I’m linking to my article on Christian Woman Magazine about God’s deliverance in wilderness seasons. Hope you enjoy!
I can almost hear the eyes rolling in your heads right now. That title couldn’t be cheesier right? Is this some article by an obsessive fan who thinks that she has some cosmic connection to Justin Timberlake? No, not really. I promise that I have a point and it will make sense if you can just hang with me for a little while. Let me explain…
I wouldn’t call myself a huge JT fan, more of a nominal one. I was at the perfect age to become a boy-band-crushing-teenager when NSYNC formed in 1995, a year before I graduated high-school, but I was always more of a 98 Degrees kind of girl. And years later when all those 90s boy bands started breaking up, I really didn’t foresee a solo future for any of those guys. But low and behold, Justin Timberlake surprised us all with his knowledge about the industry, musicianship, his vocal range and connections to all the right people.
Even as his career took off and matured, I was still a moderate fan. I’d listen to his music from time to time, and took a break from it for a while when it was on the raunchier side. Recently though it seems that Justin and I have regained some common ground–we’re only 3 years apart; we’re both parents; both married; both getting pretty reflective about our pasts and carefully considering the trajectory of our futures.
I’ve found more interest in his most recent album as I feel that it talks about “real” life (as “real” as your life can be when you’re insanely talented, an international superstar and a gazillionaire). Knowing the life-cycle that rock-stars usually have, I also sensed that his career may be peaking, and with a slew of hits under his belt I thought if there was one JT concert tour that I should see, it would be this one. So when I found out that he was coming to Raleigh, NC, I spent a little more money than I usually do to get General Admission tickets for my husband and me, so that we could be close to the stage for what I thought may be one of Justin’s best, last concerts.
But my mind went to places that I didn’t expect as I watched the show. Justin was handsome, yes. His feet moved quickly and his body was all fluid, precise, smooth motion. He smiled for cameras, fist-bumped fans, flirted with his back-up dancers, told us that we were the best crowd he’d seen (which of course was a lie), and all I could think was, yeah this is awesome, but then what?
You see, my husband and I were the minority of those crushed close to the stage. We were surrounded by Superfans–those who buy their babies JT onesies; who follow him from concert to concert; who cry if he comes within four feet of them. And yes I was woo-hooing with them all, but I walked away from the concert not marveling about Justin Timberlake, but rather about the awe he produced in about 20,000 people in one night, and realizing that he does this night after night with people around the world.
And it made me think about whether my/our awe has been misplaced? What if I, what if we, directed even half of that awe, half of that amazement, toward the One who created Justin Timberlake, the One who gave him his talent? As fans, we cluster to have an encounter with someone we pay to give us two hours of their time. (And sometimes we pay a silly amount–especially if you’re sitting in the VIP section). We might get a fist-bump or a high-five, but does that personal encounter really change us? Does it take away our troubles, give us a sense of peace, a new identity? Does Justin Timberlake really know any of the people he touched last night? Will they ever really know him?
Of course, the answer to all of these questions is no. Nothing about the concert last night has changed my reality this morning, and it certainly hasn’t changed his. I’m the same person, living the same life with the same ups and downs, joys, sorrows, and okays. I’m not richer or poorer, and Justin has continued on with his life, climbing into his tour bus bound for another city and another concert in front of another crowd of thousands.
But every day I can spend as much time as I want with the God of the universe, who stepped down out of heaven to, get this, PAY for an encounter with ME. He gave up everything to be with me, and He offers to make me His for life through His Son. He’ won’t just entertain me–He’ll hold me. He won’t flatter me with savvy lyrics that speak to my vanity–He’ll speak the truth that gives life and nourishes my soul. He won’t ever pack up and leave town–He’ll be my Immanuel, “God With Us.” When He touched people, they were healed. When He spoke, mountains rose up out of the sea and people fell flat on their faces in true awe. When He sees you, you know that you are safe, yet you aren’t ever the same.
Isaiah 43:1, “…this is what the Lord says–he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.”
Matthew 28:20, “And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”
John 10: 14-15, “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.”
I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with spending money to see your favorite singer for a couple of hours. I think music, dance and fun are gifts from a Good Father who loves to see His kids enjoy life. I also disagree with those who say that there’s nothing beneficial or edifying that comes from the secular world of entertainment. Simply because, God can do exceedingly more than we can ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20), and I believe that if we are walking closely with the Maker and Sustainer of all things, that He can use most any setting, environment, crowd and subject to remind us of His presence and His glory. I don’t think it’s a stretch to suppose that one other person could have experienced an awakening by the Living God last night during the Justin Timberlake concert, because God really is in the business of taking our wisdom and ideas of what we think we know to be true, and flipping all of it upside down to reveal HIS truth. And if just one person entered into relationship with Jesus last night, then Heaven is certainly rejoicing just as loudly as it would after an Elevation or Lauren Daigle concert, and that makes it all worthwhile.
I not only reflected on Jesus last night at moments during the concert, but I also looked to my left at the handsome man that I call “Husband,” and remembered for about the 10,000th time why I’m so blessed to have him. Bryan doesn’t really care for JT. He only knows a song or two and we got into a pretty heated argument right before we left the house yesterday, but instead of refusing to accompany me and making me go alone, he got in the car. That was humility. He sat with me cheerfully and kept me company during the three-hour wait outside. That was kindness. He walked to a nearby restaurant and got us food and drinks so that we wouldn’t be starving after the show. That was graciousness. He stood beside me the whole time even though his calf muscles were knotted up and painful after a long run yesterday. He even danced with me a little. That was sacrificial.
I told Bryan before the concert began that even though I might scream and yell at Justin as he danced down the stage, I still think he’s hotter. He replied, “yeah right.” But as the concert ended, I knew I meant every word. Because although Justin is certainly cute, charming and coordinated, he’s a stranger. Yet Bryan, like Jesus, has demonstrated over and over again that he truly loves me. He knows me. He takes care of me. He does all of this so well that he’d even stand beside his wife as she snaps photos and videos of another man. And he went home with me and was still there when I woke up this morning. That’s a gift of faithfulness that God and Bryan have both given me, that is far more valuable than any concert ticket. They make me feel like a VIP.
So Justin, if you read this, (doubtful, but a girl can dream) I want to say thanks for being a vessel for yet another Jesus-takeaway. I’m sure that’s not what you expected, but I suspect you’d be amused. Hope you have a great rest of your tour, and hurry home, I’m sure your wife wants you beside her too.
Flomaton is an easily overlooked town in South Alabama. It’s the type of place where there’s only one church to notice, and its steeple rises high above the modest ranch homes and one-story mom-and-pop storefronts. It’s the type of place where you use landmarks instead of street signs to mark directions for newcomers (although there are rarely any of those), because there is only one chicken place, one supermarket, and one Subway sandwich shop in the whole town.
But it’s also where people live their whole lives as neighbors. Where they remember the day you were born, the tree you were hiding in when you shot fireworks at passing cars, the day you met your husband or wife, and where your relatives are buried. It’s the town where my grandparents proudly made their home and raised their four boys. It’s where this story begins.
After serving in the Second World War my grandfather, John Folsom, took a job as a high-school principal at Flomaton High School. He was known for his strict but fair leadership and disciplinary styles and was even known to dole out spankings to his students with a paddle, back when spankings were still acceptable in school. This was back when girls’ skirts were very long, and boys’ hair was very short. My dad tells a story of when he was sent to the principal’s office (or dad’s office) for sticking lizards on his ears to frighten his teacher and claimed that it was the only time he saw his dad crack a smile while disciplining a student.
John Folsom may have been tough on the job, but he was also caring. He wanted to see kids succeed and do their best and expecting a lot out of them instead of viewing them as teenage disappointments earned him their respect. He was generous—creating jobs for people who needed extra money and serving tirelessly at church and on various mission trips. He was moral—practicing a high work ethic that stemmed from his upbringing and faith in God. He was enthusiastic—boisterously singing hymns from the church pews or the Flomaton Hurricane fight song from the bleachers at football games.
About two years ago my grandparents, whom I affectionately call Paw-Paw and Mamadene, moved from their beloved home in Flomaton to an assisted living facility close to one of their sons, in Malbis, Alabama. The move was emotional and a difficult step to take, but it was necessary at their life stage. At 90-years-old, Paw-Paw was the last surviving member of his family of origin, the baby of 10 children in a typical Depression Era family.
Paw-Paw settled in well at his new home, happy as ever to just have people around him. To him it didn’t much matter that he and Mamadene were confined to one room, if he still had his recliner and her in bed beside him at night. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember his kids and grand-kids when they stopped by to visit him or take him to church, as long as he had people to talk to, although from time to time you could see a glimmer of recognition in his eye. Even if he didn’t know your name, his mind seemed to recognize that you were his family.
This is what I saw in his eyes when I visited him in the hospital in Fairhope, Alabama last week. It had been two years since I’d seen my Paw-Paw, on his 90th birthday and shortly before he and Mamadene relocated to The Blake. Fortunately for Facebook, I’d seen pieces of his life down South—enough to know that he was enjoying being fed rich Southern cuisine and singing his favorite songs with his visitors. But all of us knew that the day was coming when we’d get “that” call—the one that we didn’t want, that told us that Paw-Paw was no longer doing so well.
So, when my parents, who live near me and my family in North Carolina, called and told me that they felt it was important to get down to Alabama as soon as possible, I immediately felt an urge to go along. I looked at my husband with pleading eyes and he insisted that I join my mom and dad on the 10-hour drive, practically shoving me in their car when they arrived at our house. I thought about my Paw-Paw’s legacy the whole drive down–remembering the joy in his hearty laugh; the passion in his voice when he talked about the way things should be; his tradition of passing Certs down the pew, mid-service, to all the grandchildren in church; the way he pushed Heavenly Hash ice cream on me when I was a teenager. I felt sad again, and somewhat cheated, that I didn’t get more time with my grandfather as a child because I was raised in an Air Force family, so I replayed the blocks of memories stored away in my mind from my brief visits with my grandparents and tried to refresh them. I don’t know if I was using these memories as support for the potential pain that awaited me at the hospital, or if thinking of Paw-Paw that way was a connection to something deeper, to my roots and the people whose stories had contributed to my own.
Either way, I was not prepared for the emotion that rolled over me when I walked into his hospital room the next day. I’d gotten three hours of sleep, and at 6:30am my mom and I received an ominous phone call from my dad, who’d gone straight to the hospital to sit with Paw-Paw during the early morning hours. I choked back tears as I surveyed the scene. In his bed, Paw-Paw’s head was practically falling off the pillow. His breathing was ragged and weak and he couldn’t stop coughing. He was talking nonsense and not comprehending anyone’s questions or demands; he didn’t even know there were people in the room with him. He was listless and drawn.
I was convinced that he would be gone that morning. I started talking to my mom about plans for a service. I wondered aloud where all the family members would stay in the tiny town of Flomaton. I cried quietly as I considered that Paw-Paw’s death would mean the end of a family. I listened to the hymns that my cousins and uncles and aunts sang around him with a feeling of finality. When I placed my hand on his shoulder and sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” it was not with a heart of hope, but with the intention of saying goodbye in a way that would somehow speak comfort to Paw-Paw’s retiring mind, because I knew that he always loved music.
I kept expecting the worst, because to me, he was now 92 and it would kind of make sense if this was his time to go. He’d lived a wonderful life—he’d traveled the world, even flew to Nicaragua in his late 80’s to see his oldest grandson get married. He’d been a role model to young men in his community, a loyal husband, a cheerful giver. It never occurred to me that first day, watching my bed-ridden grandfather, that he might have more life to live.
More family poured into the room. More hymns were sung. On Facebook people were asking for prayer for John Folsom. People were already telling stories about what he’d meant to them, and as I read them or heard them read aloud to Paw-Paw, I saw them all as eulogies memorializing a great man, not an encouragement to boost his spirits. But I was so wrong.
24 hours later Paw-Paw was more responsive. He noticed us when we stood by the bed, although he still didn’t recognize us. His eyes were clearer, and he expressed a desire to write notes, he said he was hungry, he laughed when something was funny.
And he sang. Oh, did he sing. What I realized sitting in that hospital room was that even though Paw-Paw couldn’t remember people, he could remember lyrics, and it seemed that he used lyrics of songs to communicate his feelings, and to me it was as though God was using these songs from Paw-Paw’s life to communicate to us that Paw-Paw still had hope, that his faith was alive, and that God was watching. When we asked him what his favorite song was, his eyes lit up like a child’s and he launched into the Flomaton high-school fight song:
“Fight, fight for Flomaton High,
Always say fight, never say die.
We can win if we will try
So, fight on for Flomaton High.”
And over the next few days I started believing that the lyrics to that song had a deeper meaning to Paw-Paw than just being the fight song for the school where he’d been a leader for 30 years. They seemed to be the very words of his soul, a sort of rallying cry—urging him to fight, to get better, to show God’s healing power in his aged body.
And I was proven wrong over and over in those few days. I didn’t believe that the wheezing in his breath would go away, but it did. I didn’t think that he would start eating again, but he did. I didn’t think he’d be strong enough to stand up, but he did. And before any of us knew it, the hospice evaluators were telling us that he no longer qualified for their care, and the doctor directly referred to Paw-Paw as “the miracle man.”
At some point in all the sitting around at the hospital, someone mentioned that Flomaton High School’s football team was in the state championship playoffs that very week. In the school’s history, since it opened in 1925, it had never gone farther than the quarter finals. My uncle and cousin promised to get the game on TV so that Paw-Paw could watch, although when they first brought it up, several of us were skeptical that he’d still be alive to see it, or conscious enough to know it was even playing.
Paw-Paw was transferred to a local rehabilitation facility on Wednesday, December 5, and on Thursday, December 6, my mom and I walked into the Westminster Skilled Care center in Spanish Fort, Alabama and saw my Paw-Paw sitting up in a chair for the first time in a week, eating some mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese, and watching the Flomaton Hurricanes play their hearts out. As I listened to the drawl of the local announcers and watched each play inch the Hurricanes closer to a state championship, I allowed myself to marvel over the miraculous events that were too perfectly arranged to be called coincidence. I felt ashamed that I’d been so doubtful, so ready to assume that my grandfather’s life was over, when God clearly had other plans and others around me had demonstrated more hope than I. I was also relieved and touched, that the Lord would be so good to give my Paw-Paw even a day longer than we had imagined, that He’d been good enough to include me as a witness to His work so that my faith would increase. And as the Hurricanes caught a victory-clinching interception, I smiled that He loved my Paw-Paw so much that He would strengthen his body enough to sit up and watch his hometown’s football team win their first ever football championship.
We sang the fight song, together, for the camera. And my Paw-Paw finished it with a smile and a hip-hip-hooray. And a swig of sweet tea.
Linking to my article on how the #MeToo movement highlighted the divide in traditional and modern feminists, and the place, if any, that conservative women have in this debate.
Linking to my article about crippling worry published on Christian Woman Magazine today.
Linking to my article published today on Christian Woman Magazine.
On Sunday, August 5, Bryan and I will have been married for 12 years. And I’ve been pretty contemplative about this particular anniversary. Perhaps it’s because this one falls on the same year as our 40th birthdays, which means that we’ve spent an entire decade of our lives married to each other. In a decade plus, you go through much as an individual, but when you’ve chosen to live your life in tandem with someone else, and then add a few little people to the mix, the moments become much richer, much more meaningful and weighty.
I look back at photos of us at our wedding and can see how we’ve changed. Bryan’s dark golden hair is now speckled salt and pepper. He has deeper smile lines around his eyes and greater responsibilities at work, greater impact at home. I too have finer lines around my eyes, my hips are a little wider thanks to three little children whose voices I now hear in the hallway, and I drive a minivan. (I used to drive a red-hot BMW 325i.) I see those two idealistic twenty-somethings walking up the aisle after saying “I do,” and I know that they had no idea what they were getting into. Sure, they believed God put them together–they’d prayed urgently about it, gone through pre-marital counseling, spoken to more mature married couples, but they didn’t have any idea what marriage would demand of them, how it would transform them, or the learning opportunities it would provide.
Marriage is so hard. Many people say being a parent/mother is the hardest relationship/job of all, but I disagree. I think the husband/wife relationship, the work of marriage, is by far more difficult. Children are born of your own flesh–they naturally receive your love. Unless you are a sociopath, your love for them comes without choice, without reservation or limit, and there is a fresh store of it every morning regardless of what your children said or did to you the night before. And let’s not forget: they are CHILDREN, which means that they act impulsively, and you excuse their behavior as childishness.
But your spouse is yours by choice. Your spouse is a fully-grown adult who has a fully-matured brain and is able to weigh pros and cons, wisdom versus foolishness when making decisions. Your spouse has the option of acting in their best interest and neglecting your desires, or acting in your best interest and neglecting their own desires. In Christian circles you’re often called “one flesh” but it’s not often that you’re of “one mind.” You can say things, do things to each other that require a fresh choice to unconditionally love each day. So marriage, you quickly learn, is a teaching work of compromise, of sacrifice and surrender.
I knew that Bryan and I were highly compatible when we got married. I was aware how well we complimented one another. I had no idea how very much alike we actually are: competitive, highly sensitive, moody, introspective, playful, analytical, social, performance-driven, easily bored. We are two very passionate, very emotional people. Our fights are frequent and often combustible–we say things we don’t mean, I get discouraged and look for a way out, Bryan feels sad that I would ever consider running from him.
But then I look back at all that we’ve been through. Death of a mother, three miscarriages, job loss, multiple moves, financial uncertainty, personal sin–and I realize that each day with Bryan has been marked by choice, by hope, and by a commitment to something greater than ourselves. I think of John 15:13 that says:
“There is no greater love than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
And I know that this is what Bryan and I have been doing for each other for the last decade plus: figuratively laying down our lives for each other each time we’ve asked for forgiveness, each time we’ve surrendered a foolish desire for a wiser choice, each time we’ve comforted one another during moments of grief. If the gracious God of the universe would offer His Son’s perfect life without hesitation for a sinner like me, I can certainly learn to lay down my pride and extend grace to my husband who is choosing to love me every day.
Every day is a choice because we made a commitment to God and to each other. Every day has hope because of what God has brought us through, and because of the blessings He has promised. And every day I am called to renew my mind, because although there has been a lot of work, there has also been much joy.
I have seen so much of the world with Bryan by my side. I’ve seen the pride in his blue eyes when we first met our newborn children. I have jumped up and down with him at concerts. We’ve shared bottles of wine and deep conversation late into the night. We’ve played in the ocean like little kids. We’ve dared each other to do stupid things that later made us laugh until we cried. We’ve dined on fancy nine-course meals and greasy chicken wings. We’ve snow-skiied, water-skiied, and jet-skiied together. We’ve started a business together. We’ve served in ministry. We’ve made a life–one that has weathered too much to give up, one that has so much promise despite the unknowns.
And I call it Good.
Linking to this article published today on My Christian Daily magazine.
I have an annual tradition for Mother’s Day that began about five years ago. Every year, I throw a party for my local mommy-friends. We gather without husbands and children with no purpose other than to celebrate the one thing that we all have in common—being mothers. I can always tell that those who are new to the party aren’t sure what to expect because there’s no agenda at all. I’m not trying to sell Pampered Chef, Norwex or Lula Roe. I’m not raising money for a charity. We’re not throwing a baby shower for anyone, and most difficult for these sweet women to wrap their heads around is that I don’t need them to bring anything. They are so accustomed to helping and serving that showing up to something empty-handed, and then consuming food and drink, seems selfish.
And that’s exactly why I do this. Moms throw parties for their children. They bring food to families welcoming newborn babies, struggling with serious illness or recovering from surgeries, or mourning a loss. They are always so busy working, working working—inside and outside their homes, that they often forget how it feels to enjoy their own brand of fun.
My Mother’s Day parties have varied in their style and size over the years. One was a fancy brunch, several were evening parties with lots of snacks and wine and a chick-flick about motherhood. We’ve played funny ice-breaker games at a couple, and at my first one I asked everyone to bring photos of them with their mothers or of them with their children. But one thing that all my parties have had in common is an interesting blend of women.
My friendship spheres sometimes intersect, but many times they don’t, and what I love about my parties is that they are comprised of women from many different countries: Americans, Brits, South Africans, Canadians, Swiss, Australians, Luxembourgers, Belgians. They’ve been comprised of women with different religious beliefs: Atheists, Christians and Muslims. I’ve invited moms I’ve met through church, mom’s groups, the gym, my neighborhood, my children’s’ school, and through some very random connections. I’ve invited women from different ethnic backgrounds. And the beauty of this gathering is to see them begin to open up to one another as they laugh and relax, to watch them discover the things that they have in common with each other as they gather as mothers. In a world where we tend to congregate with those groups of people who are most like us, what I seek to provide in this environment is an opportunity for the Lord to reveal His nature in the surprise that comes when we find a kindred spirit in someone we may never have spoken to otherwise.
But this year, when I decided to go with a Zumba theme for my party, I discovered that Phariseeism is alive and well. I know that my party idea this year was a little unusual, but it’s very frustrating when people assume the worst about something you’re doing simply because they misjudge your intentions. Because I know that God desires hearts and community, I knew that He could even use my Zumba party to spark conversations about Him, and to build friendships that can lead to testimonies of His goodness.
On the outside looking in, apparently that wasn’t the conclusion for some people. They questioned the holiness of Zumba-style dancing—even though there were no men around for women to grind on, and no children to influence one way or another. They questioned the lyrics of the song choices—even though I went over and over the playlist to ensure there were no offensive curse words or extremely suggestive lyrics. They questioned the fact that I served alcohol—even though almost every gathering in the Bible involved wine because it’s a social beverage, and I barely served enough for my guests to have more than two drinks.
And I don’t know what judging a fellow sister in Christ for throwing a dance party will profit anyone. Does it make the judge happier to declare the party unholy or inappropriate? No, it just divides the family of God even more because it pits one person against another over something that’s really a gray area. I bet if I asked those critical of the party if they really thought that Jesus loves them more because they think my party was a bad idea, they’d honestly say no, so why bother judging?
Would it benefit me to argue with people to try to convince them that my way was right, that my party was okay? No, because it’s not my job to try to win an argument and allow myself to be distracted by someone’s opinion of me. And to get wrapped up in defending myself would waste energy that I could be spending loving on people, and it would make me angry instead of filling my heart with compassion for those who are picking my choices apart.
Would it be better for the party not to happen and for none of these women to interact and socialize? I say no, because God is all about seeking people out and building relationships and opportunities to share the gospel. So by now, the ladies who came to my soiree and are still reading, have learned that my surface goal was to have fun with my menagerie of friends from my life here in Raleigh, NC, but as usual with me, there was an underlying purpose, which was to serve up just a taste of the goodness and extravagance of the Lord’s love by loving on my friends. To show them what joy and fellowship and diversity exists in the kingdom and family of God. And I don’t think that any Pharisee could argue with that.
And you know what? I suspect that Jesus loved a good party, and maybe even a little dancing.
People love to give you their worst-case scenarios. Seriously, from the moment I got engaged to my husband 13 years ago, people started telling me how terrible my marriage would be in 15 years. Maybe I was surrounded by the wrong people, and yes there probably were people with great marriages who were genuinely happy for me, but for some reason my brain lingered on the bad, the scary, especially from those I perceived had experience and probably knew a thing or two. Were these people right? I didn’t want to believe them.
It got worse when I was obviously pregnant with my oldest child. Suddenly there was tidal wave of strong opinions rushing my way about the best way to take care of my body, to raise a child, to adjust my life to parenthood. And, oh, the list of “you’ll nevers.” I got so scared after getting pregnant because so many people started implying that my life was going to get so, so hard and so, so exhausting.
Now that I have come through the most intense years of motherhood—pregnancy, breast-feeding, caring for infants, keeping toddlers alive, and am entering the school-aged years, I want to debunk some of the myths that are told to expectant and new parents that are not entirely, and certainly don’t have to be, true. Unless there are health and development problems in your family, or you have serious financial limitations or perhaps are a single parent, you’ll probably see how false these myths really are. The truth lies somewhere beneath the myth, and it’s this that can give you hope as a parent.
So below, I’ve tackled five of the myths I hear most often when people bemoan the changes of becoming parents.
Myth #1: You’ll never sleep again. Sleep is that one thing that you do every day of your life that doesn’t seem so important until you aren’t getting it any longer. And there’s no foolproof way to prepare expectant parents for the mind-numb, zombielike, caffeine-guzzling creature they’ll become in those first few months of parenting, so many people just resort to extremes by telling them to get used to it because it’ll never end. The good news is, your child will start sleeping through the night, it’s just a question of when. The timeframe depends on numerous factors: the child, the sleep-training techniques the parents use, the sleeping arrangements, health. But I promise you, your child will most likely enter the preschool years as a great sleeper. Have you ever met an elementary aged child who doesn’t sleep? Be patient—it’ll happen.
Myth #2: You’ll never fit into your old clothes. Pregnancy does quite the number on a woman. Your skin stretches to an extent you didn’t think possible. Your ankles and feet swell and you’re permanently a size 9 in shoes and no longer an 8.5. Even your vision can change! But to throw out all your old clothes would be hasty. This truth is one that you must work for—you won’t suddenly lose the weight like your child suddenly starts sleeping through the night. You must plan, prioritize, and dedicate yourself to making this one a reality. It absolutely is possible to get back into your skinny jeans. It’s all a question of whether you want it badly enough. As a former personal trainer and fitness enthusiast, I know this to be true. Your body is fully capable of being fit after giving birth—if you decide to put it to work.
Myth #3: Your house will never be clean. I sometimes feel like this is just something people say when they feel guilty because they haven’t picked up all week. They blame the mess on the kids, when the reality is, just a little intention and discipline can keep the mess at bay. Dedicate one room to toys so they don’t spread across the entire house; put things away as you go; wash the dishes as soon as a meal is over; make your bed when you wake up in the morning. As you discipline yourself to clean up and put things away, you will indirectly teach your children to do the same. They are teachable—if cleaning up is important to you, you can train them to do it as well.
Myth #4: You and your husband will never travel again. I think this one bothers me the most because so many of us look back on the trips we took with our spouses as some of our favorite experiences together—discovering new foods, places, and people. To think that those days are over until we’re empty nesters is downright depressing. That’s why I’m here to tell you that it does not have to be true! My husband and I have gone on many trips alone together since our kids were born, and to make this possible you need do just two things: ask someone you trust to keep your children and relinquish control of their childcare for the duration of your time away. If you are blessed to have helpful family members living nearby, the only thing standing between you and some time away is you just exploring this possibility. If you don’t have family but you do have some disposable income, consider paying a nanny. There are several reputable sights where you can search for and interview nannies for extended time away from your children. And all of us have close friends to whom we would trust our children for a few nights. If cost is an issue but travel is something you’d really like to do–drop some extra-curriculars or eat at restaurants less to save money for a trip. My point is: the possibility of spending a few nights away from your children is not unreachable, but most of us are too nervous to ask for help or are too controlling in our role as parents to take some time off. And it’s precisely the controlling parents who need time away the most!
Myth #5: Your children will turn into jerks when they become teenagers. So, to be fair, I don’t know for sure that this one isn’t true because my kids are only 7, 5, and 3. But, because I know that people love to tell you how bad things are going to be, and because all the preceding “nevers” have not proven true for me, I suspect that the above myth is not true either. Because, I have great kids. Yes, they can be jerks sometimes, but so can I, and that doesn’t mean that I am actually a jerk. It just means that I have bad days when I can use a little more grace, not that I’m without hope. I fully intend for my kids to go through some difficult developmental years, but I’m not dreading the years ahead. I’m enjoying the moments with them, and all their changes as they grow, and dealing with the hard days as they come. (And spending a lot of time in prayer.) After all, what good will it do me or my children if I dread the teen years before they even arrive? Most likely, they’ll turn out to be better than I expected. I’ll learn a lot and look back on them with fondness, much like I’m doing now when I think about my children in their infancy, years ago.
See, what people should say to you when you’re expecting, is that the degree to which you enjoy your role as a mother depends on your ability to let go of your past. If you cling to the “used to be’s” you’ll only focus on what you’ve lost: 8 hours of careless sleep, a neat but silent house, a flexible yet self-focused schedule—and you’ll become someone who recites the “never myths” to other parents with sarcastic flair. But, if you approach parenthood embracing your new normal and not trying to be the same person you were, you’ll be pleasantly surprised, and your opportunities to enjoy the small pleasures that remind you of your carefree days will only be limited by your creativity.
So my advice, if you want it, is much simpler: Never believe the “you’ll never’s,” because there’s always the hope that you can.