When momma loves herself, daughter will follow.

Patterns, habits and long-term environments mold so much of who we are, but I’m convinced simple little encounters are powerful enough to change our outcome–for better or worse. Like this morning. As I was stepping out of the shower and scurrying to the bedroom to get dressed on time, my 4-year-old daughter made a comical observation. Giggling and wide-eyed, she pointed her little bird-like finger and said,

“Momma, your bottom SHAKES when you walk!”

Now, I could have responded with embarrassment, frustration, anger, or any combination of negative reactions. After all, as women we’re trained by society to do anything but embrace the jiggle. We’ve come so far with encouraging acceptance of fuller figures (and still have so far to go), but we rarely talk about the movement of these …

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Was that really a piece of dog hair embedded in dried snot on my child’s face? Yes. Yes it was. Unfazed, I reached up and pulled it off, and then thought I’d better clean that snot off, too. Gross. Only, not gross. Just normal. It’s weird how normal gross things are when you have kids. I’m nearly immune to the smell, texture and sound of bodily fluid as it drips, squirts and flies out of my children. Motherhood. Is this all?

I can still remember when my first-born nephew was around 18 months old (that would have made me 6 and a half). He was eating a cupcake (or something white, I can’t really recall). He had a smudge on his face, and my sister casually reached over, wiped it off with one finger, and licked …

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You know, it’s a wonder any of us Kansans have derrieres. We freeze them off in the winter and sweat them off in the summer. And the wind. The d*mn wind that never, ever stops blowing. To be honest, I’ve been fantasizing lately about a new home, and suburbs where young families flock, and a state other than this one. But all it took was a day like today to make me fall in love all over again (for now).

It’s not fancy, but it’s ours. And that’s all that matters.

 

You see, there’s a part of me that takes comfort in deprivation. A lack of choices. Too many, and I’m overwhelmed and panic-stricken. I prefer Aldi’s over the mega stores, and do most of my clothes shopping online. I need things narrowed down to the …

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“Let’s take pictures of the way the light is coming into the house mommy.” Just like I wouldn’t trade these hardwood floors, I wouldn’t trade my sometimes-difficult daughter for anything easier to maintain. She is worth the beauty.

I pinched a little white tablet out of the orange prescription bottle. 10 mg. What could it hurt? But what could it help? Could a man-made concoction of chemicals really help un-kink the rat’s nest of anxiety in my mind? I’d had the bottle for a week, but only now decided to start taking them. I knew it would be a commitment. This wasn’t my first rodeo with mind-fixing meds. But I’ve never been able to hang on for long. The side effects or non-effects just didn’t seem worth the benefits. So why would this time be …

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I’m a 10. Perfect.

My little mini-me. 🙂

“Can I sit with you?”

My 4 y/o daughter sat on the bench of our dining set, eating a spaghetti lunch off a cream-colored Tupperware tray, her golden hair pulled back in a four-inch pony tail.

“Sure, mom. Sit by me.”

I sat down on the chair next to her, but not on the bench. She questioned my choice of seat.

“I don’t like getting off and on that bench, honey. Momma’s getting old,” I playfully told her.

She reached her delicate hand up to my face, and gently stroked the lines around my mouth.

“You’re not old mommy. Well, maybe a little here. But you’re not OLD.”

I smiled. My sweet, observant girl was growing up so fast.

“Mommy, why are you so big?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant. But as a woman, my initial thought was, “fat.” …

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I just can’t wait for her to stop chattering and go to sleep. But then she does, and I hate to leave her room. Her head on my shoulder, peaceful breaths landing on my ear. “You’re gonna miss this. You’re gonna want this back.”

I made a confession at Bible study tonight. I hadn’t been in a long, long, while. Months. After my sister asked me (patiently, again, because she knows I’m forgetful), I finally got around to going tonight. I was late, and left early, but just enough time for God’s word to smack me upside the head.

“The thing I struggle with most is anger. I just get so frustrated with my girls. I yell, and it’s so unattractive. If I had a hidden camera in my home, I’d be ashamed at what I …

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