Why I Let My Daughter Go To Camp for Seven Weeks

Today I get my girl back.

For seven long weeks Julia has been at camp, serving on a work crew. She has learned how to feed hundreds of hungry kids at a time. She has learned how to clean a toilet. She has learned how to pack up food for overnight camping trips. And she has served the community by cleaning up a 24-mile biking path.

Seven long weeks.

She’s not the first of my three to have chosen a summer away. In fact, all three of my girls have had extended stays at camp at one time or another. And over the years lots of people have asked me how on earth I could let them go away for a whole summer.

Here’s a little mommy secret for you: it’s never easy on me. Never.

I spend a good amount of time thinking about them, praying for them, and even worrying a little about them. If you know anything about my story, you know that camp is just about the last place I’d like to send my daughter for the summer.

And yet, I do it.

Here’s why.

Because it really does take a village. No matter what you think of Hillary Clinton, I think she was right when she reinforced the idea that many people can and do influence our kids. Personally, I’d hate to be the only influence on my kids’ lives—they would be sad, sorry, one-dimensional people if I were the only one pouring truth into them. The key, of course, is making sure the RIGHT people are influencing our kids. At camp our daughters have been influenced by wonderful Christian college students, amazing adults, and even younger kids who have all had a hand in shaping their thoughts and values.

Because they need to unplug. At the camp our girls have attended, electronics are not allowed. At all. Ever. Even the counselors are not allowed iPods or computers or cell phones (except when they are off duty), so the entire camp is completely present. Completely in the moment. And completely unplugged. I don’t know about you, but I really believe that in this day and age, a kid who knows how to unplug is a great kid in my book. Unplugging teaches kids something valuable about the art of great conversation.

Because they need their freedom. As my girls have grown older they have earned varying degrees of freedom, and a summer away at camp is just one step along that path. I’m sure this freedom is fun at first (hey, let’s see how late we can stay up tonight!), but it also includes making sure she gets enough sleep so that she will have energy to serve the next day. Or being allowed to go into town to do her laundry. Yep, with freedom comes responsibility.

Because they need to work. (And to get dirty. And to not wear makeup.) I hope I’ve already laid the groundwork here, and I hope that before my daughter set foot on camp grounds she already knew how to clean a toilet. But there’s something about having an 8-5 “job” that’s good for her. She’s tired at the end of a day. And something translates to what her dad does every day. Something about when Mom goes to work starts to make sense. She’s learning that there is value in a good day’s work.

Because God has something to teach them there that they can’t learn at home. I don’t know what that lesson is, and I may never know, but I can tell you that my daughters are different people when they come home from a summer away. Somehow it seems that being immersed in nature and being unplugged allows you to really hear from God in a way that just doesn’t happen here in suburbia. It could also be that the big lessons God wants to teach them take time. Seven weeks, perhaps?

For all these reasons, and probably many others, I sent Julia to camp this summer. 

But here’s one reason I did NOT send Julia to camp: because I wanted her out of my hair.

I think it’s pretty obvious that we have fun together and that we enjoy each other’s company. I have a great teenager (I’ve had three great teenagers!), and I’d love to have her around all summer. In fact, it would be easier and a lot less expensive to keep her at home.

But I am confident that God has used this summer in Julia’s life to shape her into the woman He wants her to be. As much as my heart longed to be with her, I trust that God had better things for her at camp than He had for her here at home.

***

Today I get her back.

I will throw my arms around her and hold her tightly. I will load her things into my car and listen to her stories all the way home (or until she falls asleep). I will help her do her stinky laundry and cook her a couple of great meals until she settles into a new routine at home.

And as the school year starts and talk of camp becomes less and less a part of our everyday conversation, I will watch her—this new, grownup version of her—and I will know that I made the hardest right decision of my life.

Two Simple Words

Hey friends! I'm over at the Mothers of Daughters blog today! Won't you join me to read one of my favorite posts of the past year?

And enjoy your 4th of July!

Grace at 2:15

She steps toward the car and reaches for the door, sunlight splashing over her shoulders and across her wavy brown hair. I look, smile, then look again.

She’s changed.

School’s almost over for this one, and I see, in that brief moment, a full year’s growth.

Her face, more mature (goodbye, babyface!).

Her legs, definitely longer.

Her hair, styled rather than simply cut.

Her clothes, carefully selected, reflecting her sense of herself.

Her gait, assured.

All of this just in a quick glimpse as she ducks her head into the car.

She smiles from outside the window--a slight upturn of her lips, that quick connection that says, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

(O.K., if I’m really honest, she was glad I was there to drive her home so she didn’t have to walk. But still, she seemed glad to see me.)

It was a smile that said, “I’m good.”

I noticed today that my baby girl is growing up. Oh, sure, I notice it most days, especially as she very nearly reaches my height, but today it took me by surprise.

The end of the school year makes you take note of the changes, doesn’t it? With all three back under my roof for the summer, I’ve been thinking a lot about the past year and how it has changed them. Changed us.

It’s been a good year. Not without its challenges, this year, but good, overall.

And while the physical changes aren’t as pronounced in my girls anymore (I still remember the years of amazing stringbean growth, the too-short pants), the character changes are still coming, probably faster than ever before. Lifetime prayers for my girls are being answered.

And I like what I see.

I see confidence.

I see intelligence.

I see curiosity.

I see humor.

I see wisdom.

I see discernment.

I see girls who are ready to follow wherever He leads and to lead wherever He wants.

I see young women who are growing, changing, accepting, even though it’s painful at times.

I look, I see, and I wonder, How did we get here?

Only grace.

Mama Fail?

I wasn't the best mom to infants.

Oh, I loved my babies. I loved their tiny, tiny fingernails and the rolls of chubby baby on their legs. I loved their thick, brown hair and the smell of the tops of their heads after bath time. I loved the way their eyes lit up when their daddy walked into the room and the smile of recognition when our eyes met in that deep, knowing way.

My babies were, and still are, my very great love.

But I was not patient. I was not gracious. I was not always kind.

I was selfish, impatient, and, yes, even mean at times.

I shudder to think about those early years as a mom--how the deep, deep chasm between my imagined life and my reality seemed never to be able to come together. How I never really felt like myself, comfortable in my own skin. How, for some inexplicable reason, I felt I should be doing this differently, better, and that I should be enjoying myself more.

***

I don't know why I thought about this today, except that babies have been on my mind lately. At least four women I know have had babies in the past three weeks, including my sister.

*Hi Gracie! Consider this your first blog shout out!*

(I'd really like to know what's in the water. Goodness! All the goodness lately!)

I wonder sometimes, being the person I am now, having been somewhat sanctified through the fires of motherhood, how would I be with an infant today? I'd like to think that I'd be more patient, more understanding, less selfish.

But let's face it, I'm me, and patience isn't really my strong suit.

Over the years, however, I hope that because of my experiences with my own children, I have become a different person, better, and, yes, even a little bit more holy.

Maybe?

I know I'm having more fun.

***

If I've taught my daughters anything, I hope I've taught them how to laugh. Our world is so serious, so big and self-important, that it's a gift, a rare thing, to be able to laugh, especially at ourselves.

And that is why I just had to chuckle over the Facebook wars going on between two of my girls today.

Here's what Julia shared with her big sister today: "Love you seester! (And I love your face :)"

And here's what Kate promptly replied: "payback"

(And, yes, that is the shape of an "L" on her forehead. Can you name the song?)

I've probably breached a thousand unwritten Facebook rules by sharing their posts, but I love that my girls can laugh with one another. Their shenanigans today reminded me that I have not completely failed.

Yet.

I Interrupt this Holiday Season to talk about . . . Twinkies

What is it about Twinkies?

Seems like everyone has gone crazy over Twinkies . . . now that they can’t get them anymore. Even in the past week, long after I thought that Twinkie fever and mourning over Hostess’ demise would have died down, I saw a piece on the news about some Chicago dive, Baby’s Cheesecake and Lemonade, that actually bought up the last of the Twinkies—10,000 of the sweet, gooey cakes—and was giving them away for FREE.

When a reporter asked the owner if it was worth the investment, he replied, “Every penny. It brought you in, didn’t it?”

Smart man. Growing his business on the back of Hostess.

Personally, I don’t get it. I am not sure I’ve even bought ten Twinkies in my lifetime, let alone ten thousand.

But let me tell you, even though I probably played a small part in throwing Hostess under the bus—I bought Twinkies exactly twice—Twinkies and I have a history.

The first time I bought Twinkies was when I was pregnant with my second daughter. I knew she was a girl even before the ultrasound confirmed it because I craved sugar like nothing else. With my first daughter I craved sugar, too—Dove ice cream bars that time—so I just knew she had to be a girl the second time around as well.

With my second, I craved Twinkies. Usually my “craving” consisted of a fleeting thought every day. “Hmmmm, I haven’t had a Twinkie since I was a little girl. I wonder if they’re still good.” “Gee, a Twinkie sure sounds good right about now.” “O.K., I think I just have to have a Twinkie before this pregnancy ends.”

Finally, one day, that small craving became a full-blown obsession. I was at work, teaching young minds, pretending to be interested in modifiers and parallel sentences. But all the while I kept thinking, “Twinkies. Must. Have. Twinkies.”

My students never knew.

I hope.

After work, I drove as fast as I could to the Jewel. I parked my car. I ran as quickly as my chubby ankles would allow, straight into the store. And there I stood, in the middle of the store in the ready position, just like a football player on the line of scrimmage . . . only I was wearing a huge maternity tent dress.

I was like a mad woman.

I finally grabbed a checkout girl by the shoulders, looked deep into her eyes, and screamed, “Where are the Twinkies?!”

It wasn’t pretty. But she directed me to aisle 3.

I quickly purchased the beloved gems—No, I don’t need a bag, thank you—and I ran to the car. I opened the cellophane. No, I tore the cellophane, and gobbled those Twinkies like a starving person who hadn’t eaten in a month.

Thirty seconds of glory, it was.

Worth every calorie. And every ounce of humiliation.

My second encounter with Twinkies actually took place sometime during Kate’s first grade year. She must have heard kids talking at lunch, filed away the information for later, and came home just bursting to ask me a question.

“Mom, what’s a Twinkie?” I think she might have been hopping from one foot to another.

Seriously? That was what she couldn’t wait to ask me? I just had to laugh. Out loud.

And then I asked her to repeat the question.

“What’s a Twinkie?”

Because that was the moment when I realized that I had succeeded as a mom. You see, it took six years—SIX YEARS!!—before my daughter even knew that such a thing existed.

Sure, she had had McDonald’s fries before she turned two, and Teddy Grahams had pretty much become a food group in our home, but my darling six year old didn’t even know what a Twinkie was.

My first Twinkie incident might have been my most humiliating, but the second became one of my proudest Mommy Moments.

And because my poor daughter had been so deprived for six long years (talk about a death sentence!), I bought the child a box of Twinkies on my next trip to the Jewel.

She carefully opened the cellophane, took one long look at the soft yellow cake with its three holes poked in the bottom, and said, “Is this all it is?”

She ate it, satisfied that she had at least taken a stab at the American cultural icon. But then a funny thing happened—the box I bought for her sat . . . and sat . . . and sat in the pantry until one day I finally threw the Twinkies out.

I guess my girl preferred my homemade treats over the ones wrapped in plastic.

My second proudest Mommy Moment.

Now tell me . . . what do YOU think about Twinkies? What’s your favorite Hostess treat? (Mine is the Suzy Q, and I will miss her.)

Guinea Pigs

This kid?

She's a nut. 

But I love her very much.

With my whole heart, in fact.

She’s our oldest. Our first born. We brought her home from the hospital without a clue in the world how to care for her. Or how to parent her—at all, let alone well.

We’ve made many mistakes along the way, and sometimes we’ve just had to throw up our hands and say, “Sorry. You’re our guinea pig. We don’t know how to do this.”

Over the past 20 years there have been a lot of firsts with her. First to play piano. First to walk to school by herself. First to get a job. First to play a sport and first to quit a sport. First to go to college. . . .

You get the idea.

And with each of those firsts we’ve had to decide how, as her parents, we were going to handle each scenario as it came along. Sometimes the decisions were easy; other times not so much.

Last week, we hit another first, and this was probably the hardest first yet. Because last week, B and I became the guinea pigs, heading into parenting territory yet unknown.

As she and her friends began planning their spring break, Kate asked us if they could borrow our my van to drive to Florida.

*huge gulp*

Yes, that’s right. She actually had the NERVE to ask if she could take my van to Florida. My van! To Florida!

Some of you reading might just stop right there and say, “Um, no. Not happening. Not in my lifetime. Find another way to get to Florida.”

But we had a couple of things standing in our way.

First, we had precedent. See, when B was a sophomore in college, he and a friend took his parents’ station wagon to Florida for the week. They drove around, visited his grandparents, hung out on beaches, AND THEY SLEPT IN THE CAR! They went much farther into Florida than our daughter wanted to go, . . . AND THEY SLEPT IN THE CAR!

At least the girls had the good sense to rent a house.

But the second thing we had to consider was our philosophy. I’ve written about it before, but basically we are raising our girls to not need us.  I know that sounds terrible to some, foreign to others, and totally frightening to most, but our hope is to train them to be responsible, mature adults who can handle life independently of us. And we’re training ourselves, slowly, along the way, to let go gracefully.

(O.K., forget the gracefully part. That hardly ever happens. But we ARE trying to train ourselves to let go.)

So, taking into account precedent (I blame B’s parents for that one!) and our philosophy, we felt like we couldn’t say no. Well, we could have said no, but then we’d be kind of hypocritical, wouldn’t we?

Of course, there were some in our family who thought that our decision to let our daughter take a 16 hour road trip in our family car was . . . shall we say . . . irresponsible. 

And maybe it was.

Maybe if the trip had turned out differently, if something terrible had happened, we would have regretted our decision and called ourselves irresponsible for the rest of our lives. I don’t know. What I do know is that we stayed true to what we believe about our kids: they need to be trusted to make good decisions, to be allowed to explore the world, and to grow up. All without their parents’ constant companionship.

So we became the guinea pigs, making a tough parenting call--one that left us biting our fingernails and checking our phones for most of the week. Thanks be to God, the girls (eight girls in two cars) made the trip safely.

We did entrust them into His care last week, but really, we have to do that every day of their lives, don’t we? 

Just ask Anna's parents.

Let's talk. What do you think? Were we irresponsible parents to let our daughter drive to Florida last week? When have you felt like a guinea pig as a parent?

  

Giving Thanks for Evolution

Tonight I gave thanks for evolution.

Source: apod.nasa.gov via Shelly on Pinterest

Does that sound strange to you? Heretical? Anti-Christian?

I’ll admit, it sounds a little strange to me, but not anti-Christian. Not by a long shot. Because today God used the theory of evolution to speak to my daughter.

See, my kids are in public school. They hear this stuff. I don’t worry about it because I know that God is bigger than the theory of evolution.

He’s also bigger than the war in the Middle East and the caucuses in Iowa, just in case you tend to get scared about that kind of thing.

But I digress. . . .

Tonight, God proved that He can tackle evolution no problem. Like flicking a gnat off of His shoulder, that’s the whole evolution thing to Him. NBD.

My eighth grader told us at dinner tonight that her science teacher showed a movie in class about the Big Bang theory. I got all up in my righteous indignation and said, “Oh, and did they give equal time to the Creation account?” knowing full well that the answer would be a shrug of the shoulders and a “No.”

Which she did, both.

But to her credit, she also kind of rolled her eyes when she described her teacher introducing the movie: “This is my FAVORITE movie of the whole year! And it’s narrated by MORGAN FREEMAN!”

Whatever.

Like I said, I don’t worry about that stuff—we have the Truth (but I will admit that it makes me cringe that her school does not give equal time to the Creation account).

Again, whatever. They never claimed to be a Christian public school.

Anyway, back to why I gave thanks for evolution tonight. As I was praying with Julia before bed I asked her how God had shown Himself to her today. (We’re kind of on the lookout these days.) She immediately went back to her science lesson and the movie they saw in class. She said that at first the movie kind of made sense to her—she was willing to concede a couple of points because she’s a good thinker, that one, and able to look at all sides of an issue.

But as the movie went on, it mentioned something about all living creatures being made from a mutation of one cell, and Julia said, “It was like God showed me that there was no way that could have happened. I mean, how could one cell make both tadpoles and tigers? It just didn’t make sense to me.”

We talked about God as the Creator, how it just makes so much more sense to us that, as a creative and loving God, He would create tadpoles and tigers out of different cells, not one.

And then it hit me—the theory of evolution, as it was presented in her class today, only served to draw Julia closer to her Creator-God, not farther away.

Amazing, isn’t it, that God can take something that most of us see as evil and use it for good? He does that sometimes.

And for that, I gave thanks for evolution.

Your thoughts? Am I off my rocker with this one? Or have you seen God use the unexpected to draw your kids closer to Him?

Hope for the Weary Mom

Some of you might remember that I write a once-a-month post for moms of girls over at the MODsquad blog (every third Monday just in case you want to put that on your calendar). I'm so proud to be a part of what's happening over there--encouraging mothers of daughters to raise them to know Jesus.

What you might not know is that there is a counter-part to the MODsquad for moms of boys called the M.O.B. Society. If you have sons, you might want to check that out.

Every Saturday in November, the MODsquad and the M. O. B. Society are coming together for a series called "Hope for the Weary Mom" because, as we all know, weariness knows no gender. It just is. 

Today's post is written by the founder of the M. O. B. Society, Brooke McGlothlin, and I tell you, it is fantastic. Even the title (which I'm always telling my students to PAY ATTENTION to!) will make you laugh: Beer & Cigarettes {hope for the weary mom}. Pop on over there if you need a little encouragement on this Saturday.

Cozi Calendar

Source: skonahem.com via Shelly on Pinterest

Does your calendar look like this one? So much stuff to write on it that you run out of space every day?

Ours was getting like that. As our girls got older, it seemed like there just wasn't a good way to keep everyone on the same page. I'd try various methods--keeping a crazy paper calendar was one of them. So was a white board that I kept by the back door. That worked for a while. But people would forget to check it, run out the door, and wouldn't know what time they needed to be home.

This weekend I got to thinking that I can't believe I haven't shared with you the single most helpful organizational tool that our family uses.

Yes, it's a calendar.

But it's not your everyday, run-of-the-mill paper calendar with pictures of tractors or mountains or woodland vistas on it. It's not made of paper at all.

It's called Cozi Calendar, and it's a website that allows each family member to access and update it from different computers whenever they want. Let me tell you, it has saved our family's proverbial booty on many occasions.

Here's why we love using the Cozi Calendar.

1. Every member of the family can access it. We have four computers in our family. (I know. Don't start.) Six if you count the i-Pad and the i-Phone. Seven if you count B's computer at work. Every one of those computers has the ability to access the family calendar. Nobody has an excuse. With iCal, which I do have on my computer, I'm the only one with access, so if I update it, nobody has a clue. It doesn't do anybody any good. But everyone has access to Cozi, so that's what we use.

2. Every member of the family can update it. Yes, there is a password, so not everyone in the world can hack into your family calendar and play Scrabble with it. But as long as the family communicates that password, everyone can update the calendar. I keep my Cozi Calendar up on a tab on my computer all day long, so I can see if anyone (especially B when he's at work) adds anything to the calendar.

3. The updates post immediately. If B puts something on the calendar when he's at work, I can see it here at home right away. If Julia's piano lesson time gets changed, she can see that as soon as she gets home from school.

4. You can change the view from a full month view to a week to a day. Set your preferences however you want. We use the weekly view because we tend to have too many entries each day to make the monthly calendar work.

5. You can have entries repeat. For instance, Julia's piano lessons are on Mondays. When I put the lesson in the calendar, along with the time, I can have it set to repeat every day, once a week, every-other week, or monthly. It's great! I don't have to go in and add it every single time by hand.

6. It's FREEEEEEEE!! We learned about Cozi about four years ago when it was featured in an article in the Wall Street Journal. We thought we'd give it a try since it was free, and we have stuck with it all these years. It works well for our family.

You can also use the Cozi website for shopping lists, journaling, and To Do lists, although we haven't used those features that much. It's the calendar that we keep open on all of our family computers all the time that works best for us.

Believe it or not, fall is coming with its insane amount of school events, practices, and games. Why not take some time to play around with Cozi and see if it could work for your family?

P.S. I'm not getting any money for writing this. The people at Cozi have no idea who I am. I just really like this website and I think you will too.

How Your Daughter Dresses Matters

Added 10.13.16
Friends, this post has unexpectedly gotten a lot of attention lately. In fact, a little too much attention for my taste. Earlier this week several people (OK, maybe a few more than several) read this post and left comments that were a little hard to stomach. That's not what I'm about here, so I took the post down for a while.

After much deliberation, prayer, and consultation with people I love and respect, I decided to put the post back up and I have written a further clarification here. Please read this post too. It shares a bit more of my heart, five years later.

Yes, this is perhaps a little controversial and yes, you might have thoughts. But here's what I'm going to say about those thoughts--I will be very picky about the comments I choose to share here, if any. I will not share comments that are disparaging to me or anyone else in any way. I will not share comments that are inflammatory or unkind. 

We need a kinder world, a kinder place to be with one another. Let's be that here. Thanks!


Moms of daughters, listen up. There’s something you need to hear, and you may not like it. You may think it weird or prudish or snobby. Whatever. You need to hear this.

How your daughter dresses matters.

I’ve been passionate about this topic for a long time, since I have three daughters and we’ve had to cross this bridge a time or twenty over the years. At times it’s been a painful crossing, but in the end it’s been worth it to actually address the topic of appropriate dress and modesty.

Why does it matter?

Because how a girl dresses reflects an image of herself to the world, especially to boys.

Remember elementary school? It was easy to tell the tomboys from the girly-girls by the way they dressed. Tomboys wore t-shirts and sweats every day; girly-girls wore dresses and frilly tops.

Somewhere around junior high, though, another image gets added in there, and it’s not necessarily the image you might want of your junior high daughter. You know what I mean. Back in my day they were the “fast” girls. We might have called them worse.

Earlier this week, WSJ online asked a really important question: why would a mother encourage her daughter to dress like that? The article is graphic and disturbing in places and just plain sad, overall. But I think it’s important and worth a look, especially if you have daughters.

The author says she posed the question of why moms would let their daughters dress like that to a friend. Here’s the response she got:

"It isn't that different from when we were kids," she said. "The girls in the sexy clothes are the fast girls. They'll have Facebook pictures of themselves opening a bottle of Champagne, like Paris Hilton. And sometimes the moms and dads are out there contributing to it, shopping with them, throwing them parties at clubs. It's almost like they're saying, 'Look how hot my daughter is.'"

And then the author asks the most important question: “But why?”

Why indeed? Who really wants their daughter to act like Paris Hilton anyway? And who really wants their daughter to look “hot”?

Here’s what another mom said:

“We somehow survived our own teen and college years (except for those who didn't), and now, with the exception of some Mormons, evangelicals and Orthodox Jews, scads of us don't know how to teach our own sons and daughters not to give away their bodies so readily.”

Can you hear the regret in her voice? They don’t know how to teach their sons and daughters to not give away their bodies? I guess they feel it’s a double-standard if they’ve done these things, but is it a double-standard to tell your kids you made a huge mistake and you don’t want them to replicate your mistakes?

Or is it helping and teaching your kids? Loving them so much that you don’t want them to feel the shame and despair you did? Having the hard conversation because you want something better for your daughter?

I loved this quote from the end of the article:

"We wouldn't dream of dropping our daughters off at college and saying: 'Study hard and floss every night, honey—and for heaven's sake, get laid!' But that's essentially what we're saying by allowing them to dress the way they do while they're still living under our own roofs."

Think about that. If, as mothers (or fathers!), we’re encouraging our daughters to dress inappropriately, that’s basically what we’re saying. At the very least we’re saying, “Here’s my daughter. She’s on display. Take a good, long, hard look at her.”

Ugh. The thought of anyone looking at any of my daughters inappropriately just makes my skin crawl.

I work with junior high girls at church, and here’s what I tell them: "Dressing a certain way attracts a certain kind of guy. I doubt very seriously that the kind of guy you want to attract is the kind of guy you’re dressing for when you dress like that. Besides, you are above that. You are better than that. You deserve better than that. So dress for the guy you deserve."

It’s tough as moms out there today. To encourage your daughter to dress modestly takes courage for both you and your daughter. Because she will be different—at school, with her friends, even (sadly) at church. She might get ridiculed. She might even get ostracized.

But isn’t she worth it?

Believe me, it’s tough to even find cute clothes to wear that are appropriate. Probably 80% of what you see in stores today is NOT appropriate, so you have to be creative and diligent to find clothes that honor your girl and won’t bring her down. But you can do it and it’s worth the effort.

And here’s why. Read this quote from a college guy who read the WSJ article and decided to leave a comment:

"As a male college student, I can say point blank, that most girls start to [sic] early and do too much. I go to a southern california school, so it might be a more extreme case, but still, the behavior referred to in this article is bad no matter how you spin it. We guys laugh at it and pat ourselves on the back for how many of these young girls we use and degrade, and how they don't seem to mind, but there's not a single one of us who doesn't know something is blatantly wrong with the picture."

This just makes me want to cry for our daughters who dress to attract that kind of guy. Even the guys know it’s wrong!

Moms, I just want to encourage you today to see your daughter as the precious gift she is and to help her see herself that way too. It is my prayer that we can encourage our daughters to reflect the image that God has of her—one that loves her completely and loves her enough to give up His life for her.

She’s that important. She’s that special. Let’s help her to reflect that image to the world.

*****
Again, I would love it if you would read my follow-up post here.

I Think They Call It a Phobia

Well, I think it’s pretty clear from yesterday’s post that I am no candidate for Mother of the Year.

I guess I wouldn’t be up for Nursemaid of the Year, either. Yesterday my family let me know, in no uncertain terms, that when someone is sick around here, I’m not . . . how shall we put it? . . . the most compassionate person in the house.

B was sick yesterday. He probably takes one sick day a year, and yesterday was it. He has had a terrible cold for well over a week (and does he go to the doctor as his loving wife would suggest? Hmmmmm? No. But I digress.), but the worst part was that he put his back out on Monday. So he not only was dealing with a pretty nasty, hacking cough, but also experiencing back pain every time he coughed up a lung, which is how it sounded.

Let’s just say the guy was a mess.

So I did what every good nursemaid should do. I went upstairs to check on him. A couple of times. I patted his leg and asked if he needed anything. I administered ibuprofin. I brought lunch.

But did I hang around? No sirree. I have a thing about being around sick people. Let’s just say it’s hard for me.

B does not understand this, though, because later in the evening he and the girls ganged up on me. They all stood around the kitchen telling “Mom” stories about how I’ve let them down MORE THAN ONCE when they’ve been sick.

Apparently B needed a little more nurturing.

And Maggie just had to bring up that time last year when she woke up not feeling well, but I made her go to school anyway. (My sister was visiting and we had places to go. Don’t judge.) But before I could make my escape, the school nurse called to inform me that Maggie had a 103 degree fever and could I please come pick her up.

Oh all right, if I have to.

Oh sure, they all got such a kick out of pointing out how I basically dumped poor Maggie in the basement in front of the T.V. and told her we’d be back later. Her little 103 fever was not going to stop me from having fun with my sister.

Looking back on it now, I do kind of wonder what I was thinking. As, apparently, my family was even on that day because they just laughed and laughed about how I’m not very good at taking care of my family when they’re sick.

But really? What do they want me to do? Hang out with them? Hold their hand? Sit there and watch T.V. while they sleep? I mean, being with sick people can be dangerous. I could get sick myself. . .

. . . and then who would take care of everyone?

So I want to know . . . what kind of nursemaid are you? How do you handle things when your kids (or your husband) get sick? Please tell me I'm normal!

More Than Enough

I’m kind of consumed with the start of school this week.

Office Depot loves me. And tonight, Famous Footwear is going to love me too.

Don’t even get me started about Target--we’re BFFs these days.

But amidst all the rushing around, buying new clothes, making sure we have all the necessary school supplies, there’s a certain bit of angst in our house these days. It’s called middle school.

Maybe it’s called junior high where you are. I grew up going to junior high, but my kids have gone to a middle school; I have yet to understand the difference. Different curriculum? Different set up of classes? What is it? Personally, I think the phrase “middle school” kind of softens the blow somehow. Makes it seem like a natural progression to the next phase of life rather than a waiting-for-high-school kind of thing.

Maybe that’s just me. It probably is.

One thing I do know, however, is that middle school or junior high or whatever you want to call it, is just about one of the toughest times for a girl. (I can’t speak about boys here because I don’t have one. Feel free to comment away about the boy-aspect of middle school.) I cannot tell you how many people I’ve talked to who have said that their junior high experience was so terrible that it’s the reason they chose to work with junior high students at church. Or others who said it affected their future career choice. Or others who just stay away from middle schoolers at all costs.

Seriously, it’s a rough go.

I’m currently going through middle school for the third time with my own girls, and each one has handled it differently. One seemed to breeze through middle school, only to tell me later that she hated every minute of it. Who knew?! Certainly not me. Another withdrew a bit, probably trying to ward off every cruel thing another person had said to her. Self-preservation becomes an art in middle school.

This time around is different still. We’re more concerned with our appearance. We’re straightening our hair and buying clothes in new and different stores. We’re much more concerned with the opinions of others.

And it’s this last aspect that had me on my knees today. Or walking, which is my preferred prayer stance.

I have always told my girls that I don’t want them to be known as the “smart girl” or the “athlete” or the “musician” or fill-in-the-blank. I would be much happier if the other kids at school think of them first as “the kind girl” or the “friendly girl” or, best of all, “the girl who really loves Jesus.”

The outward stuff just isn’t important. It’s the inward stuff that will shine through in the end.

But, you know what? You really can’t tell that to a junior high girl. Oh, you can tell her, and the sounds you are coming from your lips might reverberate around in her head a little bit, but there’s something that just makes them not hear it. Really hear it.

And so you have to come up with lots of different ways to say the same thing which is, “Just be yourself. Be the kind and loving person I know you are, and other people (the right people) will be drawn to you.”

Unfortunately in middle school, that just doesn’t register a whole lot. And so this morning I was praying for my girls, especially that sweet middle schooler with a whole bunch of angst about stuff that really doesn’t matter, and God somehow broke in through my mumbling and had me pray this:

“God, please help her to see that you are enough.” Just that. Enough.

Today I want my precious girl (all of them, really) to know more than anything that her clothes, her hair (as gorgeous as it is), her outgoing personality, even her talents in the classroom . . . none of it will ever be enough. Because there will always be someone to come knock her down a peg, or someone who feels like it’s their business to put her in her place, or someone who just gets a kick out of being cruel. All of the outward stuff will never be enough to make her feel good about herself.

But Jesus will.

Today I am thankful for a God who knows my daughters.
A God who knows when they sit down or stand up.
A God who knows their thoughts.
A God who knows when they go out and when they lie down.
A God who is familiar with all their ways.

These verses are loosely paraphrased from Psalm 139, and they bring me a lot of comfort. As a parent, it’s great to know that this God knows my daughters better than I do. He knows what’s best for them, and He even knows their mistakes. He still cares for them, watches over them, and loves them deeply.

Later, the Psalm goes on to talk about how God’s works are wonderful—that means you, junior high girl! About how God knew each and every day of our lives before we were even born and how He planned them all. And about how precious is each and every thought God has about us.

That part amazes me. Every thought God has about us is precious!

So on those days when it seems like we need the opinions of others to make us feel good about ourselves (Who are we kidding here? I have days like that too.), we can remember that God thinks highly of us. And that is enough.

He is enough for junior high. He is enough for high school. He is enough for college. And beyond.

More than enough.

Starting School

My friend, Rebecca, is sending her first child off to kindergarten this week. I’ve been thinking about her a lot, and since I’ve walked the road she’s about to step onto, I thought I’d give her some pointers to help her through the minefield called “school.”

Be prepared. Take Kleenex on the first day. You might feel happy that, after all those loooooong years with your child at home, she’s finally heading off to a minimum of 13 years in the classroom. (I know I was.) But suddenly, on that first day, I found myself crying as I watched my daughter walk into the building. It hits you at the strangest moments, so be prepared.

Thankfully, that stage doesn’t last long.

Walk to school as much as possible, even when it’s 20 below zero. Because that might be the only time you have to tell her about boys when she will actually listen. And it might also be the only time she will tell you about how Johnny tried to kiss her on the playground the day before but she wouldn’t let him because she slugged him. Hard.

You might want to consider enrolling her in a self-defense program. That playground can be rough.

Enjoy your child’s new friends. They can teach you a lot about your child. Like how she’s the official classroom Play Dough taster . . . or how she likes to sing the “ABC” song at the top of her lungs in the hallway . . . or how she likes Johnny, really, even though she slugged him.

You know how they say there are no stupid questions? Don’t believe it. There are. Don’t ask the teacher about bathroom procedures. The kids will figure it out. Don’t ask if you can leave a couple of days early before Spring Break. It’s always better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

And finally, don’t ask how they teach reading—whether she uses a whole language or phonics-based approach. Because the teacher might just look strangely at you and tell you, “This is kindergarten. We don’t teach reading in kindergarten.”

Not that I would know anything about that. I’m just sayin’.

Field Day. This is a day toward the end of the school year when the entire school comes together to play games. Running games. Water games. Relay games. Games that would require proper attire, and by proper attire I DO NOT MEAN A DRESS. But unless you actually know what Field Day is, you might not know what proper attire for that event would be. Learn from my mistakes, or your children might remind you about how lame you are for the rest of your parenting life.

Which is forever.

And that brings me to my next point: the job never ends. It just gets harder.

So have fun with that one.

And while you’re at it, realize that you are about to embark on one of the most fun, most rewarding, most challenging at times, most amazing rides of your life. You’ll meet great people, some of whom will become your closest friends. You’ll learn when to speak up and when to be silent. You’ll learn more about your child than you ever thought you could.

School is awesome. I’m a big fan of school. I’m a big fan of you, too, Rebecca, and I know you will do just fine.

Enjoy the ride.

A Day Late

O.K., I know it's a day late. Mother's Day was yesterday. But I didn't see this video until my friend, Jennifer, turned me on to it this morning.

As many of you know, Kelly Corrigan is one of my favorite authors. She's real. She's honest. She's funny. I'd love to be her friend. (Crazy and slightly stalker-ish, I know.)

Anyway, watch this video and pretend it's yesterday.

My Daughter's Heart

It was about 8:15 one night last week. Cold. Dark. Dreary.

I remember because I was irritated that the doorbell should ring at that hour, frustrated by the interruption into my quiet evening.

The little boy who stood there didn't say anything at first, a lost, confused look spread across his face when I answered the door.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Ahhhh. . . . This isn't it," he quietly answered more to himself than to me; his big, brown eyes peering up at me, needing some reassurance.

"What isn't it?" I replied.

"AJ's. This isn't AJ's house," and he looked around to see if perhaps my neighbor's house looked familiar. It didn't seem to bring the relief he was looking for.

Not more than nine or ten years old, the little boy wore a jacket that seemed much too thin for a cold night like that. He had no hat. No gloves.

"AJ?" I must have looked puzzled. "There isn't an AJ in this neighborhood," I quietly told him. "Where do you live, honey? It's really cold out here."

Those big, brown eyes darted up the street and his little hand pointed toward some apartments a few blocks away. I suppose that was where he lived, but I couldn't be sure because he quickly said, "AJ told me this was where he lived. . . . Huh." And he shrugged and turned away.

I called to him, "Do you need some help?" but he just walked toward the sidewalk where his bike was lying on its side; he picked it up and rode away.

Maggie stood back, away from the conversation at the doorway, but observing all the same. A few minutes later, after I was snuggled back on the couch underneath the blanket I had been wrapped up in, but still not comfortable in my soul, Maggie came to me with tears in her eyes.

"Mom," was all she said before she melted into my arms, crying for the little boy lost.

"I know," was all I could say. And then, "Maggie, there's nothing we can do for that boy right now except pray for him. Let's pray for him." She nodded and cried and clung to me.

And so we prayed for that nameless little boy. We prayed he'd be safe. We prayed he'd be warm. We prayed that he'd find his way home, wherever home was for him. We prayed that he had two parents who loved him. We prayed he'd find Jesus.

As my daughter held me tightly and cried for the lost, I caught a glimpse into her heart. And I loved it even more.

Birth Order Blues

My in-laws spent the night last night. This morning, while enjoying a few minutes on the porch, we got to talking about their first-born son, my husband. J, my father-in-law, was telling my girls about how their dad paid for most of his college education, something we all agreed would be impossible to do today.

The girls sat spellbound as their grandpa practically burst his buttons telling them about how hard their dad had worked all his life. He even took his first job—a paper route—at age 8. He has since held jobs as a butcher shop cleaner, a grocery bagger, a park district worker, and then into banking. We regaled stories from college when, during our senior year, B worked 40 hours a week while also taking a full load of classes.

He’s such a first-born.

Now, my in-laws have every reason to be proud of their son. My husband. B works hard. He’s always worked hard for everything he has. I’m proud of him too.

But as they talked, Abby and I caught glances between us and smiled. We’re both middle children and, according to all the “birth order” stuff that’s out there, we’re not quite as industrious as those first-borns ahead of us. We like to take things as they come, which makes us more flexible and easy-going. It also makes us more independent (which, I have to add, my darling Abby most certainly is, and I would guess my mother would say the same about me). But would we choose to work when we could play? Ah, probably not.

Eventually the conversation turned to my own first-born, Kate. We quickly realized that she has held jobs for a good portion of her life thus far. She babysits, she’s scooped ice cream, and now she shelves books in the library. All before her 18th birthday.

She’s such a first-born.

This trait in my daughter became even more glaring to me this afternoon. As I sat with my computer, she said, “Hey, Mom. Why don’t you sign me up for the ACT test in September while you’re sitting there?”

Huh? She’s already taken the ACT test, and she did very well. So I asked her, “Why are you taking it again? You did fine.”

But “fine” wasn’t good enough. She wanted to see if she could do better. The middle child in me could no more comprehend wanting to take that test a second time than I could imagine flying to the moon. Why on earth would she put herself through that to get one or two points higher?

I’m such a middle child.

So I registered her for the test. But during the registration process the student has to answer all kinds of questions, so, of course, I had to ask her the questions.

“How far away would you like to go for college?” Less than 10 miles. (Just kidding! That’s my personal bias coming out, but we did have a good laugh about that one.)

“What field of study would you like to take?” What else? Literature.

“What’s the highest level of academic degree you would like to achieve?” I wonder if she saw my jaw drop to the floor when she said, “I’d like to get a Ph.D.”

Such a first-born.

How about you? Where are you in the birth order? I'd love to hear your stories.

What Do You See?

Yesterday, as I was perusing blogs for a few minutes, I read one in which someone asked, "What do you see?" so I thought I'd answer that for you all today.

What I see today is an empty house because all three of my children are away this week.

I see a clean house because my husband and I don't make messes and not clean them up.

I see fresh sheets on every single bed and beds that will stay made all week long.

I see a computer I can actually get my hands on so that I can print out some things I need.

I see the bottom of my sink because it's not filled with dishes.

I see bathroom floors--they're white. (Who knew?!)

I see the bottom of the hamper in the kids' bathroom.

I see towels that are hung on rods and not thrown on the floor in a puddle.

I see a dog who just isn't herself this week.

I see grass that should be cut and weeds that need to be pulled and plants that are thirsting for water.

I see the note that one sister left for another before her trip.

I see photographs of past vacations and a brochure for one about to be taken.

I see college recruitment pieces that flood our mailbox every day now.

I see school supply lists.

I see my future.

What do you see today?

Sadly?

Last weekend I accompanied Abby's high school orchestra on a little overnight trip to the University of Illinois. The trip was fine. Fun, actually.

The best part of the weekend was hearing Abby's orchestra play their 25 minute program. What a spectacular performance! Those kids can play!

I have to give most of the credit to their conductor. This woman is so hard-working; all weekend I noticed that she really loves what she does. She should be so proud of the work she is doing with those kids.

So if my following comments seem like I'm picking on her, I'm not. I have nothing but admiration for what she does. It's more a cultural thing that I noticed last weekend that I just have to get off my chest.

As the orchestra was warming up, their teacher was having them practice a difficult transition in one of the pieces. She was explaining to the kids that she wanted it to be a smooth transition, almost romantic-like.

As she was describing the type of flowing music she was looking for, she said to the kids, "Pretend you live in the 1950's and, sadly, you're a wife waiting for her husband to come through the door, and you're handing him a martini." Then she stopped herself and, as an aside said with a chuckle, "No, I guess I don't mean 'sadly'."

She knew the minute the word was out of her mouth that she shouldn't have said it. But it was too late. She had already given the impression to a roomful of high school students that being a wife who stays home is a "sad" thing to be.

Guess what. I'm one of those wives. I'm one of those mothers who stays home. (No, I don't hand my husband a martini when he walks in the door--B doesn't like martinis.) And you know what? I'm not sad at all.

Believe me, it took me a good number of years to get to this point. When my children were younger I was sad. I struggled. A lot. Those days were the hardest days of my life, and I would have given anything to just get a job and head to work in the morning.

But B and I had made a decision that someone would stay home with our kids when they were young. Financially, it just made the most sense to have me do it.

Now that my girls are older and, yes, my days are a little easier, I can say that I made the right choice to be home with them. I love being their mom; I love that I can walk Maggie over to school in the morning; I love that I can be home when they get home from school; I love the relationships that we share. It's a great job.

Here's the thing I keep thinking about. If the feminist movement of the '60's and '70's was about giving women choices, why is it considered "sad" if a woman makes the choice to stay home with her children? I mean, it is MY choice, is it not? And if I'm happy with my choice, why should others consider it sad?

I admit it, I was deeply offended by the off-handed comment made by this teacher. I'm usually not easily offended . . . at all . . , but one word--"sadly"--diminished the choice I have made. It made me feel small, worthless, and, yes, sad.

That's not how I want my daughters to look at the life I've chosen. And if they should make the same choice, I don't want them to think it's second best.

Should they choose to have a career and work while their children are small, I would support them in that too. Because there is no right or wrong way to do things.

The thing I want my girls to know, the way I would want them to look at their future choices, comes from I Corinthians 10:31 where it says, ". . . whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God."

As long as we remember that--no matter what we choose to do with our lives--we can be assured that we have chosen a life well-lived.

Going Somewhere?

A few summers ago I decided to read the original "Dr. Doolittle" to the girls (the original title is . . . get ready for this . . . "The Story of Dr. Doolittle: Being the History of His Peculiar Life at Home and Astonishing Adventures in Foreign Parts Never Before Printed"--whew!). You know, the 1920 classic by Hugh Lofting that is nothing like the 1967 movie version with Rex Harrison and even less like the 1998 movie with Eddie Murphy.

One thing the book and the movies all have in common, though, is a character called the Pushmi-pullyu. I best remember it from the movie I watched as a kid. It was kind of like a siamese llama, all fluffy and white, with a head on each end.

This poor animal, though, didn't know which direction it was going. One head wanted to go one way; the other head wanted to go the other. Both heads had to really work together to get anywhere.

On a lot of days I feel like that poor Pushmi-pullyu.

Take today, for instance. It's President's Day, which means no school. Most of me wants to do something fun with the girls, like go see a movie or head to the mall. But what HAS to be done are dentist appointments, eye doctor appointments, laundry, music lessons, and getting one child to her job. Today will be a day when I'll be heading in all sorts of directions and probably not getting a lot done.

To widen the scope a little bit here, when I look at the future, I feel much like that Pushmi-pullyu, too. Do I want to keep my focus, as it has been for so many years, on being "Mom" to my girls? That's a wonderful thing and something I love doing. Or do I want to pursue other options that swirl around in my head? Writing? Speaking? Teaching? And if I pursued those options, when would be the right time to do that?

The tough thing about being at this point in my life is that I could spend years wandering around, contemplating, wondering which direction to move. And nothing would get done. I don't want that to happen.

But here's the great thing. I have options. We all do, whether we realize it or not. Yes, I feel pushed and pulled in all directions right now, but that's O.K. Maybe that's just what life is all about.

How about you? Are you being pushed and pulled? What are the options facing you right now?

(Just a note: if you have kids and are looking for something good to read with them this summer, check out Hugh Lofting's "Dr. Doolittle" books--there are several. You might enjoy one of them as much as we did.)

In the Blink of an Eye

Kate and B aren’t home today. They left last night to drive a few hours to a state that doesn’t even border ours to visit a college that we know very little about.

It’s her first college visit.

On Saturday night, as I was going to bed and Kate was in her usual spot in front of the computer doing her last check on Facebook and catching up on blogs, I stopped to kiss my girl goodnight. I looked into those big, blue eyes and saw in them the little girl I knew not so very long ago.

And my heart pulled just a bit.

“How did you get so big so fast?” I asked as I stroked her beautiful, silky, brown hair in much the same way I would have when she was young.

She didn’t have to say anything. We both knew the answer.

Overnight.