I still don’t know how she did it.

She was a mom of three and she worked full-time our entire lives. She never tried a part-time gig, never took years off to stay at home while the kids were little, and I don’t remember a single time she complained about having to work AND raise kids. She did what she did, she did it well, and it’s all she knew.

It’s quite likely that I idolized my mom when I was a kid. Her work was only a block from our house, so she’d literally RUN home from work to get dinner made and on time bake in the oven. (If you know my mom, you know I’m not exaggerating about the “literally RUN” part!) We had casseroles, whole chickens with mashed potatoes and pan-roasted gravy, pot roasts with carrots, and homemade pizzas to name just a few. Mom would complete the meal with sides and desserts and all the proper fixings. I know we had grilled cheese and tomato soup and tuna sandwiches, but let’s just say those nights were the rare occasion. And my mom would NEVER dream of serving us Hamburger Helper, Rice-A-Roni or any such thing.

In my subconscious, there are probably many days I still idolize the way my mom did “it all.”

When I’m overwhelmed with my part-time job, when I can’t keep the house clean like mom always seemed to, when I don’t serve my in-laws three square meals a day when they come visit like mom did for her in-laws, I believe I’ve fallen short.

When I throw Tyson chicken nuggets in the oven and warm up some frozen store brand peas, lies creep in that I’m not a good enough mom.

When I toss a baked potato in the oven, my son asks “why can’t you make mashed potatoes like grandma,” and he goes over to whip them up for himself, lies creep in that I’ve fallen short.

And even when my daughter comes home and says her friend’s mom “cooks different” than I do, “she makes everything homemade,” truth sets in that I’m definitely NOT doing “it all.”

I’d make more whole chickens and mashed potatoes with pan-roasted gravy and all the fixings…if only…

So I’m grateful for the moment it occurred to me, just today, that my mom is human.

The kids came grocery shopping with me last night. They wanted to buy Banquet TV dinners, specifically the $1 turkey dinner variety. I let them buy these dinners once every 3-6 months and they think it’s a treat. While I think turkey dinner is one of the most tolerable of TV dinners, they’re still not the best, so I grabbed 2 Banquet pot pies instead.

The kids ate their TV dinners for breakfast this morning (true story!), so my baby daughter and I ate pot pies for lunch.

As I took those pot pies out of the oven, flipped them over on the plate, and cut them up just the way I did when I was a little girl, I realized something.

These are Banquet. Pot. Pies.

$1. Banquet. Pot. Pies.

While they might not be the most nutritionally sound food in the world, and any foodie mom would die that I was serving Banquet Pot Pies to myself AND my child, the reason I wanted to get those pot pies last night is because I had fond memories of eating them as a child.

As obvious as it might be to you, I had to come to my own realization.

These are Banquet. Pot. Pies.

$1. Banquet. Pot. Pies.

My mom served these Banquet. Pot. Pies. To us.

That moment it occurs to you that your mom is human? It’s a beautiful thing.

So thank you mom, for serving enough Banquet Pot Pies that they formed a lasting memory in my brain. The gravy, the vegetables, the meat, the way my fork cut through that crust? All proof my memory might have failed me…just a bit.

Amy

I’ve grown to hate this picture.

I spent hours, maybe even days of that October, 2010, searching for the matching superman and superwoman costumes that now hang lifeless in our closet. We put them on, and it was oh so cute as my mother-in-law took our family picture, but later that night I felt the burden bear down on me hard as I walked in the doors of that adults only costume party.

You see, there was something about that costume that represented right where I was – fulfilling that role of superwoman, supermom, being everything to everyone, doing everything for everyone, being a hero to everyone but myself and my God. But that night, as I played the role of superwoman-supermom at that party, I became keenly aware it wasn’t working anymore. The room was filled with bar maids, vampires, sexy bunnies, and who knows what, but I didn’t feel sexy, I didn’t feel scandalous, I didn’t feel cunning, I didn’t feel clever, I didn’t feel cute, and I didn’t feel like superwoman-supermom either. To be honest, I felt like an out-of-place goodie-goodie girl scout who just wanted to hide away in a tent somewhere in obscurity.

And to make matters worse, I quickly discovered that not just one of my neighbors was pregnant, but three, and bless their souls, they were all there in their pregnant glowing glory. I had been battling this desire, this conflict in me for years, as to whether or not we should have a third child, but these women seemed to know so quickly, with such certainty, this destiny to parent was theirs. In the years that had passed since we had our first two children, I had seen the dark forces of this world, and I wasn’t so confident I could be that superwoman-supermom to raise another precious life safely through to the light.

So I left that party, hung the superhero costumes in the closet, and have since marked it as a turning point, a moment I needed to see the light, to see the truth about myself and who I wanted to be.

See, I don’t want to be superwoman. I don’t want to be a supermom. I CAN’T be. It’s impossible. It’s an unrealistic burden I don’t want to bear anymore.

Because a superwoman-supermom is a hero. She does it all, she’s brilliant, she’s clever, she has all the answers. She works full-time, loves her job and prides herself on doing what she needs to do; or she stays home full-time and has no longings for anything but tending her home, her husband, and her children. She buys all organic and prepares homemade dinner every night, she makes all the beds every morning, does a few loads of laundry every day so she’s always caught up, and dishes are stacked back on the shelves before bed. Oh, and her house is always clean (her toilets are always sterile and pristine white). She wakes up happy every morning and makes a hearty breakfast for her children before sending them off to school; she packs the kids’ lunches with healthy choices so they can grown up big and strong. A superwoman-supermom? She knows how to parent just-right, she disciplines and her kids listen the first time, she runs for disinfectant and bandaids when her kids’ knees are bleeding, and her kids’ principal would never think of calling. She has lots of “besties,” she’s organizes girls’ night out religiously, and she exercises five times a week in stylish LuLu Lemon gear she bought the day it arrived in the store. She volunteers and she’s needed and people are desperate to get their hands on something, anything, she has to offer. She gives and never grows weary. She’s battery operated, like an energizer bunny, who just keeps going and going and going.

I can say with confidence that on most days I’ve tried hard to be that superhero, wanted desperately to be that supermom, envied that superwoman who embodies one or many of those qualities. And that’s just WRONG.

Since formally rejecting the superwoman-supermom notion and becoming pregnant with our third child five months after the above described Halloween incident, I’ve been in transformation. I’m ready to do life differently, ready to step out of the status quo box. I’m slowly, but surely taking off the cape and am stepping into the garments of the woman I was created to be. And through faith and experience, I believe the woman I am growing into is wise, she is grounded and values depth rather than breadth, she sees into souls, she knows what she is called to do and what she is not called to do, and she knows when she needs help.

See dear ones, we’re not superheroes. No, I’m coming to embrace a notion that’s just as controversial and discussion worthy as superwomen and supermoms, but makes more sense in my new reality of cape-free living. Yes, I believe there’s truth in the notion of princess.

Marriam-Webster online definition of princess: 

2. a female member of a royal family; especially a daughter or granddaughter of a sovereign.

Here’s my premise – if I believe God is sovereign King, He knit me in my mother’s womb in His image, then I’m His daughter. Knowing this truth, I should have much more confidence as princess than I’ve ever had as superwoman-supermom.

Something rings true about this princess concept. Perhaps it’s why Disney has made millions capitalizing on princesses.

Cinderella had faith in her dreams, that “one day her rainbow [would] come.”

Ariel has “who’s its and what’s its galore,” but wanted more. She wished she could be “out of these waters,” “part of that world.”

Belle longed for something more than “this provincial life.” Immersed in stories about far off places, “behind the facade,” she was even perceived as peculiar.

And Rapunzel escaped the tower she had been trapped in all her life. She “[saw] the light,” “the fog was lifted,” and the “whole world was somehow shifted.”

There’s something deeper, something better we women, we moms long for. We want to be authentic, we want to be honest and real. We want to be known. We want to be loved and  cherished, and we want to know we are beautiful. We want to be mamas that make a difference, we want to grow souls that thrive and find their special place in this world. We want to be beautiful examples of grace and truth for our children. We want to escape the superhero cape, step into garments designed especially for us, and dance in the beauty of our true life purpose.

So two days from now, I’m launching a series titled “Special Mamas” in honor of women who want to be mamas and women who are mamas. In this 5-week guest post series every Wednesday in May, you’ll hear from a real mama who bears her heart and soul to uplift others, a mama who steps up to the plate and fights daily battles for her child, a mama who exudes joy and peace in her “bigger-than-normal-sized” family, a mama who steps outside of the traditional mama box to share her love, and a mama who endured years of trials in search of the thing she desired most – to become a mama.

Take off your superwoman-supermom cape and put on your princess garments of beauty and truth. Step outside of your box, leap down from your tower. Sit still in comfort on your Father’s shoulders. Dance with faith. Be real with me in this place. This month is dedicated to you, special mamas.

All glorious is the princess within her chamber; her gown is interwoven with gold.  Psalm 45:13

Amy

Five days have passed since I met sweet Patty. She emerged from the back like an angel, and words won’t adequately describe the way she made me feel that day. But try I must, to put this experience in words, because as I circled the mall after meeting Patty, I felt with all certainty you must hear how she moved me from a black hole of uncertain obsession to the bright light of certain authenticity.

The origins of this story bring me back in time. A special event turned dark in a moment. I felt beautiful, ready, prepared, at my best. I had planned for that day. With a glance and a handful of words, he made this intuitive soul feel little, squelched, like nothing, like I had a dull, invisible cloak all around. In that moment, I was silently shocked, taken aback. I felt so beautiful, just right, yet he so quickly managed to steal every bit of that away from me. And I knew my intuition was right. He thought little of me and for some dumb reason I cared.

So when I discovered our family had an awesome opportunity to join my husband at the Kids’ Choice Awards this weekend (yes, we’re leaving tomorrow!), I was certain this once in a lifetime opportunity would require a once in a lifetime dress! I knew I would want to feel beautiful, completely comfortable, with no regrets and no doubts about the way I experienced this very special event.

Unfortunately, in all my desiring for good, memories brought me straight back to that moment when I felt beautiful and he made me feel like nothing. Only this time, I had grown, matured. Never again would I allow someone to make me feel that way. Never again would I experience that kind of rejection. Never again would I allow someone to project so much negativity straight to my face. This time, I was going to feel beautiful for myself and for my husband who loves me with all abandon.

So the search was on! I toured malls, strip malls, and stand alone stores on a mission to find the just-right dress. Fun, hip, and a little outside my box were the words to describe this elusive dress. Orange (for the Nickelodeon orange carpet) it had to be, or blue or green maybe, but nothing fit the bill for me.

After all the searching and in my first moment of desperation, I entered my favorite store, White House Black Market on a whim. I knew there was no orange, and no blue and no green. But there was lavender they said, and lavender a complement to orange! Two wonderful souls sensed my desperation and brought me straight to the dress I needed. Fun and a little playful, it was beautiful, it really was. The dress fit me perfectly, and I did feel beautiful in that moment. It seemed just right! I brought it home and tried it on again, and my husband said it was wholly Amy. All I needed was jewelry, and I was set for the awards!

But as each day passed, I tried that dress on again and once more. Something was not quite right. Yes, it was perfectly Amy, and yes, it was a dress I’d normally buy. In fact, it was beautiful! But I knew how I wanted to feel, and the feeling wasn’t quite right.

So I tried that last stand alone store, the discount one this time. I found two dresses, both fun and hip and a little outside my box, just what I proclaimed to want. I bought them both, leaving my husband to guide. Maybe he and I would find these better? Maybe these were the solution to the lavender dress that wasn’t quite right? But the striped one was too “hipster,” and the cool hip one with navy and orange was thin and way too short, like a near 40-year-old trying to fit into a 20-year-old’s dress. Although I wanted so badly for one of these to work, it was clear they were headed for return.

You wonder where’s Patty in all this? What does Patty have to do with all this craziness? Hold on, she emerges as my earth angel in a few moments.

In my obsessive nonsense over finding the perfect dress, I just knew there was a solution. So five days ago, I set my sights on the Mall of America for one last chance (yes I have a determined, at times obsessive spirit when I set my mind to something!).

I made my rounds at the Mall of America, and had nearly surrendered. I was going to keep the lavender dress, and I had actually come to terms with it. I was happy. I was content! It was a beautiful dress from my favorite store, and it was very much a dress I would normally buy. It wasn’t quite what I was hoping for at this particular event, but oh well! I’m a perfectionist, and I just needed to get over myself and my crazy idealistic mindset.

Just one week from the event and my last outing by myself, I knew this was my last chance. I stepped foot in the White House Black Market store one more time.

I don’t believe in magic, I don’t believe things make people happy, and I don’t believe at the end of life it will matter much what I wore, but I do believe clothes can make your best self shine, clothes can make you feel completely comfortable and beautiful in your own skin. And White House Black Market is the place that makes that happen for me. Just right, every time, like their clothes are designed for me. When my obsessive self has reached an end and I think there are no other options, I enter that door and White House Black Market pulls through.

And let me tell you, White House Black Market has the most wonderful employees I’ve met.

But Patty at this Mall of America store? She was the most special I’ve met. She emerged from the back of that White House Black Market like an angel sent for me.

Her quiet but sincere compliment about the purple shirt that was barely peeking out of my coat started it off just right. I told her “thanks, I’m not much of a purple person, but my mom bought it for me and I get compliments on it all the time!” Patty assured me it looked great, and asked how she could help.

I was quick to explain I already had this lavender dress here in the back, but it hadn’t felt quite right as I tried it on this week. Our eyes set almost simultaneously at the wall on the left where a white dress with flowers hung. I hadn’t seen it before and knew it might be the one! In fact, the only dress I had seen was the lavender one, so the whole world was at my fingertips at that moment. As Patty and I pulled dresses for the fitting room, she said quietly with all conviction, “we’re going to find you something.” As silly as it sounds, all this fuss about a dress, my heart was at ease.

Seven dresses hung in the dressing room plus the lavender one at home for comparison. A feast for my eyes, I knew one of these was going to work!

Patty let me be. She had impeccable timing. The white dress with flowers was first. It was perfect! Just what I was looking for – fun yet sophisticated, and classic Amy style. Patty brought in a shrug, and the lavender shoes were much better than the nude ones she “lost me” in.

That dress was the one, and we both knew it. She brought me out of the dressing room, all put together just right. Into the black space with mirrors all around, a couple of employees passed with sincere compliments abound.

But Patty, and here’s where words aren’t adequate…

Patty, she affirmed me like no other.

The way she looked at me in that open space with mirrors was something special. Her smile, her beautiful eyes, her sincere, warm presence in that moment brings tears to my eyes five days later. She said more, but all I remember was “You. Look. Stunning.” And she looked into my eyes with all the sincerity of her heart, and I felt it and my eyes welled with tears. It wasn’t so much I felt beautiful because Patty’s comments made me feel beautiful, but Patty helped me see and believe the truth about myself. I looked beautiful, I felt beautiful, I am beautiful, inside and out. My inside matched my outside, and I felt assurance in that.

And in that moment, I saw a reflection of myself in Patty. The necklace and belt she wore were in my closet at home, but it was more than that. Patty reflects the woman I want to be, the way I want to make others feel. She made me feel so sure, so confident about myself, and she was so authentic in her presence I can’t put words to it. I have no hesitancy in my heart that she meant what she was saying, and I felt it as well. Patty wasn’t about the sale in that moment, she was about affirming me as a human being, affirming me as I presented my best self, my most authentic self to the world in this dress.

A long and ridiculous search had led me back to this store, White House Black Market, an earthly place I can call my own. It had happened before in this store, but this time was something more. I found joy, peace, and assurance in who I am.

And the interesting thing was that even in our assurance we had found “the dress,” Patty didn’t stop me at that. She let me flounder as I continued to try on all the other dresses for size and style. The one that didn’t do anything for me, the one that was just ok, the one that was 100% Amy on the hanger but not right when I put it on, two that were beautiful but not quite right for the occasion, one that was sophisticated and fit like a glove but was best for a wedding, and the one that was sexy but totally not me. She let me try them all.

At the end? We returned to the white dress with flowers.

Patty reaffirmed me “that’s the one,” and with all my heart, I knew it to be true. It was. just right. So she brought it out, with the shoes and the shrug and I stood at the counter with no hesitancy.

Because this time, I felt an assurance that ran deeper than any man could squelch in just a moment. For my assurance rests in who I am. Woman, child of God created in the image of God, perfectly unique, Amy.

I feel beautiful. I am beautiful.

And so are you.

Until the day breaks and the shadows flee, I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of incense. You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.  Song of Songs 4:6-7

Amy

It’s Friday, which means it’s time for another Meet Me At This Moment for Five Minute Friday post! I spend the last hour of Thursday chatting it up with a group of authentic and inspiring Five Minute Friday bloggers on Twitter (#FiveMinuteFriday #fmfparty). One minute past midnight EST Friday, Lisa-Jo Baker gives us a single word prompt and we all write a blog post centered around that word. We write for five minutes, and five minutes only! In the wjords of Lisa, this is “unscripted. unedited. real.” You meet me at this moment in time…my thoughts and opinions, my joys and sorrows, my dilemmas and dreams. And I receive one of the greatest gifts ever…a regular outlet for processing and expressing my thoughts without constantly editing myself. This is my life, my perspective, unfiltered.

The word of the week is AFRAID. 

 

I watched them in the gym on Wednesday.

Like robots, walking across the gym floor. One arm up, one leg up. The other arm up, other leg up.

They carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Balls over their heads. Up, down. Up, down. Lunge. Lunge. Balls over heads. Up and over. Up and over. Never letting it go.

Revelation Song played on my iPod.

As they sat, I caught a glimpse of souls.

The woman in red at the end? Full of insecurity. Isolates herself, as if she doesn’t want to be noticed.

And the one with the cute logo on her shirt? A people pleaser. She’s been that way her whole life.

The woman with the perfect braid and the chest that seems too big to be real? She’s all about perfection. Always trying, harder and harder to meet the unattainable standard.

And the woman in green that carries herself as if she’s not so sure? She’s experienced a lot of pain and she hurts. She’s compared herself and she doesn’t meet the standard. She’s a survivor, but she feels inferior.

I crossed paths with this magazine. GQ. For men. Beyonce on the cover. Her body perfect. Seriously, perfect. She had her first baby just a year ago, just a couple weeks before I had my third.

I struggle to take off the three pounds I gained at Christmas, and now an extra pound on top of that, leaving me still seven pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight. And this Beyonce? She’s already on the cover making it look all easy and she’s perfect.

The men reading this magazine? They see Beyonce, knowing full well she gave birth last year. Do men, in their heart of hearts, wish we looked like that? And the women who cross paths with these images? Do they see Beyonce, also knowing full well she gave birth last year, and expect themselves to look just as perfect? Even though it’s near impossibility?

To carry the weight of the world on our shoulders is a burden too heavy to bear. I’m afraid we can’t live up to your standard, GQ. For Beyonce probably has a personal chef and a personal trainer and a nanny that helps care for her child every day, and a butler and a maid who tend to every whim.

I must ignore these images of perfection, because they are not real. Women bearing the weight of the world are full of insecurity, inferiority. They want to please, they want to perfect. And it’s not going to happen. We can’t be perfect. We aren’t perfect. So stop making us afraid.

There are also heavenly bodies and there are earthly bodies; but the splendor of the heavenly bodies is one kind, and the splendor of the earthly bodies is another. 1 Corinthians 15:40 

Amy