I know

          To all other parents out there who have a child with learning disabilities, I know your struggle, and I feel your pain. I know that you lose sleep at night worrying about your child, and I know how much you have devoted your own life to being his/her advocate. I know that sometimes you feel exasperated and overwhelmed. I know how much you pray for it to get easier for your child. And, I know how desperately you wish that other people better understood the silent battle that your child and you fight every day without reprieve. I know you want the best for your child and how much you want your child to stop questioning his/her abilities as he/she fights to forge a path of learning that leads to pride and success. I know.

          I know the feeling you get when you have to try to explain these things, countless times, to the people around you--family, friends, and teachers-- and see the look in their eyes that they just don’t get it. I know the sinking dread that fills your heart as you realize how much your child is up against and the fact that it will never go away or be easy for him/her. I know how hard you fight to swallow your tears when you watch your child crying because he/she is feeling defeated, stupid, and worthless. I know you feel like someone has punched you in the stomach when your child expresses concern about his/her future, wondering if he/she will be able to accomplish his/her dreams. I know that you cry at night after everyone in your house has gone to bed or when you are in the shower and no one can hear you because you are exhausted from watching your child struggle and worry every single day. I know you try to boost your child’s self-esteem and combat your child’s feelings of fear, loneliness, and anxiety. I know that this in and of itself feels like a full-time job. I know.

          I know you realize that no one, even you, knows exactly what your child is going through and how helpless this makes you feel. I know the extra worry lines that have formed too early at the corners of your eyes and how you feel suffocated by the weight of homework, long-term assignments, and tests. I know you are up until midnight on some nights trying to help your child complete assignments to feel as prepared as possible for the next school day. I know you try every day to find a balance between helping too much and helping too little. I know how much you wish that there was a way to fix all of this for your child. I know that you would sell the shirt off of your back if this meant removing every difficulty that your child faces. I know.

          I know that, despite this all, you never give up hope that tomorrow will be an easier day. I know that you hang on to the dream that your child will one day feel calm, successful, and happy. I know that you will never give up; you will never stop advocating and explaining; you will never rest until your child finds peace. I know how much you celebrate every success in your child’s life, every single thing that makes him/her beam with pride and excitement.

I know that you and your child are not alone in this no matter how much you sometimes feel that you are. I know.  

Just "Kim"

Today, I am just not feeling it. The "it" that I'm not feeling is lurking like a monstrous, hideous gorilla in the room: parenting. Today is one of those days that I feel like just being Kim. I sometimes don't even remember who she is. The person she was before having children who has been long buried in piles of laundry, late night barfing, tattling, signing paperwork, coordinating the calendars of five individuals without (dear God) making one blunder, and putting the needs of everyone else before herself.

I think as a mom this is a blasphemous confession to make. A confession that will have "better" moms turning their noses up at my apparent willingness to admit that, at the end of the day, I am human, I am flawed, and sometimes I long for the simplicity that existed before I earned the title of Mom.

But you "better than me" moms, I know you secretly have these days too but are too prideful to admit that mothering is without a shred of a doubt the hardest title you have ever and will ever receive. And, it is a title that brings an endless to do list that draws on every ounce of your will to even attempt to manage every single day of your life without reprieve.

Because, you see, we can't turn this off even if we are physically away from our children. After all, how would those we left in charge even begin to function without the detailed lists and spreadsheets we leave behind? The pre-filled out forms, the pile of already stacked uniforms, the daily itinerary that keeps our family afloat, the wisdom that our oldest child will only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his lunch, our middle child only nutella, and our youngest only nutella and peanut butter? That for breakfast, our oldest likes his egg wrap with cheese and salt & pepper, our middle with egg and salt & pepper but no cheese, and our youngest with egg and salt but no pepper or cheese? Who else knows the millions of tiny details that allow us to make it through the day with only a small number of tears and the least amount of frustration? No one. No one knows this but us, and even though it allows us to know every member of our family most intimately, we are often left to wonder who knows what we like in our morning wrap? No one else but us because we are the keepers of these important pearls of wisdom. The pearls of wisdom that are simultaneously enlightened and suffocating.

Today I felt suffocated by this role.

Today, I wanted to be just Kim. I didn't want to me "Mom" or "Wife" but Kim. Kim the girl who used to climb to the tallest branch of the tree in her backyard and read books. Kim who loves to feel the sun on her skin and the sand between her toes. Kim who likes to lay in the damp grass at night and look into the vastness of the sky feeling both empowered and intimidated by the understanding of her own smallness in the big picture of God's universe. Do any of you even know these things because I sure know them about you. I hold on by the hope that one day you will understand that for so many years I willingly chose you over me because that's just what parents do.

I know that tomorrow I will wake up to a different day, a day in which I proudly grab the title of Mom and traverse its challenges with ease and peace. I know this because I have had days like this before and will no doubt have them again in the future. My sense of peace returning will begin when I walk in to check on you in bed later and stall for a minute to take in the beauty of your faces and watch how your chests slowly rise and fall as you dream. When I lay in the quiet of our dark house tonight, I will remember the immense quiet that accompanied my life before children and be thankful for the noise that you bring me, a noise that always reminds me of the beauty and dynamism of life. I will remember the tears I cried when I prayed for over two years to conceive my oldest and the subsequent tears and despair I felt when I suffered five miscarriages before my second was born. I will remember how much I ached and prayed to earn this title, and my heart will swell with pride for the family we have together, no matter how chaotic and suffocating it can sometimes make me feel. And, most of all, I will realize that I can't remember who Kim was before children because she is a ghost from my past who has morphed into the person she is today, a person that I am always thankful for and proud of.

A tall, ice cold glass of The Golden Rule

My youngest daughter asked me last weekend if she could have a lemonade stand. She was so excited to learn how to make homemade lemonade from the abundance of lemons from our tree that I couldn't resist. I let her know that I would help her set up a stand on Saturday.

Since the introduction of allowances into our family last year, it has been an interesting lesson in personalities as I have watched how my three children handle money. My oldest child and only son is the epitome of having a "hole in your pocket." The second he has any money he is dying, DYING, for me to drive him to Target, Walgreens, CVS, ANYWHERE to spend every last penny he has on some trinket. He feels the pain of wanting something two days later but having no money to his name, begging and pleading for a loan or an advance that I have never and will never grant. Regardless, the pattern continues every week. My middle child and oldest daughter is, much like her personality, the model of moderation. She will save her money if there is nothing that she has been longing for and spend it intermittently when a strong enough desire grasps her mind. Her piggy bank is always half full, either able to allow her to indulge on some small treasure or save in little time for something more impressive.

Now my youngest (and the entrepreneur behind this weekend's lemonade stand) is much like her mommy: she hangs onto money as if it is a rare gift from God not to be trifled with. The first time I allowed the children to take their own money to Target to buy a toy, she cried in the car after she realized that she had sacrificed one of her blessed twenty dollar bills for the two My Little Pony Girls that had been added to her arsenal of misfit toys. I calmly explained to her through her tears and snot that things cost money and that there was no need to cry if she was able to get something that was important to her. Since then, she has hoarded her dollars and change as if she will never see another, passing up trips to Target to select new treasures for her toy box.

In her defense of the events that unfolded this weekend: the lemonade stand was her idea. She did all of the prep work. She spent an extended period of time picking the ripest lemons from our tree. She learned how to make simple syrup (equal parts water and sugar she repeated astutely). She helped me squeeze lemons with only her two hands and a fork (why did I agree to this since we don't have a juicer?). She made a sign with leftover poster paper from one of Maia's recent projects. She helped me move the table to just the right place in the yard, arrange cups, gather a bucket of ice, and determine the best jar to store her earnings. She sat out in the warm sun that only January in Florida provides for over an hour until her first customer arrived. She struggled to stay patient as I explained that hundreds of people would not majestically appear from the air the second that she was ready to receive customers. She stayed committed to her stand for three hours, talking through her shyness to people from the neighborhood that were strangers to her, making change, pouring glasses of lemonade, and hiding from the intense rays of the sun. She worked hard for her earnings and learned that making money doesn't happen without effort.

However, somewhere along the process her older brother and friend from across the street joined her in her endeavor. They kept her company and assisted in the drudge work that accompanies any job. Even though they poured glasses on occasion, it was the fraternity that allowed her to last so long out there in the sun. Yes, they abandoned the project the second I announced that we were closing up shop and did not stay around for all of the clean up that was included, but they offered her support for a decent amount of time.

After clean up commenced, the fun part started: the counting of her loot. She excitedly spread out her treasure on the dining room table, her eyes growing wide as she continued counting and counting and counting. For a few hours in the sun (and mommy's contribution of the cups and the labor), she did pretty well in her first dabble in the world of business.

As she was excitedly shoving bills into her piggy bank I stopped her.

"Don't you think Hunter and Fisher deserve a reward for helping you?"

The look she shot me could have frozen Hell over three times.

From under narrowed eyes and uncompromising fortitude she said, "But it was MY lemonade stand."

I stayed calm sensing the fork in the road. I was walking on thin ice. I didn't want to crush her spirit, but there was an important lesson to be learned.

"Yes," I responded calmly, "it was your lemonade stand. But don't you think you should reward the boys for helping you?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes darting around the room for help. They landed on a large bag of markers resting on the kitchen table.

"Yes! Of course they deserve a reward. I will give them markers. I have lots of those."

I met eyes with my husband from across the room, and we shared the silent communication that only parents can. We nodded in agreement. This point couldn't be dropped. We have been talking a lot about the Golden Rule in our family over the last year, and we finally had a different REAL example to use to reinforce our point.

I asked her directly how she would feel if she had helped the boys as much as they had helped her and been given only a few used markers. She locked eyes with me--all knowing--and began her concession.

"OK. I will give them each a dollar."

Our stare down continued as I refused to look away from her challenging stare.

"Do you think that is fair? Do you really think that is the best answer? Do you remember what The Golden Rule says??"

Another awkward shift, the slight welling of tears in the back of her eyes as she looked back and forth between me and the stack of dollar bills on the table. And then she sighed and let it go.

"$5. I think $5 dollars would be best."

Mark and I shared smiles as we praised her for thinking about someone more than herself. She didn't even cry or complain as she skipped away to give each of the boys their $5 reward.

I doubt that at seven years old she ever expected that day to serve up more than ice cold glasses of homemade lemonade, but most importantly she served up two ice cold glasses of The Golden Rule. I know it isn't an easy lesson, and I don't want my children to think that they should always expect a reward for helping out a friend or doing the right thing, but I also do want them to learn that they should not only be doing things to benefit themselves. I want them to learn that sometimes, just sometimes, the richest reward is the unexpected act of kindness that they can extend to someone else.

My mom tried to warn me, but I didn't listen

When I was a little girl, I would beg my mom on a weekly basis--along with the support from my brother and sister--to let us get a dog. Her answer was always a firm and resounding "No." as she explained, once again, that the death of her childhood dog had broken her heart. That logic was lost on us, so we persisted and persisted and persisted until one day, many years later, we wore her down. We brought Buddy home when I was in 7th grade and my total adoration of miniature dachshunds began.

It only seemed natural that I would one day get my own little dachshund. Even though my parents had forbidden it when I was one "their dime", I was on the constant hunt for the perfect dog of my own. Shortly after getting married when I was only 19 years old, I decided that I would know when I met "my dog", so the hunt continued.

Two years later while walking through the mall, I came across a small pet store. The adorable doberman puppy immediately caught my eye, so I of course walked in to get a better look. My eyes drifted two cages above and one to the left, and there she was staring right through my soul: my sweet Gracie-Loo.

Even though I was broke and told myself I was just going to hold her, I knew the second I laid eyes on her that I had found my dog. I was instantly filled with the panic that someone else would swoop in and steal her right out from under me, so without even talking to my then husband, I whipped out my visa card and spent $500 I didn't have on her. Another $100 later on a crate, dog bowls, food, and toys that were entirely too big for her, and then I drove excitedly home cradling the newest member of my family.


Grace and I have been together for over 14 years now. In fact, she has been by my side during the entirety of my adult life. To say that she has been a faithful companion does not truly describe what an amazing support system she has been to me. She has seen every detail of every mistake I made as a fledgling adult. When my abusive former husband and I would get into an argument, she would raise her lip and snarl at him and then lick the tears from my face afterwards when I would lay in bed praying for God to send me the right answers. When I was pregnant with my son, she would climb up to snuggle with me carefully avoiding putting any of her weight on my burgeoning belly, and after he was born she would pace around the house whining when anyone else except me held him. She tolerated his constant tugs at her ears and tail when he found his hands and the ability to crawl and chase after her. When he was sick, she would sleep on the ground next to his crib keeping watch. Through every change I have thrown at her (a new husband with his own dog, another new dog, two more children, two cats, three chickens, and multiple house moves), she lived up to her name with pride, handling everything with the Grace of a dignified member of our family.

My heart tells me that we are nearing the end of my sweet Grace's life. Her mouth contains only a small handful of teeth, the tan of her fur has been long replaced with white, her skin hangs loosely on her bones no matter how much we feed her and exposes the bones of her spine. She doesn't hear very well at all anymore and struggles to even use her dog stairs to get up on our bed. Her body movements are slow and achy in the morning as she tries to warm up and get moving. They told me two months ago that her heart is failing and yesterday that her immune system is as well.

I have warned my children that Grace's time is approaching, but how can I prepare them for the impact that this will have on them? They have never known life without Grace...her sweet face, her protective eyes, her gentle acceptance, her silly habits, her stinky breath, and for that matter, I don't even remember what life was like before her either.

Everyone tells me that I will "just know", but how will I know it is time? I suppose I will know when the light has faded from her eyes or her old body is too tired to carry her anymore. I think about it every day and feel my heart breaking just a little more as I contemplate life without her. To some people she is just a dog, but to me she is so much more. I finally understand what my mother was trying to avoid all of those years when we begged her for a dog. She tried to warn me about the suffocating heart break of losing your lifelong companion, but I didn't listen.

For now, I will continue giving Grace the love and support she has always given me. I will lift her to and from the bed when she is too achy. I will sneak her hard boiled eggs and half eaten cheeseburgers. I will let her stretch out in the patch of sun that warms the grass to the perfect temperature. I will let her bark at the people passing by as she protects "her children." I will let her sleep her old weary head on my pillow right next to me even though her breath is so stinky that it burns my nostrils. And, when it is her time, I will mourn her with the deep sense of loss that my mother warned me about all those years ago.

Last night I slept with Captain Underpants

As a mother, there have been many things over the past 12.5 years that I have learned that I never anticipated before having children. There are the obvious adages that everyone tells you: your love for your kids will surpass anything you could have imaged, maintaining total control will no longer be an option, all children are different, every day brings something new and exciting, expect the unexpected. The list could go on for days, and all of these pearls of wisdom ring true. Along the way, it is not these things that resonate the loudest with me, but the other aspects of parenthood and rearing children that somehow seamlessly become a part of every day life. Habits form--both good and bad--that define your family unit and make it uniquely your own.

In our family, relaxing and embracing the fun in life are just parts of our fiber. We are fond of making silly faces at each other both at appropriate moments and not so appropriate moments (across the pew at church). We play music loudly and dance without any concern for how adept we are as dancers (mommy, not so much). We share everything openly with one another and take the time to listen to the trials and tribulations of one another, offering love and community without hesitation. Mark and I have never, and will never be, too adult to let loose and enjoy life both with and in front of our children (kissing and hugging results in loud proclamations of "Ewww....romance!"). Our family culture embraces a sense of relaxation and not "sweating the small stuff." This has brought with it so many benefits for all of us that the not so savory parts of embracing a laid back lifestyle have become accepted daily pests.

The biggest pesty side effect of our family mantra is currently the odd items that are left in the oddest of places. I did an inventory of my purse last year when it was starting to literally weight heavily on my shoulders, an inventory that produced (from within ONE handbag) two rusty screws that my son had found with his metal detector, an eclectic assortment of cherished rocks and shells from God knows where, a note from my daughter reminding me what kind of sandwich to put in her lunch, a tiny ballerina, ten Littlest Pet Shop animals, a used bandaid, and a clean pair of princess panties. At some point, all of my children felt that the best place to store these items was in mommy's purse, so I was blessed to be the one to find proper homes (the trash bin included) for all of these misfit items. On a weekly basis I find a myriad of oddities in my car: empty bags of candy, rogue socks, pages from a coloring book, stickers, soccer balls, DVDs, hair bands...you name it. I have tried everything to enforce putting things where they belong consistently, yet I still find things shoved in places that one of my little humans deemed at the time to be "just right." Sometimes I curse under my breath as I walk around putting things where they belong, and sometimes I just smile and wonder who else can see a snapshot of what their children did that afternoon by evaluating the scattering of toys and other items throughout the places they spent their time? This annoyance brings with it a sense of understanding for my children that a perfectly tidy house and car would probably not reflect as clearly.

I didn't sleep well last night. No matter how much I tossed and turned and readjusted my pillows, I just felt like the Princess and the Pea. I woke up with a neck crick and a sense of crankiness that I masked through gulps of diet coke as I went through my morning routine--my grossly outnumbered morning routine with three sluggish kids up against one sluggish mommy. The four of us left the house in a hurry of partly kept hairdos and various states of undress (two kids were feverishly putting shoes on in the car and one was brushing her hair), but we made it to school with two minutes to spare.

After I got home and began my morning cleaning routine, I discovered the root of my aching neck. While I was making my bed and rearranging my pillows, I uncovered the culprit wedged ever so awkwardly under my pillows: Captain Underpants, the book that Macey had told me she "put away" before I carried her to bed. Despite my annoyance at my restless night of sleep, I smiled as the image of my sweet Macey reading so expressively to me the night before came flooding into my mind. I'm not sure why she felt that tucking her book under my pillow was the "place that it belonged", but once again I was reminded how lucky I am to have my children in my life despite their idiosyncrasies. I am happy that my children feel just at home in every inch of our house as I do even if that means that last night I had the unforeseen chance to sleep with Captain Underpants.

I thought about putting the book on her bookshelf but then realized that she wouldn't be able to find it when she wants to read more if it to me again tonight. Instead, I tucked it back under my pillow, just where it belongs.