It was already 4:00 p.m. when they asked if we could go to the beach. I was hesitant, as it had been a long day already. But we had nothing to fill those witching hours before dinner and dad’s arrival back home, and it was a warm, beautiful day. The kids reminded me “the beach” was on our summer bucket list, so I agreed. Yes, let’s go. To the beach it is.

When we arrived, we made our way straight to the water. A ginormous family gathered to the right. Picnic tables littered the forested area leading to the beach. We chose the table closest to the water’s edge, 20-30 steps from here to there. The two oldest plopped their stuff down and entered the water promptly. Like any “good mom,” I organized all the stuff at the table, then got our youngest geared up in her life jacket before she headed to the sand.

I made myself comfortable at the picnic table, watching the kids swim within the buoys from a distance, watching our baby play in the sand. But something was making me feel uncomfortable, guilty, really. I felt like I was TOO FAR away from my children, like I wasn’t being a “good mom” sitting at that picnic table 20-30 steps from me to my baby, many feet from my children frolicking in the water. It was my perception of a “good mom,” my perception of one “good beach mom” that did me in. There she was, the embodiment of “good mom,” fully pregnant with dad and one older child frolicking in the water, all three of them together loving and enjoying this beautiful day.

Yes, the contrast between my perception of that mom and my perception of myself was stark in my mind. That pregnant mama frolicking in the water with her husband and son? A “good mom.” Me at the picnic table in full-on clothing and several steps and feet from my children? Not a “great mom.” Yes, I’ve read all those viral blog posts telling mom to “just put on that suit and get in the water, your kids are only young once.”

I was feeling guilt and condemnation from the start of this summer bucket list gig. And it was likely largely in my mind.

So I got up from the picnic table, took off my shoes, picked up my camera and moved much closer to my baby.

Fortunately, there was a gigantic rock right next to her. So I sat there, close. It felt better, more responsible, more engaged, more motherly. Although I still had guilt that I was clothed, not “right in there” with the kids.

I chilled out for a while. Relaxed. Dug my feet in the sand. Wiggled my toes. Watched the big kids frolic in the water. Took a few photos of my baby playing in the sand, making her own version of sandcastles – the kind you never flip over into castle form. I watched as she found tiny rocks and one by one, carefully placed them on top of her castle. It was all grace. Pure grace for my “not a good enough mom” heart that day at the beach.

But after a while, I looked up, looked long, looked all around. Why oh why do I do that? Why oh why must I constantly worry I’m not doing life right? Why look right and left when I already had peace? Why question and compare my identity with hers and hers and theirs?

This questioning and worrying and wondering if I’m doing life all wrong must stop. But it didn’t. The subtle lies ruminated in my head as I looked left, right and all around at everyone else.

Look at all the people swimming. 

Look at the moms building sandcastles with their children.

Look at that pregnant mom frolicking in the water with her husband and child, enjoying life, taking advantage of every opportunity to get right in the thick of things.

You’re not swimming.

You’re not even in a swimsuit.

You’re just sitting here on the beach, fully clothed, with a camera, watching your children from “a distance.”

You’re not a “good mom” like them.

You’re not getting life right.

The subtle, but undeniable lies continued ruminating in my mind as I sat on that rock at the water’s edge. But God persisted with grace, unmerited favor upon me.

After a while, the baby was clearly done with the sand.

We got up and made our way back to the picnic table to brush and dry off. I checked my clock for the first time since we arrived. To my surprise, we’d already been there for 1 hour 40 minutes. It was 6:10 p.m. Dinner time. We were 20 minutes from home and I hadn’t even started dinner. “Good mom” came to mind. “Good mom” would have had dinner in the crock pot all day or a cold tuna salad and fruit salad waiting in the fridge or a full-on picnic dinner of chicken and coleslaw for that picnic table. But I had nothing. No dinner. Dad likely on his way home from a long day at work. And then there was us, here at the beach. And me, late and empty handed.

This was truly an amazing, fun-filled summer bucket list adventure for my three kids and a torturous “bad mom” adventure borne out of my wandering mind.

So I called the big kids in. “Come in, guys!” It’s time to go! Time to get some dinner!”

The only thing is….they didn’t respond. They didn’t listen. They didn’t come in from the water. They just kept playing and acted like they didn’t hear me when I know they did.

I was miffed.

So I called my husband and let him know we were at the beach, that I’d called the kids in once, but they hadn’t listened, that I was trying to get them out sooner rather than later so we could get home for dinner together, that I didn’t have anything planned, but maybe he could make some hamburgers and beans and we could have some of that watermelon cut up? (Yes, I intentionally wrote that as a run-on sentence because it best describes my wandering thoughts and worries that afternoon.)

I called the kids in again. “Come on guys, time to go!” They looked and me and kept swimming. Utter disregard for my direction. I was starting to get irritated, but there was nothing I could do. My 10 year old and 12 year old were swimming free, independently, far out by the buoys and having a heck of a good time! Why in the world would they want to come in now except for complete OBEDIENCE? I couldn’t blame them and was waffling between just letting them swim some more and complete anger at their disregard for my direction.

So I let them swim some more, because there was nothing I could do other than get in the water with my clothes on and drag them out. And that didn’t seem sensible nor necessary.

Did I mentioned God persisted with grace through this whole adventure?

It was as if He was saying…breathe…rest my child. It’s okay. I am here and you are a good mom despite their disobedience right now.

I watched as my baby filled a bubble bottle cap with with water and stirred with an old glow stick she found on the ground. I watched as she did this dirty, hard, small work with care. I watched as she walked up the steps, down the steps, then jumped off to the bottom without a care in the world. She walked and jumped again and again and again some more.

Time passed in grace. Enough so that I felt it was justified to give another try at calling the kids in so we could leave, so we could get home, so we could get dinner with dad.

I called. “Come on in guys, it’s time to go. We need to get home for dinner. Dad’s home now.”

They didn’t respond. Kept playing. Kept swimming. Kept laughing and swimming farther out, farther away from me.

I was getting ticked now. Angry.

The baby was ready to go. I’d packed up our stuff and was clearly ready to go. I started waving the kids in, gesturing “come” as quietly and nonchalantly as I could without making a scene. Every time the kids paid attention to me, I gestured angrily and abruptly, attempting to let them know I was mad and needed obedience ASAP.

No response.

No obedience.

I was so mad.

To make things worse, this was all happening in the immediate presence of the “good mom” who was still pregnant, still frolicking in the water with her husband and one older son. I was truly embarrassed that my children were not obeying my direction to get out of the water. I was truly embarrassed that I had to keep calling with no response. I was truly embarrassed that I came in clothes and was stranded on the beach with no way of getting them out of the deep other than to make my way in, fully clothed. I am truly embarrassed to say it was 7:05 p.m. before they finally got out of the water.

I let them know that I was SO mad, that I had been calling them in for 55 minutes, that they had been so disobedient and I was not happy at all.

I gathered our stuff.

And we took one last walk along the beach.

Grace for us all.

As we drove out, we passed a beautiful pond surrounded by grasses and wildflowers. It reminded me of the beautiful pond my sponsored child’s tutor stopped to photograph in Haiti, the one I made into a 8×10 and sent her in the mail because I knew it meant something special to her.

More grace.

I stopped the car. Got out. Told the kids I was taking a moment for myself. Walked around and snapped a few photos at my leisure.

Grace.

My husband had dinner ready when we got home. Hamburgers, beans and watermelon cut up. I told him about the kids’ direct disobedience, how the outing was great fun for the kids and not so great for me.

After dinner, my husband took the kids. And I took some time away, by myself, in our bedroom. After a good long while, they came in and sincerely apologized. I’m sure at the direction of their father, but still. The apology was felt.

I wasn’t the world’s greatest mom, but I was a better mom.

Swimming & Sandcastles

Total Cost: $0

Mom Lesson: Moms need heaping doses of grace. Everywhere. All the time.

Kid Lesson: Kids have fun and make fun anywhere, even when they’re in trouble.

This post is part of a summer-long series titled Summer Bucket List. This is my first summer home full-time with our three children. My hope for this series is that it will challenge me to adventure out of my mothering comfort zone, will provide opportunities to live and write simply, practically, beautifully and meaningfully, and will stimulate some some fun ideas for your summer as well! To check out the entire series, click here and you’ll be directed to the introductory post where all the posts are listed and linked for easy reading. Enjoy, friends! And have a blessed summer.

My husband had the afternoon off, so we decided to include him in our Summer Bucket List fun for the first time ever. A family bike ride seemed to be the best option. After all, we desperately needed dad to fill all those tires and make sure everything was in working order.

Our two adult bikes were hanging from the garage rafters. We hadn’t ridden them in two, maybe three years. They were dusty, dirty, and the tires were completely deflated. So Seth broke out the pump and filled everyone’s tires while I managed other prep needs.

Two children put on their helmets without question. One child did NOT, I repeat, did NOT want to wear his helmet. “Dumb.” “Babyish.” “This looks so stupid,” he said. “Nobody my age wears a helmet.” We persisted that we were going on a very long bike ride and that he needed to wear that helmet. Finally, after much persuasion, he agreed and we were on our way.

As we biked out of our driveway, I realized it had been an incredibly LONG time since we’d gone on a family bike ride. I honestly couldn’t remember when the last family ride would have been. As we greeted a neighbor on our way out of the neighborhood, I also realized that it’s incredibly RARE to see families go on bike rides together anymore. Growing up, my family went on bike rides all the time. Back in the 80s, it was fairly routine to see families on casual evening bike rides around town. But today? Not so common at all.

By the time we got all the way out of the neighborhood, I was already a bit winded. Seth reminded me that I should be the most physically prepared for this bike ride since I work out so faithfully. But I haven’t ridden a bike for any long distance in years, so truth is, it wasn’t that easy for me. Why is it that biking as an adult is so much more physically taxing than it was when you were a kid?

We rode those bikes 3.5 miles anyway, all the way to our destination. Up hills. Down hills. Through neighborhoods. Along the highway for a bit. Across the railroad tracks. Then finally through a long bike path.

We drove without stopping, although when we arrived at our destination – a large park – we were exhausted. Thank goodness for the bottles of water I hauled in my backpack.

After a few minutes of rest, we decided we’d go down to the lake where there’s a public swimming area. Suddenly, the kids had a burst of energy. “Let’s go swimming!” Ummm….okay? They, of course, didn’t have swimsuits along, so they agreed to go in their clothes. Not exactly mom’s ideal scenario, but it worked. Two kids in the water with soaking wet clothes. One playing on the sandy, wet shore. No swimsuits for mom or dad. No towels. And no change of clothes for the kids. But again, it worked! Perhaps I need to get out of my box more often.

The fun eventually wore off and the kids came in from the water. We reminded them they’d have to ride all the way back (another 3.5 miles, mind you) with sopping wet clothes, that they might get chafed skin with all the rubbing that was about to happen. But they didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they barely complained about those wet clothes. Wet clothing wasn’t an issue at all. I was shocked.

So we made our way back, all 3.5 miles. Up hills. Down hills. Through the bike path. Across the railroad tracks. And along the highway. Maisie, our youngest, exclaimed “woo hoo” from her baby bike trailer the whole way long. (Yes, that was my favorite part of the adventure.)

The kids wanted to stop for ice cream. Dad thought it would be better to stop for another round of hydration. So I tended the bikes, and Seth and the kids went into a gas station for drinks. We refueled as customers pumped gas. Then we made our way back home.

Elsa LOVED it. Said she’d do this everyday.

Cooper not so much.

Maisie. “Woo hoo!”

Seth and I? A little exhausted.

Family bike ride? An overall success.

Family Bike Ride

Total Cost: $9.00 for beverages at the end of the ride

Mom Lesson: Step out of the box and have a little fun.

Kid Lesson: Don’t underestimate kids’ ability to go with the flow.

 

 

This post is part of a summer-long series titled Summer Bucket List. This is my first summer home full-time with our three children. My hope for this series is that it will challenge me to adventure out of my mothering comfort zone, will provide opportunities to live and write simply, practically, beautifully and meaningfully, and will stimulate some some fun ideas for your summer as well! To check out the entire series, click here and you’ll be directed to the introductory post where all the posts are listed and linked for easy reading. Enjoy, friends! And have a blessed summer.

I bought her from a street vendor in Haiti.

Poverty stricken men begged for our business. They didn’t have to beg me a second for her. I saw her. I wanted her from the minute I laid eyes on her.

I bought her for $12. Didn’t barter a cent. She’s worth far more.

If she were to break, I would freak.

She’s pregnant. Expectant. Waiting on something more.

She doesn’t push or shove her way to delivery. She wants nothing more than to birth when the time is right.

She’s beautiful. Ripe. Swollen with new life.

Moves my heart so.

She’s been on my dresser for a year and a half. I stare at her nearly every morning before I rise from bed.

Three weeks ago, I brought her to her rightful place. Downstairs. Where we move. Where we live. Where I write and ponder. Where she can be treasured, loved and remembered for who she was, for who is, for who she will be.

Expectant.

Lovely.

Full of promise.

Peaceful.

Mama.

The plan was perfect.

We scheduled our annual family photo shoot with the photographer we’ve used since 2009. Hubs ordered a sweater, I got a necklace and boots, and we put some outfits together for the kids. Everything was ready to go.

That is, until a toss-and-turn night found me sleeping on a chair in our bedroom. The next morning, our toddler came into the room, wondering why I was sleeping in the chair. She flung her body back hard with the intention of lying next to me, but instead banged my eye up big. It hurt. It swelled. I cried. And I had a black eye for two weeks.

Our perfectly planned family photo shoot was down the drain. We canceled, because truth is, I still had a black eye the day we were scheduled to shoot.

The photographer wasn’t available for two weeks, and we didn’t want to take any chances with winter weather on its way. So we decided to do our own make-shift family photo shoot. I’d just purchased my dream camera two weeks prior. Why not use it?

The plan was perfect.

We’d get all dressed up, just like we would’ve for our family photo shoot. And we’d use my brand new camera to take pictures of each other. Sure, we’d miss the family photograph of all five of us this year, but we’d get all the other pictures we wanted!

Off we went. The day was perfect. The sun was shining. The temperature was just right. The leaves were golden yellow. We couldn’t have asked for more.

That is, until things started going wrong.

The baby got crabby.

And I couldn’t get the lighting right (not to mention the tree coming out of her head).

Kids didn’t sit when they were supposed to sit.

Then it was windy.

Our pre-teen boy cooperated at first, but then got irritated with this process.

We moved to a new spot and he started cooperating again.

But apparently it takes more than two weeks to master the perfect balance of ISO, shutter speed, and aperture in the live context of a photo shoot, so we experienced more lighting issues before we found our happy spot again.

When I finally got the lighting JUST RIGHT, baby started getting extra crabby.

There was this.

Then this.

Yeah. We wrapped this shoot with more bad lighting and more baby crying.

This is how mama looks when baby’s standing on the ground screaming and clinging to mama’s legs, and daddy’s determined to finish this photo shoot properly. (This one seriously cracks me up. NOT cute.)

Daddy dashed for the car with said baby crying. I stayed to try to get a few more good shots of our two oldest. But they were clearly fatiguing. It was time to go.

All five of us got back in the vehicle. A few words were said. Then I put my dream camera away, looked out the window, and cried.

Our PERFECTLY PLANNED family photo shoot was NOT PERFECT.

When we got home, I was still quite upset.

I could’ve given up. I could’ve given in to the lie that we’d just experienced the most catastrophic disasters of family photo sessions in the entire world.

But I knew better. I knew there was still hope for this thing. I knew we’d taken some good shots. And I knew there were still a few good ones to be taken in our backyard.

So I put my brave on and got that camera back out.

Within 20 minutes, I had a handful of great pictures of our son, and 15-20 awesome shots of our oldest daughter.

After everyone went to bed that night, I spent two hours weeding through the day’s photographs, 350 a rough estimate. I made a list of every photo worthy of being transferred to a disc, checked it twice, and burned it baby.

“Fall Family Photo Shoot 2014”

We were doing this. We were choosing to remember the good that happened that day.

Three weeks later, I received an email from Shutterfly with some crazy deal, like 30% off holiday cards + another 40% off that! The offer expired the next day, so we knew we had to take advantage of it.

That night, we pulled out the CD from the NOT-SO-PERFECT family photo shoot. We selected seven pictures we LOVED and wanted to share on a Christmas photo card for family and friends.

And just a few days ago, we received the big orange Shutterfly box in the mail with 130 photo cards in it!

What were the words that came out of my mouth when I saw the cards for the first time?

“I love these! They turned out awesome!”

Life isn’t perfect. And typically? Family photo shoots are far from perfect.

But if we’re persistent, positive, and willing to look twice through those all those “horrible pictures,” we might just find a beautifully imperfect family, a beautifully imperfect life, and perfectly beautiful photographs waiting to be shared with loved ones.

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Shutterfly is running an awesome sale on Christmas photo cards through Sunday, November 16th! Just enter promotion code JOY2ALL at checkout, and receive 50% off 6×8 flat and 3/4 folded cards OR 40% off 5×7, 5×5, 4×8, 4×5 flat, 5×7 trifold, or 5×7 folded cards. And don’t forget free shipping on orders $39 or more; just enter code SHIP39 at checkout! This is one of the best sales Shutterfly runs on Christmas cards, and is the one our family typically takes advantage of every fall.

One more thing before I go…I’m excited to announce that I’ve recently become an affiliate for Shutterfly! That means that if you make a purchase from Shutterfly through the links in this blog post or any Shutterfly link on my blog from here on out, I’ll receive a small commission which will help cover some of the ongoing costs associated with the blog.

Wishing you patience and a sense of humor as you search those family pictures for one that represents your beautiful family.

 

 

 

P.S. This, of course, ISN’T our seven-picture Christmas card. But hey, I thought I’d give you a little sneak peek of one of the good photos and share one of Shutterfly’s cute designs!

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the post above are “affiliate links.” This means that if you click on the link and purchase something from Shutterfly, I will receive an affiliate commission. Having said that, I promise readers my highest of integrity in that I will only promote products I use, love, and believe will add value to your lives. I’m disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

I’ve held one belief close for years.

{{Moms, lean in, this is for you.}}

We’re far too isolated in America.

Few have heard me mention my ideal alternative as if I’m joking, but truth is, I’m not joking at all.

On my worst of days, my most stressful days as an American mom, this is my desire. I’d like to be transported to another time, another civilization, where modern day expectations are blown to shreds, where I can live a simple life and it’s never questioned, not once. I’d like my husband to wake up and head out for a long day with the tribesmen. They hunt and gather, and as the day draws to an end, they come back with dinner in hand. While the men are gone, the women gather – weaving and braiding, cooking and preparing household things – together. We wear babes on cloth slings and the kids play all day. There’s no fighting, no comparing and no tattle-tale word slinging, just playing and running, singing and dancing. We gather over women as they labor, sing and love on them when they’ve lost their way. And we’re all dirty, like dirty beyond anything you ever see in America, and we don’t even care. Grandpas and grandmas, great aunts and great uncles, they’re wise constant-present council, and there aren’t cliques but community. There’s no comparing mini-mansions and mobile homes because we all live in huts so it really doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, there’s a fire where stories of old are told, the passing of one generation’s best to the next.

But I’m bound to my American life, and let’s be honest moms. This other world civilization isn’t happening anytime soon, unless, that is, we’re willing to sell everything, move to a deserted island and start our own tribe.

In the meantime, I’ve opened my eyes to this isolated American mom phenomenon…

Young mom, I saw her at Taco Bell. It was early for lunch, anyone would admit, but hey, when you’re mom it’s never too early for lunch and I had my three there too. She had two tinies in tow, a toddler and preschooler, and I couldn’t get over how angry she looked. While tinies babbled and chatted, she sat, fist balled up under her chin, looking out the window, eating her taco. Truth be told, it seemed she just wanted them out of the way. She just wanted to get this meal thing done, she was passing time. Her mind was somewhere else, and wherever that angry place was, it never let her go.

Then there was mom after swimming lessons. I saw a bag on the ground, just outside the exit to the parking lot, and wondered whose it was. A moment later, I heard this mom yelling “3-2-1 if you don’t pick up your stuff and come I’m gunna leave and go to the car.” Her anger escalated quickly, and I’m talking very quickly. I listened in discreetly as I walked with the kids to the car and got them in their seat belts. Mom managed to get her kid to the car, but by that time, she was beyond angry, at her wits end, raging. Kid was crying, mom yelled “If you don’t stop crying, I swear to God I’m gunna spank you.” And all of this in a parking lot. She was beyond caring what anyone thought.

Last was mom in Office Max. I was next in line behind her, she was hard to ignore. Mom questioned the $91 charge that remained after her $10 coupon. She was arguing with the cashier, but something was off, she was despondent, far off. Her responses were delayed, the cashier did a double take because mom wasn’t responding the way she should. Baby was in the cart calling “mama mama mama mama” repeatedly while the other three stood, waiting politely. I thought she might smile as she bid the cashier farewell, or maybe she’d even crack a smile when she realized her baby was still calling “mama mama mama” But no. She remained emotionless. She picked up her tiny bag, turned away, and abruptly told her children “go, go.” I smiled gently and looked into her eyes as she passed, but still, no response.

Do I share these stories because I like to hyper-analyze, criticize fellow moms, and point out their worst moments? Not so much.

You see, I’m no different.**

In my over-busy, beyond-stressed and way-too-isolated American life, I’ve had my own fair share of moments. Not exactly like hers nor exactly like yours, but uniquely mine.

Catch me any given day, and you might just find me stressed out. I’m talking the house is a mess and daddy left for work kind of Saturday. The sink is piled high with dishes, the TV’s on loud, and all I know is the kids need to eat something for breakfast. I break out the “good mom breakfast” of eggs, whole wheat toast, and milk, and the sink’s just piling higher. Kids are complaining that I’m taking too long, and the piled-high stack of mail and to-dos by the stove reminds me I’m inadequate to keep up with it all. One doesn’t have enough toast, the other needs more eggs, and the third’s got her sippy cup tipped over and she’s watching it drip all over the floor. By the time they all finish, I wipe baby’s hands, and sit down to my own breakfast, it’s time for more mess. Baby’s next to me on the floor, finger painting with the milk she dumped during breakfast.

Before I know it, they’re all three loving on each other in the chair. I breathe and I feel blessed, I’m grateful.

But then baby’s screaming, and they’re all over her, and she’s screaming even more.

And in that moment, I wish grandma or great auntie was upstairs or next door, I wish mamas were all around to wash up the mess so I could just eat, or maybe we could be transported to the hut with the dirt floor where the mess could just disappear deeper into the dirt.

I don’t have any great single solution to the isolation, anger, frustration, despondency, sadness, stress, or anxiety we sometimes face as moms, but here’s what I know.

This other-world community I long for has nothing to do with little, big or clean houses. It has nothing to do with being a stay-at-home mom or working mom. It’s not about doing life just right all on my own, and it’s not about proving I have it all together at all times.

It’s about community, it’s about grace, it’s about knowing beyond a doubt that this quote is true…

Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

Let’s stand together as moms, for moms. Tend to others. Offer a helping hand. Give grace freely. Smile. Bend down low. Have faith that God’s in control and works all things together for your good. And breathe.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”  Matthew 11:28-30

Amy

 

**I do not approve of nor condone the behaviors of mothers I observed in this post. Mothering is hard business, and I do my very best to reserve judgement unless I know another woman’s situation intimately. I am simply observing and suggesting that mothers are far too isolated in our culture. Further, I am not suggesting the American mothering experience is all negative. There are, of course, many reasons why the positive aspects of parenting outweigh the negative. I am simply offering a glimpse of the other side of mothering that often goes ignored.