My Joyful Mysteries, and A Revolution of Real

This morning we walked a mile, along the Beach, over rocks. We walked to the sound of the wind and the Ocean, and laughter. We walked and I thought about how incredible and intimate friendship can be when we are truly authentic with each other…

Walk a mile in these shoes.

These feet have worn deep holes in the sand, imprinting lives, leaving marks.

These feet have walked miles of motherhood, and heartache, divorce, depression, and widowhood.

These feet have been carried out of canyons, with broken bones, and walked back and forth pacing with babies.

These feet have squeezed into too tight shoes, and had to walk into meetings and jobs we dreaded holding our breath, and could only finally exhale when they were off and we could walk back into our house barefoot.

These feet have felt tear drops as we sit on the closed toilet seat, trying to hide from the world, because we need “just one more minute…one more minute.”

These feet have curled next to us us as we’ve blown raspberries on a babies belly, and folded under us as grief has stolen our voice.

These feet have kneeled next to sick children’s beds, and crumbled under the menacing power of one very small red Lego.

These feet have danced, and have rested under the warm sun, and stood high on tippy toes trying to find hidden candy.

Walk a mile in our shoes.

We found out a lot of things the hard way. But we’ve also found when we are together…that the walk isn’t easier, but we can remember to keep going. Keep walking. And sometimes allow ourselves to be carried.

We carry each other.

Even when people say we aren’t relevant, we can be transparent with each other. Even when people say our story is too sad, they don’t hear how hard we laugh through our pain, through our real.

We don’t make excuses, we just make real.

We have faith in a God who allows things we will never understand, and still love Him. Because he gave us these feet, and this life that we have gotten to walk through. He has given us each other. We are bonded through him forever.

We talked today about how there could be a movie about us. Our stories. Our Happy. Our Sad. How it would play out. It is a beautiful story.

Today I walked, grateful for this group of women that have such a huge impact on my life, on my soul.

Our Movie.

Our Friendship.

Our Story.

Our Mile.

Our Shoes.

We keep walking.

(Joyful Mysteries note: my beautiful friend Rachel sent me her real this morning. She is so much stronger than she knows. And I am so grateful that she sought out healing. Her Faith inspires me, and I adore her. Our lives have paralleled in so many ways and I am thankful to have a sister in Christ through her. She has asked for no advice on this post, just love and prayer. Thank you my dear Rachel for sharing your words.)

1:40 “If You will to do so, You can Heal me.”

Last week at Sunday mass this was the gospel reading. I try to listen to the readings, but I usually have someone wanting me to hold them, or one crawling down the pew to me from dad, but this week this reading got me in the gut. Lord if you will, You can HEAL Me! I almost started to break down and cry right there. I knew in my heart that this would be my prayer throughout this lenten season.
I want to give you a background on the last couple of years. In November of 2010 we moved into our house that we had built with our own sweat on our two acres of land. During that time of building, our marriage suffered the most it has ever suffered. We fought every day. I had fallen in love with the town of Prosser where we were renting and did not want to move into our new house. My husband, while trying to understand, had put his sweat and blood into this house. There were many hours every night spent on fighting and not getting anywhere. But we moved into our house and I tried my best to make it home for our family.
On April 1, 2011 I gave birth to a beautiful little baby boy at 17 weeks. I remember my husband was on spring break and we were so excited to go into an appointment together. I put on a pretty pink shirt and a nice skirt and did my makeup and hair. When the doctor came in he used the Doppler to find the heartbeat and he could not find it. I remember Him telling me not to worry and that we would find it in the ultrasound, but I knew. He went out to schedule an ultrasound and I looked at Corey and my look and tears said it all. The ultrasound confirmed that our baby had died, and then the words came that I dreaded to my core. I would need to deliver him. The next day we checked into the hospital and they put us in a birthing room where the walls and curtains are all bright colors, the baby bed is in there with a baby hat and blanket waiting for your living baby to be born. People would come in to draw blood and what not and ask what we were having, and I would have to say my baby died. It took three days of pain, tears and agony for our beautiful Joseph Pio Gerard to be born and he was perfect. We got to have him in our bed for the night and we kissed him and sang to him all night. The funeral home came for him the next day and a piece of my heart left that day with Him.
I did what I do best and buried all of that pain and memories. I am the Queen of pushing things down and not worrying (so I think) or thinking about them and deciding (trying) to move on.
In June we found out we were expecting again, and I had the most difficult pregnancy ever, with visits into the doctor every week for non-stress tests because my little guy had a very low heart rate. His birth was very, very difficult with it almost ending in an emergency C-section, but he was born and was perfect on March 10, 2012. A couple days later his blood was drawn showing he had extremely high levels of jaundice and was admitted right away to the hospital. If their levels reach a certain number they need a blood transfusion. It was very scary, and he was strictly limited to a billi bed with lights on him 24-7. I developed extremely painful mastitis because I was not allowed to nurse him for a few days. Finally we were discharged and then came a week with him on a billi bed at home. I was only allowed to hold him when I nursed him, so my nursing became extra-long. His blood was drawn twice a day and then we would anxiously wait to hear what his levels were for the day. I’ll never forget the day they told me he was ready to come off the lights, and I packed up all the nurses equipment in 5 minutes flat and bade them farewell.
It was during this time that my husband had been working on his National Board Certification and was due to submit his very large portfolio a few days after we arrived home from the hospital. He frantically put everything together while taking care of all of our kids while I was in the hospital with our baby. He did not pass his boards that year.

Fast forward to December, it was our year to go home to New Mexico to visit my family for Christmas. It was one of those trips where all of our kids got the flu one after another, we spent many hours in urgent care and trips to get prescriptions. My husband Corey had to fly home early to go back to work, and the kids and I had planned to stay down there for a month since I was homeschooling at the time. About 4 pm I got a from Corey saying he did not feel well at all. He was running on the track and his head started spinning and he couldn’t run in a straight line. He told me that something was not right. He drove himself to the ER and crawled through the doors. He was vomiting nonstop and the room would not stop spinning. I called my father in law and asked him to go to the hospital to be with Corey. Originally they told him he had the flu, but thankfully one doctor had the wisdom to run an MRI with dye and right away it showed he had had a stroke. They put him in an ambulance and sent him to Swedish hospital in Seattle. I called Southwest airlines right away and asked them to change our tickets to fly out the next day. It was going to cost us an obscene amount of money to change our tickets. I was uncontrollably sobbing and the lady must have understood that I was not making this up, she started to ask which hospital Corey was in to make sure this was not a hoax, but quickly decided to fly us all back for no extra charge.

God is Good.

The plane rides took an eternity. The stewardesses asking me to turn my cell phone off felt so wrong. What if my husband died? What if his brain started swelling? What if he needed to talk to me? (he couldn’t speak, but I didn’t know that) We arrived at the hospital and was told he was in the ICU. I did not allow my younger kids to see him because I didn’t know what to expect. I walked in to his room and he repeatedly continued to tell me, “Don’t Touch Me.” He was on so many meds, could not open his eyes, his head was wrapped and he didn’t recognize the kids or I. My mom took my kids home to our house, and for the next week I slept on a couch beside him with our baby that I nursed 24/7 so he wouldn’t make a peep. The next week was a blur of good news and bad news. I remember going down into the chapel and screaming and begging God to heal my husband. I told him I NEEDED him and He better not take him away from me. I told him, not to think about me, but about our kids. How could they live without their dad? Hundreds of people were praying for us and I felt surrounded by Grace. His recovery was nothing but a miracle.
The next 6 months he did not work. We lived off of nothing, and God’s grace was my strength to take care of my kids and my husband. He started back to work and once again his National Board Portfolio was due to turn in. He did not pass that year because of his recovery and his brain not being able to handle that stress.
The next months were ups and downs. Corey was recovering remarkably well, but still had so much fatigue and anxiety.
We decided to put our children in school for the first time. I could not do it all and thought it would be a very good positive change for them. They have been in school for almost 2 years now and they loved it. They have so many friends and I love watching them jump off the bus with their friends giggling and laughing.
We sold our house in June 2014 and moved back to Prosser. We bought our dream house for a price that was way below what the sellers were asking. It was nothing but a MIRACLE.
Corey PASSED his National Boards in November and I screamed and ran around the house for over an hour. When countless tragedies happen, the blessings are so much BIGGER. He had also been accepted to UW for a Special Education Director degree but the stress and workload of the program was just too much so he had to drop out of that program. That was extremely hard for me to accept, because I keep waiting for our break where we won’t have to make it paycheck to paycheck. During that time Corey’s car was stolen in Seattle and was not found for several weeks. We had to go through the process of finding another car and we did.
By this point I started feeling so numb, and just kept anxiously waiting for the next bad thing to happen.

It was around this time that I started reading this blog every day. I looked forward to reading it, it took me out of my own world for a few minutes. I remember reading the blog about her telling about her dark night of the soul and being diagnosed with PTSD. It was like it was a story about me. I hadn’t prayed in months, I was depressed and my anxiety was getting out of control. I had experience my first Panic attack at mass where my legs turned to jello, I was clammy and the room was spinning. All I knew was I had to get home, and when I did I was exhausted. It was getting to a point where I was not sleeping and I was at my breaking point. On top of that, I was not taking care of myself physically. I was not eating right at all. I was snapping at my husband and kids way too often. I had lost hope in life getting any better and could not find my way out of the fog. I talked with Kristin and told her I needed help but I didn’t know where to turn. Making the first step felt so overwhelming and exhausting for me but with her help I made an appointment with a therapist. I balled the entire first session. She recommended me seeing a doctor as well to get on some anxiety medication. That was another huge step for me. I was so scared of a doctor looking at me with judgmental eyes, but again God gave me the gentlest compassionate doctor I could have asked for. I don’t have a doctor of my own, because I don’t have medical insurance, so I asked God that when I call, he set me up with the right one and He did.

I have been on my medicine for 3 weeks, I have had 3 therapy sessions, I have cried rivers, but to all that are reading this I have to say, there is HOPE and HEALING when you are REAL and when your realize that getting help means YOU ARE COURAGEOUS.

I am making myself come out of isolation. I am making myself pray and read books to help me. I am surrounding myself with relationships that are real and positive and with people I know genuinely love me. Yesterday on my way to therapy, I received a text from a dear friend I had not heard from in a long time. She told me she was just thinking of me and was missing me. As I looked up from my phone, there is a huge rainbow in the sky. That rainbow was for me. I have sought out a support system of friends that I Iove and trust. One of them told me the other day that during lent, she was going to go to battle for me. She was going to be praying and offering things up for me. I cried tears of gratitude. This will be a long road for me, but I’ve had more Hope in the last few weeks than I have had in a very long time. I will push the thoughts of doubt out, that I’m a hopeless mess out, and I will not give up. I am blessed with a loving husband, 7 beautiful children (2 are in heaven), and with real friends that have stepped in to help me. Today I am filled with Gratitude and Hope. That is my Real.

Mark 1:40 “If You will to do so, You can Heal me.”

Back when we were brand new my Love took me to the Mother Cabrini Shrine* outside of Denver Colorado. We didn’t realize it was closed that day, so we were just going to use the path. There was a large hill up to the Shrine, and it was bitter cold with icy snow crystals spinning and wind pressing down on us- and we didn’t even make it up there. We tried twice, but it was too cold.

So we ran back to the van. The leather seats had a small patch of sunlight warming it so we rested our faces next to each other, finding warmth from that little bit of sunshine. I was 17, he was 21, and we had our entire lives up in the air. He was going to a priest maybe. I was in love with a boy who wanted to be a priest maybe. But in that moment nothing mattered. Just our faces on the warm leather. Smiling goofy smiles, feeling stuffed with happiness.

All these years and adventures later this is still one of my favorite memories. And it speaks volumes about who we are together.

On that day in late November things didn’t go as planned. But we made the most of it, together.

Things haven’t always went as planned in our little lives.

Because part of being in a real relationship is dealing with the real life issues of marriage and family. The boy I married used to be very passive aggressive. The girl he married used to have a vicious tongue. We both could say things that hurt the other, intentionally. We had to work through so much- and it wasn’t easy. But neither of us thought of walking away- because we prayed. A lot. And learned to forgive. A lot. And ask for forgiveness. A lot.

I’d pray as my tears would trickle down the steering wheel during that first year of marriage, when my vows weren’t as beautiful anymore…because our house had burned down, and we only have $10 for groceries, and I was pretty sure I was pregnant. My vows in that moment felt like cement and the weight of them scared me and I prayed. Desperately.

I prayed because I knew I needed to stay. I knew I loved him, that I had never really loved anyone else with such intensity…even though I was so angry I could taste bitter awful thoughts.

And I know he did too. I knew it when he went to confession during his lunch break. I knew it when he came home and would hug me, as if it was the first and last time he would ever hold me in his arms again- with such passion that I knew all he’d wanted to do was get in the car…and drive far far away.

And then he’d ask if we could pray together.

We stayed. Because we prayed. I know if either of us stopped that would have been it.

The End.

Of what is amazing, and passionate, and beautiful, and hard and ours.

As the years have passed things haven’t always went as planned… but just as long as we prayed, we knew we’d be okay.
Sometimes it was one of us more than the other. Praying.

When his friends have been killed, I prayed more, as he grieved. When work has overwhelmed him- and he’s seen hatred in the eyes of people he’s helping, I have prayed for hope for him and purpose.

He has prayed for me, when exhaustion and heartache broke me. When I was a shell of who he married, hollowed eyes and empty. He would tell me when we were going to church and wait and pray until I came out. He held me as I cried and prayed over me as I thought I may never be myself again, because I didn’t know that I could stay here.

We prayed together over each of our kids, including Mary as we held her body…knowing she wasn’t really there but desperate to wake her up.

We have had so many intense beautiful
moments of prayer together, when life hasn’t went according to plan.

Even the small moments…when one of us has had a nightmare or one of our kids climbs in the bed, crying tears of sleepy fear- we pray together and with them.

I think of all the marriages where there is abuse and unfaithfulness. Those are the types of sins that twist and distort vows. Those are the things that I understand people walking away, running away from. For the sake of their kids, and their lives.

My marriage doesn’t have that horror. I said vows to someone who loves me and honors me…but still, it is not easy. But they were said.

My vows were said in front of our friends and family…and our God.

We are at the age where friends are splitting up, relationships are irreconcilably fractured, and we daily are needing to safe guard this little life we have worked so hard on together. Because we are not perfect. Days are hard, and cruel, and we are both pulled in a million different directions in a world that has told us- statistically we should fail.

So we love, and choose to love, especially when it’s not easy.

Because things will never go as planned…

We aren’t debt free like we wanted to be.

We wish we could have another baby, or two, but we haven’t.

I’m not organized. And he can’t find his keys.

I’m a miserable cold person.

He is grumpy when he’s hungry.

I have given up helping him back the trailer into its space for Lent…and perhaps eternity.

I’m still not the girl he fell in love with. But I’m braver than she was.

I have loved him longer than I have ever loved anyone. I still long for him.

And I will never give up.

On him. On myself. On my kids. On us.

On the days that are good I will gorge myself with happiness and let each blessing fill me to the brim, so that on the hard days, the real days, the love won’t be too far to find.

I will find that patch of sunlight and I will rest my face against it…making most of my time with him- here, with the rest of our lives up in the air.

*google Mother Cabrini. She rocks. Our goddaughter is named after her. 🙂

Ash Wednesday. The beginning of 40 days of Lent.

A time to recommit, to fast, and to focus on the little ways that we can use our gifts for good.

Lent is a perfect time to look inside at all the imperfections that need divine fine tuning.

Not using comparisons or negative self talk.

Praying for peace and love.

Using a gentler voice and a spirit of prayer.

To be led by God to use our Hands for what he’s calling us to.

To not be frozen with fear, and to make each moment count.

To love the dying and care for the sick.

To grieve and remember, and let our light shine.

Especially in the dark.

Not to be a “clanging bell but to allow God to make beautiful music again.”

My Papa John sent Proverbs 16:3 today and it made all the blurry plans I have, the future I can’t yet see come into focus…may we all Commit Our Work, in whatever stage we are at to the Lord…

Little Ways, Big God…all for His Glory.

We all focus on the big stuff.

The big huge life transitions.

The firsts.

The firsts are where we invest countless hours and energy. We place them on shelves, and in frames. We scribble the firsts on calendars and compare other landmarks to them. They are important. They are the big stuff.

The first orange leaf. The first snow. The first small bulb peeking out of the ground. The first lazy summer sunlight.

And these moments bring us back to other firsts. And we remember. Our firsts.

But there is not as much focus on the in between. The moments that don’t end up on a calendar or in the journal. The moments that pass by with such efficiency we don’t even recognize them. The kindness of a stranger. The random little happy moments that pass us by. The smell of clean baby soft hair right after a bath leaning into us. Clean sheets out of the dryer. I never thought a lot about them, but years ago my friend Kati said something about those in between moments and something resonated.

And I’ve been thinking a lot about them.

Those moments.

And I’ve been trying lately to focus on these. Because I’m realizing while they don’t make the list of big things, these are the things I long to remember.

The roughness of my Dyp’s cheek against my face first thing in the morning. The little way Jonah always comes to say good night and give me a hug. The way Daniel will stop whatever we’re doing and ask if we can pray. Micah leaning into my face when I’m taking a nap to make sure I’m actually asleep, so close that I can feel his eyelashes. Grace singing in her room.

I remember the first time I saw my Love. I remember the first time we kissed. I remember all of our firsts. But waking up next to him day after day, in the in between kids, in between bills, in between birthdays and anniversaries is my favorite.

We have seen enough sadness and transition. We have felt enough tension and newness.
But right now I just love the in between. The growing up and growing old together. The way the grey shows in his hair, and the way he has never in all the 19 years together complained about the spider veins on my legs.

I used to try to cover them up. But as I get older they are just another in between part of me. And maybe that’s what the lesson in real is about- being okay with the blemished parts of us. And falling in love with all the moments.

Especially the in between.

It’s too easy in our fast, news flash, instantaneous world of over dosed imagery to miss out on them…but they are happening. I don’t want to miss all the things that needed to be said, or should’ve been said, because of a device.

I want to live and rejoice, and love the in between.

Because someday…the in betweens will have bigger pauses between them. Someday life will have passed by so quickly and my body will have slowed down. And I will begin to have more lasts.

The big stuff will always be big. Hurdles will be jumped, or even walked around until we are strong enough to jump.

I found the in between when I looked through my photos. Pictures I didn’t realize were taken, but show the moments captured that may have just passed by if I hadn’t taken the time to look…

And see…the In Between.

Dear Traveler,

Welcome to your journey. The road is wide and vast and you are on it. Already. From the moment you took your first breath you placed the soles of your feet on the road.

Somedays you will love it, you will skip and you will be so glad you can run down it. You will feel free, as you look around and feel grateful for all the other travelers. They laugh with you, they make the journey easier.

Other days you will hate it. The weather will be bitter and cold and the wind will whip around your face. No one will smile or make eye contact. You will be alone, trudging up hill, and you will see no end in sight.

Somedays will fly by. You will be amazed at how far you’ve walked. You wish time would slow down so you could taste more of the fresh air and watch the sunset just a little longer.

Other days will drag on and on. Time will slow down and you will long to lay down on the asphalt and close your eyes and sleep forever.

You will hear a lot of stories on the road, some will fill your heart with hope, some will stop your heart with grief…and you will learn that everyone has their own pace and their own journey.

People will leave you. And you will feel completely alone. And scared, and will not know how you can ever walk again.

You will meet good people. People who will gather you to them, and talk you through just one more step. Who will carry your stuff and give you water. Who will brush the sweat from your brow and tell you are beautiful when you know you hold no beauty in your eyes that day. They will give, knowing you have nothing to exchange in return.

You will meet Evil. People who only want to hurt. People who are driven by harm. They will try to push you off the road, their rage is their guide. And you will have to remain vigilant and move beyond their grasp. They will tell you, you are beautiful, and then show you your ugliness. They will take and leave you stranded.

And you will become. You will make choices and take shortcuts, and sometimes will be unsure of where exactly you are. But eventually you will end up…here.

You are here.

Hello Traveler.

This road is wide open, but you have never been alone. You have tried to run ahead. And have woken up in the dark, to leave before the sunlight hits the road to make your own way.

But I have still been there.

Just in case.

You make your pace. You make your path.

But I still stay close.

Just in case.

And you will stumble. But you will get back up.

And you will scream into the sky. But the wind will billow around you and bring you a breeze, and whisper what I have been saying since the day you started your walk.

I am close by…

I am here.

Close your eyes and lean into me…I know the way, my precious Traveler.

You are here. And I am too.

“We walk by faith, not by sight.” 2 Corinthians 5:7

Granni fell today. We were in town to see her and she fell right before we got there. Her walker just went too fast around a corner.

She is ok. Her arm is banged up. But she is ok, and she just got her hair cut and looks lovely. She just got out of the hospital this past week after a bad bout of pneumonia.

I already had a post going but the real of today was more important.

Granni.

I watched how she looked at my Love and how much faith she places in him. She is so proud of him. And he is so tender with her. And then I watched my oldest son help her into her wheelchair and gently wheel her down to her table for lunch.

She was proud of us, and shared us with everyone on the way. And I watched and fell a little more in love with my family.

Grace talks to her, and looks at her, and the 91 years that separate them doesn’t dull either of their sparkle.

I watched and I am all too aware of how precious these moments are. And I gathered them closely to me– seeing, feeling, praying that they will stay with me.

I sat later and talked to my sister in law Susan, who has physically lost the love of her life, but the love is still there. It is there. It makes the grief even more poignant, and powerful.

Love is. Powerful.

Today I saw love as an verb, an action. It is a gift.

Today I saw life in beautiful frailty. It is a gift.

And I gather it all in.

Life and grief.
Hope and heartache.
Sadness and True Love.

And I pray that I never forget this. This is what matters. Love is what matters.

Did you know St. Valentine was a martyr? He died for his faith.

There isn’t a lot known about him. But he was a person. Who ended up being a Saint. And who was tortured and died and buried at Via Flaminia(outside of Rome).

That is all that is known.

In this world where we look to this day for confirmation of love and either love or hate it, I think of what Love really means.

What we believe and know love is.

C.S. Lewis wrote one of my favorite books and talks about the distinction of different Loves. In “The Four Loves*” he breaks it down to Storge(affection), Philia(friendship), Eros(romantic), and Agape(unconditional love).

All four have played a huge roll in my life and at every stage of my existence.

I’m sure the same is true for you.

But how often do we place expectations on others to fill a need they can’t possibly fill? How often do we place “love” within the confines of a box, packaged up pretty, but when it begins to show wear- when there isn’t enough duct tape to fix it we figure it’s a lost cause?

We are human and flawed, and show our most unloveable sides to those we say matter most. Things like control, jealousy, pride, anger, guilt, manipulation, and codependence are not love. And yet, we keep using them In order to prove our love.

But…
Real love turns us inside out, and can change us forever.

It’s the kind of Love…

The kind of love that causes us to live and die for a truth. The kind of love that cannot be stomped out. The kind of love that is pure and sacrificing. The kind of love that lasts long after death.

It lives on. In our memories. In our everyday. In our existence.

It’s the kind of love that My Love’s Grandmother, who 30 years after her husbands death still talks about him, and asks for him when she’s sick.

That is Love.

What stood out for me as I read about St. Valentine is while not a lot is known about him, he was chosen as a Saint because his name is “justly reverenced among men, but whose acts are known only to God.”

What a beautiful way to acknowledge the meaning of Love. True Agape. That is the kind of Love we should all strive for.

Our acts may only be known to God, but if they were acts of Great Love we can die, and still our love lives on.

Powerful and Real.

Much love my friends.

Your Real wasn’t ready this week and that’s ok. With this whole revolution I let each week unfold as it may and really feel like things unfold as they’re supposed to…I have people writing but this week no one was quite ready.

So I just gave God the Lead.

I’ve been doing that a lot lately. It’s not comfortable, but Neither is Real.

I’ve second guessed myself more this week than any other week this project. I compared myself. And I realized that nothing good comes from either.

This is bigger than Me, and that is good.

I am a small part of a much bigger picture. I am one small voice of a much bigger revolution.

And I’m real, because we have spent too many nights being told that our Stories should be bigger, bolder, more brilliant.

But our stories all tell a much bigger story , that can only be found through cutting the crap and the bags, and getting down to the simplest truths…

God is Love.
He Came.
Lived Among us.
To Die.
For Us.

For you. For Me.

And we live. And choose. And compare. And want More.

And for a long time that’s all I wanted. Was all that More…but a shift has happened.

My Real has left me completely exposed…but I am trying and striving to give God the Glory. And sharing even just a little bit of Him- this has been worth that.

This is not comfortable. But it’s real. It’s me.

If you want to write for Friday’s Posts I would love to have you. Please let me know.

Your Real. Your Truth.

Our Story.

This week I had a full on Momzilla moment.

And it wasn’t pretty. It happened so fast and instantly I knew I had a major parent fail.

I dropped the F bomb in front of my kids.

In my house there are a few of those…Fat is one. One is an incredibly derogatory name for someone. And then there is the mother of all bad F words. We don’t use those words In our House. Ever!

Yep. I used the latter. And you’d think it was because I broke something but I hadn’t, unless you mean my childrens hopes and dreams that their Mother was full of Grace.

No. I’m not.

I used it in a moment of absolute…I have HAD it, absolutely NO more, end-of-my-very-frayed-patience-rope.

I yelled…

“New Rule, no more calling fricken Dibs!”

Except I didn’t say Fricken. Oh no. I said it.

And instantly wished I could take back that word. But I said it.

It was out there. In front of my kids.

I’m pretty sure my Mother Mary statue turned her back on me in the backyard.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve totally bombed this whole parenting thing, and it certainly won’t be the last. I wish I could say I’m always patient and kind with my kids…but I’m not.

I love my kids. They are my greatest gifts, but I am so flawed. I’m not always patient, whether it’s because I’m tired or because somedays I feel like I don’t have enough left.

Like that day.

From the minute I picked them up from school it started, they started pecking at each other…

“She’s kicking my seat.”

“He’s chewing with his mouth open.”

“The music is too loud.”

“Stop kicking my seat!”

“The music is too quiet.”

“Stop wearing my socks!”

“Shotgun!”

“I had it first.”

“He won’t share it with me!”

“Quit kicking my seat!!!”

“It’s not fair- you sat there last time.”

“They’re all gone. It was my turn to have the last bowl.”

“But it’s my turn.”

“Get out!”

“I did it last time- you need to do it!”

“It’s Mine!”

“Dibs! dibs!”

“Mom. Mom! MOm!! MOM!!!!!!!!!!”

“I called Dibs!!”

…and then I lost it.

My patience, my kindness, my unconditional love unraveled into a trucker’s mouth because someone called dibs on a dinner plate.

No offense to trucker’s.

I don’t like conflict. I get stressed out about it. It’s why I can’t stand reality TV. I don’t enjoy watching people peck at each other. It’s why I don’t do well with Catty women. And that day all they did was peck at each other.

And before I released Momzilla- I had tried everything. I turned on music they all liked. I asked about their Days. I made what they requested for dinner. I tried to mediate. And they kept fighting…

They kept pecking. And I showed my real.

My Real Ugly.

And of course afterwards, after we ate dinner in mostly silence, and after we all had kind of regrouped from my little tantrum- I apologized. I was very honest about how frustrated I was, but that was no reason to behave that way. Ever. They deserve better.

But we also used that as a time to talk about why the way they were behaving wasn’t ok either. Life isn’t fun living with constant fighting. It’s chaotic and all it does is add stress. We all deserve better.

And then we talked about what causes us to fuss and peck at each other…it’s too much focus on Me and not enough focus on the bigger thing…each other, family, Us.

Maybe if we stopped and talked to the person who is bothering us, and saw they just wanted our attention. Maybe if we gave someone else our turn or shared. Maybe if we stopped focusing on everything everyone else is doing wrong and looked at what they are doing right…one of my kids just wants his brother to want to be around him that he will try for any sort of reaction. Maybe if we just chooses to Love. So we talked about the basics of what our family is. What our mission is…

Familia Es Todo. Family is All.

After dinner we did dishes together…we read together…we spent time together, and we prayed together.

And nobody fought.

Because I may not be full of Grace, but God is…and gave us so much that night.

And while I don’t think my Momzilla f bomb moment was ever warranted (I AM Catholic and have a degree in guilt, and still need to go to confession) I do think it was the beginning of a much needed conversation.

A good fricken’ conversation.

Too Soon?

Well you couldn’t expect a Revolution without a little controversy.

Until then I’ll be reading 1 Corinthians 13 over and over again until I can redeem myself…

Mom is Patient…Mom is Kind….

Ps. Just don’t ever call Dibs at my house.