Why We Didn't Quit Ballet

She twirled. She leapt. She skipped across that stage with red hair piled high in a dainty bun, her silver white tutu glimmering like the starry sky. My beautiful girl—my ballerina.

This was our daughter’s first dance recital, the finale to six months of lessons and rehearsals and crazy costume fittings. My husband and I sat among a crowd of fellow parents, all of us applauding so hard and grinning so wide, our hands and cheeks ached long after the curtain fell.

Sure, it wasn’t the Koch Theater, but it might as well have been. These were our kids, our superstars. Everything—from memorizing the routines, to facing an audience, to navigating backstage without Mom—was an accomplishment. We were giddy proud of our daughter.

And we might’ve missed the whole thing, if it had been up to her.

Because she hated her dance class.

Oh, she loves dance. Just not this particular class. Last spring, she fell head over slippers for beginner ballet at the YMCA. So for the school year, frugal mom here enrolled in the community Park and Rec dance program, which was half the cost of the YMCA. Hey, dance is dance, right?

Nope. Not according to the ballerina.

“Can I please stay home?” She begged one Thursday evening near the start of the dance season. Her body went limp, and she resisted my tug to get her leotard over her hips.

“Why? I thought you love ballet.”

“I liked the YMCA. I want to go back there.”

“Well, sweetheart, we’re trying this new class now. Give it a chance. You might learn to like it.”

But she didn’t. There were too many kids, she said. Eighteen little girls running around the dance floor, paying no heed to the teacher. Her class at the Y had only four students. It was quieter. She’d rather play at home with her sister, her dolls, her coloring books. She’d rather help me clean the bathroom.

“Really?” My eyebrows shot up. “Scrubbing toilets beats dance class?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “I don’t want to go.”

Week after week, we drove to class anyway. She tolerated it well enough, but she never exhibited the same enthusiasm she once had for pirouettes and pliés. So I wondered—should I force her to go?

“Yes.” My husband stood at the kitchen stove, browning meat for the tacos we planned to eat after dance class. I jiggled car keys in my hand, wishing I could hang them up and help chop lettuce instead.

“But she’s not enjoying it,” I reasoned. “She’s only five years old. What’s the point in making her continue an activity she doesn’t love, when there’s so little time outside of school to just be a kid?”

“I understand that. I do,” my husband sympathized. “But where do we draw the line? She can’t back out of an activity every time she’s dissatisfied. We have a chance here to teach her an important life lesson. In our family, we keep our commitments.”

Commitments.

Does anybody really honor a commitment anymore? In our modern, fast-paced age, deals are easily broken. People change jobs, change majors, upgrade their homes, their cell phones, their wives. So what if we already paid the 40 dollar costume fee. My baby wants out of dance class and darnitall, I want her to be happy! Commitment, coshmmitment. Loyalty is outdated!

But thankfully, our God is timeless.

“…being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus,” (Philippians 1:6, emphasis mine).

Why do we honor our commitments? Because God honors his to us. He does not give up on us when we’re no longer fun and interesting. He sees us through to completion. I am so grateful for that. Aren’t you?

So we stuck out the full season of dance class. We weren’t legalistic about it. On occasion I’d let our daughter stay home if she had a headache or a cold. But her dad and I made it clear that skipping was not to become a habit, and if she missed dance this week then she would go next week unless she happened to be bleeding or feverish.

It wasn’t always easy, but it was worthwhile.

“Sweetheart, you were stunning.” I beamed at my daughter as we drove away from the recital hall. She held a flower bouquet in her lap, a reward from her dad. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes.” She flashed a shy smile.

“You know dance class is done now. The recital was the end for this year.”

“I know.”

“Are you happy about that?”

She rolled her eyes and grinned. “Oh, yeah! Can we go back to the YMCA now?”

“Yes, love.” I laughed. “You’ve earned it.”

My child may never become a professional dancer, just as yours probably won’t make a career out of soccer or swimming or science club. But they can be well trained for a lifetime of loyalty and integrity. It starts with making smart choices about where we invest their time, then teaching our kids to follow through.

Until the day of Christ Jesus—and a silver tutu parade.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Good Moms Keep Their Promises, God Doesn’t Ration Candy Bars, and When Mom Wears a Dress.

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Linking up with: The Better Mom, Playdates With God, The Mom Initiative, Titus 2sdays, Grace at Home, Women Living Well, Rethinking My Thinking, What He's Done Wednesday, Wedded Wednesday, and Things I Can't Say.

Nobody Loves Her Like I Do

Some days, 3 o’clock pickup can’t come fast enough.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I searched my daughter’s face. Red circles deepened under her eyes. We stood outside her classroom door, surrounded by a bustle of kindergarteners hanging jackets onto hooks.

“I’m fine.” Her lips drooped, and she clutched my hand in both of hers. “I just wish you could stay with me all day.”

My darling girl, so perky when we left the house, suddenly grew paler by the second. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to leave you like this. Does anything hurt? If you’re not feeling well, I can take you home.”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just miss you.”

Inside the room, a speaker clicked on. Morning announcements signaled the start of the school day. I hurried to make sense of those red circles, this unusual clinginess. Was she ill? Or homesick?

“If you start to feel crummy, tell a teacher. Okay? I’ll come get you.” I watched my daughter collect her reading homework from her backpack and trudge to her desk. Teacher loomed in the doorway, a gatekeeper between me and a piece of my heart.

Who’s going to hug her when I walk away?

My daughter has 20 classmates. That’s a room full of five- and six-year-olds chattering and squirming at once. I’m grateful for her teachers, those great shepherds of the bleating sheep. I wouldn’t want their job.

But on days like this, how I wish they knew her like I do.

They’d take one look at my girl and suspect something’s not right. They’d notice she barely nibbled her morning snack and wonder if those languid eyes meant more than the usual Friday fatigue. They’d ask if she had a headache or needed to rest. They’d call me. I could trust them.

But my child is one among many. And she’s not wired to complain. So the school day rolled on, oblivious to a momma’s worries.

I drove home with my stomach in my shoes. Lord, what if she’s sick? What if she needs me? Will anyone see? Will anyone care? Nobody at that school loves her like I do!

Oh, really? Says who?

“LORD, you have seen what is in my heart. You know all about me. You know when I sit down and when I get up. You know what I’m thinking even though you are far away. You know when I go out to work and when I come back home. You know exactly how I live. LORD, even before I speak a word, you know all about it. You are all around me. You are behind me and in front of me. You hold me in your power. I’m amazed at how well you know me. It’s more than I can understand,” (Psalm 139:1–6, NIV Adventure Bible).

Before we can let go of our children, we must remember to whom they’re going. We’re not really handing them over to school, or to soccer practice, summer camp, or sleepovers. We’re giving them first to God. He sees them when we can’t. He reads their minds when we only wish we had a clue. Even their hurt is somehow under his purposeful control.

Because he holds them in his power.

Wow. Do I really think I can do better?

Of course I love my kids to the core of my soul. But God loves them more. I can hardly comprehend it. And—God loves me that much, too. He loves you that much. He’s not just holding our kids right now. He’s holding us as well.

He sees this pathetic mom pouting in the kitchen, counting hours until the carpool line. Finally I understood what God has been trying to tell me since the school year began.

Nobody loves her like I do. Trust me.

When 3 o’clock arrived at last, I buckled a lifeless girl into the van. Her red eyes sprang instant tears, and I spent the evening nursing a nasty virus out of my daughter’s weary system.

Darn it.

Maybe I should’ve pulled her from school that morning. But this story isn’t really about me. It’s about knowing who fills in where I fall short. I cannot predict a fever. I cannot be the teacher’s eyes and ears. I cannot be with my child every moment of every hour.

But God can.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like How to Raise a Timid Child, We Can’t Protect Them From Everything, and Kindergarten Is Not a Big Green, Ugly Monster.

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Linking up with: The Better Mom, Playdates With God, The Mom Initiative, Much Ado Monday, Titus 2sdays, Grace at Home, Rethinking My Thinking, What He's Done Wednesday, Wedded Wednesday, and Things I Can't Say.

When Siblings Become Friends

From the day she was born, I promised.

“Your sister is tiny now, but she’ll grow fast. Soon, not too long from now, she’ll be able to play with you. She’ll run and jump and share your puzzles and dolls. You’ll see.”

“Really?” My firstborn, then just a couple weeks past her third birthday, gazed in tender awe at her new baby sister, the long-awaited stranger.

“Yes, sweetheart. Someday, she’ll be your best friend.”

Someday. It seemed so far off in those early months when we juggled two different stages under one roof. This one needed macaroni and potty training while the other needed to be held and shushed and fed constantly. Big girl begged for popsicles and library books. Baby girl wailed and blew out diapers and woke every hour.

But now.

Nearly three years later, I stand at the kitchen counter mixing cookie dough. My helpers abandon their measuring cups and flee to the table, where a paper bunny craft captures their equal attention. Let’s do it together, I hear one say. Okay! chirps the other.

They giggle. They chatter. They debate the best way to color in the eyes, with purple marker? Blue? I roll buttery oatmeal balls in my fingers and smile.

This is what I waited for.

Since we drove our little one home from the birthing ward—no, even before that—in the hours of tearful prayer for a second child, the months of hoping for those double pink lines. We longed for another blessing to swaddle and love. A companion for our firstborn.

And now here they are.

Friends.

I love how they love each other.

Oh sure, they squabble sometimes. What siblings don’t? Yet their camaraderie is so bright, so natural, it outshines the bickering. I watch them take turns smearing a glue stick across brown paper, and it occurs to me—these girls were designed for each other.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be,” (Psalm 139:13–16).

Our God is flawlessly intentional. My children must have been placed together in our family on purpose. What a tremendous opportunity I have, as their mom, to nurture a relationship that God himself ordained.

Have you ever thought of your kids that way?

It’s why I tell my girls, “We’re a team!” and “God gave us to each other.” I teach them to encourage, not compete. I make them share toys and hold hands after a fight. I sneak M&Ms into their palms when I catch an act of kindness. All for the sake of their solidarity.

In a blur of years to come, I picture my girls whispering secrets across bunk beds long past light out. They’ll borrow each other’s sweaters, drive together to the basketball game, and bawl their eyes out when college takes one away.

I know. Because I have sisters, too.

And one day, when my girls are grown and independent and no longer required to breathe the same air, I pray they will, in fact, choose each other.

As lifelong friends.

Earlier on the morning of our cookie baking/bunny pasting scene, I stood at the bathroom mirror and punched this text message into my phone:

“I just plucked a gray hair from the top of my head.”

Seconds later, my sister replied.

“LOL. I told you it was there.”

Who but a sibling can grow old with you from the start?

Our homes are more than a place where parents raise kids. They’re the place where our kids form a forever bond of their own.

And we get to supply the glue.

Wow. I love being a mom.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Birthday Musings from a Sappy Mom, Don’t Lie to Me, Moms Grow Up, Too and On Dreams, Contentment, and Spaghetti.

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Linking up with: The Better Mom, Playdates With God, The Mom Initiative, Titus 2sdays, Grace at Home, Rethinking My Thinking, What He's Done Wednesday, Wedded Wednesday, and Things I Can't Say.

I Know Why Dinosaurs Are Extinct

One of our family rules is “no talking back.”

I’m the worst offender.

“No! I had it first!” My five-year-old shouted from the hallway, angry fists clamped to her sides. She and her sister had been fighting over a toy, so I yanked it from their huddle and set it on top of the refrigerator.

“The toy is mine until you can learn to share.”

“No! Naughty mom! Give it back to me!” Her cheeks glowed red, and she scrunched her lips tight. I pointed calmly down the hall.

“Go to your room. Talk to Jesus until you have a happy heart.”

“I don’t want to!” Her scowl dissolved to tears. I grabbed her hand and ushered my thrashing daughter to her fluffy, doll-stacked bed.

“Lay on your pillow until I come get you for supper.” Sobs rang in my ears as I retreated from her room and latched the door.

Kindergarten. That’s the culprit. With half a school year behind us, I’ve learned to recognize the signs. Tired. Overstimulated. Sugared up from a classmate’s birthday treat. She’s plumb worn out from listening and thinking and socializing hard all day. When these factors pile, it doesn’t take much to trigger a meltdown.

“What’s going on with her?” My husband stepped into the kitchen, greeted home by our daughter’s outburst.

“She had a long day. . . again.” I sighed, then pulled placemats from a drawer and started setting the table. “She’s overwhelmed, I think. She doesn’t always know how to process her emotions. So she gets sassy. Just give her a minute to decompress.”

“I see.” My husband cocked an eyebrow toward me. “Where does she get that from?”

Huh?

My hand stalled, suspended above a pile of forks. I lifted my chin, met my husband’s stare, and blinked.

Darn. She gets it from me.

Hey, I’m tired, too. Overstimulated? Bugger, yes—by the chatter of little voices asking for more apple slices and can you please braid my dolly’s hair and Mommy-Mommy-Mommy read me this story and Mom, guess what Quinn did in school today you have to hear this it was SO funny—and for a woman who thrives on introspection, the constant input can prep my brain for implode. By dinner time I’m, well, plumb worn out from listening and thinking and socializing hard all day.

Then my wonderful husband comes home and kisses a grouchy woman on the cheek.

Will you please pick up your shoes?!

No, I didn’t buy ketchup. Did you put it on the list? I can’t read your mind!

What do you mean, the van is on empty? You couldn’t have told me this earlier? I don’t have time to stop for gas tomorrow!

He jokes that I roar like a dinosaur. Oh how I wish I would crack a smile. But his good humor just makes me grouchier, so I stomp around the house in true T-Rex fashion.

And this is how I model restraint for my children? Lovely. No wonder my kindergartener talks back.

“Set a guard over my mouth, LORD; keep watch over the door of my lips. . . . Let a righteous man strike me—that is a kindness; let him rebuke me—that is oil on my head. My head will not refuse it, for my prayer will still be against the deeds of evildoers,” (Psalm 141:3, 5).

When my husband suggested maybe I have a tiny little something to do with our daughter’s attitude, I had to admit he’s right—and I appreciated the blow. Of course the blame isn’t all mine. A five-year-old carries childish emotions and childish whims. Some tantrums are natural. But as the grown-up in charge, I ought to demonstrate how to process those emotions—properly. Speak kindly. Show love. Take a time out before you snap. Instead, Momma T-Rex teaches the kiddos how to tear down the house with her jaws.

Yes. This is why I need the Lord—and a righteous man to pick up his shoes rebuke me.

“May I come in?” I tapped on my daughter’s door and poked my head through. She lay sprawled on a crumpled bedspread, still crying. I perched on the edge of her mattress and pressed my hand to her back.

“Sweetheart, why are you so sassy lately?” Locks of tangled hair hid her face and she sniffled, offering no answer. I took a deep breath and swept a damp strand from her cheek. “Do you hear me sass Dad sometimes?”

She sat up and wiped her nose with her shirt sleeve. “Yes! You do it all the time!”

Ouch.

“Alright, let’s make a deal. I’ll stop talking back, and you can, too. We’ll be partners. You can help me.”

“How?”

“Tell me when you hear me being sassy. When I’m grumpy to Dad, I’m giving you permission to remind me of our deal.”

“So I can call you Naughty Mom?” She grinned.

“Well, not exactly. Be nice about it, eh?”

“Deal.” And just like that, her cheerful disposition returned. I wrapped my arms around her, and she squeezed my neck.

Momma T-Rex, your time here is done. Sorry, old gal, but dinosaurs are extinct, don’t you know. They were wiped out in the flood—for the good of all mankind.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like The Foolproof Cure for Hollering, Love Is Not Easily Angered, and The Witch. I Hate Her.

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Linking up with: The Better Mom, Playdates With God, The Mom Initiative, Titus 2sdays, Grace at Home, Rethinking My Thinking, What He's Done Wednesday, Wifey Wednesday, Wedded Wednesday, and Things I Can't Say.