My Old Friend, The Trail

Yesterday morning, I finally woke up to those beautiful Colorado blue skies that I know and love so much. It had been a long time comin. Having grown up in Michigan, I am no weather wimp, but the grey, stormy clouds and winter weather into the far reaches of May had finally pushed me into that ole blah feeling. You know, that kind where all of the problems in life get bigger than they really are, when 5 minutes of boredom feels like a life-sentence, and any whining or fighting from the kids may cause an explosion that rivals dynamite. But yesterday I woke up squinting at 5:30am because the bright blue sky and giant yellow sun were filling my bedroom with Colorado.

But when I dropped the boys off at VBS and sighed the sigh of a few hours of freedom, my lazy brain kept saying, “Flop down on the couch and rest. Stay home and get some cleaning done. Eat something you don’t want to share with the kids.”

Because that’s what I usually wind up doing when I get some time at home without the kids. I shovel my face full of junk and watch funny shows on TV to avoid my actual human feelings. I start cleaning, but remember that my kids will rob me of that feeling of accomplishment 45 seconds after they walk into the house, so I just give up and leave the mess. And the lie I tell myself about this laziness is that it will refuel me. Vegging out will lift my mood and clear my head. But the truth is quite the opposite. Vegging out kills my motivation. Eating garbage food makes me want to eat more garbage food. Taking a nap makes me incapable of getting a good night’s sleep, and fuels the exhaustion cycle I whine about.

I knew that yesterday, deep down. I knew a quiet morning of watching TV and eating chocolate would just make me more sad, especially since the storm clouds were supposed to roll back in by 5pm, and I’d berate myself for missing out on this first real Colorado Summer Day of the year.

So I took a quick trip to Boulder where I could hike for almost 2 hours before I had to pick up my kids. And the trail greeted me the way it always does: like an old friend who will never betray me. It never fails, this hiking thing. Every time I step on a trail, it’s like being wrapped up in the arms of my longest, most trusted friend. She tells me the truth. “You’ve gained a few pounds, eh?” But never with judgement. Never with shame. Just with an invitation to spend more time together. “Hang out with me more often,” she says, “and your weight and your worries will shrink.”

My friend rewards the hard work of my body with peace, quiet, babbling brooks, phenomenal views, a sense of adventure,  and wonder at God’s creation. And I feel refueled. I feel able to face the hard things. I feel energized and less annoyed at all of the things that didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted them to.

And I am more capable of handling the things that just hours ago seemed insurmountable… and would still be insurmountable had I flopped down on the couch and eaten cookies.

Sometimes self-care requires a kick in the ass, and a lot of self-care is actual hard work of saying no to things that are hard to say no to, and saying yes to things that are more difficult but also more rewarding.

My self-care involves a lot of time in nature and in the mountains. I guess it’s just the way I was made. I don’t know how you were made or what you need to refuel you, but I’m willing to bet that flopping down on the couch and neglecting life’s responsibilities doesn’t really do the trick.

What’s that thing you used to do that greets you like an old friend every time you come back to it?

Painting? Crafting? Working? Pottery? Skiing? The beach? Yoga? Basketball? Theatre? Ballet? Writing?

Whatever it is that you left because your family needed you, that thing that fills you up is still there. It is still your friend, and it will greet you with open arms.

Friend, when I am too exhausted to do that thing I love, it’s usually because I haven’t taken the time to do that thing I love. Because when I do that thing I love, I can tolerate the difficult kid things. I can dive into the chores without loathing them. I can stay patient in the face of chaos. I can be strong when life gets hard.

Go be you in whatever 5 minutes you can find, friend. You won’t regret it.

How a 5 Year-Old's Honest Opinion Of My Messy House Changed My Perspective

Photo by Senjuti Kundu on Unsplash

You know those days when you have to be out the door at a certain time in the morning and you washed and dried the laundry the night before, but you were working on that thing that had to be done for the next morning and the laundry was left in a pile on your couch? That morning when the preschooler’s pants are scratchy, and he can’t find socks while you are trying to get breakfast cleaned up, but you’re running out of time, and you can’t be late because the rest of the entire day has been jam-packed in perfectly harmonious detail?

Well, today was one of those days. And after dropping off the pre-schooler, and doing the important thing I couldn’t be late for, I was supposed to meet my precious friend for a picnic at the playground, and we weren’t supposed to be in my house.

We weren’t supposed to be in my house with the laundry in the living room and the jelly solidified and sticky on the counter. We weren’t supposed to be in my house with the games my children were inventing all over the floor of the front room and the library books scattered all over the table and the chair.

But, you guys. I live in Colorado, and the wind was blowing trampolines across highways that day. And my house was only a mile away. So the picnic on the playground turned into lunch at my house.

I always get embarrassed to invite people into my messy home where we live like this. But my dear friend who came to my house that day has literally seen me completely naked… at 42 weeks pregnant. That’s right. She helped me bring my youngest son into the world because nothing was working, and I didn’t trust my doctor, and my husband doesn’t have lady parts, and I trusted her to tell me what to do. So she showed up and told me to open my vagina like a flower. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t know how to open a flower like a flower, so opening my vagina gently like a flower was just not in the cards that day. So she told my lady doctor to break my water and give me an epidural.

My friend is very smart, because my sweet baby was born about 45 minutes later.

But I digress. On THIS day, this windy day, my friend walked in with her 5 year-old twin girls one minute after I arrived from that thing I had to do. And her girls stood wide-eyed, looking around at the piles of books and the games and toys. They saw the chalkboard they could reach in the front room, and one of the girls smiled the best kind of knowing smile and said, “Oh. You live in a fun kind of house!”

It was clear to her that my house said, “You can touch things. You can play with things. You can read books and cuddle in that chair. You can be comfortable here. You are welcome to be yourself here, child.”

And that’s just what I wanted it to say! But my perfectionist-people-pleaser tendencies thought that my house could only tell people they were welcome here when the counters were clean, the laundry was put away, and the books and toys were shelved and organized. To a 5 year-old, though, a mess means FUN!

And that’s how God sends us into the world. He sends us into the world stark nekkid and covered in goo. We are messes when we’re born. We flail around for years trying to obey our parents, only to decide as teens that those parents don’t know anything. Only to have children of our own and realize that they might’ve been right about an awful lot. We are disastrous blobs of epic failure, who don’t understand the perspective of a 5 year-old who says something along the lines of, “Look at all of these things I get to try!”

If there’s one thing I’m learning as I get older, it’s that vulnerable and exposed is kind of my jam. Vulnerable and exposed is the way to connection and belonging, at least according to Brene Brown… and that girl knows some things. You guys, people who embrace their mess are FUN. People who embrace their messes live in a fun kind of world where failure is just a step towards their dreams. People who are openly messy are brave and inspiring… and yes… fun.

Friends, I might fit in better if I cover up all of the vulnerable places other people could attack, but fitting in and being truly accepted are two very different things. And if given the choice (we are) I choose being truly accepted over fitting-in every time.

Tales from I-70. Peeing in the Woods.

Photo by Ignat Kushanrev on Unsplash

Sit back and relax, friends, and allow me to regale you with a tale you are glad did not happen to you.

Yesterday morning, I woke early, as usual, to make the coffee, pack the lunches, and do the things. I planned on skiing, so I was able to forgo a shower and style my hair like Willie Nelson (2 braids and a headband-- It is functional on a CO Mountain. Stop judging me.) Because of said hairstyle, I had enough time to have a second cup of coffee. This was the day’s first mistake.

You see, there is but one road to most of the Colorado ski resorts, I70. If you’ve been watching the news, you know that the mountains are getting pounded with snow (YAY freshies for skiing) and there have been several avalanches crossing this beloved stretch of highway in the last week or so.

My friends and I figured that the worst had come and gone with I70 seeing 3 avalanches over the weekend, and Tuesday would be a great day for some sunshine and serious pow.  Well, dear ones, we made it up to Georgetown before we were at a dead stop.

There were signs telling us that Avalanche mitigation was causing 20-30 minute delays… Friends, if you know I70, you know this is pretty normal… not necessarily on a Tuesday, but… whatevs. If you like to ski, you deal with traffic. Anywho, there we were, three friends chatting away with kidneys functioning properly, filtering all of the morning beverages through the system and into the bladder…. Every second that ticked by was another drop dripping into my bladder… drip, drip, drip...

I couldn’t concentrate on the conversation I was having with my friend. I couldn’t finish my sentences. I couldn’t think about anything except how badly I had to pee. Friends, I have had 3 children come out of my lady parts, and I have Kegeled… but I was gonna burst, and I am no stranger to doing a squat pee in the woods.

We were at a dead stop, friends. Cars for miles and miles and miles. And you know darn well that they had nothing better to do than to watch for anything exciting happening. Well, by golly, I guess my need to pee outweighed my pride, because those trees looked soooo inviting. The more my friend talked, the more the trees beckoned… “Come here, child, let us semi-cover you while you relieve your aching bladder and everyone watches because we just can’t cover you that well.”

Knowing we had barely moved in over an hour, and we would barely move in who knows how long, I did it. I held my head high and I ran into the 2-foot deep snow in my boots and ski pants. I went as far back into the woods as I could hold it, pulled down my layers and felt sweet, sweet relief. I, of course, aimed my chubby white heiney away from the road so all that anyone could see would be a lady squatting in the woods, but as I squatted for an epic “A League of Their Own” length of time, I noticed a white truck that wasn’t creeping forward with the other cars. In the front seat of that white truck, I saw a phone pointed in my direction. And it stayed fixed on me as I helplessly continued to let the urine flow.

“Oh my God,” I thought, “there is a video of me peeing on the internet right now. I am going to be a viral pee-er. I hate cell phones.”

And I continued to pee and pee and pee and pee in the woods. On the side of the highway. “Aren’t you done yet?” I asked my lady parts, “Can we finish up here? We have an audience!” But my lady parts just continued with the business of urine removal for what seemed like a hundred years until I could confidently cover my oversized keister once again, and I scampered back to the car where my friends were waiting.

But… that wasn’t the most embarrassing part. The most embarrassing part was the fact that the white truck from Kentucky kept inching next to us then behind us then next to us then behind us for a very long time to come… but at least I could breathe while I hyperventilated from embarrassment.

So, dear hearts, if you happen to see a lady peeing on the interwebs, don’t laugh too hard at her. She was desperate. And friends? Within 5 minutes of my pee-tastic adventure through the woods, we must’ve seen 10 guys hop out of their cars to pee. (They didn’t re-open the road until 5pm, and this was at 10am, so those woods saw some peeing.) No brave ladies like me, and I am sure no one recorded those men peeing in the woods. Which is just totally sexist, by the way, Mr. Guy in the White Truck from Kentucky.

Because, Mr. Guy in the White Truck from Kentucky, my Grandma always told me a girl could do anything a boy could do… including peeing in the woods.  And she was right.

Dear Moms of Littles; It Gets Different... Maybe Better...

Photo by Bruno Nascimento on Unsplash

It seems as though I’ve spent the last eleven years of motherhood yearning for my children to leave me alone and play quietly somewhere else for a little while so I could get something done. I’ve ached for a minute alone. I’ve begged and negotiated. I’ve bribed and cajoled. I’ve given them more screen time than the recommended amount just to get a little cleaning, a little writing, a little phone call, a little time alone... And I’m here to tell you that those days end.

I know. I didn’t believe it myself when it started happening.

But there comes a time when the amount of time spent wiping the things lessens. You guys, my kids just go play quietly in the basement for hours now. Sure, there is the occasional shouting match or injury, but they’ve been down there for the past 2 hours now playing “Marble Football” and other games they invented with a hundred tiny drawings and headbands and dice and other things I don’t understand.

And I have time to fold clothes, do dishes, write. But I don’t.

Mostly I feel lost, and I don’t have the words to write like I want to.  My motivation for folding socks is not as existent as you might think it would be.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE that my children aren’t attached to me constantly. I love that when they’re thirsty, they just get a cup and get themselves some water. I love that they wipe their own butts and noses (mostly), tie their own shoes, pack their own lunches, and pick out their own clothes.

I am just not yet used to this space that says, “You have some time now to do those things that used to get interrupted constantly. Go ahead. Live out your dreams. Be a writer. Finish that project. Go poop or shower alone, for heaven’s sake.”

But when I begin to do those things, my mind cuts me off at every turn, saying, “You know you don’t have time to take care of that before they come upstairs/get home from school.” But I DO. I do have time. I just spent so many years giving up on my ability to accomplish all the things that I got used to telling myself I didn’t.

The most difficult thing, though, is all of a sudden, I have to shift my brain from “Can you physically disconnect your hand from me for 5 minutes?” to “How do I connect with this eye-rolling child who thinks I’m overprotective if I ask him one question?” It’s a whole different parenting challenge, my friend.

Please do not be fooled. I am not a “You’re going to miss them being little someday” person. I am not your mother-in-law. Nor am I that old lady in the grocery store telling you how these are the best days of your life. I don’t have a crystal ball, and I will not presume to know how you will feel about the days of life with little children. And I honestly don’t miss the baby/toddler stage one bit.

I just simply want to say, "Heads-up, Mama. There’s this weird stage that you’re dying for right now. It’ll get here… maybe a few months from now, and maybe a few years, but it’s coming. And when it gets here, it might be amazing, but it’s okay if you feel lost for a while. If you feel lost, you’re not alone. If you flounder around for a while getting used to your own skin again, that’s okay. If you miss your kids being little, that’s cool. Grieve it. If you’re looking forward to the next phase because pimples, puberty, drama, and hormones are your jam, that’s awesome. But just know that after you wipe up all of the poop, there’s going to be a new weird stage of life with kids, and it’s normal for it to be hard… even if you LOVE this stage like I do. You’ve got a sisterhood of moms out there going through it with you, and we’re cheering for you."

Godspeed, Dear Mama, whatever stage you’re in.

Trust God. Show Up. Do the Next Right Thing.

Originally published on flatironswomen.blogspot.com

I have a four-year-old son, and this apparently means that Mater’s Tall Tales must be watched during screen time every day. (Mater is a lovable character from Pixar's movie Cars.)

Which means I have seen these episodes about 12 gerbillion times.

Which means I’ve had a lot of time to turn Mater’s Tall Tales into an allegory about faith.

Which, of course, I’ll share with you because I’m a stay at home mom and my brain is going to turn to mush if I don’t do important things like write up my theories of analysis for the women of the interwebs to read.

So here goes:

Mater isn’t known to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. He’s just a dumb ole hillbilly truck who does his best. But this is where the comedy comes from. We believe him to be uneducated, naive, have a low IQ... so our expectations of him doing anything spectacular are completely void. We don’t expect him to be able to do anything extraordinary. The comedy happens because Mater does things that surprise us. Mater’s Tall Tales are the stories of Mater doing the unexpected, the impossible, the unfathomable. He jumps Carburetor Canyon. He is a doctor, a fireman, a hero. He meets a UFO/Alien who teaches him how to levitate. He tows a car under the Pacific Ocean to Japan. He tells stories of doing some crazy stuff, including becoming a rock star.

In the “Heavy Metal Mater” episode, Mater and his buddies have a garage band. They sing the happy little tune, “Dad Gum.” After a practice, Mater declares that they “sound purty good” and should get a gig. So they get one. At the gig, a girl car asks if they have a record. So they head to the recording studio to make a record. During the recording process, a fly lands on the drums, so as the drummer is swatting the fly, he creates a much faster beat, and the rest of the song evolves into a heavy metal version of “Dad Gum.” A producer in the studio overhears their song, and they become rock stars.

Now we all know that the things we set out to do don’t happen that way. We all know that becoming great at something takes time and persistence and trying again. And we know that it takes faith, because faith is believing that God is who He says He is and will do what He said He’ll do.

So, if God tells us in some way to do something, “puts a dream in our hearts” as the Christianese goes, If God says, “Mater, you’re gonna be a rock star.” You’re gonna be a rockstar, and you’d better show up and be ignorant about it, because when your brain says, “This will never work. I don’t know how to do this.” God says, “I got this.”

Because, like Mater, all you have to do is show up. Take the next step. Then the next. And the next, and the next. 

Because that’s what faith really is. Trusting God enough to show up anddo the next right thing. 

Now that doesn’t mean that showing up and doing the next thing will be easy. It won’t. It’s never easy. None of the stories of faith were of people who had it easy. Abraham’s journey was messy, and riddled with sin and mistakes. Noah’s was awful. Jonah got thrown into the ocean swallowed by “a huge fish” and then got puked up on the beach. And this is whereMater’s Tall Tales misleads us. Mater’s road is always easy. It just happens. In real life, chasing the dreams God gives us probably won’t be easy. In fact, following God’s will for our lives will probably be the most difficult thing we’ve ever done. 

Now, I don’t know about you, but most of the time, when it’s not working out the way I thought it would, I think God is causing the problem. I think God is making it intentionally difficult, but the reality is that I’m getting in the way. I’m rebelling. I’m overthinking. I’m living in fear, being lazy, or just telling God that He’s wrong. I’m the one who is making it difficult.

But I think God makes it simple. “Follow me,” He says. We did that when we were kids on the playground. Even simple-minded Mater can do that. Trust God. Show up. Do the next right thing. Repeat. That’s faith.

I am the Child of The One True King. So, Why Don't I Act Like It?

Originally Published on flatironswomen.blogspot.com

My kids taught me something the other day simply by being kids.

Our family went to the beach. Of course, this is Colorado, so by “beach,” I mean Boulder Reservoir. I have three kids, and we brought a little friend who I watch as well.  We brought the kayak, the cooler, the swim bag, the folding chairs, floaty toys, and beach balls. There was schlepping, my friends, plenty of schlepping.

I slathered sunscreen on my 37-year-old self and decided it was unnecessary to reveal the body that had been sausaged into a swimsuit. I knew I was just going to sit in the camping chair, counting four children over and over again as they splashed and played, disappearing and reappearing countless times. There was no need to get sunburned when the only thing I wanted to put in the water was my feet.

Next to us, two college-aged girls appeared with their 20-year-old bikini clad bodies, smart-phones, and floaty rafts. They caught my attention as they put their raft in the water near my kids and then twisted and contorted their bodies to make their svelte figures appear more lovely, more alluring, more perfect than they already were. They rejected photo after photo as not Instagram-worthy enough. These gorgeous girls thought this angle showed a roll. That angle gave her a double chin…

I’ll be honest. I watched. I judged. I rolled my eyes at their youthful insecurity. I wished they could learn what I already know as an older and wiser person: It doesn’t matter what other people think about your body. You are loved just as you are. You are fearfully and wonderfully made by God.

Mmmmhmmmm. I got that one down. I know that perfectly well as evidenced by my sausage-suited heinie fully-covered, sitting in the camp chair counting my children while pretending to enjoy my book. I’m not comparing my body to theirs. I’m not comparing my body to the mom over there who clearly competes in Ironman competitions. Mmmmhmmm… Definitely not.

The fact that I took a million pictures of my kids playing and having fun had nothing to do with posting them on social media to make me look like the best mom ever. Mmmmhmmm...

Yes, you’ve detected sarcasm.

We are the same, 20-somethings looking for approval. We are the same, beautiful girls with an air of self-importance. I’m sorry I judged you.

The only ones who are different?

The children.

Jesus said, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:3-4)

When we first arrived and walked through the hot sand to get to the water, my kids and their friend were delighted.  “Wow! It’s like the ocean!” my son said.

“I’ve never been to this ocean before! I’ve only ever been to the ocean in Boston,” our four-year-old friend replied.

They were in awe, amazed, overjoyed.

We stayed all day, and they played and played. They chased each other. They built sand castles with moats. They found seashells and other “treasures.” They floated and raced and swam and jumped. They buried each other in the sand. 

They didn't care what they looked like. They were just enjoying the sun, the water, the sand, the mountains. They thought this little reservoir was as vast and amazing as the ocean. They were wild and carefree, as I scoped out strangers, attempting to assess whether or not they might be creepy sexual predators or kidnappers.

The kids have no fear. The kids don’t worry about the size of their rear-ends or the single or doubleness of their chins. The kids just get in the water and play. They don’t worry about creepers or drowning. They make mud pies. They enjoy the beauty and the bodies God gave them.

I am the King’s Kid. What if I basked in the safety of His arms and prayed my worries over to Him instead of hoarding disasters in my mind?

What if I used my body to splash and play and search for treasures? What if I enjoyed being in this incredible body that can run and jump and hike and kayak, instead of planting it in a chair because someone might realize my body is not the perfect shape?

I mean, life like that sounds way more fun. I guess I’ll let Jesus have my child-counting and body image anxiety.

I’ll be making mudpies.

Stepping Out Into the Unknown

Originally published on flatironswomen.blogspot.com

Fifteen years ago this May, I packed up my pick-up truck named Ralph with all of the possessions I thought I would need for the adventure of the rest of my life. I was 23 years-old, had just graduated from college, broke up with a long-term boyfriend, and took a job cleaning toilets on the other side of the country. Away from my family. Away from my friends. Away from everyone and everything I had ever known… because Colorado was pretty.

It was more than that, though. The first time I drove through Rocky Mountain National Park was four years prior when I went on a camping trip with my beloved Aunt Phyllis. I know it’s cliché, but it’s also true, I felt exactly like the words expressed in the song Rocky Mountain High when it says, “Comin’ home to a place he’d never been before.” It was. I looked around, breathed deeply and thought, “I’m home. I’m more home here than at home.”

On that trip, we hiked, we camped, we toured three of the most beautiful and wondrous National Parks our country has to offer. When Colorado got super rainy (weird, I know) we drove through Wyoming where tumbleweeds blew across the desolate highway, there was no speed limit, and we were the only car on that road for miles. We wandered up through the Tetons (quite possibly my most favorite place I have ever been) and up into Yellowstone where after we watched Old Faithful erupt, my aunt pointed to some dorm buildings. “That’s where the college kids live when they come out to work in the park for the summer.”

That’s when my dream emerged. 

“You mean people live here in these beautiful places?! People LIVE here!  I could live here!  I could become a grown-up and live here!” 

My aunt about died laughing at me while beaming with pride because I had immediately fallen in love with the West just as she had. I was 19, though, and I hadn’t really thought past that year’s summer break. Living a real adult life making my own choices in the most beautiful most “home” place I’d ever been seemed so… adventurous, exciting, fun… and doable.

So I dreamt of the mountains until that day in May when my long-time bestie hopped in my truck with me and we drove through Iowa and Nebraska for like a million hours. When the Rocky Mountains finally came into view, my eyes welled with relief. They’re still here!  They’re still gorgeous! They still feel like home! I still want to live here!

And then, a few days later, I dropped my friend off at the airport to send her back to her life. Back to my life. Back to everyone I’d ever known and loved. Back to all of the things I knew were safe.

As I drove away, terrified feelings tore at the pit of my gut. What in the world did I just do? Why in the world am I here in this place alone and unloved and alone and unloved and alone? I literally just left everyone I have ever loved. I left because the mountains are pretty, and it seems like fun?! I have got to be the biggest idiot to have ever lived. What a dumb decision. I can’t do this…

My thoughts continued to spiral until I rounded the curve in Lyons, where the land starts to get interesting. Then I remembered that this was the dream God gave me, and I knew I could always go back, but if I had stayed in that life, I would’ve been haunted by a life of “what ifs”. And, while I have missed so many things by living in Colorado, I would’ve missed so much more by staying where I was. Moving to Colorado was one of the best things I’ve ever done.

So what’s your point, Em? Why are you telling me this story?

Because, friend, you might be stepping out into the unknown right now, and I wanted you to know that you’re not alone. And I wanted you to know that the bravest, most celebratory moments of your life might very well be the same exact ones where you’re terrified, sick to your stomach and feel utterly lost, hopeless and alone.

God’s got this. Whatever big crazy dream you have, God’s got this. 

Whatever you’re trying to endure or overcome, God’s got this. Whatever hopeless situation you’re in, God knew it was coming and He knows what’s going to happen. He loves you and He wants what’s best for you.

I know you feel lost and alone and unsure of all the things. But you’re doing better than you think you are. Keep going. Keep trying. Keep running. Keep fighting. These battles you face, these dreams you dream won’t be conquered overnight.

WE aren’t God. We can’t say, “Water, become wine” and suddenly be drinking a fabulous Cabernet. (I’ve tried.) We’re human, so we’ve gotta do the work. As 1 Timothy 6:12 says, “Fight the good fight of faith.”

Whatever unknown you find yourself about to venture into, stay the course. Keep trying. God’s got your back. Keep going, girl.