Moms Grow Up, Too: A Story About Hunting, Kindergarten, and Popcorn

I’ve discovered a bright spot in this whole kindergarten business. I miss my girl.

Seems that should be a con, not a pro, right? But you know the old saying—absence makes the heart grow fonder. It’s true. Since school snatched my elder daughter away from me, I’m giddy to spend time with her whenever I get the chance. That’s especially helpful right about now.

Because it’s hunting season.

Maybe you’ve heard me gripe before. This time of year, my mighty man heads to the woods and I’m left behind on solo parent duty. However, this isn’t a post about slashing my husband’s tires. It’s a story about growing up—as a mom.

I can measure motherhood in hunting seasons.

Five years ago, on opening bow weekend, I stood at the living room window and waved to my husband’s truck with tears welling in my eyes. While he climbed trees and relished pink sunrises, I scrubbed bottles and rocked a fussy baby. Hours crept. Conversations were one-sided. I was lonely, frazzled, and desperate for a nap.

When little sister blessed our world, I juggled baby food jars and preschool crafts. My then three-year-old missed her Dad almost as much as I did—so we added emotional meltdowns to the physical demands of mommy overtime.

Oh, how I longed for that truck to pull back into the driveway on Sunday afternoons.

And yet. Fast forward to now. My baby is a chatterbox two-and-a-half-year-old. She feeds herself and begs to watch Little Einsteins while I take a shower. For my kindergartener, free time at home is a new luxury, so she colors happily with crayons and reads stories to her sister at nap time. Together my girls dream up games like pony rodeo and doll hospital—and they bless me by inviting me in.

It’s a paradigm shift, see. I’m no longer producing the entertainment. I’m watching the show.

Remember the day-in, day-out drudgery of caring for little ones? Maybe you’re in it right now. Wise women tell us it changes, gets easier—and I’m catching a glimpse. Monday through Friday, my day flies according to schedule. Pack the lunch, drive to school, toddler time, nap time (=me time!), carpool line, dinner, dishes, bath, bedtime prayers, crash and start all over again. By the weekend, we’re ready to let down our ponytails.

Saturday isn’t overtime anymore. It’s a party. We don’t have to go anywhere! We get to play and munch popcorn and wear slippers all day! 

Poor Dad. He’s missing all the fun.

“Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him. Children born to a young man are like arrows in a warrior’s hands. How joyful is the man whose quiver is full of them!” (Psalm 127:3–5a, NLT).

I’ve always known my children are a gift. But on hunting weekends, that gift looked less like a box of diamond earrings and more like the treadmill I never asked for. Insulting and challenging at first, but over time it whipped me into shape. I realize now that while my daughters were busy growing up, so was I—into a better version of myself, thanks to them.

What a fantastic gift.

Of course I still miss my husband when he’s gone, but no longer because I’m miserable. I miss him because I’m not. And I wish he could be here to see it.

Happy hunting season, my love. We’ll text you a picture of our princess popcorn party—just as soon as we’ve finished painting our nails sparkly purple. Oh, yeah.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Birthday Musings From a Sappy Mom, Don’t Lie to Me, Taste of Candy Land, When You Don’t Feel Like Doing Your Job, and Confessions of a Hunter’s Wife.

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

The Foolproof Cure for Hollering

I have a little volume problem. I yell.

At my husband.

What?! Terrible, I know. Yelling at my husband is worse than hollering at my kids. He is not my disciplinary charge. He doesn’t throw crayons or blow milk bubbles with his straw. He’s an adult, my equal. His behavior is generally dignified.

But he does push my buttons sometimes. And when that happens, all the virtuous restraint inside me blows up and spews out my mouth. I call it verbal vomit.

Here’s how it nearly spilled over a few days ago.

“Honey, I’m going downstairs to pay bills. Can you keep an eye on the girls for a while?” I grabbed my checkbook and a stack of papers and headed for the basement office.

“Uh-huh.” My husband reclined in a playroom chair and rustled the newspaper. Our children scurried around him, leaping off their trampoline and pounding drum sticks onto Rubbermaid lids. It was a typical Sunday afternoon aboard the Kopitzke fun ship.

Below deck, I settled into my desk chair and started punching numbers. Half an hour passed before I ventured back upstairs. I waltzed across the kitchen, turned a corner toward the playroom, and froze.

Disaster. Everywhere.

Toy bins sat upturned and empty. Stuffed animals, My Little Ponies, tea set utensils and Happy Meal gadgets lay strewn over the carpet and tossed onto furniture. Sofa cushions were stripped from their seats and stacked double high on the floor beneath heaps of coloring books, crumpled construction paper, half-eaten apples and markers without caps.

“What is all this?” I stared at the mess, stunned.

“We built a toy store, Momma.” My five-year-old called from down the hall. Captain Dad and his skippers had already fled the shipwreck and lounged in the master bedroom watching television. I lifted my eyes from the floor to the wall. Post-it notes stuck to the paint with masking tape. “TOY MARKET OPEN.”

Rising from deep in my belly, I sensed the urge to roar. HALF AN HOUR! I step away for HALF an hour and this is what I get?! Do you think I have nothing better to do than clean up this mess? Pay the bills YOURSELF next time! I’ll stay up here and take a scissors to your hunting magazines! Aaaaaaaaaack!

Verbal vomit is nasty junk. Once that stuff splats out, it clings to hurt feelings and leaves tough stains all over the house. If only we women could get our hands on a preventive drug for freaking out.

We can. It’s called scripture.

“I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you,” (Psalm 119:11).

Do you see that book sitting over there? Yep, that one, on your nightstand, or tucked in your book bag, or maybe collecting dust in a cabinet. It’s the one with the pretty cover spelled B-I-B-L-E. Maybe you read it every day. Maybe you’ve never cracked it open. Either way, unless we put its words into action, there’s very little difference between the woman who reads and the one who does not.

I know this, because I’ve done my share of reading without applying.

But thankfully God has taught me over the years how the Bible is more than a book. It’s more than a pious habit, a collection of ancient stories, or a leather-bound graduation gift. That Bible is our cure. The sentences stamped on its supernatural pages are pure medicine for heartache and misbehavior.

I’ve swallowed it—and it works.

Twice, with fists clenched, I stomped toward the television to unleash fury on my husband. Momma was on fire to shout it all out.

But I didn’t.

Because each time I opened my mouth to yell, these priceless words burst in my head and dripped down my throat, squelching the urge to purge.

A fool gives full vent to his anger. (Proverbs 29:11)

The foolish woman tears her house down. (Proverbs 14:1)

So I turned around, clamped my lips and let the steam blow out my nostrils.

That day, I claimed a small victory. Instead of spewing hurtful words at my husband—in front of the kids, for shame, for shame—I obeyed God’s Word. And the results were amazing.

Anger escaped my body with each breath. The mad beast evaporated. Suddenly, armed with scripture, I laughed at my own absurdity. My kids had a blast playing with their Dad. He lets our girls have the fun I prevent in the name of tidiness. He’s good for them. And? That playroom mess was nothing compared to the wreckage I nearly created with my tongue.

Thank you, Bible. Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

You saved me—again.

Now. Where’s that verse about how husbands should scrub apple juice off upholstery? Mm, no such thing? ‘Kay. I’ll tell the kids to do it—in my very best quiet voice.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Love Is Not Easily Angered, Confessions of a Hunter’s Wife, and The Witch. I Hate Her.

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

Scaredy Cat Ruins All My Fun

“I don’t want to go on that. It’s too high.”

My five-year-old daughter tipped her chin toward the sky and squinted at the super potato sack slide. We were on a special family outing to the local amusement park—a surprise trip, which my husband and I anticipated our kids would love, love, love.

We were wrong.

“How about the race cars, then?” I suggested. “Do you want to ride those?”

“No.”

“The floaty boats?”

“No.”

“The ladybug buggies?”

My daughter shook her head and stared at her shoes.

“I don’t like those rides! Hmmpf!” My two-year-old stood in stubborn allegiance with her sister. I heaved a sigh and raised my eyebrows at my husband, desperate to salvage our fun.

“Come on, I want you to go down the slide with me.” He appealed to our five-year-old. “I think you’ll be surprised how much you like it.”

“No!”

Ten dollars worth of kiddie ride tickets suddenly weighed heavy as sandbags in my pocket. I grew anxious to unload them. “But you love slides. Why don’t you want to go on this one?”

“Because! I don’t like things that are high. I’m too scared.”

“What’s wrong with the buggies? They’re on the ground.”

“It’s too fast. I can’t make it stop when I want it to stop. I want to go home.”

Talk about bursting a mom’s bubble. For weeks prior, I daydreamed of cotton candy and toothy smiles. My kids were supposed to squeal in delight and skip from ride to ride while I snapped brilliant Kodak moments for my photo books. Amusement parks are what childhood memories are made of. Didn’t my kiddos understand? Their fears were ruining all our fun!

Ah, that sounds familiar.

I have a few fears of my own.

I fear car accidents. So instead of cranking the radio and relaxing shotgun beside my favorite driver man, I spend family road trips slamming my ghost brake and watching for deer.

I fear germs. So during flu season, I avoid the children’s museum and pizza buffets, dreading the inevitable midnight hour when a daughter wakes up vomiting.

I fear letting my children go. So I approach the school years with anxiety and heartache, praying that God will go with them where I cannot.

What’s your list? Do you see? Fears ruin all our fun. They suck the joy from our blessings. I could be belting country songs with the windows rolled down, smacking my lips on a slice of Stevi B’s taco pizza, or celebrating my daughter’s accomplishments more than I lament her absence. But I don’t. God hands me little tickets to happiness, and I turn them down because I’m too darn scared to strap in for the ride.

Not anymore.

I’m tired of missing out. I want to trip the fine line between terror and exhilaration, grin silly and wide until my jaw aches, and feel my stomach plunge down life’s super slides. Fear is nothing but the enemy’s trap. And I am finally determined to bust free.

Will you join me?

“Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand,” (Isaiah 41:10, NLT).

God tells us over and over in the Bible not to fear. Why? Because he knows we will. Fear is part of the human condition. Yet God wants us to remember he is still in control, and he goes with us on the scary rides.

Back at the amusement park, I made my daughter a deal. If she tried the super slide and hated it, I promised to give her five dollars—and a jumbo bag of cotton candy. Would you believe she giggled all the way down that slide?

“I want to go again, Momma!” My sweet girl beamed with joy. I gave her the five dollars anyway—for bravery. She tackled a fear head-on, conquered it, and received her reward.

My daughter is my new hero.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Life is a Highway, Whatever the New Year Brings, and It Hurts Because I Love You.

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

Kindergarten Is Not a Big Green Ugly Monster

“’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future,’” (Jeremiah 29:11).

She is gone. I packed her lunch, combed her hair, snapped a dozen pictures and kissed her goodbye. Then my beautiful redhead marched giddy and proud into her classroom. Her dad and I waved from the doorway to where she sat quietly in her new desk, flashing my favorite pretty smile and lifting her hand to wave back—and my little girl grew up before my eyes.

Kindergarten.

I dreaded this day all summer. In my mommy mind, kindergarten was a big green ugly monster coming to snatch my daughter away from her safe place. From me.

Here at home, we know her in detail—how she makes up praise songs, loves the color blue, gets skittish near bees, eats bologna but never on bread. Will kindergarten appreciate her like I do? Will the other kids be kind? What if she can’t open her milk carton or needs to use the bathroom during Spanish class? Will the monster care at all?

I moped around the house and blotted my eyes, watching the clock and wondering if it was snack time, reading time, science, music, recess. For five and a half years, my daughter was my day job. Now, she belongs to kindergarten.

She’s MINE, you big ugly beast! Spit her out! I want her back!

But then. Three o’ clock arrived and I stood in the swarm of parents eager to buckle their wandering hearts back into their minivans. I spied her face in a row of classmates. Her hair was disheveled, her expression tired. She scanned the room until our eyes locked, then she ran toward me, smiling.

“Momma!”

I scooped her up and hugged her tight. “How was your day? Did you love it?”

“Mom—it was the best day ever in my whole life! I want to go back and back and back for a hundred days!”

On the ride home, she rattled off happy tales of new friends, piano songs, the pledge of allegiance and monkey bars. Her voice was medicine for my aching heart. I felt my spirits shift from sadness to relief to assurance—that she was right where she needed to be.

Maybe the monster isn’t so ugly after all. Think less Incredible Hulk and more Herry from Sesame Street. A friendly monster.

Of course I’ve known that all along. But I felt like picking a fight, as if blaming kindergarten would somehow justify my struggle to let go. When my daughter’s enthusiasm showed me how school treated her, how it was already building her character and confidence after just one day, I conceded—letting go is the only choice I have. And it’s a good one.

Okay, kindergarten. You can have her. But only on weekdays until mid-afternoon, then I’m picking her out of your claws. This is not a shared custody deal; you’re just borrowing her, understand? All I ask is that you come to see how special she is, and help her to see it, too.

Oh, and give her a hand with those milk cartons every once in a while, would you? Meanwhile—I’ll be praying for you both.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Birthday Musings From a Sappy Mom, Don’t Lie to Me, and Wishing My Life Away.

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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.