When Mom Wears a Dress

“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come,” (Proverbs 31:25).

I slid open my closet door and surveyed the options. Black pants, khaki pants, gray pants, Capri pants. Hmmm… what to wear to church? Shuffling aside a few hangers, I spied a pink summer dress stuffed between a pair of corduroys and an old cardigan.

When was the last time I wore you? I spoke silently to the dress. Oh yeah, last year for that wedding shower—banished to my closet ever since, poor thing. I pulled it out and scanned for wrinkles. Not too shabby. I slipped on the dress, strapped my sandals, and met my family in the kitchen.

My five-year-old daughter glanced up from her cereal bowl. Her eyes popped, and she held both hands to her mouth in shock, smiling wide. “Mom! You look STUNNING!”

My cheeks turned pink as my dress. “Wow, thank you, sweetheart! What a big compliment.” I squeezed my arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

“Mom. I have a great idea. You should wear that dress every day. It’s so, so beautiful.”

And that’s when it hit me. The dress was nothing spectacular. But it was rare. Maybe Mom should wear a dress more often.

Keywords in my wardrobe are comfy and functional. If it can’t survive blue popsicle drips and sidewalk chalk, I don’t wear it. So my dresser is packed with jeans and T-shirts. Consequently, my children know me as the woman in jeans.

But I want to be more. I want them to see a lady.

This scary thought has been brewing in my mind. As moms, we form our child’s definition of a woman. We model the person our daughters will become, or the type of girl we hope our sons will marry. What if they never catch a glimpse of the lady I have in mind—because I neglected to let her shine through?

Femininity is a fading art, but it’s not extinct. My daughters swoon over Dora lip gloss with a degree of enthusiasm they cannot muster for a Tonka truck. It’s in their veins. So the way I see it, nurturing my children according to how God made them is not sexist, politically incorrect or old-fashioned; it’s smart.

Which brings me back to the dress. When I wore it, I carried myself more gracefully. I felt more poised, confident, gentle yet strong. Those are the qualities my kids need to see in me—with or without a dress.

“Why do you like my pink dress?” I asked my daughter a few days later.

“Oh, Mom,” she glowed, “it’s just so pretty, and I like things that are pretty, and I praise the Lord for giving you a dress!”

She likes things that are pretty. God wired her this way, and she gives him glory for it. Isn’t that what we moms should do, too? So from now on, I’m going to be a little more aware of how my actions can encourage my daughters to embrace their feminine side.

In the name of intentional parenting—this sounds like a great excuse to go shopping.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Spilled Milk, Precious In My Sight, and The Beauty of a Naked Lion Chase.

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

Cut Me Some Slack, Little People

“So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets,” (Matthew 7:12).

Did you know the Golden Rule applies to parenting? This never really occurred to me—until my daughter broke the rule.

“Mom, you should NOT have done this!” My five-year-old stormed into the bathroom where I stood hooking silver hoops into my earlobes. She glared at me, her lips pursed and a fist perched on each hip.

“Pardon me?” I turned from the mirror to face her. “What exactly did I do?”

“You left the car door open all night!” she hissed. “Dad just went into the garage and saw it!”

Oh. I did? My brain rewound to the night before—a family dinner outing to Applebee’s. I recalled unloading two kids, two water cups, a bulky purse and a Styrofoam to-go box out of the minivan, so it’s entirely possible my juggling fingers forgot to push the button on the automatic sliding door. Sure, that sounds like something I would do.

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m human, and I make mistakes.” Annoyed, I held my accuser’s stare. “And I don’t appreciate your tone, young lady. How would you feel if I scolded you every time you made a mistake?”

Whoa. A sudden realization cut my lecture short. I do scold her for making mistakes. Darn.

There’s a difference between correcting and criticizing. We grown-ups know this. At work, in marriage, among close friends—accountability is healthy. But if somebody’s going to point out a weakness, I want them to be nice about it. Tell me the truth, of course, but please—do it with gentleness and respect.

“Always be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love,” (Ephesians 4:2, NLT).

I’ve failed my kids at this. I didn’t even realize it until my daughter dished out a taste of my own chiding. How many times have I reacted to harmless errors with impatience instead of grace? I’m ashamed of the examples. Can you relate to any of these?

Me: Who took the masking tape?
Daughter: I’m sorry, Mom. I used it for a craft, and I forgot to put it back in the junk drawer.
Me: No more masking tape for you.
What I wish I’d said: We can all be forgetful sometimes. I’ll help you look for it.

Me: Ouch! You stepped on my foot!
Daughter: I’m sorry, Mom. I was practicing my ballet.
Me: Can you dance somewhere else, please?
What I wish I’d said: The kitchen is too small for pirouettes. Let’s go in the playroom so you can show me your fancy moves.

Me: Okay, it’s time to add the cinnamon.
Daughter: Here it is, Mom!
Me: Aaack! You just poured cumin into our cookie batter! Now we have to start all over.
What I wish I’d said: Spicy cookies coming right up! {Insert crazy peals of laughter}

When my daughter harped on me for the car door blunder, I heard my ugly, perfectionist self in her sassy mouth. If I expect my kids to cut their poor mother some slack, then I must set the example first. More kindness. More forgiveness. More grace.

In other words, less me—and more Jesus. After all, how can any of us give grace unless we receive it from him first?

“So I left the van door open last night, huh?” I groveled to my husband.

“Yeah, no big deal.”

“Really? That’s not what the minivan police said.” I slipped him a sly grin. “But I’m glad you forgive me.”

“Of course.” He paused for a second and leaned in for the jab. “If the battery had died, though, then I’d be mad.”

Oh, how I love this family. Even when they scold me.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like The Mirror, Love Is Not Easily Angered, Learning Is Messy and The Witch. I Hate Her.

Congratulations to our Blog Birthday Week prize winners, Carrie Hansman Stier and Heather Windeler! Ladies, please send me an e-mail at rebeccakopitzke (at) gmail.com with your mailing address and prize preference: Jeanne Winters’ book, Inspirational Home, or an 8x10 print of your choice from her Etsy site, and Jeanne will ship it to you directly! Thanks to everyone who entered!

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

Life Lessons From a Bird, a Net, and a Scissors—Plus a Birthday Giveaway!

They ate our green beans. Birds—common yard sparrows—dove into our garden plot and munched the blossoms down to nubby stalks.

My husband was ticked. Don’t mess with the man’s garden. He replanted and covered the new sprouts with netting.

A few days later, I stood at the kitchen window rinsing dishes. Commotion near the corner fence caught my eye. I squinted for a closer look. Sure enough, a bird flopped on top of the garden net like a beached fish.

The poor thing was stuck.

Great, I grumbled. The net was supposed to protect our beans, not torture animals. I grabbed a pair of scissors and some gardening gloves.

“Want to see a bird up close?” I asked my five-year-old daughter.

“Where?” Her eyes grew round.

“In the garden. Follow me.”

Imagine lying bound and gagged while Godzilla approaches wielding sharp objects. That must’ve been how the bird felt as I walked toward it. At first, it flapped its wings in a blur of feathers, frantic to escape. Then when I reached the net, the bird froze. Its chest ballooned and collapsed in quick, panicked breaths, but the rest of its body held strangely still. Carefully, without touching a single feather, I clipped the nylon mesh around its toes and set it free.

Darn beans. They aren’t worth it.

Sometimes, my children are like that bird. How many times have I told them not to eat the beans, so to speak? Don’t jump off the sofa; you’ll get hurt. Don’t devour too much popcorn; you’ll get a tummy ache. If you say the word “poopy” one more time, I will send you to the naughty chair. So we build rules like nets to protect them from themselves.

Yet if I dig a little deeper, I realize, I am like that bird, too.

Don’t blow your top at the kids; you’ll regret it.

Don’t give pride a voice; you’ll wound your husband’s heart.

Don’t wish for someone else’s stuff; you’ll lose sight of what’s already yours.

Don’t log onto e-mail more than you look into your children’s eyes; you’ll miss your own life passing by.

The Master Gardener watches from his window and sees me flailing. He draws near, whispering to my anxious, injured soul. My child, how many times do I have to tell you? Temptation is a tangled net. Fly into it, and it will own you.

I write this blog because my life is a mixed bag of blessings and mess. And I hear you sigh, mine too. Motherhood reveals the ugliest and the most beautiful parts of our souls. So I show up here every week to point it all to God—praising him for the beauty, and trusting him to redeem the mess like only he can.

Which leads me back to the bird. Our garden story has a twist. After I snipped the netting, the stunned creature remained motionless for a moment. Then, in a surge of hope and courage, it flapped a wing, lifted its foot and flew!—straight into the hole I’d just cut in the mesh. The crazy thing jailed itself beneath the net.

“Over there, birdie, fly back up through the hole!” My daughter and I gestured wildly toward the exit, as if the bird spoke Godzilla’s language. It hopped around in confusion, tried to lift off, and banged its head against the net. Finally, it squeezed through a small opening in the surrounding fence, and was free.

“Yay! It’s out, it’s out!” We clapped our hands and laughed. Victory for the bird!

Victory for all of us. It’s out there—if we know where to find it.

“No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it,” (1 Corinthians 10:13).

God cuts the hole in our net. We’re going to get tangled sometimes—that’s for certain. But when we do, our gentle Lord holds the scissors. He points toward the exit and cheers us on to freedom.

How do I know?

{I can’t resist.}

A little birdie told me.

Whenever I am tempted,
Whenever clouds arise,
When song gives place to sighing,
When hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him,
For care he sets me free.
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know he watches me.

--Civilla Martin, “His Eye Is On the Sparrow”

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And now for a birthday giveaway!

Happy birthday to the blog! This week marks Time Out’s first full year of mom mishaps and encouragement. To celebrate, throughout the week I’ll be highlighting on Facebook some of my favorite posts from the past year. Join me there to win prizes! (What’s a birthday bash without presents, right?)

I’ll be giving away special gifts created by my friend and Hallmark/Dayspring signature designer, Jeanne Winters. Enter to win her beautiful book, Inspirational Home, or the 8x10 print of your choice from Jeanne’s delightful Etsy collection.

Two ways to enter:
1. “Like” my Facebook page and/or
2. Share a Time Out devotion, then leave a comment on the blog or on Facebook to let me know you’ve spread the joy. I’ll enter your name in the drawing for every post you share.

Winners will be announced next week! Thank you all for joining me here. I count you among my blessings, and I sincerely hope this blog is a blessing to you as well.

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Linking up with: The Better Mom, Playdates With God, Mommy Moments, Titus 2sdays, Domestically Divine Tuesday, Living Well Wednesdays, Grace at Home, Things I Can't Say, Thought Provoking Thursday and Faithfully Parenting Fridays.

If You Give a Mom a Minute

I steal from my children. The loot is nothing tangible—I don’t swipe quarters from their piggy banks or cookies off their lunch plates.

What I steal is more valuable.

Time.

Bit by bit, I snatch it—in increments of just a minute.

“Mom, can I please have a cup of juice with my breakfast?”

Sure, sweetheart, just give me a minute.

“Come see my picture, Momma! I colored it for you!”

Wonderful! I’ll be there in a minute.

“Mom, I need your help. I can’t pull the cap off my glue stick.”

Okay, just a minute.

“Will you read me this book, Momma? Please?”

Just a minute—I need to finish emptying the dishwasher. While stacking plates, I notice crumbs scattered around the toaster, so I wipe the counter. When I hang the dishcloth on the faucet, I see the sink needs scrubbing, which reminds me I’m almost out of paper towels, so I sit down to write out the shopping list. Shopping makes me think about the checkbook, so I flip open my laptop and pay a few bills online. And since I’m already at the computer, I might as well send a quick e-mail to my sister.

“Mom? Did you forget about my juice?”

Oops. If you give a mom a minute—she’ll take twenty. Then minutes add up to hours, and hours add up to days spent investing in my own preoccupations rather than my children.

Should a mom be her child’s slave? No. Delayed gratification can teach young ones patience and selflessness. But I’m not talking about unreasonable demands here. When my kids ask for juice or books, they’re really asking for something else.

They want me.

My attention. My affirmation. My love. They want to feel safe.

I am their safe place.

“Those who fear the LORD are secure; he will be a refuge for their children,” (Proverbs 14:26, NLT).

How many times a day do I say “just a minute”? Too many. It’s my default reply. But not anymore. I’m determined to switch this around. From now on, instead of stealing minutes, I’m going to grant them.

Yes, I will bring you that juice—because it’s only going to cost me a minute.

Sure, I can help with that glue stick. It’ll interrupt my dishes for just a little minute.

I’d love to read that book. My to-do list can pause for a minute—or twenty—because that’s all it really takes to make you feel important.

You are my priority. You are my heart. More often than I allow, everything else can wait just a minute.

“Hey, sweetie, your sister and I are going to read library books. Want to join us?” I stood in my five-year-old daughter’s bedroom doorway and smiled. She knelt on the rug, surrounded by dollhouse furniture. I watched her ponytail swish back and forth while she slid a plastic dining table into place.

“Sure, Mom, but I’m kind of busy. I’ll be there in just a minute.”

Ah. Heaven help me.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like The Trouble With To-Do, Wishing My Life Away, and Taste of Candyland.

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Linking up with: The Better Mom, Playdates With God, Mommy Moments, Titus 2sdays, Living Well Wednesday, Grace at Home, Things I Can't Say, Thought Provoking Thursday and Faithfully Parenting Fridays.