Big fat complainy having your kids at church post, I'M SORRY

This is the day that broke me. This is the day that sees me giving up on any sweet soft-focus ideals I had or have about being a Nice Catholic Family. This is the day where I am blinking back tears during the consecration and deciding that IF and WHEN I decide to come back to Mass I am going alone. And this day wasn't especially or significantly terrible, it was just the latest in a Long Series of Sunday Mornings where I emerge from the church feeling the need to hide, crawl under the covers, drink myself into a nice cheery stupor. 

Oh God I even feel too broken down to write this post. I'll come back later. GAH.

All right. It is much much later in the day. I have exercised, I have eaten an entire chocolate bunny (hey, at least I exercised), I have Mad Men to look forward to after the kids are in bed. Everything is better. But I'm still going to write a Woe Is Me blog post. 

SO YES. Church. I cannot do it. 

Here is what I told Phillip last Sunday: "We are not doing that again. We are either going to the early Mass or we are going separately so someone can stay home with Emma." And he said, "Okay," because really, even if he would have liked to say something else, he knew that moment was not the right time to say it. 

And again, my kids are not SO horrible. We don't ALWAYS have to take Emma out (just most of the time). My kids aren't ALWAYS fighting with each other or noisily rummaging through their bag of un-church-like goodies or asking me how many songs are left. And no one has ever EVER said anything negative about my kids in church. Not even when I am fully expecting and braced for it. Even this morning when we happened to sit in front of what seemed to me to be a Particularly Holy family and I thought FOR SURE the dad was BEYOND ANNOYED with my 18-month-old who needed snacks and pacifiers and books and shrieked about not getting all the pencils and enevelopes and CLAPPED WHEN PHILLIP ASKED HER IF SHE WANTED TO GO HOME, the dad grinned at Phillip and said, "Oh no, no, not a bother at all, not at all." GOD BLESS THOSE PEOPLE. 

But for me? For me it is EX. HAUSTING. I am frustrated, embarrassed, angry at my kids for not being perfect little angels and mad at myself because my parenting has not developed perfect little angels. I can't hear. I have no idea what the readings are. I haven't the slightest idea what the homily was about. That entire hour is taken up with Managing Movement, Noise, & Making Sure The Baby Doesn't Draw On Everything In Sight. 

This morning I suggested we go to one of the churches I'm interested in, not least because we could go to a 9am Mass. The 10 at our church seems to be too late for Emma (she usually goes down for her nap between 10:30 and 11) and the 8 at our church is asking too much of my Just Wants To Relax on the weekends husband. So off we went to the 9 and I was excited because I am excited about a new church and we even found an old friend and everything seemed great except NO, Emma was STILL AWFUL, the kids were STILL arguing over a book about dragons (and you guys, who brings a book about pagan legend dragons to CHURCH? I mean, I probably got my first Bad Parent label right there.) (The book is cool though. I'm just saying.)

Afterwards our old friend, who is single and childless and (I thought) for SURE reminding herself to never sit next to us again, was SO NICE and encouraging and said exactly the right things. But I still had to stop myself from crying in the car. It just feels so POINTLESS. 

I mean, I don't feel like a very awesome Catholic to begin with, and now I can't even get through Mass without wanting to send my kids to Siberia? 

Anyway, I've been thinking. I'm thinking it is (about!) time for me to let go of thinking my kids should be in church with me every single Sunday, on excellent behavior, learning by osmosis. It's not realistic. Not my kids, anyway. They LOVE Sunday School. They are BOOOOOORED at Mass. And you know, I was bored at Mass until I was a grown up, and shoot, sometimes I still am. They aren't old enough to go to the Children's Liturgy of the Word (the chunk of time where the grade school kids get to have a kid-appropriate lesson during Mass) and they're too old for childcare. But this is just an in between time and I need to drop my Children Who Sit And Stand And Pay Attention expectations. Does that sound horrible? It does to me, in a way, but right now I am feeling like If At First You Don't Succeed, Lower Your Expectations. My Protestant friends would never expect their similarly-aged kids to sit through a long talky liturgy. They go do kid stuff! And plenty of my Catholic friends are the same. I don't have bad kids and every little annoying thing they do in Mass makes me think I have Bad Kids and GAH. 

Like, it would be TOTALLY FINE WITH GOD AND EVERYONE ELSE if I started going to church by myself on Sunday nights. You know? I don't have to model this Nice Family. I don't have to look like I'm doing a good job. I don't have to make sure my kids look cute. THAT IS NOT WHAT CHURCH IS FOR. Or if we didn't all go together. Or if we didn't go to the same place or if I put the kids in childcare ANYWAY or we alternated staying home with Emma. I am not a good enough Catholic to be thankful I am there to receive the Eucharist. I am mostly sitting there thinking THIS IS POINTLESS WHY AM I HERE.

So! Room for personal growth, etc. Not denying that. 

But honestly I think my Other Not So Positive Church Feelings have been playing into this. I feel disengaged from my current parish for a dozen different reasons. I already know that we will be going somewhere different this summer (after my committee term is up). I feel disillusioned about certain things, annoyed with others, frustrated and tired and unwilling to invest. I am a terrible terrible parishioner right now. So I feel bad about that, but also NOT bad because DUDE, I have been a GREAT parishioner for a LONG TIME and I have good reasons for moving on. I just can't move quite yet. And I have to manage all those thoughts while parenting three small people who would REALLY like to be eating their doughnuts and running around the church parking lot. 

BLARGHITY BLARGH SBCBS@OURoiawjogasdkvjn;aowireutteuASDLV:AISURPOGUPA!!!!!

Also! Those of you who feel compelled to tell me I have the wrong perspective on church and it's not about what I can get out of it and Jesus said let the little children come and all that, I know. I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW. Please let me have my immature, terrible Catholic, pissy mood please. SEND CHOCOLATE BUNNIES.

 

 

Soliciting opinions on a Church Dilemma

All right, Internet. I'm very interested to know what you think about this Church Dilemma. 

Okay, so when we moved to the Absolute Outer Reaches of Far North Seattle we didn't necessarily ASSUME, but we kind of sort of teeny tiny bit did, that we would switch churches, if only because of the distance. It's not that it's a long drive or anything (15 minutes), but there are something like ninety bajillion churches in between our house and our parish. Including one we can WALK TO. And when we moved here, as you may recall, I was all: OH! This is where we'll go to church and this is where our kids'll go to school! EASY PEASY!

You know it didn't work out that way. And despite some sincere effort on my part, the church next door has yet to grow on me (Phillip has never liked it.) We go there when we need to go at a different time or we're feeling lazy or something, but so far (two years in) it doesn't feel like Our New Church. 

So it sort of delayed the whole Switch Churches thing. For me it wasn't so much as WANTING to go to a new church but feeling like we were starting a new life? And that included a new church? There wasn't anything compelling me to LEAVE my church, but many of the things that made us stay for so long (namely people) had left/were leaving/were no longer happening. We had kids now, our lives were different, the connections we made at church didn't really NEED attending-the-same-church to keep them going. Does that make sense? I felt like I COULD leave it and it would be fine. (I mean, *we* would be fine. I'm sure the church would get along juuuuust fine without the noisy Cheungs.)

I also wondered if this was part of moving a few times when I was a kid, and living on military bases where a priest only stays for 18 months, then a new one cycles in. I started to feel itchy for a change? I kind of wanted to see what else was out there? I wrote about this a few times on the churchy blog. ANYWAY. 

Phillip, I should note, has never been inclined to find a new church. This is partly because he abhors Change and partly because he really really reeeeeally didn't like the church next to our house. 

Also, I'm on a Committee and I had a three-year commitment and finally I was like FINE. Maybe when that commitment is up, we'll think about going somewhere closer to home. 

Well, Internet. My commitment is up this summer. And I now have a Reason I don't want to go to my church anymore: it doesn't have Sunday School. 

When I was growing up it was called CCD. Do they still have CCD? It seems like the churches I've looked at all call it Sunday School. I mean, it's the same thing, so whatever. But it was an hour OUTSIDE of Mass where we had a little churchy lesson and did churchy projects and got roped into the Christmas pageant and I don't know MUCH about Catholicism, but what little I do know comes from CCD. I have naturally assumed my kids would go when they were school-age. And now they are school-age. And there is no CCD. 

They do have Children's Liturgy of the Word, which is when first graders on up leave in the middle of Mass for a kid-level gospel and homily and usually a project or something, and then they come back in time for communion. Does this fulfill the Sunday School need? I DON'T KNOW. I am inclined to say NO. For one thing, I want my kids to be in CHURCH. I mean, I'm totally fine for them to go to CLOW, but I don't want that to be The Only Thing? I have the fingernail marks on my wrist from learning how to behave in church and goshdarnit my kids are going to have those too! You know what I mean, right? I don't expect them to APPRECIATE IT or GET ANYTHING out of it right now, but it IS what we do on Sunday mornings and we do it together and one day we'll stop bringing crayons and it will be CHURCH. I look forward to arguing with my teenagers over their attendance! (I will give in. I think. That's another post.)

My church also has special programs for First Communion kids (Wednesday afternoons or something horrible like that), but no regular ongoing religious education program. I suppose we do have the school. But my kids aren't going to go to that school. 

And SOOOOOO... I've been looking around. There is a church with (what I hear is) a great Sunday School program. It's basically the same distance from my house as my current parish, which I feel silly about, but we like going there, even Phillip. There may be others, but that's my first choice right now. 

But today we went to Mass and I was just thinking about how I recognize all the faces there. I don't know everyone, by far, but I'm comfortable there, I know what's going on, I know all the people who sit near us totally don't mind my MONSTER CHILD OMG SHE WAS HORRIBLE TODAY. I chatted with another parent in the vestibule while we monitored our monster children. We have a new priest and there are things we're struggling with, but honestly, this transition is CAKE compared to the last. We almost left the church BECAUSE of the new priest during the last transition (we were fresh out of college and engaged) but then we grew to ADORE him. I don't feel like we're bailing because the church is no longer... I don't know. Sigh.

I think I, personally, no longer feel (and haven't felt for a while) a strong call to be THERE as opposed to SOMEWHERE ELSE. I am very very curious about Somewhere Else. I've never been able to articulate this well and I don't think Phillip feels it's a good or important reason to do something different. But this Sunday School thing? It bugs. I want my kids to do that extra hour. It feels like a good reason, even if I didn't have all the other stuff going on in my head.

What do you think? I mean, does that seem like a silly reason to you? My mom doesn't think so, the lady I talked to at coffee hour doesn't think so (I told her after she said, "I'm SO GLAD you guys have stuck around!" and I was all, "wellll...") I wonder if I should feel like *I* should be Religious Educating them or something. Or I should START some sort of group with other parents because it's better to AFFECT CHANGE (effect?) than just GIVE UP. (OMG PLEASE DON'T SAY I SHOULD DO THAT.) 

I AM OVERTHINKING THIS. 

When I grow up

Just so you know, I am still "looking into" this bakery cafe playroom thing and I continue to tell more real life people that I am "looking into" it and that's how you know I am still not in posession of my right mind. FYI. 

One thing I realized at Urbana was that if I'd gone as a student I would have FUH-REAKED OUT. I didn't have a husband or kids or a mortgage, no responsibilities, just a totally blank (VERY BLANK) future infinitely before me, like a Personal Antarctica or something. I really had no idea what I wanted to do when I grew up (still don't, actually) and the myriad possibilities at Urbana, plus the constant invitation to devote a year or two or ten to missions, plus the pressure I would put on my own self to be what Urbana thought I should be (THREEEEEEEEEEE!!!) I would have self-combusted. I had an excellent time, but I'm glad I experienced it as an adult with a husband and three kids and a mortgage and, therefore, way fewer options. This is a GOOD thing. 

But still, you wonder what you want to be when you grow up. 

The last several years I have tried very very hard to think of myself as a Mother. I mean, I AM a mother and I am very happy with my SAHM status, but "just being a mom" has never EVER felt like The Only Thing I'm Supposed To Do. It's one reason why I stopped reading a lot of blogs where the author was a religious SAH homeschooling mom-of-many, because there was a way I felt like that was the RIGHT way to do the mom thing, and clearly THAT was not going to happen at Chez Cheung. Like that was the way to make the most of your vocation, you know? And I hope you know I am not disparaging those mothers. I stand in awe of them, I bow down, I salute them. The gifts they have are not my gifts.

(Can you even IMAGINE if I tried homeschooling Jack? We would need two padded cells within a week.)

Then again, I've never been the mom who is itching to get back to work or the career, I've never aimed for anything, I am very much an Introspective Slacker, which is obvs how I got into this blogging thing. So it's kind of a weird place to be in, to feel like There Is More To Me Than Being Mom and But Nothing Else Sounds Good/Seems Right. 

Honestly, a Bakery/Cafe/Playspace does not at ALL sound like The Thing I Am Supposed To Do. I know absolutely NOOOOOOTHING about running a business. Pretty much the only thing I know I'd be good at is 1) cleaning and 2) making sure our business has a social media presence. FPC informs me that that's important, but it doesn't feel like quite the right skillset, you know? 

I thought I was supposed to be a writer. 

I thought I was supposed to teach English overseas. 

I thought maybe I should "just be a Mom". 

I thought I was maybe supposed to create a lovely home and support my husband's career. 

I thought I might work for a politician. 

I definitely thought I would travel. 

I suppose the right answer is that we do a lot of things in our lives, that everything has a season, that I can't be everything I'm supposed to be in one year, that I'm not even really SUPPOSED to DO anything. I can do all of that, I can do some or none of it. Though that's the stumbling block for a Three: if she isn't DOING anything (and doing it well), she's pointless, a waste of space, not valued, unloved.

I have an Urbana/prayer/Three/value post in the works. It's hard going, but I'll get it out eventually. What is the thing that I DO? What is the thing that I AM? The end of that post will tell you that right now I'm somehow - miraculously, even - okay with the absence of an answer. 

Or, rather, I am just beginning to comprehend the actual truthful answer. 

Jesus Camp 101

It's actually called Urbana, but ever since Elizabeth referred to it as Jesus Camp I have a hard time thinking of it differently. Besides, it was TOTALLY Jesus Camp. If Jesus Camp is not your thing you will not be interested in this post. If it IS your thing, I will write about specific parts of it, in more detail, on the churchy blog. If you're not SURE if it's your thing, like maybe you have no idea what I'm even talking about, but maybe you find it mildly intriguing, this post is for you. And Elizabeth. By which I mean, I plan to answer the questions she posed via gChat: 

• like, what you do
• why
• what it was like
• if it was what you thought it would be like
• if people were cool or weird
• what other people were doing
• what the point of it is
• what you got out of it

READY?

Oh wait. I'm going to start with a question she didn't ask and then go in an entirely different order. But you guys are smart, you'll play along. NOW are we ready? 

WHAT IS URBANA?

Urbana is a ginormous national conference for students (17,000 this year) possibly interested in becoming missionaries when they grow up. It features big time speakers, seminars on all different topics and issues, morning bible studies, an exhibit hall full of missionary organizations, and myriad opportunities and ways to help you discover what God may be calling you to do with your life. It's sponsored by the group that sponsored my Faux Protestant years, the NDCF, and is mainly for college students involved in NDCF chapters, though anyone can attend. 

THE POINT OF IT

The theme of the conference this year was "The Great Invitation". Chances are, if you are a Christian, there's a particular someone in your life who prodded you - invited you - into greater relationship with God. This conference is about why/when/how to become the person who prods. 

WAS IT WHAT I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE LIKE

Yes, only better: not as scary/intimidating, more inspiring, WAY more restful. 

WHAT I DID THERE

I was part of the Intercession Team. So. Every single NDCF employee is required to GO to Urbana and work a job there in order to pull it off. These jobs could be playing guitar on the worship team, organizing registration, showing people where to park, slapping wristbands on attendees, personal assistant to speakers, selling books at the bookstore, managing the exhibit hall, or handing out the daily Urbana newspaper etc. I mean, in addition to important and stressful jobs, there are a CRAPLOAD of CRAPPY JOBS at Urbana. It is COLD in St. Louis and I befriended someone whose job it was to stand outside on the corners of downtown St. Louis from 10pm to 1am, just to make sure there was a PRESENCE on the streets and students felt safe walking back to their hotels. THAT IS A CRAPPY JOB. I, on the other hand, had the best job at Urbana. My job was to spend three hours at a time in a little hotel suite with 6 other people praying for whatever it seemed that God wanted us to pray about. People were praying in that room 24/7 and sometimes our schedule had us praying in the middle of the night, sometimes first thing in the morning. Sometimes our team was "deployed" to a session or seminar or bible study, to pray in the background. Otherwise we explored the conference offerings, took naps, hung out with friends, ate junk food, ran to the Arch, took more naps, read books, and scoured the staff lounge for chocolate. 

Sometimes, when people asked Pancakes and me what our job was, they'd make a Big Face and shudder and go, "UGH, there is NO. WAY. I could be an INTERCESSOR" but honestly, it was the best job at Urbana. Period. We can fight a duel on this if you like. 

WHAT IT WAS LIKE

So I was super worried about how long I was going to be away from my kids and if Pancakes and I would still be friends after spending 6 days and nights constantly together and exactly how churchy these churchy people were going to be and how tired I would be... Turns out it was one of the most restful peaceful weeks I've had. I didn't miss my kids too much, probably because I was in an environment where I couldn't imagine them. It'd be one thing if I went to Disneyland without them, another to go to a huge grown ups-only conference in a hotel and convention center. I also had a LOT of free time. Hours and hours of free time. If I wasn't scheduled to pray I could do pretty much anything I wanted. Sometimes I attended a seminar, sometimes I went to one of the plenaries in the giant football stadium dome, sometimes I took a nap. I never take naps! But I took lots of naps at Urbana. I slept GREAT. Lots of people got sick, but Pancakes and I steered clear of germs. I had a great time hanging out with a few people there from my own NDCF days. And because Pancakes is Fancy and Important I got to hang out with lots of other Fancy and Important people and get a lot of backstage info, which, you agree, is always fun. 

And when you're praying for three hours straight with other people who are made to pray, it's an amazing time and goes really quick. Really. You think praying is just sitting there in a circle sitting quietly for three hours trying not to fall asleep. No. NOOOOO. (More on that on the churchy blog. One day.)

Because I had the best job and also roomed with someone Fancy and Important, I got to stay at the Best and Closest Hotel, right across the street from the convention center and the dome. I did do my share of trekking around downtown St. Louis to various other locales and it was an odd sensation in that 99% of everyone you saw on the street was there because of Urbana. The convention center employees wore pins that said STL [HEART] URBANA. Awwww.

WHAT WERE OTHER PEOPLE DOING, AND WERE THEY COOL OR WEIRD?

Most everyone else was a college student and college students run the gamut from cool to weird. There were the normal people, then there were the ones wearing hot pink pants and neon orange running shoes standing in the middle of the convention center with signs around their necks that read FREE HUGS. Every ethnicity, many different languages. 

The people I spent the most time with were NDCF staff. They were on the intercession team like me, or they were leading 500-person bible studies in hotel ballrooms, or orchestrating the production of 32,000 World Vision caregiver packages to ship to Swaziland, or giving the Thursday morning talk, or coordinating logistics. When they weren't doing that they were sitting around talking shop and office politics. I LOVE office politics!

One thing about hanging out with people who are in campus ministry (or, really, ANY ministry): it's sort of their JOB to be deep and engage you in Meaningful Conversation. It doesn't mean that everyone is a bore or intimidating or annoying, but it DOES mean that everyone knows what everyone else's Meyers Briggs or enneagram number is, and thinks a lot about how different people interact and when they ask you how you're doing it's not small talk. So, obvs, my kind of people. (Although campus ministry is not for me. NO SIRREE.)

WHY

For about a year now I've been volunteering at NDCF events (local ones) as an intercessor. When I introduced myself to people at Urbana I told them I was Pancakes's groupie, but for me, this was just a bigger opportunity to do what I think God calls ME to do, which is pray. I wasn't called to a mission field, but I have been called to intercede. It's a certain way of praying, where you "stand in the gap" between God and the thing or person you're praying for. I've known that I'm supposed to do this for YEEEEEARS, but it's only in the last year that I feel like I've had real opportunities to practice. I learned a ton this week and I hope to write more about THAT, later, on the other blog. 

Any other questions? (Don't all raise your hands at once!)

P.S. I missed you!

The only consolation

Normally I'm the woman quietly weeping in front of her television for days on end. I sometimes think that soaking up as much information as possible is my way of grieving or processing what happened; feeling all the feelings, trying to imagine myself in the tragedy is my way of somehow serving or honoring or respecting the victims. 

With this latest evil I am weirdly, almost guiltily, detached. I can think of three reasons. The first is that the crazy pills kicked in for reals about a month and a half ago and even when I've TRIED to imagine my own child not coming home from school, my brain just doesn't go there. Like that option is no longer available, that switch is flicked. 

The second is that this one is so far beyond my ability to comprehend that my own body is protecting me from attempting it. Like if I actually succeeded in empathizing I would never leave my house again. I've thought: "what good am I to my own children if I let myself descend into that pit?" So I haven't. I suppose this is also called Denial.

The third is that maybe it's GOD protecting me. Knowing the sort of person I am, knowing my responsibilities to the three kids who live here with me. Like he's saying, "it's okay, you don't have to feel all the feelings this time, I know what's inside you."

But this morning, I don't know. I wondered if I was maybe ready to feel the feelings. Which isn't to say I've totally absolutely avoided everything. Friday I went around in a nauseous daze, Saturday a glimpse of a 6-year-old's face on the news sent me into the bathroom to sob. 

But this morning, I turned on the TV. I turned on The View, knowing that I would either love what they were saying or hate it. Like I felt maybe a good five minutes of gun control disagreement might be engaging, or at least give me something to focus on.

Except then Joy Behar said something like, and I am SO paraphrasing: "I guess 'they're in a better place' is consolation for some people" and I thought, "JOY. That is the ONLY consolation anyone could possibly HAVE."

Because I believe in God and heaven, and the promise of heaven is how I've clawed my way through many a World War II book. Of course those children should be here with their parents, but you know what? Heaven is better. It HAS to be better. It has to be a million trillion frillion times better than anything we can possibly dream up. That if any of us actually knew the truth of heaven and had to choose between it and "growing up, getting married, having our own kids, living a long peaceful happy life" we'd be all YEAH, NO CONTEST.

And I believe that one day those parents will be with their children again and none of this misery will exist. Otherwise we might as well go fling ourselves off the nearest cliff, you know? 

I have some ideas as to how Joy Behar might respond to that, but whatever. She can deal her way and I'll deal my way. It involves a lot of wordless prayer, a quick supportive email to the kindergarten teacher, a preservation of delightful expectant Christmastime for my kids. 

A few other things help:

All the teachers and former teachers I know, every single one of them would have locked the classroom door, huddled with the kids in a closet or a bathroom or the corner, and calmly read book after book until it was time to come out. Without a doubt. Teachers love their students. The teachers I know, especially the ones in my family, are amazing people. I can't picture them in a scenario where they don't think of their students first. 

Checking in with friends. Most of us have small children. Just a few quick texts this morning to see how drop off went. That we are so unanimously and equally horror struck gives one a little faith in humanity. 

Donating. Besides prayer I couldn't think of another way to turn my grief into something that might actually help.

...that's all, I think. Add this post to the heaps of others that had no need to be published, but are out here because I needed to write something down. 

 

*ETA: after reading Sarah's comment I just wanted to say that I didn't mean this to be a platitude I would offer to grieving families, only something I say to myself to reconcile my own despair over horrific things happening to innocent people. What she said about Jesus weeping with us - yes. This.  

What I love best is the way she squeezes a blueberry in her fist and flings the mess across the kitchen

Always in the back of my mind I am remembering, somewhere, that my mother had five children under the age of five. My youngest sister was born about three weeks before my fifth birthday. In case you're having trouble picturing it, that's a four-year-old, a three-year-old, a two-year-old, a one-year-old, and a NEWBORN, all at once. 

And it's true, my memory of that time isn't exactly good (or existent) and even if I did remember it would all be from a child's perspective and therefore useless to me now. Still, my mom is incredibly able, terrifically creative, with heaps of ingenuity and an ability to let things go that I didn't seem to inherit. And always, in the back of my mind, I know that I compare what I do now to what my mom did then and so often I find myself lacking. I only have three! And there are just so many things that I can't seem to get done. (That's totally unfair to my mom, by the way, who is my biggest supporter parenting-wise and never makes me feel like I'm doing a poor job. This is ALL me.)

It's Emma's birthday today. It's been a whole year of the unsleepingest yet happiest baby ever, and a whole year of feeling monumentally incapable. She even woke up in the night, about 12:15 which is almost exactly when my water broke a year ago. I couldn't go back to sleep, just laid there thinking about what that was like, what happened, how it felt, what I was thinking, how I had absolutely no idea what would happen in the following three hours. That's when it started: I couldn't even give birth right. 

As the world has shifted a bit this month, with the start of school and this rigid schedule, I've been thinking about the last year and what I've learned, even how I've maybe changed, and it seems to be the year where God asked, "What would it be like if you couldn't do it all?"

I mentioned this to a friend tonight and she snorted - the last time she saw me I had a baby on my hip, I was making scones and homemade bread, setting the table for Molly's birthday party, and fixing the big kids' lunch at the same time. She doesn't have any kids and I know, to her, I look like SuperMom. And you know, sometimes I am. But I know I'm not SuperMom, I'm just the sort of person who is determined to do all the things I want to do. I'm just going to find a way. I will build the Blathering website during the month that Emma wakes up every hour, every night. I will throw a Christmas party in the middle of my most anxious season. I will lose 35 pounds before my 30th birthday. I will arrange every moving detail, and pack our entire house by myself, while pregnant and solo parenting. 

And this year feels like the year I [slowly] said to myself, "Well... actually maybe you shouldn't try to run every day." Maybe I shouldn't have another party right now. Maybe I shouldn't join that group. Maybe it's okay not to write on my website every day. Maybe I don't have to make a spectacular cake for EJ's birthday party. Maybe I can just give those jeans away instead of hating myself for not fitting into them. Maybe it's okay to take naps. 

So say God asked me that question months and months ago. For the longest time I've ignored it. I've denied it. I've fought it, big time, kicking and screaming the entire way. Until... now? Maybe a few weeks ago? Maybe when I started driving everyone to school? There's a way where I realized that this schedule is the new normal, and no we're not used to it yet, but I already see how limiting it is and how it divides my day into often inconvenient chunks. I already know that I can do just one thing on preschool days, maybe two things on no preschool days. 

It feels like God is questioning this thing about myself that I don't want to let go of. Like he's questioning something so me that it's my identity. Being responsible, reliable, dependable, determined, committed, capable - all good stuff. What's wrong with being those things? I won't give them up. I won't not be those things. 

Except... there is a way that being those things... I don't know. Instead of being someone who can be described with those words, I tell myself I AM those words. That is all of me. That is who I am. If I am not those words I am... no one. 

Will God love me more if I lose all the baby weight? If I make a beautiful birthday cake? If I throw the best Christmas party? If I do two more loads of laundry instead of napping? If I write the best blog posts? 

Emma is an entire year old today, and only now, just now am I beginning to hear what he's really saying. Getting it all done, accomplishing everything, remembering everything, doing all the things I want to be able to do, being a good wife and mother and friend by doing things and doing them well... that's not WHY he loves me. So if I don't get it all done, if I mess it up, if I forget, if I fail, he doesn't love me less.

My sweet adorable birthday baby, she does nothing. Nothing! Some days she won't even deign to feed herself to put her own chunk of pear in her own mouth. She doesn't crawl or cruise or walk, she doesn't speak, she doesn't do any work or produce anything, and the only thing she gives back is her happy face. And yet there is no way I could love her more. I don't need her to be anything except exactly who she is: my beautiful perfect daughter. 

Why yes, I think I will

In the mail today was a wedding Save The Date from the girl who observed Emma all year. She started in late October and finished up a few weeks ago. We were both mopey about it and she wrote me the sweetest thank you card. Our circumstances don't make us natural friends, but she's marrying the brother of a good friend of mine, so it makes it a bit easier to keep track of her. Plus I've already decided we're going to her wedding. Which is in Montana. Next summer. (WHAT.)

I love that a friend emailed a random request: "Hey, my future sister-in-law is looking for a new baby and mom to observe for an infant development class." And I love that I said yes, even though it really did sound sort of annoying and intrusive and crazy. And I love that it turned out to be AWESOME. I looked forward to her visit every week! Towards the end we were sort of breaking the rules and getting to know each other better and I TOTALLY love that she's inviting us to her WEDDING. 

I think the absolute craziest thing I've ever said Yes to was a proposition to hang out in China with a complete stranger for two weeks. It wasn't totally without context - at the time (the first year we were married) Phillip and I had missionary friends in China. They were coming back to the states for the summer, but one of their fellow English teachers was staying behind and housesitting by herself. Our friends told us she was the extroverted type, likely to be very lonely, and they knew we had just turned down our own opportunity to teach English in China for a year. Did we want to just go visit? And hang out with their friend? We could stay in the apartment she was housesitting. She spoke fluent Chinese. China is cheap!

The decision to not go to China ourselves, which I've written about a various times, was painful - a major place of "failure" for me. Plus I was battling big time anxiety and feeling guilty about putting Phillip through the whole rigamarole. To be perfectly honest, China was pretty far down on my list of places to visit, and while it doesn't seem totally strange to me NOW, I was DEFINITELY NOT the sort of person who happily agreed to spend two weeks with a total stranger. 

Except we said yes. Why not? We didn't have kids. We had plenty of vacation time and disposable income. We applied for visas, bought our tickets, and prepared for three weeks in China - two and half of them in Xian. We may have emailed once or twice with the girl I blog nicknamed Blondie, but I'm not sure. It didn't matter - when she met us at the airport we were instant friends. 

That trip was amazing, in so many different ways. (For one, it kickstarted this blog!) I've lived in a lot of weird places, but China was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. And Blondie - maybe it was weird that a just married couple was hanging out with a single girl they didn't know (and who ended up staying in the apartment with us, even though she had her own) but we clicked so fast and so easily. It was such a healing time for me, almost like a consolation prize from God. We had the best BEST time. We even ended up cutting our sightseeing time in Beijing to spend a few more days with Blondie and the Chinese students we were helping her teach.

The week after Christmas I'm going to Urbana as part of the intercessory prayer team. TOTALLY RANDOM. Yes, one of my best friends happens to be super connected to these sorts of things and if she wasn't already going there's no way I would have even THOUGHT of it. But she's going, she invited me, and even though we didn't really have another set of plane tickets factored into the budget, even though I have to leave early the day after Christmas, even though I'll be gone an entire WEEK, I said yes. Or, rather, Phillip told me I should say yes. I still don't really know what I've gotten myself into. If I think about it too much I start to feel sad about being gone so long, nervous about being gone so long, guilty for being gone so long (you get the picture) and also super intimidated. I've never done anything like this before. But so far, saying yes to the crazy stuff has worked out for me. 

A few years ago Emily and Elizabeth were trying to figure out how to get some internet people together, and then we planned this whole weekend in Sacramento, and I was honestly only going to go for an overnight because GAK I'd never been away from my kids before! It was so self-indulgent! It was unfair to my family! But I remember my mom telling me I was crazy not to go two nights and I went for two nights and what is crazier than spending a weekend with people you only know because of your WEBSITE? (What is more AWESOME, am I right?!)

I want to live a life of Saying Yes. Not necessarily to the church committees or school committees or the random day to day stuff. If you say yes to all of that you go crazy and you start to hate everyone. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about sort of the singular stuff, the random stuff you wouldn't have come up with on your own. The things where you'd be, "Well... why not?" I'm lucky I have a husband and family and friends who totally support this kind of thinking, even more than I do sometimes. I feel like my world has expanded so much because of those moments. I know people - I love people - I would have never ever met. 

Now you tell me what you've said yes to. :) 

Things I learned over a weekend with absolutely no children

I will creep around the living room and oh so carefully unload the dishwasher and snap at my friends to keep their voices down because a BABY is SLEEPING, OH WAIT.

I will still wake up early.

I will still wake up in the middle of the night. 

I won't miss them as much as I think I will. Which will make me feel guilty for about ten seconds, until I move on to the next no-kid thing I happen to be doing. 

My parents are incredibly fantastically amazingly generous people. 

I will still go to bed early. 

I will eat too much and spend too much money. 

I can think about things that are not fixing meals, cleaning up messes, and managing schedules. 

I have things to say that are not about kindergarten or sleeping through the night or discipline charts. 

I am good at things other than Trio blocks and sticker mosaics and making discipline charts. 

I won't obsessively check Twitter. 

I will still want alone time. 

Okay, maybe I will miss my baby a LITTLE bit omg when do I get her back waaahhhh.

How blessed I am. 

How much I like juicy pork dumplings. 

Also Trader Joe's yogurt pretzels. 

I will panic about re-entering normal life, especially with kindergarten starting on Wednesday and I am woefully unprepared in the Preparing A Lunch department. 

My house will still get dirty. 

How much I miss talking Deep Stuff with my husband. 

 

Every Labor Day weekend Phillip and I get together with three other couples we've known since college to hash out Life. We've been doing a yearly Examen for, I think, seven years now. Anyway, if you are so inclined, I so highly recommend doing this with your own group of committed people. Maybe it sounds weird and scary to share the highs and lows of your year with Other People, but every year the awesome increases. MAKE IT HAPPEN.

This may be the very first post in which I use a swear word, but I am only quoting Anne Lamott so it's okay

Yesterday was rough, and it wasn't because of the kids, it was because of me. I am anxious again and hopeless about it, tired, overemotional, rethinking this baby evaluation stuff, mad at the scale because I've been really good about not eating sugar and the number hasn't budged. 

The first thing I did was buy two chocolate bars when I did my near-daily Target run, and I ate one of them in world-record time - screw the scale. I felt better. 

The second thing I did was to wake up this morning and think: what would it be like if I wasn't so hard on myself? 

See, I don't think I AM hard on myself! I tell everyone this. Someone who is hard on herself wouldn't leave dishes in the sink for days or let her kid go out with his hair all crazy-like or actively decide to NOT vacuum when she knows the baby professionals are visiting AND will sit on her floor. CLEARLY a hard-on-herself woman would NEVER allow such things. So I sit here and congratulate myself on tolerating my lazy slobness, for only beating myself up about it once in a while. 

And that's true, I think. Things about which I am not particularly twitchy include: housecleaning, how my kids are dressed, cooking skill, what milestones my kids are reaching and when, whether or not I am involved enough in church or school or community stuff, ETC. Watch me be laid back! Woo!

Sometimes I'll write angsty blog posts about those things, as you know, and I'll have to say "I AM ACTUALLY FINE WITH THIS, I AM JUST LETTING OFF SOME STEAM!" because I know YOU and you are very nice people. 

But sometimes I'll write angsty blog posts about other things and I'll give the same "I AM FINE" disclosure, because I really think I AM, but actually, no, no no no I am not. 

I am not fine about my weight. I weigh all of three pounds above my pre-Emma weight. If I lost those three pounds NO ONE, INCLUDING MYSELF would be able to tell. Three pounds is not going to do ANYTHING for me. But I am dogged in pursuing those last three pounds, and I've actually bumped it up to five because I think I COULD tell if I lost five, and for some reason this is very very important. It's very much about fitting into my pants, but it's even more so about accomplishing an etched-in-stone goal. If I don't lose these three pounds then I can't say, "I lost the baby weight three times!" I can't stick my tongue out at the Medical Professionals who gasped when I told them how much I gain during pregnancy. I won't impress the handful of people who always make sure to tell me I'm doing such a great job on my weight loss efforts. I will have failed. And even though three pounds is negligible, even though losing weight this time is much harder to accomplish for very good and obvious reasons, even though I fit into 95% of my pre-pregnancy clothes - I am still a failure at losing the baby weight. 

I am not fine about anxiety. I thought I'd made some progress here, what with my total acceptance of crazy pills and my belief that it's More Like A Chronic Illness Than A Failing Of Intelligence. But I am still beyond frustrated that there is nothing I can do about it. It still doesn't make sense to me. How can I feel AFRAID, but not be able to tell myself to STOP FEELING AFRAID? How does that even WORK? What is WRONG with me? I don't think this way about other people, I only think it about myself. That if only I were less sensitive, had more faith, more courage, prayed harder, I could make myself fine. If only I was better at talking to doctors, if I wasn't such an uncomfortable-joke-making-Chandler in their offices, if I was more articulate, if I knew what they wanted me to say, I would have a medicine that works now. I at least wouldn't have waited an entire month to tell the doctor that my medicine suddenly gives me horrible lightheaded side effects if I take it during the day, and I can't tolerate it anymore. Who suddenly has side effects after taking something for two months?! He probably won't even believe me! I am so bad at this, in so many terrible ways. 

I am not fine about discipline. Not at all. Some days it's fine. Sometimes I am in a ball, crying, so angry and upset with myself for not being able to do something that SEEMS EASY. What am I missing in the equation: tell child to stop jumping off the couch = child stops jumping off the couch [for more than 10 seconds]. 

I am not fine about writing. I am supposed to be writing Other Stuff. The disclosure here is, "I AM FINE, I KNOW I AM A PARENT OF SMALL CHILDREN, TIS A SEASON FOR EVERYTHING, LA LA LA" but I don't believe it. I believe writers write and I don't always believe this space counts. I must not be a real writer. Anne Lamott would tell me to write a shitty first draft, to take 10 minutes and write my short assignment and OH MAN do I find her writing tweets inspirational and challenging and encouraging and YES I CAN DO THIS, ANNE! But then someone spills milk or I am too tired or I am just too busy being hard on myself, and I fail at even the shitty first draft. 

But this morning I really am honest to goodness wondering: what would it be like to not care? Or let it go? Or have more grace for myself? What would that even look like? Would I be recognizable?

Is it even possible? I feel like I have this wispy layer of bloggy angst, then a very thick layer of sensible rational normal-ness. That's where I live most of my life and except for your average mom-of-small-kids setbacks and frustrations, everything's pretty fine and looking good. Then underneath that is the real me, the core, where I'm most who I am, all the good and the bad. And the good is so awesome, the good is everything God sees in me. And the bad is... well, right now the bad is like this twisted mottled ball of fear: indissoluble, everlasting, fear of failure, fear of unworthiness. Fear that if I don't do something the right way, or the way that other people expect; fear that if I don't accomplish something; fear that if I can't get it done; fear that if I can't figure it out, then all the rest, all the good things about me aren't real. They aren't enough. Those three pounds will bury the 27 I've lost, I must have no faith at all because I can't make the anxiety go away, I can't be a good parent, I can't be a writer.

And then! I make it worse! Instead of grasping all the things God made me to be and knowing the rest is redeemed, letting those things fly away, letting them die on the cross; I cling tightly to my flaws and sin and darker parts - my FEAR - and I tell God, "Just let me make all these not-so-awesome parts disappear first, let ME take the blame, let ME deal with my fear - then I can be the person you made me to be." 

The thing is, I don't even believe that's possible. The entire Christian faith is built on Jesus taking the blame! And beating myself up is not at all how God wants me to be spending the little energy I have these days. So what if I didn't do that? HOW do I not do that? I may have said this before, but just knowing what your Stuff is does not mean you can break free. 

 

Written between breakfasts, fights, messes, and helping people who put their underwear on backwards

Yesterday I stayed up until midnight writing a blog post about, I don't know, this year, I guess, and how I am barely hanging on by my fingernails. I decided not to post it because, ugh, bummer, and also hello repetitive! I thought for sure I'd have something brighter or funnier to say in the morning, but nope! I am sitting here again, ready to delve fingers first into my nonfiction opus entitled Fingernails, Strength Of. 

I've been saying JESUS a lot lately. (Not in vain, though I am frequently (always) tempted to do so.) No, I'm just sort of saying it because I have nothing else to put out there. His name is a prayer in itself. It means Help. It means I have nothing else right now. 

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, 
Christ on my right, Christ on my left, 
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, 
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, 
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me, 
Christ in the eye that sees me, 
Christ in the ear that hears me.

I yelled at my nine-month-old. (Christ be with me.) I'm packing for our beach weekend by myself. (Christ before me.) I'm putting three un-sleepers to bed while Phillip is out helping someone other than me. (Christ behind me.) How can there be so many dishes, so much laundry, when I did these things yesterday? (Christ in me.) Oh God, the terrible news this morning. (Christ beneath me.) 

And on it goes. 

Some people say they don't know how people parent without Twitter. (I'm one of them. God bless Twitter.) But more than that I wonder how people parent without God. I hope that sounds how I mean it - a genuine question, not a judgment. I am in no place to judge right now - the whole gist of my post-that-I-didn't-post was how this year has humbled me, to a humbleness I didn't know existed. I didn't think three kids was going to be hard. I'm not a fabulous parent, but I'm a decent one, and I'm pro-babies and pro-powering through and I'm the annoying eternal optimist and WHATEVER NAYSAYERS, THREE KIDS AIN'T NO BIG THING. I might even be able to talk P Cheung, Naysayer In Chief, into four!

Insert bitter laughter here. Somehow, even with three easyish kids, welcome to quite possibly my roughest year in parenting. (I say "quite possibly" because I honestly don't remember at least half of Molly's first year.) I didn't count on extended months of questionable mental health. I must have forgot about business trips. I most definitely forgot what sleep deprivation is like. 

For an irrational overachiever like me, the fact that I am Hanging On By My Fingernails on a near-daily basis feels like failure. It's not, I know that. But remember, I am coming from the place where I don't think it'll be all that hard. I mean, let's call it what it is: a place of rather impressive arrogance. This much humility is dreadful, you guys, and keeps me running to the kitchen for pieces of chocolate. 

But Christ is before me, under me, to my left, to my right, he is everywhere. How else could I keep washing the same dishes, the same clothes, cleaning up the same messes, breaking up the same fights, wiping the same bottoms day after day after day? How else can I read Twitter, see what happened last night, and think, "But I still have to get ready for the beach."

The other day I was thinking that the next time I'm hard up for blog content I ought to just start writing thank you notes. I'll create a whole Thank You category. Thank Yous for all the individual internetters who've carried me through my rotten days and my anxious weeks, the people who send me surprise presents or random text messages, who enable my retail therapy or just listen (read) while I rant (type) via instant messenger. And today I think wow, I am the nerd who accessed the body of Christ through the internet. 

The desperately grateful nerd. 

I have spent an awful lot of money this month in an attempt to make myself feel better. I've eaten a ton of chocolate. I've looked for affirmation and validation in the work I did for my sister's wedding, even in the ways I interacted with friends and family members in town last week. With every line I spoke, in the way I dressed, in every action I was selling I am a good person, I am doing it right, I have it under control, I'm all right. I do it here. I do it now. I'll do it tomorrow. 

But with Jesus, all of that is futile. There's no point. He sees through me, he sees the places where I feel lost, dead, confused, and so very tired. I work so hard to hide all that stuff, but Jesus doesn't seem to mind. For the millionth time he barely looks at all my hidden things in that dark corner, calls me over to his lit up kitchen table, pours me a glass of Chianti, invites me to put my feet on the adjacent chair, asks me how the blog is going. The invitation, I feel, is to be real. Not to necessarily dwell on those hidden things, my perceived failures, but to admit that they're there, not deny their existence. But not to worry about it - those things aren't me. Those things aren't the death of me. They're just... part of where I am right now. A 33-year-old SAHM with three kiddos, a husband who works hard, a house that needs cleaning, and a fridge that does not magically dispense dinner. 

So after a few sips of wine and I'm calmed down and no longer overshadowed by the corner, I'll say something like, "Ugh, you know what Jesus, sometimes the blog just gets boring. Sometimes I have no idea what to do with it. Sometimes I'm just saying the same boring stuff over and over." Then I feel like he says, "Well, tell them about me." 

So I did. 

And now I have to pack.