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A Prayer for the Mom Who Has Naughty Children

October 5, 2017 | Anna Jordan

Alternatively titled: a prayer for the mom who just threatened to take away screen time and oh shoot now she really has to do it, etc.

To the God who has filled us each with life and breath, who gives us active bodies and aching souls, thank you for the tears of the weary mom who just had to leave the play date because her child did pull hair one last time.

You know it took her an hour and a half to pack the lunches and get everyone in their right sweater and then change one child’s sweater because it was too itchy and then have a fight about socks and why they're necessary in the Midwest in October.

You know she woke the baby up 20 minutes early so she could swing by and get two vanilla lattes because she's lovely and knows that hot coffee on a crisp fall day is one of Your sweetest earthly blessings. She gave the second latte to her friend, the mom of the child who is now left with at least 30 less hairs on her head and possibly an irreparably stretched out headband (this almost had potential to be the most dramatic part—a quick prayer for moms who have to manage the grief of a lost favorite hair accessory), but now the coffee feels like a pre-emptive peace offering. A quick prayer in itself to say "please still love me when this park date goes awry." She knew it would go awry, and she prayed and prayed it wouldn't, and I know it's not because You aren't good that she's now crying in the minivan at a much too long stop light remembering that half of her $4 coffee is still on a park bench, while her oldest child, who didn't pull hair, tells the hair puller that she’s the worst, and then the baby starts crying, and dear Lord, Giver of all Good Things, how do You allow for children to be so bad?

But this is a prayer of thanks for those tears. I almost forgot.

I’m thankful for these tears because I’ve cried them myself. I’ve held the hot sobs in my chest until the burning in my throat became too much to handle. I’ve choked back the loud gasp that comes when I’ve finally allowed the tears to fall once I’m safe and buckled in the front seat of my van. Crying quietly can be so challenging, especially when the crying wants to be more of a wail. It’s not that I don’t want my children to see me cry, but I just don’t want to answer them when they lean forward as far as their car seats will let them and whisper “what’s wrong, Mommy?” I don’t want to say “You. You’re what’s wrong. I’m crying because you were terrible and your terribleness is a direct reflection of my terribleness, so I’m crying because I’m such a bad mother, and the only way I know for sure that I’m the absolute worst is because you are constant, living proof of my every flaw and failure.”

But these words are a lie, and that’s why I’m thankful.

I’m thankful because alone in my van I’m confronting the lies I tell myself, and Lord, You allow me the space to wrestle with those untruths, and You allow all other mothers to tackle them as well.

Because like the sweet mom with the hair puller and the cranky baby and the smug oldest child, the moment I want to confess all of the terribleness is the moment that I remember these tiny people really aren’t all that bad.

Thank You for the gift of rear-view mirrors that urge us to wipe our tears and glance back to see as the smug oldest begins to tend the baby, helping him find the paci that’s fallen down the left side of the rear-facing infant seat. The middle one, the torturous little hair puller who hasn’t ever had a non-violent playdate once in her life, wipes her nose a little and finally says she’s sorry. It’s too late, but she really means it, and while better late than never is such a cliché, that whispered ill-timed apology into the air is the moment that saves us all.

Thank You for long red lights, freight trains that keep us from crossing, and road construction that stops us in our tracks for just long enough that we have time to cry.

Thank You, Lord, for the sobs that we quiet. The tears that wash away the anger and guide us towards peace. Perhaps this is why You gave humanity the genius to manufacture minivans, so  You can steal us away in privacy, confronted with our own filth and frustration, and guide us to grace.

Amen.

Wait, one more thing: for the friend comforting her daughter, who looks over the tiny bald spot she’s been inspecting to see the still hot, mostly full vanilla latte on the park bench and drives it to the house of the hair puller’s mother, thank you. For friendship that sees us when we are at our worst and treats us as though we are always at our best, thank you. For microwaves that heat up that cold coffee three hours later, and for the first sip of the newly warmed coffee that reminds us how terrible we aren’t, thank you. Thank You.


Written by Anna Jordan.

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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
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I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
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Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
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// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

Currently reading:

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2018 Gift Guides

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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
The plan for the weekend was to worship, listen to speakers, and be together as a community. The only problem: child care was no longer available. After spending two full mornings tucked away in a separate room for the kids to be loud in, I break down into tears. I feel alone. I long for a physical second body. One to share responsibilities with. Mentally and physically I am drained.
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I walk outside to get some fresh air. The only place to sit is a cold metal bench facing a dreary pond. I look to my left and see two canoes. Not one person has dared take them into the green water while we’ve been here. Built to hold people while floating on water, instead they sit upside down on a piece of wood. I feel like the canoes: unnoticed and not living to my potential. Tears fall down my face.
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I don’t understand why I’m still single, I think to myself. I know I am being the best mama to my daughter that I can be, but I also feel I am missing out on something beautiful: a complete family. I long to be loved.
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A couple weeks later, I sprint around the house early one morning. My daughter is sleeping and I am already late for work. Again. With only one shoe on, running around like a madwoman, I  look for my lunch box. It is nowhere to be found.
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My daughter wakes up just in time.
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“What are you looking for, Momma?”
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“My lunch box.” I reply.
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“Oh! Hold on,” she says with utter excitement.
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She crawls out of bed, stumbles into the living room and comes back with my lunch box.
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“Here you go Momma, I made your lunch for you last night!”
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I peek inside the lunchbox to see all of her plastic play food in there. My heart bursts with pure joy.
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We head our way to the car to repeat another day.
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Turns out there is love for me after having a baby. I was just looking in all the wrong places. She was right in front of me the entire time.
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// #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @woodyface #loveafterbabies
Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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My doctor gave me the green light to resume normal activity. I’m healed, she says. But here I am, sitting at a green light, frozen in place. Green light means go, but I’m scared to move forward.
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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