Food-Pushers Unite

My kids call me The Food Pusher. It's true. It's like a drug pusher except without the drugs.
But we say the same things, in hopes of the same goal; they are going to take me up on it and they are going to like it.

"Come on, just try it."
"It's so good. You don't know what you are missing."
"This. This right here? It's a little piece of heaven."
And in desperation only the mom at her wits end of a picky eater knows, the classic, "You'll be cool. I'll think you are the coolest if you just try
one. little. bite."

It makes no difference how old they are either. My kids at home are twenty and sixteen, plenty old enough to fend for themselves if the onset of starvation happens while I am at work.

But I offer anyway. I practically get on my knees and beg them to eat.
Just like I did when they were three.

Oh you only like Circle K rotisserie hot dogs? Let's go!
Frozen burritos that basically look like bandaged diarrhea? SURE!
Frozen pizzas that taste like lost frisbees drizzled in expired tomato sauce? No problem.
Quesadillas at morning, noon. or night? It's on like donkey kong. Or Taco Bell.

Just let me see you eat.

And let's be honest. If you judge me based on the three things my son eats most,and the go-to for my daughter; I sound either sloppy and terrible or the coolest mom ever; depending on who you are asking.

And we really DO want to ask someone, sometimes, don't we?
Grab another Mom's arm like a life preserver and sputter out our need for validation and an "atta girl." Buoy me up for another day please.


I think I am a pretty good mom. On the "will-they-go-to-therapy-scale?" I'd give myself a two. Maybe a four?
I mean, I've got three of them, my oldest and second oldest (NOT middle! AVOID SAYING MIDDLE FOR THE LOVE OF PEACE AND QUIET) are in their early twenties and so far, not any visible damage. Of course, my son is still home for another year and there's still time to screw with his head pretty good but I would say most mistakes were made in the early years.

Hopefully early enough that they have forgotten. Or those memories have been replaced.
Upgraded.
Mommy version VI.

Of course there are a few that get brought up constantly. Like, "Mom remember when you used to set the timer and you told us if we didn't eat our dinner before it went off you would beat us?"
Yes. Yes I do. I'm SO glad you remember too since it is one of my BEST mommy moments.

On the upside, my grocery bill was low.

Or brought up even more recently,
"Hey MOM. Remember that time Bre did somethingsomethinsomething and you took down her Justin Timberlake poster and hung it up in YOUR room."
Um, Yes. I wish I could remember what it was she did exactly, but maybe I just had a hankering to see JT on my wall?
Possible. Plausible. Whatever.

These, of course, are small examples.
The bigger ones are so much harder to write.
Because secretly we are all hoping we do so much better than our own parents, right?
I mean, I would NEVER .... and then I do.
And everything I value and hold close and wave the white hat of I AM A BETTER MOMMY THAN YOU falls around me in prickly pieces of judgmental glass.

Like the time I called my son an asshole and watched the wound spread slowly across his face like a darkening cloud before a cold rain.
Then I burst into tears.

I started my period two days later. Obviously I was under duress from the emotional hijackers that live inside my body before they give up on anything tangible happening and bleed out.
But that's besides the point.
(ps-I recently purchased a "girl business" zippy pouch that says "oh my bloody hell". I think everyone in the house identifies with the sentiment)

What is the point?
Parenting is hard. And inconvenient.
And scary.
We are all going to make a lot of mistakes.

About fifteen years ago I fell down the stairs outside my apartment. As I skidded down the concrete steps on my knees and landed on all bloody fours, all I could think was,"Oh My GOD. Did anyone SEE that?!"
Not, maybe someone will help me.
Not, someone is going to ask if I'm ok.
But only, did anyone see me practically face plant and make a complete jackass of myself?
That's parenting.
All the time.


We're going to fall asleep on the couch with our baby in the crook of our arm and only wake up because we hear them thunk to the floor.
We're going to be so tired from the complete lack of sleep that we barricade our toddler in the living room with us and "A Whole New World" lulls us to genie land, on the cheerio sprinkled floor.
We're going to wake up late and get our kids to school with nothing more substantial than a pop-tart for breakfast. On test day.
We're going to get lost in the happy zone at Target and then hear our name reverberating over the store intercom. Hi there, mum-of-the-year. You lost your child.
Nice one.

We're going to have our kids give us a fun pop-quiz with super hard questions like, "when's my birthday?" And then watch them look at us in disappointment and horror when it takes longer than five seconds for us to remember which one is theirs.

We're going to buy store-bought cookies and brownies for the bake sale.
Enough said.

We might call our kids a bad name.
We might even enjoy it for just a teeny tiny split of a second when we do because let's face it -
we hold that shit in all the time.

We're still regular people.
We just have other people looking to us for love and acceptance all the time.

No pressure.

We're going to have other parents shake their heads and cluck their tongues and we're going to try really hard to remember we are a contributing member of society and not throat-punch them.
We're going to have strangers yank out their binky in the middle of the mall and coo "oh you sweet little puh puh puh. You don't need that thing stuck in your mouth do you?"
And you're going to remind yourself it isn't ok to push down grandmas.
We're going to overhear someone we trust, someone who's supposed to be in our tribe, talk about us and our lack of parental skills and it's going to sting. We might cry. Just for a second.
And then we might get really pissed and think of all the awful ways THEY parent instead. It's not "nice" but it will make you feel better. Better enough to not claw their eyes out.

We're going to wish for a pedicure by ourselves, for a glass of water that doesn't have floaties in it, for sex that isn't muffled in a pillow, for toilet time with our favorite magazine, for a bra that doesn't smell like breast milk. Or vomit.
We're going to try and learn common core math and feel like the biggest idiot on the planet when we don't get it and realize we can't help our second grader do their homework.
We're going to try not to hate their teacher for sending this crap home.
We're going to breathe deep and not freak out over their room that has exploded with clothes (Are they dirty? Are they clean?)and empty mountain dew cans and a floor littered with pink squiggly wrappers from their maxi-pads.
We are going to give them "space."
And then a week later we're going to say, "Screw this effing space crap!" and yell at them to clean their room before we throw away everything in it except their bed and underwear.
We are going to do our best to not seem psychotic.
We are going to tell ourselves this is normal.
We are going to hope that's true.

Moms. Mothers. Mums. Ma's. Mommy's.
It is true.
You are doing the best you can.

And if it makes you feel like you're excelling at the mom-job to offer them a mom-made sandwich, an apple and peanut butter, a slice of chocolate cake you just frosted; then go ahead and do it.
Food pushers unite.

XO



-

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW:
Warm milk in the desert, mid-day.
Prenatal Vitamins in your first trimester.
Peanut butter.
The thick outcome of oral sex.
Preachers who sermonize about lust while driving their Cadillacs, staring at hookers.
The smell of period farts.
A mouthful of skittles when you're stoned.
Smiling in spite of hurt feelings with a repeat offender.
Rejection.
Pride.
My words when confronted with your ego.

Let's break up with the idea of us.
I want to unclog my throat.

Difficult people is a mandatory in life. They rub us like sandpaper against a raw sunburn. Like a side cramp in mile five, with two more to go, they cause us to clutch and limp, and for goodness sake, breathe in your nose and out your mouth, and keep that shit even.

But they also challenge us to be our better self.
Rise above.
Whether it's the idea of not wanting to be anything like them, or if we go deeper into some kind of Jesus calling to love thy neighbor;
even if it is with clenched fists and grinding teeth.
We reach out, we "like", we ask for visits, we LOL; knowing each time the response is a haughty, pointed, silence from an impenetrable wall.
Ah.
But is that love I'm really showing?
I'm not sure. Probably not the pure kind.
I can tell you what it is though, it is an effort. And if that kind of effort is being given, there is love somewhere, for someone, motivating it's continuance.

I've reached some sort of self-inflicted rejection limit.
I've never really mastered the social angst of high-school; cowering beneath any type of Queen Bee. I was more of a "here's-my-middle-finger-why-don't-you-suck-it" kind of girl.
I'd like to think I've grown a little. Learned to give a measure of grace.
I mean, there is Jesus.
Although I picture him constantly shaking his head in exasperation, I'd like to think every now and again he gives me a heavenly high-five.
So,
I try to keep my middle fingers to myself.
And I also try to remember, we are walking a path unique to each one of us, and sometimes that path is rocky, steep, and hot damn if I don't keep stumbling over that same freakin' boulder. Someone please give me a leg up or let me learn to go around it already.
And also, maybe I am someone else's boulder too. There is that.

It is asked I turn my cheek. And then the other one,
It is not required I lay down on the floor and allow another human, no matter their position, pass over me as if I don't exist.
We both know I am here.
We both know how hard it's pretended I am not.

I'm going to let us off the hook.
I'm going to make it easier for us to swallow.
I'm not going to entice you to like me anymore. No more auctioning off myself in bewildered bits and placating pieces, to someone who continues to look at me like a garage sale slip of underwear.

Here's a truth that's real for everybody; most certainly a truth I grabbed a hold of at age nine and held it close to my chest as a vigilant shield, or swung it like a bat if someone came pitching at me with their small, teeth-barring, lies.
I decide what I am worth for myself.
If I don't, some asshat struggling with their own value and usefulness is going to decide it for me, and it will always be at a clearance price.
If I don't set a boundary, someone unworthy of my core self, will cross it
every. single. time.

Why?

It can be because they think they are better than you.
It can be because they are intimidated by you.
It can be because they are jealous of you.
It can be because they don't know how to handle you.
Or it can be because they don't know any better. (But come on. Unless they are four years old .... bullshit)
No matter which reason it is, every single one is unacceptable.
Each one is small.

We are ALL worth something. To God. To ourselves. To the ones that love us.
We are NOT always liked. Or appreciated. Or valued.
By our own tribe or the masses.

Choose your people. Choose who speaks into you and over you.
You can't help who speaks about you.
But you, and me, we can choose what we listen to, what takes root, what grows, and what we let go of.

XO

Day 1

I haven't written in much too long. It's crazy because there is CONSTANT flow of consonants and vowels in my head. I'm always thinking, "I should write that down for later." And I never do. Then it's lost.
If you are reading this, thank you. I will never lose sight of what a privilege it is for someone else to read my musings, my struggles, my convictions. I am sure you have 283768394 other things you could be doing right now.
Laundry. Dishes. Yelling at your kids. Grocery shopping. Meal-Prepping?
Picking up your husbands dirt-crusted socks.
Oh wait ... that's all the things I could be doing. ;)
Instead I am writing.
And this is a BIG DEAL, because I always feel torn, like I'm not doing enough, and because writing is such a pleasure, I feel guilty. As if it should be a reward that comes after everything else instead of the THING that makes my heart beat faster, the THING that makes me feel like matter.

I have challenged myself to write every. single day.
Some posts may be very, very short.

Your welcome.

I am going to write about everything. I will warn you now that there may be a lot of things you don't like or agree with.
You may even decide after reading a few posts, you don't like me much at all.
That's ok.
I have this habit of broadcasting all my faults, or unappealing habits quickly, so we can both get it out in the open if I'm not going to live up to your expectations. I learned very young that LOVE was a bargaining tool and so now, when a relationship forms, I prefer to just lay it out. Before we waste too much time or get our lives all invested. I hope you stay but if you have to go, I get it. Really.

So here we go. I am a wife, sometimes not a very good one, and every day I count myself blessed to have the man that I do. I tell people all the time he is the nice one. Sometimes I get a hearty chuckle in response as if I am being coy.
I'm not.
That's straight up truth right there.
I'm a Christian. I love Jesus with everything in me and I think the church I go to is pretty fantastic.
However,
I usually prefer the company of non-Christians.
I find them refreshingly honest and I have to tell you, a whole lot funnier.
I am drawn to the hurting, the abandoned, and the looked-over. They are my people and I remind myself on the daily to never forget that.
I am a mom! Best and hardest thing I have ever done. I wish I could tell you I have been the perfect mother.
I have not.
But what I have done is raise some pretty decent humans who aren't a-holes.
They are kind. They are funny. And they see people.
That makes my heart grow more than anything.
I have a love/hate relationship with anger and confrontation. It was so much easier before I had Jesus and wanted to be more like Him and less like me. I'll tell ya, punching someone in the face puts a situation in perspective really fast but this whole "love your neighbor as yourself" thing has pretty much put a shut-down on all things physical.
And quite a few verbal.
So there's lot of praying instead.
Which is a good thing.

I want to be a good person all the time. I really do. It only gets difficult when other people are involved.
Which says a lot about my heart.
I want it to be white.
But I think it is gray, gray as concrete, with bruises of black, and a smattering of white dots.
This is exponentially whiter than it was before (and by before, I mean a whole lot of tragic crap that I'll probably get into in future posts... I know that any bad can be used for good and there's no way I am letting all that rot go to waste).

I bet you really want to read more now, don't you?
Well, I hope so. I mean that. I hope you read. I hope you comment but more than anything I hope it shines a light in some dark places of your own.
Because we all have heart damage; bruises that go deep.

Some just have white duct tape over it.

Here's to the brave and the hopeful.
We will not be disappointed.
XO

dandelions

I’ve never been much of a salesman. I only made my property management career last as long as it did because I switched early on from leasing to maintenance. I was all for taking something and making the most out of what I was given… but talking others into wanting that same thing? Helping them to see what it could be not just what it was?
Difficult.
I was a realist. And of the mindset that people know what they want. Or better yet, what they don’t.
For a long time I thought being a realist was the smartest, safest, way to be.

Here’s the thing about realism though.

It doesn’t leave room for a lot of hope.

Some dreaming.

Any wishes.

It just... is.

And I got pretty sick and tired of what I saw and lived without anything to chew on at night. No bubble gum dreams. No sips of hot chocolate. No princes on white horses.
Or any kind of horse, car, bicycle, cane, for that matter.
You know what I mean.


I can’t say it started with a bang – trusting Jesus with dreams. I think it probably started very small.

A dandelion.

And gradually, a few dandelions later, dreams came. My smiles lit up my pillow and I woke up to sun inside me.
My first reaction is to almost defend my realist self now.
“I am not naïve!!” With a small fist shake to the sky and turn of my head. That's the hard-won, fought for, world wisdom in me.
But then a small voice whispered, “What’s so bad with being naïve anyway?”

Naive: lacking judgment, wisdom, or experience.

Basically, kind of dumb.

But then...
I looked at definition #2 and it said this.

Natural. Unaffected. Innocent.

My heart jump roped once or twice.
Natural? Unaffected? Innocent?
And I felt, way down deep in my belly, a longing reach out.

I don’t know how God can make us both. Wise & Innocent. Experienced & Unaffected.
But he does.
Something with that whole, beauty from ashes thing. It’s just God.

Dandelion sprinkles.

And so I changed from a Realist to a Hopeful.
Oh, I know things can still be bad but more than that, I also know how so much good can come from them.


Today I was driving home from Starbucks, deadbeat tired, still coughing, my stomach groaning and ok, basically whining, to be fed, and I talked to God about the Hope Sent book. I feel supported. I hear encouragement. But where are the letters Lord? They started coming and now they just stopped.
Where are they?

And that’s when He reminded me of what a realist I used to be and how Hope was not a welcome neighbor. In fact, I would go running at Hope with a baseball bat and chase it down the street, screaming profanities and promises of a beating if it came too close.

I can’t just wave the flag of Hope and expect people will come running. Obstacles await for anyone that even glance that way. Reminders. Triggers. Feelings that we stomp so hard if it were grapes, we’d be selling a mighty fine wine. And now here I am, asking you to volunteer them out. Asking you to just give it away.
That’s a lot to ask.

I know.

And God reminded me, in order to get trust you have to show yourself trustworthy.
What does that mean Lord?
I’m not sure quite yet what all it means but I do know this.

I have to go first.

I have to trust you first. With the worst of me. With the most painful.

Even though you may be anonymous to me, you are not anonymous to you and I know how hard it is to write it down, to get it out, to make it real.

Again.

And so
I
am going to give
to you
first.

I know what it feels like to be abandoned.

I know what it feels like to learn your daddy is not your daddy and your real daddy doesn’t really want you.

I know what it feels like to have parents that are just kids in big bodies.

I know what it feels like to be touched and whispered to, and violated, when you are too small to help yourself and he’s big enough to know better.

I know that grown-ups don’t always do what they are supposed to do. They don’t always help.

I know what it feels like to watch your mom drink too much, and bring home too many men, and still love her love her and protect her until you just can’t anymore.

I know what it feels like to leave home, pack a bag, hop a bus, and sleep outside, anywhere to get away
.
I know what it feels like to crave anything, drink anything, smoke anything, kiss anyone, to make the pain stop for just a minute, just a second.

I know Rage and her friend Bitterness and her second cousin Control and I know how they wreak havoc in your brain and in your life and in your body.

I know what it feels like to have your husband tell you he’s changed his mind and walk away.

I know what it feels like to finally realize it’s my fault too and I can’t keep blaming him anymore.

I know what it feels like to be a single mom and be overwhelmed and always wondering, am I doing this right? Am I?

I know what it feels like to not be one because you’ve traded places and now he’s a single dad.

I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and see F A I L U R E mixed in with M O T H E R and self-loathing in your own eyes.

I know what it feels like to love God and church and to think somewhere, for some reason, God must have stopped loving you because the church sure did and just like everything else, it’s my fault and I am not good enough. Again.

I know what it’s like to lock the door and cover your ears so you can’t hear him yelling and drinking and yelling some more, while you pray and pray and think to yourself, this is what I get… what I deserve.

I know what it feels like to work so hard for keys and a picket fence just to have to give them back and say goodbye to the American Dream.

I know what it feels like to be lost.

And alone.
And scared.
And angry.
And craving love so bad you think you could die from it if someone doesn’t give it to you soon.

I. Know.

Maybe not everything you have been through. Maybe not each and every detail of your life. But I know mine.
And I know this.

God can take anything, any burnt ash of a life, of a marriage, of a childhood, of a church, of a dream, of a hope, of a home, of a mother, of a grandfather …
And he can make something most beautiful out of it.
But He can only do it if we let him. If we take a step. If we open our mouth. If we write a letter.
You see, God is so unlike what I have experienced in my entire life. He'll be so different from what you have experienced in your life.
He is gentle.
And He waits.
For permission.
For allowance.
For clearance.
For a Yes.
Not because He wants you to beg. Not because He is holding anything over your head. But because He knows.
He knows, Sweet Pea, what you’ve been through, what’s been done to you.
And He is different.
He is the Lover of your soul.
The protector of your heart.

The giver of dandelions.



Hope Sent the book: PO Box 3648 ramona, ca 92065 / hopesentministry@gmail.com