The Witch. I Hate Her.

Let’s talk about the H word. Hormones. Nasty little buggers, aren’t they?

I’m normally a chipper person. But every so often, depending on the shape of the moon, I can get a bit... cranky. Oversensitive. Melancholy. And, let’s just say, irrational.

Maybe you can relate to this lovely scene.

Early on a Saturday morning, my sweet husband went shopping for groceries. Fantastic, right? He willingly takes on this chore so I don’t have to juggle two little supermarket companions during the week. I write the list, he wheels through the aisles at sunrise collecting the goods. It’s one of the hundreds of practical reasons I love the guy.

So when he returned home and we began unloading bags together, I batted my lashes in dreamy gratitude and adoration. Awww, he bought my favorite apples. My hero.

A cheery tune buzzed through my lips while I stacked tuna cans and folded the sacks. My husband settled in a kitchen chair to sip coffee and scan the newspaper while our girls slurped chocolate milk and Cheerios. We were a billboard of domestic peace.

Until I opened my trap.

“Honey, where are the diapers?”

He jerked his head from the paper, eyes wide, and blinked. “What diapers? They weren’t on the list.”

Slowly, I ran a fingertip down the crumpled shopping list to ensure I wasn’t about to perjure myself. Right there in my tidy penmanship, under the bold “Baby Aisle” header, glowed the word DIAPERS.

“Yes, they were.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I missed it.”

Blood bubbled from my toes to my forehead. My mouth twisted into a beastly scowl, hot drool dripped off my teeth, and smoky flames escaped from my nostrils. I do believe I felt a pair of horns sprout just above my ears.

“You missed it? We buy diapers every week.”

“Well, then, you should do the shopping next time. You’re better at it.” He stuck his nose back in the newspaper. The girls scooped more cereal into their mouths, oblivious.

I squeezed my eyelids shut, dug my fingernails into my palms, and squelched the urge to scream. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! He forgot the diapers?! Where has he been for the last five years!?! We are diaper people! My husband is useless! I hate my life!

Hold on a second. That’s not true. How could such terrible thoughts creep into my brain? I popped one eye open and peeked at the calendar on the fridge.

Oh. That explains it.

Hormones can turn even the holiest woman into a sniffling witch overnight. When I wake up in the morning with an urge to flop on the sofa with a bag of Oreos and some earplugs, I know biology is to blame.

There was a time when I used this hormonal rollercoaster as an excuse to unleash the hag. But then I got cozy with Proverbs and realized—there are no excuses.

“The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down,” (Proverbs 14:1).

Ouch. Cranky moods, overreacting, snapping and nagging—all of these conspire to tear down the loving walls I work so hard to build. Don’t get me wrong—I testify that hormones are a valid cause of feeling crummy. But acting crummy is a choice.

When the hubby-bought-no-diapers incident conjured my inner witch, the Holy Spirit fought back by hurling into mind the words of Proverbs 14:1. Oh, the value of memorizing Scripture! So I clamped my tongue, mounted my broom and flew into the bathroom for a time out.

Lord, I prayed, please don’t let me tear down my house today.

“Honey?” My husband tapped on the bathroom door. “Do you need me to run back to the store for diapers?”

I drew a deep breath, exhaled, and pulled the doorknob. “No, it’s okay. I’ll go. I need something else that wasn’t on the list, anyway.”

“What is it?”

“Oreos.”


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like The Mirror, Love Is Not Easily Angered, and When You Don't Feel Like Doing Your Job.

* * * * * * * *

Linking up with: The Better Mom, Titus 2sdays, Domestically Divine Tuesday, Living Well Wednesdays, Wifey Wednesdays, Things I Can't Say, Grace at Home, and Faithfully Parenting Fridays.

When You Want What They Have

“Mom, I wish we lived in that house.” Perched inside her play set lookout tower, my daughter cast wistful glances toward the neighbor’s yard a few houses north.

“Why? I thought you liked our house.”

“Well, they have a pool and a picnic table.”

Ah. I see.

“But they don’t have a sandbox. Or swings. Or all of your favorite toys inside,” I reasoned. “Just because they have a pool doesn’t mean that house is better. We belong here, in our house.”

Wise counsel, O Super Mom. Maybe you should take it yourself.

How many times have I wished for someone else’s stuff? Their granite countertops, their three-car garage, his talent, her silky hair.

You know what happens then, don’t you? Envy pollutes the senses. I start thinking my stuff isn’t good enough. As if God doesn’t know what I need. Or worse, he’s holding out on me.

Now that is just ridiculous.

“For the LORD God is a sun and shield; the LORD bestows favor and honor. No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly,” (Psalm 84:11, ESV, emphasis mine).

The crazy thing is, there’s probably somebody out there who’s wishing for my stuff. Meanwhile, I’m drooling over somebody else’s stuff, which belongs to somebody who would finally be happy if only they could get their hands on somebody else’s stuff—and on and on until the world is filled with ungrateful people.

It’s madness, I tell you. Why can’t we all just be happy with our own stuff?

Consider this. Nobody has it all. She might be supermodel-gorgeous on the outside, but wrestling with heartache on the inside. His impressive job title might mean he hasn’t been home to kiss the kids goodnight in weeks. The neighbors’ new car has leather seats and OnStar, sure, but they could be sweating the payments every month. Hardly anyone broadcasts the downside of their coveted stuff. If they did, who would want it?

Truthfully, I’d rather have my own problems than somebody else’s—because at least mine are familiar. If I really knew what went on in that bigger house or that supposedly perfect family, I might be relieved it belongs to them and not me. In other words, I’d choose my own stuff.

“Do you think that house has bunk beds, Mom?” My daughter pointed her telescope toward the neighbor’s pool.

“Maybe. But do you know what I’ll bet it doesn’t have?”

“What?” Her eyes grew wide.

“A super cool mom who bakes the yummiest oatmeal chocolate chip cookies in the universe. Want to go inside and make some?”

“Yeah! Let’s go!”

If only my own envy were so easily deterred. Then again, maybe it is. When I take a moment to count my blessings, I remember I already have the best family, a house filled with love if not bunk beds, and a Heavenly Father who gives me everything I need.

And you know what? So do you.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like The Beauty of a Naked Lion Chase, Don’t Lie to Me, and The Case of the Purple Car.

Sunday Special: For the Dads

They made it.

He wore it.

God bless him.

This one is for the dads.

Our pillars, teddy bears, protectors and dream builders.

Our burger grillers, handymen, and closet-monster slayers.

Our midnight doctors and back yard pitchers.

Our landscapers, storytellers, college fund savers.

For hunters and warriors, coaches and teachers; prayer leaders, shepherds, counselors, truth seekers.

We love you.
We need you.
We look up to you.
We remember you.

We thank God for you.

This day, and every day.
Happy Father’s Day!

“The righteous who walks in his integrity—blessed are his children after him!” (Proverbs 20:7, ESV)

How to Raise a Timid Child

She mounted the twisted iron ladder to the monkey bars. “Be careful!” I yelled to my five-year-old. Surely she could slip and smack her face into the rungs.

Later, she danced in the living room, twirling to her heart’s content. “Be careful,” I warned. “You’ll get dizzy.” In my mind, every piece of furniture stood waiting to collide with her head.

At dinner time, she asked to pour the milk herself. I promise I won’t spill, she said. “Alright,” and yet the caution flag flew out of my mouth for the hundredth time that day. “Please—be careful.”

What am I so afraid of?

My momma bear instincts run deep and wide. I sniff out danger at every turn, fiercely protecting my cubbies from threats both real and imagined. Hey, I’m a mom—it’s my job, I tell you! God entrusted these children to my care, and I am determined not to mess it up.

So I teach my kids to be cautious. But do they also know how to be brave?

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline,” (2 Timothy 1:7).

If your goal is to raise a timid child, l can offer a few tips—from experience:
• Say “be careful” more than you say “I believe in you.”
• Pray for your child’s safety more than you pray for her character.
• Fear the world more than you trust God.

Terrible, isn’t it? I am fanatic about keeping my children safe. I want to spare them pain. Yet, beneath my anxious surface, what I really want most for them is faith—to love and follow Christ with unswerving devotion. That kind of life is meaningful beyond measure, but it may not necessarily be safe.

Sometimes, God asks us to take risks. Bold faith requires stretching beyond what’s comfortable or certain. What if God’s plan for my daughters involves traveling to faraway places? What if it involves chasing an impossible dream or discovering a cure for cancer or jumping out of airplanes?

What if they are to become mothers themselves? Such a calling is not for the faint of heart. My girls are going to need some serious moxie.

How will they get it if I never let them taste adventure?

She looked both ways then pedaled into the street. My eyes shifted from my daughter’s training wheels to the line of cars idled at the stoplight. Those automatic words burned on my tongue—be careful!—but this time I squelched them and delivered a different message instead.

“You did it, sweetheart! You’re getting really good at riding your bike. You are so brave.”

I wish I could say the same thing about myself. Caution and timidity are comfy old pals, but I’m working on befriending my spirit of power. With God’s help, my kids will not learn fear from their mother’s example.

We’re going to find our courage together.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like If You Give a Mom a Minute, Birthday Musings From a Sappy Mom, A Father’s Wisdom, and How a Wiggles Movie Changed My Life.

On Discipline and Planting Sunflowers

Of all the hats we wear as moms, my least favorite is referee. Some days it seems I have no chance to enjoy my children because all my energy is spent on mediating their squabbles. Here’s a typical scene:

“Moooooom! She pinched me!” My five-year-old accused her little sister of unprompted abuse.

“She! Took! My! Bear!” My two-year-old sputtered her defense.

“Did you take your sister’s bear?”

“No. I had it first!” Sure, that old trick.

I knelt to eye-level with my toddler. “Did you pinch your sister?”

“Yes.” Love this honest age.

“You know the rules, girls. In our family, we share toys, and we do not hit, kick, or pinch. Both of you—to your rooms for a time out.” My verdict was swift and final.

“Noooooooooo! Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” The toddler flung her whole body onto the carpet and pounded fists into the floor. Big sister’s face glowed red and contorted into desperate wails. Such cruel and unusual punishment! As though the whole ordeal was my fault in the first place.

Oh, and did I mention it was only 7 a.m.? The girls had been awake and breathing each other’s air for approximately five minutes. Lord, help me.

Sometimes I’m tempted to let natural consequences reign and leave my children to battle it out until one of them gives in or loses a chunk of hair. But at this young stage, they still need my intervention much of the time. My challenge is to stay strong and consistent.

And what a challenge it is.

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it,” (Hebrews 12:11).

If harvest is the goal, then discipline is like gardening. I’m in the seed planting stage. Some days I can’t see anything but a mound of dirt.

Yet God is giving life to those seeds beneath the surface. Soon I’ll detect sprouts, and I will continue to water and weed. Then one day, my daughters will stand tall, beautiful, and unwavering as sunflowers—because they are rooted in the soil I tilled with my own sweat and prayers, nourished by the shining rays of God’s grace.

Oh, how we all need his grace.

“Mom, can I come out of my room now?” My five-year-old poked her head through the doorway, repentant.

“Me too, Mommy?” my little one chimed.

“Yes, girls. Come here, please.” I perched them both on my lap. “What did you do that was naughty?”

“We didn’t share,” big sister whispered.

“I pinch! Naughty!” the toddler shouted. My stern lips nearly cracked a giggle.

“What do you need to say to each other?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I sow-ee, too.”

They hugged. My heart warmed. Then the little one yanked her sister’s hair and we started all over again.

Oh, well. Time to plant more seeds. I am producing a harvest of righteousness, after all. It’s not a bad way to spend the day.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Love Is Not Easily Angered, It Hurts Because I Love You, and The Mirror.