What They Don't Know...

Look at 'em!  Crazy kids!  So excited at the thought of new life coming into their cave!

Those of you with children remember your initial excitement, too.  I remember mine quite well.  And as many first-time parents are, I was really awesome at documenting everything from pregnancy until my first child was...let's see...oh, I remember...until he was a big brother. At age two. Two years out of twenty-three that are recorded in detail.  Way to go, me!

With the inaugural son, I actually "wrote" to him while he was yet in the womb.  Oh, man. That child, the one who is now old enough to be in another country on his own for six weeks, and I laugh when we read the pastel, cloud-covered "pregnancy journal." Whoever he marries will probably think it's sweet.  But, Firstborn and I think I was a dork. What I didn't know then, that I know now. 

What I know now, is that if you plan on having more than one child and aren't extremely organized -  or at least a bit OCD - you will not have completed baby books for each of your off-spring, let alone "write" to each of them while pregnant.  Try communicating with the one confined to your tummy while the others, who are already fully mobile on the planet, are off playing in another part of the house...well, let's just say you are going to have some things to clean up.

Another thing I didn't know then, when I was waiting for the first, blessed arrival, was that there would very soon be a day when I wouldn't do things on "my" time anymore.  Or even experience "my" time anymore.  Merely trying to bathe myself became something I would have to carefully slip in between feedings or poopings. Or cryings.  Often my own cryings.

Something else I didn't know then, is that I would not be able to go on any kind of outing with my incredible husband for over two decades without doing a bit of the Freaky Fret.  "Honey, I don't know.  He's really little and the babysitter is only, like, I don't know, 42?"  "Babe, let's just call and see how they're doing.  I know we talked to them 20 minutes ago, but a lot can happen in 20 minutes."  "Kev, just text the boy (age 18) one more time and make sure he locked all of the doors. Please?"

I could go on for hours making a "What I didn't know then..." list.  But, I won't.  Since we all have lives outside of blog-land, I'll wrap this up quickly today.

I didn't know, when I was dorkily writing in that journal in the late 80's, that I would be (still a bit dorkily) writing a blog in the 21st Century with even more love and intensity about the wonders of family.

I didn't know, when I wasn't carefully documenting everything my kids were doing, that it would be okay. That the memories we were making would forever be imprinted in our hearts and minds anyway...with or without a camera. Or a journal.

I didn't know, when I wasn't getting "me" time, that when I finally did get back to having "me" time...well, it just wouldn't be nearly as magical as "we" time.

Congratulations to my middle son and his beautiful wife.

At this very moment, their hearts are growing to make room for a love that they truly can't even begin to fathom.

That is what they don't know. Yet.


www.diaryofacavewoman.com

Clown Proud

For all of you out there with a fear of clowns...don't worry. There are no clowns like that here.  I mean, there are clowns here, but not the kind you're thinking of.  Not those guys...with their rainbow wigs and large knives.

No, not those guys. Not them. No, sir. Nope.

Be back in a minute, need to go make sure the doors are locked...

Back!  And no sign of Rainbow Wig Chucky anywhere. Phew!

The picture on this post is of my baby.  Not the adorable child on the right...mine would be the somewhat creepy-looking, but still handsome, clown-kid on the left.

This picture just came to me via bro-mail, as one of my brothers is on a missions' trip in Central America with my youngest child.  Thank goodness for picture people in the family!  I still have a roll from '92 to develop.  (I know, I know..."good luck with that!")

When I saw this image, and a few others of my boy dancing around making small children happy, I mused, "I need to share this."  Not because everyone needs to see how cute I think my kid is.  Or, to show an aunt how much he's grown since the last time she saw him.  Not even to show grandparents that he is safe.

I was simply overcome by the thought that we "brag" on a lot of things we see kids do, but rarely on things that really matter.

Hey, don't get me wrong.  When this same clown-baby was on local TV news for having a great baseball game a while back...you can bet I shared the link with others to view. I'm still a human mother, for crying out loud.  And I very much enjoy "liking" the precious pictures of friends' children doing everything from graduating preschool to dancing in their first recital to picking their noses. Seriously, cute. If they're under the age of 10 and picking their noses, that is.

But, what if...and hang with me here for a minute...what if, every once in a while...well, what if we just bragged on the often unacknowledged acts of goodness in the lives of the youngsters around us? The random acts of kindness.
More like intentional acts of Christ-likeness.
Sounds a bit strange, doesn't it? I know, but it shouldn't.

We fill stadiums and auditoriums to cheer our kids on to victories and curtain calls.  I get this.  I've done this. And it's what we should do. Yet...

...as I sit and look at the image of my clown-child, well, I just feel differently regarding what I want to get excited about in young people's lives.  Oh, you can bet your last chocolate bar that I'll be yelling from the stands this fall at football games, and whooping it up from my folding chair next spring when they start making chalk lines on the baseball field. His graduation (God willing!) next year from high school...of course I'll be excited.

I just want to make sure I’m prudently proud. I want my children, and those around me, to see that I value what God values. Like a teenage boy who would rather put his hard-earned money toward a trip to a place requiring a clown suit than toward a trip to a prom requiring a tux.  I'm sure tuxes are in his future, and I'll have my brother take a picture (remember: undeveloped roll of film from '92) of the charming boy in them. But right now, that clown suit looks great.

How about the 7^th grade girl I know of who is taking care of younger siblings while her mother slowly loses a long-fought battle with cancer? Too heavy sounding coming from the cave? Albeit it true?  Well, then what about the child who may never sing in front of people, but makes sure the chairs are put away after the program?

In no way am I saying that these children displaying servant-hearts are somehow super superior.  I can promise you clown-boy has his moments of selfish non-greatness…just like his mama. I am just so challenged today to get my pom-poms and megaphone out for things we see in people not making the news or the honor roll or the Hall of Fame.

A kid scoring a touchdown is cheer-worthy, but so is a kid who is always kind to elderly people.

A kid who can draw amazing pictures is awe-inspiring, but so is a kid who can draw a bullied peer into a loving circle of friends.

A kid making a 4.0 is due praise, but so is a kid who truly always does his or her best...regardless of the outcome.

A teen wearing a varsity jacket covered in recognition patches can make a mom proud. And should.

So can a teen wearing a clown-suit covered in calico patches.

Look in and around your cave today.  Notice the unsung and unappreciated things those in our world are quietly doing.

You just might experience a little Clown Pride yourself...

www.diaryofacavewoman.com

What a Good Sport Looks Like

Fabulous, isn't it?  Thanks to my oldest BFF in the world, Carolyn, for capturing me in all of my glory.  We don't need no stinkin' hair and make-up people in the cave! (More on this lovely photo later...)

Today, I'm thinking about what it means to be a good sport.  I'm also thinking that our world doesn't have very many.  Good sports, that is.

I like to think I'm a good sport.  Take my history with Carolyn, for instance.  She was a great basketball player when we were in high school (like, nine or so years ago...cough!) and I was a mediocre basketball player. But, when she made a basket it was like I made a basket.  It was like, "Whoo-hoo, buddy!" As a matter a fact, I was even told that I was like a cheerleader trying to play basketball. I took that as a compliment....like I was really happy for others and encouraging. Isn't that sweet?

(Rats! You know from all of the "likes" I just used in that last paragraph that I wasn't in high school nine years ago. It was really, like, the 80's and like, yes, it was, like, totally awesome!)

ANYWAY, the picture of me in a motorcycle helmet.  Well, that's me being a good sport, too.  I could tell you I love riding motorcycles.  Bugs in my teeth, rear going numb, hanging on for dear life.  But, this is not really the case.  In truth, I love my husband.  My husband loves bugs in his teeth, rear not going numb because he is riding in the cushier driver's seat and being in the cushier driver's seat, he is the one actually causing me to hang on for dear life with his need for speed.

Because I love my husband...I ride motorcycles.   Because my husband loves me...he takes me to Hobby Lobby, Williams-Sonoma, Pier 1 and snores on my shoulder while I watch my Hallmark movies. We're both good sports like that.

I wish I could throw in a really cute story about my boys being good sports, too, and wrap up the blog for you right here.  (And my boys have been and can be really good sports...)

Unfortunately, I'm not always a good sport.  Neither is my husband.  Neither are my kids.  Neither is anyone else I know.  Sorry.

You see, there have been times I haven't been as happy for Carolyn as I should have been.  Like the time in fifth grade when Brad said he liked her and not me.  Or, the time she got an "A" on the Algebra test and I got a...well, not an "A."

And it's not all childhood-related stuff.  There have been times I have fought envy when I have seen others be extremely successful at something I'm struggling to accomplish myself.  I have sat at teachers' meetings and let my insecurities dampen my joy for the triumphs of those around me.

I have watched my child be passed over for a part, or a spot or a kindness, then fought feelings of resentment when I saw other children go to the front of the stage, or the line or the whatever. This doesn't make me a completely worthless human being.  It makes me a flawed human being who needs to remember a perfect God Who became a human being Himself.

And a really, really good sport.

Whenever I feel bad sport girl coming on...I get to Philippians 2 as fast as I can.  Or, as I like to call it, "The Ultimate Cure for Poor Sportsmanship."

I'm going to share a few verses...but, you really should read the whole thing for yourself.  Stick it on your mirror.  Memorize it. Share it, in a version suited for their age level, with your kids.  Here are verses 4-7...

"Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.  Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.  In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus:  Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant..."

THAT'S what a good sport looks like.  Kind of makes you want to go out and be the wind beneath someone's wings, doesn't it? 

Praying for all of your caves to be even more blessed than mine.  And I mean it.  And those last four words felt really good to type...

Hindenburg Parenting

Welcome to Cave School, kids!  Two things you may need to know - or at least be reminded of - before understanding the ramblings of the Cavewoman today:

1)   Hindenburg:  Big, blimp-like, flying contraption that exploded over Lakehurst, New Jersey in 1937, tragically killing over 30 people in the air, as well as over 30 people on the ground.

2)   Helicopter Parenting:  21^st Century term defining those who struggle with giving their children “space” in life.

I’m thinking today of the tendency many of us have to “hover,” or as my boys use to call it “Smother vs. Mother.”  (“Hey, Smother! You don’t need to tell me to wear my seat belt every time I get in the car!”) And even though my children are old enough to travel the globe (see last blog), and therefore cause my hovercraft to want to descend even lower…parents with children of any age can surely understand, if not relate to, the brand of parenting I refer to as, “Hindenburg Parenting.” 

This is not actually parenting any of us should aspire to emulate.  I pray to the Lord there will not be how-to seminars in our near future.  Hopefully, all we need to do to avoid this style is listen and look up.

“No date night for us, honey!  The baby is only two and unless it’s drive-through, I just think we would be gone too long.” Ka-boom!

“Oh. My. Gosh!  Sleepover?!  You’re only 12 and Aunt Judy lives like, I don’t know…five minutes away!” Ka-boom!

“What?!  What do you mean you want to go on a mission’s trip with the youth group?!  You’re only 16 and what if you come in contact with germs or people who don’t speak English, God forbid!” Ka-boom!

Now, I believe we are all the authorities on our own circumstances.  You on yours, and me on mine.  So, maybe one of the examples I just stated really could apply to you, and you would be completely justified.  Sickly toddler, Aunt Judy is certifiable or a mission’s trip to an area where teens from the States have recently been in grave danger. I get these things.  You may absolutely need to hover a bit in these instances.  But, most of us know…these are typically exceptional circumstances…not common ones.

My encouragement for any of you out there hovering over your child in the form of a large, dangerously flammable object is simply to let God help you let go.  Even if it’s just a little.  

For me, it was when the first child hit junior high and started facing things he only wanted to talk to his dad about. “What do you mean you want to wait until dad gets home?  What’s wrong?” I asked him.  “Mom, I just want to talk to Dad, okay?”  “Oh, my word!  What’s going on?  Is it something bad?  Are you alright?”  My blimp was near bursting level.  “Mom, it’s just…well, sometimes you…well, you freak.”

“What do you mean I freak?!  What are you talking about?!  You know I love you!  You know I’m always here for you!”  At this point I should have had a very big clue.  Always here for you…boy, that was an understatement.  Try always shadowing you like a big, creepy, flammable disaster waiting to happen should you try to grow up or something crazy like that. 

“Answer me!  What do you mean by ‘freak?’”

The boy in the front passenger seat of my car just looked straight ahead and smiled. 

And then I caught a glimpse of his thumb jabbing at the air in my direction. 

Ka. Boom.

Thankfully, my blimp has turned into more of a medium-sized, weather-type balloon over the years, as I’ve learned to let the Lord help me decipher healthy concern from unhealthy fear. I like to think of it as yellow in color with a happy face on it.

Our kids want us to be a presence in their lives...just not in the form of a gigantic, combustible zeppelin.

Are there areas of your parenting right not that God wants to help you let go in?  Are there any areas you need to really evaluate to make sure you are not stifling your child - or worse yet - hindering them from becoming the person God has made them to be?  Have you conquered in some areas of this battle and have good insight to share?  Cave people love encouragement! Bring it!

Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina!

I promised myself I wouldn’t do it, but I did it anyway.  I made that stupid sound.  You know the sound.  The one people make right before they think another car is going to hit theirs.  The sound they make before they drop several stories on a roller coaster.  The sound they make before a small child goes down a slide for the first time.

As I tightly hugged my eldest son yesterday, that annoying sound escaped my inner being.  He was leaving for a six-week study abroad program in Argentina and… he was leaving without me. 

I would like to tell you that I patted his back and cheerfully exclaimed, “Have a great time!  See you later!”  And though I did speak pleasant words to the boy, on the inside I was pleading, “Always travel with a friend…don’t go anywhere unsavory looking…don’t talk to strangers…say your prayers…Skype me everyday...be careful…be careful…come back to me…be careful…”

If you’re a human over the age of three, you’ve quite possibly made some form of the “sound” yourself at one time or another.  And regardless of a faith history you may have with the Creator, you probably still battle worry more than you care to admit. 

And it’s not just moms who worry.  Or even women in general.  In this economy, men are fretting more than ever about job security, financial provision for their families…the list goes on.  I teach in a public school, and I’m saddened by the worry I see even very young people saddled with. Worry is everywhere…eager to distract us and, if at all possible, render us useless.

My husband is constantly reminding me that worry is just the result of a deeper issue…lack of trust.  I hate when he’s right like that.  But, it’s so true.  I do have a faith history with my Creator, and I know He loves and cares for my South American-bound boy even more than I ever could.  But, still…

Sigh. I already have to buy two boxes of color each time I want to cover the gray in my hair.  I can’t afford the number of grays requiring three. 

Still, as long as there are cars, roller coasters, slides and children who have the nerve to grow up and get a life of his or her own…that sound is going to be waiting in the wings.

And to keep it in the wings and out of my lungs as much as possible, I try to remember this: “People with their minds set on you, you keep completely whole, steady on their feet, because they keep at it and don’t quit.  Depend on God and keep at it because in the Lord God you have a sure thing.”  Isaiah 26:3-4 MSG

I have to “keep at it.”  I have to intentionally keep at trusting in the God I know is a sure thing. We all do.

What helps you “keep at it?” Feel free to share, because the more encouragement spoken in our caves, the better. 

www.diaryofacavewoman.com

Time-Outs: Not Just for Toddlers!

Most remember their first introduction to the term “time-out.”  And it wasn’t at a sporting event.  Unless you call putting gum in another’s hair a sport.  I actually can’t speak from childhood experience here, as my folks weren’t ones to waste energy touring “Time-Out Island” on their way to visit “Spanking Mountain.” 

However, as a parent, I used time-out some with my boys.  It worked with Child Number 3, who would rather see his fingernails pulled off than miss any outdoor activity…including putting gum in another’s hair.  But, Child Number 1…well, let’s just say that when I finally remembered he was in time-out an hour after I had stuck him there for “just 10 minutes,” he was well into Act III of “Finger People Go to the Zoo.”  He asked if he could stay in “time-out” just a little bit longer.  You know, to finish the show, allow for curtain calls and such.  I obviously had to come up with another form of consequence for that child. 

Lately, I’ve been pondering other kinds of time-outs we humans may experience in our existence. Like, when we’re trying to finish college so we can get on with “real” life.  When we’re losing a job and anxiously wondering when the next one will come along.  How about waiting for Mr. or Mrs. Right?  Big time-out for some, I know.  And there’s being patient for that child we may be longing for.  Or, maybe even feeling sidelined by the children we do have…like life is on hold until they get “bigger.” 

I’ve been in sort of a time-out myself for the past several months. Reevaluating my priorities and what I really want to spend my days accomplishing.  Taking the time to appreciate my family, and then taking the time to make sure they know I love them more than the other things that constantly vie for my affections. My time-out also caused me to take a break from sharing via blogger-land some of the cool truths God encourages me with here in my home.  The home I laughingly and lovingly refer to as my “cave.”  

Well, the whistle has been blown and this time-out for me is over.  And while I’m thankful to get back in the game, chewing gum and blogging…it was truly a good break.  One that made me realize my passion has never been stronger for encouraging others to see these things we call “time-outs” as quite often blessings in disguise.  Times to realize…or maybe just remember…who we are and what we should be doing.

Much like the outcome we expect when we stick a toddler in the corner of a room.

www.diaryofacavewoman.com

What I Can't Remember

It's amazing what we can remember.  And what we can't.

Like, I can remember my 5th grade teacher's birthday - October 3rd - every year.  Since 5th grade.  Just to bring everyone up to date, I haven't been in the 5th grade since 1978.  I can't remember if I locked my car tonight or not. Just to bring everyone up to date, I haven't been in my car in like, I don't know, five minutes?

I can remember most of "...In Flanders Field the poppies blow..." from the 7th grade (you can now do the math to figure out the last time I was in 7th grade - as a student, that is.)  I can't remember any of my sons' current cell phone numbers without looking them up.

I can remember the smell of my grandma - Noxema and roses - and she's been in Heaven since 1981.  I can't remember if I just took the Tylenol I was thinking about taking or not.  (Don't worry, I won't overmedicate!)

I can remember what I was wearing that June day in 1987 when I met my husband - the infamous University of Kansas "Beak 'em, Hawks!" t-shirt.  I can't remember if I wore the outfit I just laid out for school tomorrow...to school last Friday.

I can remember where I was on September 11, 2001, just as my parents can remember where they were the day JFK was shot and my grandparents could remember where they were when they heard of the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Like most of you out there, I can remember a lot and I can't remember a lot.

And of all the things I can't remember...

I can't remember a time when God has not been with us in the midst of it all.

www.diaryofacavewoman.com