Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Cinderella Mom

If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…

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This is 40

I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…

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Beauty on the Backroads {or Why I Changed the Name of my Blog}

I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…

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I am a Mom

I am a Mom.

I can’t always tell you what I did yesterday.

I don’t shower regularly.

I can’t keep a clean house. Or even keep up with the housework.

I can’t stop worrying that something terrible might happen to my kids.

I am a mom.

I lose patience.

I get frustrated. Especially when I have to answer the question, “Why?” for the millionth time.

I wish I could go back to the “before kids” days. Or I look ahead to the empty-nest days.

I beg. I plead. I bribe.

I sneak chocolate during nap time.

I am a mom.

I can’t do all the things I used to do. Like go out to eat whenever I want. Or see a movie. Or stay up as late as I want. Or have a lazy day. Or meet a friend for coffee. Or serve on a committee. Or work full-time. Or dedicate myself to my work.

I am a mom.

But I CAN:

  • name all the characters in my kids’ favorite shows.
  • spot or smell poop from across the room.
  • distract my kids from temper tantrums. I’m becoming a master at this art.
  • juggle, as in do three or four things at one time. But I’m forever dropping the ball on something.
  • use one hand to do things that usually require two.
  • make just about anything into a song if it’ll make my kids smile or giggle.
  • tell stories at a moment’s notice, like in the public restroom where my daughter is potty training while we’re out shopping.
  • read stories for the billionth time.
  • be a doctor, a firefighter, a police officer, a queen, and a cook, all in the course of a day. And be prepared to be any or all of those at the whim of my daughter’s imagination.
  • bargain hunt.
  • survive on only a few hours of sleep, sometimes with coffee, sometimes not.
  • give up chocolate for my baby. (But oh, is that hard.)

I am a mom.

I’m never perfect, but I’m always right. At least that’s what I tell myself when I start to doubt.

I’m not graceful (Is that a Cheeto handprint on my shirt? Did you just wipe snot on my pants?) but hope to be full of grace. At this, too, I fail.

I say, “No” a lot. I worry about the mess. I take life too serious.

But God gives me another day. And He doesn’t give up on me.

I am a mom.

I don’t always love my job, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Why the least childproofed thing in your house might be you

“Mom, let’s play leapfrog.”

An innocent request from the 3-year-old. Unfortunately, she wasn’t talking about any of the technological doodads we have of the same name. Nope. She was talking old-fashioned, jump over each other kind of leapfrog, though I have my suspicions she didn’t really know what she was asking.

We’d just read a book about a frog that plays leapfrog with another frog. Isabelle put “play” and “leapfrog” together and must have thought, “That sounds fun.”

Initially, I resisted. Our house isn’t exactly set up for leapfrog type space. And I was trying to imagine how she would jump over me. I resisted; she persisted. So, I said, “OK,” thinking, what could happen?

Famous. Last. Words.

Isabelle hopped and then crouched down on the ground. I took that as my cue to jump over her. I assumed the leapfrog position with a hand on her back and my legs ready to propel myself up and over. I jumped, and as I did, Isabelle stood up, just as I was descending. The collision forced her face to the floor with a thud I won’t soon forget.

My husband and I quickly checked for blood as Isabelle screamed and cried. We found none. I held her and rocked her, tears streaming down my face as I berated myself for making such a boneheaded decision.

I kept checking her nose, sure it was going to swell to Marcia Brady-broken-nose-by-football proportions. I imagined myself embarrassedly confessing to the doctor that I had broken my daughter’s nose because she wanted to play leapfrog and I was too much of a wimp to say, “No.”

More tears, from both of us. We put a Hello Kitty cold pack on her nose and started playing peek-a-boo with it, laughing and crying at the same time. “I guess we can’t play leapfrog anymore,” Isabelle whimpered through her tears, which for some reason made me laugh and cry all the more.

Meanwhile, our 15-month-old had made a deposit in his diaper that I hadn’t yet taken care of. My husband asked him to go get a diaper and wipes. He obeyed, by wheeling the entire diaper cart to the living room.

Maybe it was the tension of the situation or maybe we’re warped, but suddenly, my husband and I were rolling with laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Isabelle’s nose did NOT turn purple, just a nice shade of I’ve-smacked-my-face-on-the-floor red. (Probably won’t see that in a Crayola box anytime soon.)

Life went on as usual. No harm done.

I’ve heard that the best childproofing is a vigilant parent.

Guess I just proved that I need to find a way to childproof myself.