Dear God, Thank You For My Job. . .

Dear God,

Most days I'm so happy to be staying home with my kids, and so grateful I can do it.  But some days--the dark, rainy, long ones with multiple meltdowns and runny diapers and piles of laundry and too many games of Candyland--I do long for a clean, well-lit office, a coffeemaker that's always on, adults to talk to, and a job with a clear set of goals and objectives.  What are my goals and objectives now?  Get through the day, and then get through the next.  Run the entire household--and because we're down to one salary, run it on a dime.  Be there for my kids--be the one who's there when they wake up, the one who helps them navigate the social frustrations of the park and library, the one who plays here-comes-the-airplane in the high chair and sings them to sleep for their naps.  I love all of this, and I chose it, even though I know it means no budget for new clothes for the next decade or so.  All I need, God, is a short witty reply when people ask me what I "do",  one that doesn't make me sound defensive, stupid, or like some kind of militant post-feminist mommybot.  Help me to truly believe that work is always out there if I want it, but for now, my work is here.  Thanks, God.

Amen

Dear God, Denim is the Devil. . .

Dear God,

Wow, I can't believe I used to pay this much money for denim.  I've only been off the fashion market for two years now (as I fell off the trendy wagon with 72 lbs of extra baby weight. . .yes, you all heard that right!).  As I'm looking at these clothes, I feel like a sister from another planet.  Two hundred and eleven dollars for jeans that I can only wear with three-inch heels?  That's not going to happen.  I haven't worn anything higher that a clog in a year.  Nevertheless, Lord, here I am in the store, out without the baby, looking to fit into some normal clothes--or "new normal", I guess I should say.  Please bless my little shopping trip by shutting off the voices in my head, the ones saying "fat" and "flabby" and "no-waist monster butt".  Please help me to love and honor this new body--which created two lives, after all!--with jeans that won't break the bank or my self-esteem.  Send me a sign, Lord:  Somewhere in these racks there's got to be a decent pair of stretch dark-wash boot-cuts high enough to hold in this belly but low enough to make me still look hot.  Some that flatters this new "curvy" butt enough to make my husband think I'm sexy without actually making him want sex (or not too often).  Please show me a jean that won't rip out in the knees, because suddenly I'm on my knees a lot these days, God, crawling after my little men.  Finally, God, if you could locate that perfect jean on the sale rack?  That would truly be a miracle.  Thank you.

Amen

Dear God, I'm Totally Repulsed Right Now!

Dear God,

I am 100 percent skeeved out.  While I was talking with my friend for two nanoseconds, my child climbed off his Batman tricycle, pulled a piece of chewed gum off the sidewalk, and popped it into his mouth.  You know how I feel about saliva, Lord!  You know what I was like when I was pregnant.  You know that it was even a stretch for me to kiss my own husband for those nine months because the thought of someone else's spit in my mouth was too much for my pregnancy hormones to handle!  And since he's been born, I've gotten so much better.  Heck, I even let these little monsters drink after me most of the time (although I still find the idea of "backwash" completely repulsing!) Praise You, Lord, for baby wipes, my defense against the spit of others for 5 years now!  Thank you for selling them by the case, because I sure have found them to be a life-saver!  But all of the sudden, the Terrible Twos have hit with a vengeance, and we're off-the-charts grimy here.  Gum from the sidewalk, a raisin extracted from his own nasal cavity, and Legos down his diaper that he nonchalantly retrieved and kept building with. . .so many germs, so little time to follow him around with antibacterial soap.  I see other mothers barely blinking as their kids put their filthy hands in the their grubby mouths and wipe their snotty noses on their frayed sleeves.  Please let me be more like them.  (Well, maybe not--that's just disgusting!)  Please help me to let go, but not too far.  In the meantime, if you need us, we'll be at home, gargling with Listerine.  Thanks.

Amen

Well. . .We Adopted!

Meet Abraham.

Isn't he just the cutest thing?!  He's 6 years old and from Kenya. He currently has malaria (those dang mosquitoes!), but hopefully that is on the mend.  He was referred to us through the Maisha orphanage where they have been educating and feeding him because his father, who is HIV positive, has trouble taking care of him and his three other siblings. The conditions over there in Kenya are desperate. Such poverty and so many kids left abandoned and starving.  How could we not take on ONE MORE adorable little boy!?

Okay, you got me.  We didn't adopt him in the "physical sense", although if that option was open, I would have begged and pleaded BC until he relented.   But we were given the option of sponsorship through Maisha International to help give him the gift of support and prayer and education. So we jumped on it. Our small donation a month will pay for all his meals and for all of his education supplies.  We are helping to give this little boy something that he would not get otherwise. That's so rewarding.

The thing that inspires me the most is being able to take his picture off of our fridge and talk to the my boys about his life and how we are helping him.  They don't quite understand why he can't just come visit us.  I would love to take them to meet him someday.  That is the most amazing thing about this organization.  There is the option of traveling to Kenya to meet our little Abraham.  This is going to be something that is on the bucket list for sure in the upcoming future!  I can see all three boys running and playing soccer on the African savanna! What a perfect collision of worlds that prove that love can span the entire earth and bring people together. I look forward to hugging  his neck myself someday and letting him know he has a "mommy" in Oklahoma who thinks about him everyday. For now, we'll just spend time praying for him. For his education, for his safety, for his family, and that hopefully someday God will get ahold of his heart.  I love how my own little ones pray for Abraham right now.

Mr. Grouchy Pants, during last nights bedtime prayers, "Please let Abraham have a lot of food to eat and have fun playing soccer with his friends. . .and maybe mommy will say we can call him tomorrow."

It's precious to think that they can't possibly understand why everyone doesn't have cell phones and we can't just call and talk to him anytime that we want. But someday.  Someday we will meet this extended member of our family.  Our third son. Our precious little Abraham.  God willing, we will get to be an intricate part of his childhood and just a small piece of his story.  God has great things in mind for this African son of mine.  I can't wait to sit back and watch.

Dear God, I'm Sorry About This. . .

Dear Lord,

Please forgive me, for I have been a bad mother.  Or at the very least a mother who literally has not had three minutes in her day to tend to the bottom of her youngest child.  And now he stands before me, a living, breathing chastisement, wearing what has to be the world's biggest, soggiest Huggie dangling between his legs, clinging onto his hips with the tiniest possible remaining piece of adhesive tab.  Experience tells me this puppy's gonna blow any second, and only You know how bad it could be underneath.  Please, God, I already feel so guilty, please no hideous diaper rash already blooming, lease no you-know-what so caked-on that it requires a full-body bath, please not that thing where the sinister-looking crystals explode out of the diaper all over his skin, the changing table, and my forearms.  I promise to be better, Lord.  I promise to find time in our day to take care of my littlest guy's heinie.  Just please don't let this diaper be as bad as it looks from here. Thank you, Lord.

Amen

Dear God, About This "Time-Out" Thing. . .

Dear God,

HELP. We have three minutes left on this five-minute time-out, and every second is slashing at my soul.  I swear, I'm not going to make it without your help, Lord.  My son is sitting on the hardwood floor in the hallway, banging his head in rage against the wall and howling in pure fury.  Why do those stupid discipline books make it sound so easy?  Your child breaks a rule, you discipline him coolly and effectively, and POOF--He grows up to be a collected, self-composed adult.  Here in the real world, nothing is clear-cut.  Yes, my three-year-old bit his brother in rage, hard and on purpose.  (I have to say, that if "said brother" had taken my lollipop from my own bare hands and threw it in the dirt, I might have thought about biting him as well. . .but that's beside the point.)  Time-out, no question.  But in his eyes, he was justified. God, please remind me that it's not always like this.  We have days of such joy, days of such sunny sillines, days of peace and play.  Today was not one of those days. Today was filled with whining, crying, tattling, eye-poking, hair-grabbing, and a few plastic bats to the head.  Oh, and the biting. Lord, the biting. My son is still weeping in the hallway as if his little heart will break, and that's enough for me, God.  Forgive me, but I can't take it for the full five minutes, and neither can my poor, exhausted son. I hope you won't mind if we take a time-out from time-outs.  Let this moment not stunt my progress in the discipline department. Please and thank you for understanding, Lord.  I knew you would.

Amen