only to load him back into the helicopter because his injuries were too severe and he was losing too much blood. I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t until I got home and saw the blinking light on the answering machine on that winter night nearly six years ago, that I began to realize that something was very, very wrong, or that I searched for words when the 911 operator told me that my husband had been in an accident and she would try to find out exactly where he was, but that inside I was losing control and my mind was racing in a thousand different directions.

Or that I could barely speak as I called my mom to tell her that something had happened, and no, I didn’t really know what, but they’re telling me that his legs are crushed and he’s in the hospital and can you please come over right away?

No, I didn’t say that the other night to my nearly-seven year old son when he asked me the innocent question that literally took my breath away.

“Yeah, buddy. I tried to call him and didn’t know where he was until I talked to the police.”

I took a long, deep breath and continued to chop, knowing that as they get older, the questions would only get harder to answer. And wishing there was a manual for this sort of thing.

But there isn’t, so I find myself writing my own. Not knowing how to do it, or what to say, just like I didn’t when I listened to that answering machine message, and like I didn’t when I got to the hospital with my mom late that night and waited outside of the emergency room for hours before hearing any news, then practically living in the surgical ICU for four long days before he was declared dead. Just like I didn’t when I delivered our daughter seven months later surrounded by friends and family and intentionally festive luau decorations but without him, my newborn’s daddy. But I did it, I somehow did it. And I’ll somehow do this: answer their questions. Because while my children lost their father, they didn’t lose me. And I am their mother. While I watch them grow, help them learn, and try my best to make them understand, they are helping me write the chapters of the manual that I so desperately wish I had.

Photo courtesy of Karen Ledford Photography

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Thank you so much for joining us today, Pamela!

When Greta asked who was interested in writing a guest post about great expectations it seemed like a perfect fit for me. There wouldn’t be a problem coming up with a topic because I’m full of topics! Many ideas came to mind and Mother’s Day was still several weeks away. There would be plenty of time to write because the day was all planned out in my head.

This year my Mother’s Day is going to be full of relaxation and blissful moments of quiet. A day for me to catch up on whatever my heart desires. Surely it will be the one day out of the year when my efforts are appreciated and my reward will be peace and quiet. My husband will make sure the kids pick up and we can have a nice dinner. That’s what I thought, until reality took over.

One by one my great expectations of a blissful Mother’s Day fell apart.

First, the week before Mother’s Day my husband’s employer notified him that he would be leaving the country for a week. I’m honestly not a fan of his travels because it’s exhausting wrangling three kids alone. At times it can be hard to keep quiet because of the temper tantrum going on inside. “What the heck? I didn’t sign up for this! We are supposed to travel the world together. Instead you leave me behind to deal with all these kids alone! This stinks!” Did I mention he would be leaving on Mother’s Day? My great expectations for “me time” were fading quickly.

Second, my siblings and I normally work out a celebration time to visit with our Mother. After several phone calls back and forth and the meet up time changing four times, it was finally decided. My family would bring the cooked spaghetti, sauce and garlic bread. My brother’s family would bring the lemon cake while my other brother would opt out for a company baseball game. He would visit on his own time. Now on Mother’s Day I’m cooking within an hour after church and bringing it to my mother’s house. Can you see that whole idea of relaxation flying out the window?

Mother’s Day is Here

After church we hit the grocery store, picked up this tulip for my mom and sped home to make the fastest spaghetti lunch known to man. We were a little late arriving but all were fed and happy. Our family had to cut our visit short because my husband still needed to pack.

Next, two very weird and unexpected things happened. My Mother gave me a New Balance shoe box to take to my car. On the way home I opened the box and inside was old photos. Some were of my father, but we don’t have a relationship. There were also photos of my eldest daughter when she was a baby. She’s going to be twenty-four this year and it made me wonder if she would call, send an email, or something. Last year she didn’t make any contact at all. My heart was pretty heavy now. Where is my bliss?

We finally made it home and out of the car where all three kids had started bickering and complaining. Where is my relaxation? Is this really going to be just like any other day? Can’t they take a break, it’s Mother’s Day? The short answer was no.

In retrospect as I’m writing it occurs to me that today was not like any other day!

My morning began with a do-nut and a card from my husband. He hid little snack sized Reese’s peanut butter cups in different places. These were found while getting ready for church and that made me smile. Each of my kids greeted me with a “Happy Mother’s Day” and a hug. In church my two younger ones sang their little hearts out while performing their special Mother’s Day songs.

In the flurry of making spaghetti sauce each of my kids brought me a gift. You know those hand crafted goodies they make at school for Mother’s Day? They were proud of themselves and these were made from the heart. My heart no longer felt heavy.

Today there were a couple of obvious lessons that I needed to learn about expectations.

First, my great expectation of bliss turned out to be in the form of handmade gifts. Those were much better than what I had conjured up in my head. Second, my great expectation of relaxation came in the reality of those photos. You see, those are relationships that are not active in my life right now. Those relationships are quiet and inactive. Meanwhile there are three very loud, energetic children that want and need a relationship with me. Now is the time for me to treasure them and appreciate the noise that is all around me.

Happy Mother’s Day to you and if you would like to see their Mother’s Day craft ideas please click on over to see what they made to lift my heart.

You can follow along with Pamela’s blog, stalk her on Twitter, like her Facebook page (seriously, go check it out if only for the ADORABLE cover photo), Instagram, and Google Plus.

May 5

Bedtime is a little nuts at our house…..we have a routine, but it’s kind of a chaotic one.

May 6

I finished the #Bostonstrong10K for Charity Miles on Monday morning. It took me quite a while, but I was excited to be able to run 5 of the 6.2 miles (and I’m super excited to get the t-shirt).

May 7

Teacher Appreciation Day, and the kids each had a little gift for their teachers. Since Ivy’s didn’t have a “theme”, I just asked her to write “Love, Ivy” on the card. She went on, on her own, to write “Thank you for teecheen me.” Heart: melted.

May 8

Essie obviously can’t read yet, but the girls got out the recorded Christmas book from their grandparents, and have been listening to it a lot.

May 9

I went with my sweet first grader to Legoland—Kansas City on Thursday. It was so much fun to see him in his element.

May 10

Essie drew her first family portraits this week.

I had an afternoon of pampering on Friday, both to get myself ready for the show, and to treat myself for Mother’s Day.

May 11

Listen To Your Mother: an absolutely mind-boggling, surreal, incredible, exhausting, exhilarating experience. This was in the dressing room about an hour before the show, with the lovely Lisa of Back to Allen.

Last Saturday, we had our first official rehearsal for Listen To Your Mother at Unity Temple in Kansas City. We had had a read through at Erin’s house before, but this was our first chance to stand at the podium in the sanctuary and read our pieces into the microphone.

The show is this Saturday night, four days away. I’m excited, I’m terrified, I don’t want it to end.

There are some amazing stories to be told in our group alone, and the hundreds of women who are reading (or who have read) their own stories across the nation. The thirteen other cast members that I’ve come to know through this experience are incredible….funny, warm, smart, and caring. I’m lucky to have met them and spent this time with them, and to be able to stand on stage in front of them as I read and sit on stage behind them as they read. It’s a crazy amazing feeling to be so vulnerable with people that (for the most part) were complete strangers just a few weeks ago.

I watched some of last year’s cast on YouTube when the videos went up, and I was in awe. I still can’t really believe that I was chosen to be a part of this “movement”, created by Ann Imig, but I am so grateful and honored…..and terrified. (Did I mention that I’m terrified?)

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You can keep up with her progress every week at her Mamavation Monday posts (where she shares food AND fitness progress). She was a Mamavation Mom in the last campaign, and you can see her incredible results from that here.

I’m so happy to have one of my favorite online cheerleaders and friends here to share with you today. Thank you for coming by, Jeanae!

Some women are simply born maternal.  You know the type: they start off as young girls with names and personalities for their future husbands and children. They just can’t wait to babysit or nurture younger kids. They are natural born mothers. Nope, that wasn’t me at all. I was convinced that I was simply born without a single maternal bone in my body, and I was okay with that.  I had goals to accomplish, and plans to get there. Absolutely nothing on my agenda contained the words mom, laundry, or carpool. Simply the thought of the term housewife conjured hives.  I thought that if my life ever happened to lead marriage and parenting to my door, that I would be the spitting image of Claire Huxtable of the Cosby Show. Right? Certainly I could juggle a household, maintain a comedic love affair, and never have a hair out of place. Right?

I spent many years playing the grad school and career game, and I thought that I knew what happiness and accomplishments meant. My host of friends and cohorts joined me on trips around the globe, dream fulfilling escapades, and shopping until we dropped.  Eventually, I married the Bald Genius (he has a real name, but it isn’t nearly as fun to say), and started down the path of family life.  I have to admit that I had no clue what parenting truly entailed.  I was completely ignorant of how deeply I could love someone until I first saw the face of my adorable son.  Now my world is completely his.

This song by the Not-Its pretty much sums up the craziness that has become my life.

Why didn’t someone warn me that morning for moms start so early?  I am on the go long before the sun rises, and still running after dark.  All that I once held dear no longer matters, as I fully cherish the task of preparing a darling boy to go out into the world.  My schedule is no longer my own, and I have now surrendered to the life of a full-time mom. I dare say that I turned into the very woman who once gave me hives.  You’ll find me yelling at the ball field, cheering at a swimming competition, hiding my earplugs at piano recitals, and smiling through it all.  I haven’t quite figured out how to juggle everything and keep myself Claire Huxtable/camera ready form, but I am so grateful for the opportunity to parent my amazing kid. This is a life that is far greater than anything that I ever imagined or expected.  I am a mom, and there is nothing greater (or messier, louder, funnier, more surprising…) than this.

You can find Jeanae at her blog, on Facebook, and on Twitter.

This week, that CHANGED. Not only did I go to Target, try on three pairs of SIZE 8 skinny jeans and walk out with them because they fit PERFECTLY, but I also lost 2.6 pounds! I am now officially in the “Healthy” BMI category….I haven’t been out of the “Overweight” category since before I got married the first time (except, for a little while while I was pregnant and “Obese”….I have NO desire to go back there ever again). I also haven’t worn single digit size pants since I don’t even know when.

Because this week has been.

I think my body was catching up, honestly. I hardly ran this week (only four miles), but I continued to work out some. I focused on resting and eating really well, and it paid off.

I only have 34 miles to go to get to my halfway point of 250 miles, and I’ve been aiming to get to that by the end of May. I still have four weeks to do it (hello, long month!) and I’m confident that I’ll be able to do it. I still can’t believe how much progress I’ve made on my 500 miles in 2013 goal.

I’m starting a new workout program this coming week, and I’m optimistic that I’ll be able to tone up, lose a few more pounds, and continue to feel really confident about how much strength I’ve gained in the last few months and how I feel and look.

Oh, and I also signed up for the #BostonStrong10K through Charity Miles, sponsored by Lifeway and benefiting One Fund Boston. It’s a virtual run, to be finished by May 12….a week from today. My goal, since I’ve never run more than four and a half miles at a time, is to run at least that much and walk the rest. I will DEFINITELY finish the 6.2 miles, and I’m going to do it in one fell swoop. Wish me luck!

This post is sponsored by Dr. Ken and Mamavation – a community dedicated to obesity prevention & weight loss for women and I’m writing this to be entered into a giveaway