Don't Lie to Me

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ,” (Galatians 6:2).

I want to chat with the new moms out there. Seasoned moms, pull up a chair, because we’re all in this together. Are you comfy? Let’s talk.

Motherhood isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. Caring for children is a physically grueling, emotionally draining, and spiritually challenging round-the-clock job. I don’t know who might’ve told you otherwise, or how many women withheld this bit of information when they gushed over your adorable baby shower gifts, but I’m here to set the record straight. Babies are hard work. So are toddlers. I’ve heard teenagers are extra special, so let’s hold onto Jesus for the ride.

But there’s something else you should know.

You are not alone.

If you cried in the glider rocker at 2 a.m. because you are just so unbelievably tired and the whole world seems flipped on its side—somebody else cried, too. 

If you spent two hours after dinner bouncing and shush-shush-shushing a fussy swaddled bundle because the books said it would calm him and please Lord you just need the noise to stop—somebody else shushed, too.

If you’re staring at piles of laundry and blank thank-you notes, fighting the guilt of unfinished tasks and wondering how other women have done this without collapsing—somebody else wonders, too.

If you miss the smell of your husband’s chest and his unhurried gaze into your eyes across the dinner table, and you ask God, what have we done? Somebody else asked, too.

Somebody else, some other mom somewhere in the world—quite possibly in your very own neighborhood—is learning to be a mom, also. And after she conquers colic then teething then first birthday party planning, she graduates to a club of moms who’ve been there and know exactly how you feel today.

Maybe not every new mom struggles the same. If your baby hardly cries or snoozed through the night the first week home, or if you have no problem spinning cartwheels on two hours of sleep and every moment of caring for your newborn is filled with pure joy, then count your blessings and praise the Lord. Sincerely.

But I am convinced those women are in the minority. There are a lot more of us deer-in-the-headlights frazzled new mommies who do not have it all together and, sadly, assume everybody else does because women are not talking about it.

It’s time we start being real with one another. Amen?

Last week I ran into a new mom at church. She glowed, snuggling a lovely bambino on her shoulder for other ladies like me to admire with instinctive awww’s and smoochie sounds. I asked her a question I ask many new moms.

“How is it going?”

"Great! It’s going well. We’re doing great, yep."

Is that so. “How is it really going?”

"Well, this week is good."

Pause.

"Last week, not so much."

And the wall came a-tumbling down.

"Nobody warned me it would be like this. How do women have more than one!?"

Sister, I get you. I see you looking all calm and happy for the shiny people at church, but I also know you were probably juggling a mascara wand, a lanolin tube and a screaming baby in your hands three minutes before you were due out the door to make it to the first service on time. You are beautiful, and so is your miracle child from God, yet I would not be shocked if you told me you didn’t feel beautiful because you can’t fit into anything besides your husband’s jogging pants, and your curling iron disappeared under a stack of nursing pads and used burp rags.

Keep hanging on.

It’s okay to feel like you’re falling apart. Because, in many ways, you are. Life will never be the same again. But eventually—sooner than you fear—it will be better than before. 

Right now, on my countertop sits a packet of paperwork for kindergarten registration. My firstborn is heading to full-time school next fall, a bittersweet new era in the Kopitzke household. I don’t know who has grown more over the last five years—my daughter or me. Before I step one foot out of this stage of mommydom to venture toward the next, I feel compelled to write these thoughts for you dear new mommies. Because I’m afraid I’ll forget.

Because now my darling girl can tie her own shoes, and buckle her own car seat, and pour her own cereal, and play quietly with her little sister while I fix a salad. And I start thinking, hey, this isn’t so tough, this is fun, life is grand, and then I make googly eyes at my husband and whisper, "Should we have another baby?" And the answer is NO! NO! Don’t you REMEMBER?

Yes. I remember the hard stuff. But I also remember this:

I remember sitting mesmerized by the perfect, miniature face sleeping in the crook of my elbow, and weeping suddenly when I imagined her growing up and moving to college.

I remember detecting that first authentic, non-gassy smile—a paycheck for eight weeks of unrequited, laborious love—and cheering like we’d just won the lottery.

I remember the hormonal fog lifting, my strength returning after months of little sleep, and seeing God standing before me—where he’d been all along.

You are not alone.

The day our first daughter was born, every nurse, every lactation consultant, even the cleaning lady at the hospital told us, “Enjoy every minute! It goes so fast!”

For you, new ones, the days are not fast. They are long. And while the rewards eventually outweigh every challenge, I don’t want to forget how it felt in the beginning, if forgetting means I will not be able to relate anymore. Or worse, if my forgetting makes you feel like you’re doing something wrong.

You are not doing it wrong. You’re a mom. Welcome.

So—I’m asking a favor. You new moms can help me—and generations of moms to come—prevent the onset of mommy amnesia. Simply remind us what it’s like. Be vulnerable. Shed the “fine, I’m doing fine” mask and spill your exhausted guts. We’re your allies. We can take it. Then let us hug you, counsel you, validate you, encourage you. Let us carry the burden for a little while.

And someday soon, when your baby starts pouring her own cereal, I hope you'll reach out to the new moms in your life and pay it forward.

Okay, then. If I see you with a newborn bubba in your arms and I ask, how’s it going?—tell me anything good, bad, or ugly. But please, please, please—don’t lie to me. Your honesty can spark a revival of moms supporting moms.

We need each other. Are you in?


If you know a new mom who needs some encouragement, please pass it on! You might also like Taste of Candy Land and Family First.

Why I Date My Husband

“My lover spoke and said to me, ‘Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me,’” (Song of Songs 2:10).

She reached for my hand, giggling, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief. “Come on, Mom, we have a surprise for you.”

I followed downstairs to the spare bedroom. A dusty VCR sat on the floor, hooked to our ancient tube television.

“Are you ready?” my husband grinned. I settled on the edge of the bed, a toddler in my lap, big sister bursting with excitement as she knelt beside Daddy on the carpet. Pop! The black screen sprang to colorful life, piano keys trickling in the background. I recognized a white satin princess, a raven-haired prince.

Our wedding video.

I thought we lost it. Through a couple moves and a basement flood, that priceless memento got neglected in the shuffle, until neither of us remembered where or when we’d seen it last. In honor of our tenth anniversary, my husband and our four-year-old daughter scoured the house until they found the videotape buried in a box. This was my anniversary gift.

Tears ran down my cheeks as I soaked in every frame of our wedding memories. The white roses, the vows, the dress my mother made.

“Do you like it, Momma?” our eldest asked.

“I love it, sweetheart. I love it. This is the best surprise ever.”

Then something strange happened. My daughter’s beaming smile melted into trembling lips. She climbed onto the bed next to me and bawled into my shoulder.

“My goodness, what’s wrong? Did something upset you? Are you sad?” Her dad and I exchanged confused sign language, baffled by this polar reaction. She was so excited to see the video! What went bad?

“No, Mom, I’m not sad,” she choked through raw wails. “I’m crying because I’m happy!”

That’s when I realized—I need to keep dating my husband.

Date night is not our greatest strength. The lag between our last two sans children dinner outings was seven months—pathetic, I know. Excuses are easy when we’re busy raising small kids. We’re tired, babysitters cost more than the restaurant bill, my babies want me to tuck them in—they’ll miss me. They need me.

No they don’t. Not on date night. Not as much as they need two parents united, strong, in love. They need to see Mom fluttery with anticipation of time alone with Dad, to see Dad clasp Mom’s fingers while he leads her out the door, blowing kisses to two little girls already immersed in the babysitter’s nail polish collection.

They need to know Mom and Dad are here for them, because we’re here for each other first.

It’s risky to convince ourselves we’re fine without regular dates—without time set aside to nurture our relationship, to rekindle the spark, to remember why I chose this person, why I love being with this person more than anybody else in the world.

Because we can get so absorbed in the routines and responsibilities—the teaching, cooking, cleaning, running, child-centric activities of each day—that we forget to make eye contact when we talk to one another. Then we forget to ask what’s on your mind or what are your dreams, until one day we wake up pondering dangerous questions like who are you and what happened to the person I once pursued with all my heart?

I’d like to think we wouldn’t let our marriage suffer. But nobody ever sets out intending to drift, do they? So how does it happen? Dates can’t hurt. They can only help.

When I witnessed our daughter’s sweet, unfiltered reaction to a video of her parents giddy in love, I caught a glimpse of my marriage through her eyes. And I finally understood. Date night isn’t just for my husband and me. Our children need it as much as we do.

So we made a plan. Hubby and I committed to one night out per month for the next year—a great start and a huge improvement for us—and we wrote the dates on our calendars to prevent letting them slide. Our January kick-off was a tenth anniversary celebration. I sat across the bistro table from my handsome groom, and when I told him I loved him, I looked straight into his eyes and meant it to new depths.

Praise God we found that wedding video. We won’t make the mistake of losing it again. More importantly, we won’t lose track of each other. If our kids want to see Mom and Dad crazy in love, they need not turn on the VCR. We’re going to show them in real life.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on! You might also like A Father’s Wisdom, Love Is Not Easily Angered, and The Witch. I Hate Her.

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Linking up with The Alabaster Jar: Marital Oneness Mondays and To Love, Honor and Vacuum: Wifey Wednesdays

Achoo! Bless You

Winter in Wisconsin. Slushy boot prints form puddles on our kitchen floor. My tea kettle claims reserved parking on the stove top. And I’m coming down with my third cold in five weeks.

Third. Cold.

My kids are to blame. They contaminate me.

When the lady of the house wipes runny noses every three minutes, snuggles with congested insomniacs at midnight, and gets hacked on and sneezed on day after day, it’s near impossible to avoid catching something myself. This is not for lack of maniac hand-washing and countertop sanitizing, believe me. Pinkeye is just one of the curses of Eve. I’m rolling with it.

Truly, the mommy in me is a softie for sick kiddos. My heart aches when they’re hurting, and I’d gladly take the hit for them.

For them. Not with them. What’s the point in all of us being sick together?

You can tell the moment when everybody’s Tylenol wears off, usually a good half hour before the dosage chart says we can safely slurp another round. Baby girl flips a switch from giggling to wailing, grasping my sweatpants at the knee, desperate for Mommy to hold her and make the yuck go away. Meanwhile, big sister refuses to eat anything but Goldfish pretzels and pouts because her imaginary friends are moving to Arizona and can’t come for supper.

I juggle these emotional meltdowns with my own verging tears, feeling my tonsils swell like swallowed golf balls, and I start praying that Daddy’s car pulls into the garage before the entire house implodes.

It’s just a cold, I tell myself. It will pass. Buck up, quit whining. Where is your patience? Where is your strength?

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me,” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

That’s my trouble. I think weakness is a problem. Being sick, needing rest, appearing less than self-sufficient—in my book, that’s all bad. Super Mom must prevail! So your sinuses are breeding like a Petri dish, eh, Becky? Too bad, the laundry still needs folding. Do. It. All. No matter what.

But Jesus says, rest in my power. Not your own. His grace is all I need. Not his grace and some NyQuil. Just his grace.

This tells me I’ve been focusing on the wrong thing again—me. My sore throat, my cough, my upcoming obligations that are going to be tougher to muddle through with laryngitis. But if I look to God more than I focus on my (relative) misery, I’ll see that his power has a chance to shine in my sniffles.

Weakness can be a good thing. That is absolutely counterintuitive to a do-it-yourself momma. But the invitation to tap the Lord’s power is intriguing, and I want to try it.

So I decided to take a sick day. I cannot do it all—gasp!—at least not all of the time. I begged my husband to stay home from work on dad duty, but he can’t, so my sick day is this: be sick. Be okay with being sick. Pray for God to take away the sick, but more importantly, ask for his supernatural strength to get through the minimal requirements of the day.

Which are: soothe the beautiful babes who are also sick, make sure everybody gets breakfast and lunch (Goldfish pretzels count), dole out the meds at allotted increments, and forget about everything else—the laundry, the dishes, the phone calls, the e-mails. Just be sick together. Stay in our pajamas and eat orange popsicles. And see how God works among us when we keep him closer than our Kleenex box.

Yep, it’s winter alright. We still have four months of cold and flu season ahead, which at my current pace might mean nine more colds before summer. Best that I learn my lesson on number three. Maybe then God will have mercy on me until next fall. If not, I will boast in him. His power is made perfect in my pinkeye.

Did this post encourage you? Please feel free to pass it on! You might also like Time for a Change and The Trouble With To-Do.

God Has It Covered (A Sequel)

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own,” (Matthew 6:34).

Last week, I encouraged us all to embrace whatever surprises God throws our way. We can trust him! His plan is good! Woo hoo! Bring. It. On.

And then I found my Saturn sitting dead in the garage. Hmmpf.

Tomorrow, a tow truck will haul it to the shop ($) where we suspect they’ll diagnose a snapped timing belt ($$) plus, while we’re at it, a battery replacement, oil change, and tire rotation ($$$). This happiness comes the same week our mailman delivered the Christmas shopping credit card bill ($$$$).

That timing belt has pretty bum timing.

Or does it? I’m told these things usually snap while driving, yet ours gave up the ghost upon start-up. And guess who was the last person to drive the car—me. In a snowstorm, by myself. If I had to choose, I’d much rather break down in the garage than on an icy highway without my husband’s level head at the steering wheel. Praise God for delivering me home safely the last time the car was in motion.

So I could fret about the cost of the repair. I could stew over how I’m going to get my daughter to preschool without a car. And I could worry about my husband’s mood when it hits him that our supposedly reliable vehicle is just as volatile as our beater. But, I won’t. Why?

Because God has it covered. That’s my mantra for this year. For some reason, even this auto failure is necessary in his grand design. I might think it’s inconvenient and expensive, but God sees the big picture—and if I knew what he knows, I’d be begging for a snapped timing belt right now. Hey, thanks, Lord! Just what I wanted!

Matthew 6 is my go-to chapter in the Bible anytime I’m tempted to freak out over money, unplanned expenses, or provision of any sort. If you’re not familiar with verses 19–34, I urge you to look them up and burn them into your brain. That passage is a good old scolding from Jesus, slapping our stress back into perspective.

What are you worrying about today? Wouldn’t it feel great to shed the “what ifs”?

I’d like to suggest a challenge for the week. Write a list of your worries on a sheet of paper, seal it in an envelope, and scrawl the words “God has it covered” across the top.

Then drop the envelope in your driveway, and back the car out. Make sure to get some good tire marks on that monster.

Wow, I can’t wait to do that! See? I’ve just given myself a reason to look forward to tomorrow instead of dreading the repair bill. For a chance to smash my worries into the cement, that new timing belt is worth every penny. Bring. It. On.

Did this post encourage you? Please feel free to pass it on! You might also like Life Is a Highway, When Trials Come and The Case of the Purple Car.

Whatever the New Year Brings

“In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps,” (Proverbs 16:9).

I love fresh beginnings. Crisp blank notebooks, an empty dishwasher, weddings, New Year’s Day—big or small, a new start holds possibilities, space, clarity. Hope for the future.

New beginnings can be scary, though, too. Call it fear of change or the unknown—what it comes down to is recognizing we are not in control. I have a plan for 2012, but the truth is only God knows what the year will bring.

Your list of unexpected events from 2011 may be a lot like mine. My circle of loved ones embraced new jobs, new babies, new houses; faced cancer, funerals, hospitals; experienced healing, heartache, and countless answered prayers. None of it came by prediction.

Every January, my husband and I write a list of goals. We organize them in categories: Spiritual, Marriage and Family, Personal Development, Financial. Do you want to know what was not on the list last year? This blog.

Finding time for writing a weekly devotion seemed impossible 12 months ago. So did the intimidating prospect of cracking my heart and household wide open for other moms to gawk at. But God took me on a wild ride, unearthing a passion for sharing him through his words and mine. So I strapped myself in shotgun and let his will blow through my soul, shaking loose my “I can’ts” and “not nows.” He steered me down a path I was afraid to tread alone.

Where does God want to take you this year? What if it’s different from your plan? What if it challenges your comfort zone, changes the way you see yourself? What if it hurts? Will you trust him?

I want to. At the top of my goal list for 2012 is this: get to know God better. I suspect my fear of the unknown is rooted in an inaccurate view of God’s goodness. If I really get to know his character, how he loves me and has plans to prosper me and not to harm me (Jeremiah 29:11), then I don’t need to fear the curve balls. I can trust they’re part of his plan. And his plan is beyond good. It’s perfect.

Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you for taking Time Out to read these devotions each week. May the Lord richly bless you and your families in 2012!