In defense of the pre-teen girl.

My daughter turned 13 today.

That means the dreaded 'tween' phase of ages 10-13 is behind us.  

From all that could be read and observed on the social media and television platforms, this phase was one we should definitely have been worried about, especially with a girl! I remember when my daughter was this sweet little magical unicorn of a 6 year old, and I'd look ahead to all the mamas of teenage girls with fear and trembling. I approached these years all wide eyed and tip toe-y like.. as if at any moment I might awaken the beast everyone had warned me would come raging out of my child over the next couple years. Well standing on this side, it's not like I don't know what everyone was talking about. But for the sake of all my friends still looking ahead to the pre-teen mystery and wondering if all the hype and panic is legitimate, I'm gonna go ahead and say y'all need to calm down just a smidge. Mmkay? 

I'm here to defend the tween in all her awkward and emotional glory.  In my humble opinion these years were an incredible gift, and one I will look back on with fondness and fascination.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not trying to paint a picture of serenity and bliss. Nope. Not in this household, pretty much EVER. Oh, the drama. The increasingly well-timed disrespect. Let's face it, the straight up crazy that can spew forth from a pre-teen, hormonal girl is no joke. There were days that held so many tears and screaming, I'm sure the neighbors were ready to call CPS.. or animal control.. (cat fight reference...smirk..)

But fascination? Oh YES. 

I'm pretty sure I spent the first 10 years of my daughter's life thinking she was older than she was and expecting her to act like it. I'm definitely sure I'll spend the next 10 feeling like she's younger than she is and struggling to grant her the freedom and respect that she'll deserve. But from 10-13? I think maybe this sweet spot of 3 years might just be the tiny little window where kids get to be exactly their own age. They are the perfect storm of too big and too little and it creates a whole mess of confusion as they hop back and forth; trying on attitudes, interests, and levels of maturity like clothes in a closet. 

One day my girl would spend an hour in her bathroom, playing with her curling iron and piecing together a perfectly matched outfit. She'd come prancing out looking shiny and feminine and asking if she could borrow my necklace. 

The next three in a row I'd be fighting with her to TAKE A BLOODY SHOWER FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY and please, dear Lord PLEASE change out of the too small and stained shirt from 2nd grade camp before you go to school! To which she'd shrug her smelly shoulders, flip her unbrushed greasy hair and roll her sleep crusted eyes like,

'What's your problem mom? I look fine.'

Confession: this schizophrenia drove me NUTS at first. But oh friends, look closer and let the beauty hit you. Grown women should BE so lucky! To live in a world of security, where getting dressed up is fun and frivolous, but the sense of self is high and unshaken. To walk with solid confidence that you are not loved or liked for what you look (or smell..) like. Oh that is a sweet world indeed. One it takes many of us decades to get back to once we leave it.. if we get back at all.  

This self-care realization laid some ground work for my heart to appreciate the phenomenon of my pre-teen girl. She was becoming a fantastic person right before my very eyes. In the safety of our home she bounced back and forth. Big, little, big. Sense of humor, responsibility, the art of conversation and the depth of interpersonal communication. Relationship navigation, fashion and yes, even basic hygiene. 

She was practicing them all, with ME. 

So sure, I got all the fumbles and mistakes. I got all the wrongly timed jokes and the emotions that didn't match the circumstances. I fielded the over commitments and the under preparedness, I absorbed the embarrassment of awkwardness her innocence didn't yet feel and I was target practice for the egocentric arrows she didn't even know she was shooting. 

But she was learning. And growing. And transforming. 

In the last three years I have watched her increase in beauty, inside and out. I have watched her laugh and talk with ease in social settings. I have watched her sense tone and atmosphere in a situation and respond appropriately. She now takes care of other people's children with immense joy and capability, and her help around my house is actually helpful! (Can I get a hallelujah?!) I have witnessed her growth in the process of reconciliation, her humility and apologies often put me to shame. We have had deep and meaningful conversations; we have shared witty banter, sarcasm and shoes.  I have watched her become incredibly driven. Seen her work SO hard earning her own money, managing her own schedule, and charting her own course. 

And yet, she giggles. And maps out dreams that are far too wild. She dances freely and gushes dramatically; and she cries in the safety of her parent's bed when everything feels too big. 

I told you. Fascinating. 

So mamas, and internet nay sayers everywhere. I post this in honor of my daughter's 13th birthday, and in defense of pre-teens everywhere. We get to watch these girls bounce around blissfully for just a couple of years. Let's pause for a second longer before we push them through that door too quickly shall we?  Let 'em be silly and awkward. Let 'em try and fail. Pick them up from their puddle of tears and maybe once or twice let them stomp down the hall indignant without raining fiery fury down upon them in consequence. 

Let 'em primp when they're primping and smell when they're smelling... and let us smile at the safety they're enjoying in the midst of it. Because that's all you mamas.

That's all you.

Small Stories

I found myself aimlessly wandering the internet tonight when I came across a new post from a dear friend (and kindred spirit when it comes to our passion to write combined with our impossible realities pulling us elsewhere. always.).

She shared how the Lord had been pressing her to write, and she argued that she didn't have anything to say or any time to say it, and He continued to silently whisper that He had something to tell her and that's why she needed to write. Not for anyone else, but so that HE could speak to HER.

And. Well. I can't tell you what else she wrote in her post. Because I clicked off and came here.

These friends who push me, words can not describe the gratitude I feel for them. And so I will begin my post, exactly as she began hers.

Tonight, I write out of obedience.

My heart feels vulnerable. My thoughts jumbled and confusing, and my confidence definitely wobbly.
I can't seem to find my voice anymore. I know how intimately God has worked in my life. I know how powerfully He has spoken to me. How clearly He continues to open my eyes to His truth and then pour into me a frustratingly desperate desire to help open others' eyes as well. But I feel small, I feel silly and self-indulgent and terribly insecure that no one really needs one more girl taking up cyber space with her words and 'wisdom'.

But I know He wants me to tell my stories. Because my stories, though fairly mundane and ordinary, carry deep wound and beauty and redemption. And because they are ordinary, they are likely to be shared by the masses. Change a handful of the details and circumstances and I bet I could be telling your story, save one possible difference. God has given me eyes that see. It developed slowly, over time; I used to attribute it only to drama and heightened sensitivity. Now I believe it is how He made me.

See, I haven't had real pain and tragedy in my life. Not anything that could even scrape the surface of fairness to those who survive true suffering. And yet I have wept, I have crumbled, I have wilted in fear and writhed in pain over things that from the outside should simply not warrant these kinds of reactions. I feel things deeply and it can be my greatest weakness.. but it can also be the very thing God designed in me to use for His glory. Because He is teaching me to see in my tiny wounds that birth big feelings, the thin connecting line for all of us. Daily struggles or earth shattering tragedy, the questions, the fear, the doubt.. it can all sound surprisingly similar.

Let me tell a tiny story tonight, and see if any of this comes out clear.

Someone misunderstood me. 

That's all. There are details and specifics, but the bottom line of the story is this. They simply misunderstood me. They didn't hear my words, they didn't trust my heart, they didn't know me or my motives and so they made a snap judgement and misunderstood and said some pretty hurtful things as a result. It happens friends. All. The. Time.  Honestly, we're not talking Jerry Springer episodes here, yes the words stung, but in light of real world problems, I get it, this is kid's stuff.

But me? I am wrecked. Wrecked. Not outwardly to many people, but inwardly destroyed. So shaken, so sad. I am reeling in self pity and insecurity. I spent a good couple weeks licking my wounds, babying my fragile heart and hiding from the world, I've spent the last couple weeks spiraling in self doubt and disillusionment, and discouragement. I feel silenced, I feel cowardly, I feel weak. Because why in the world should I ever put myself out there if I can so easily be misunderstood? How scary! How stupid! How incredibly, unnecessarily, painful! Self pity, staring me straight in the face. It took my ever so gentle husband to give it that big old ugly name, but he was right, I can't call it anything else.

And so my eyes begin to open, and slowly I can see.

I have a deep, DEEP need to be understood. I have an even deeper, desperate, almost primal ache, to be approved of. It feels like air to me, I honestly get a suffocating sensation from the thought of not being able to change this person's opinion of me.  And yet I hear Him whispering and I know what's coming. I feel panicky and dizzy at the request for surrender.

"What will you do now Katie?" "Can you lay it down? Can you love them anyway, even if they never change their mind?" "Can you serve and teach and continue to press in to vulnerability, even if there are more to come who simply will not 'get' you?" "Even if it means more hurt, even if it means walking straight into your fear of man and not actually coming out on the winning end, can you be okay knowing I am the One who sees you, calls you, loves you, knows you and validates you." "Will you still trust? Will you still obey?"

It's becoming clear now, I know He's right.  He's shown me it over and over, it used to take longer to give my answer, now it comes fairly quickly. HE is the One who knows me, HE is the One who has asked me to speak, and to lead and to teach. I keep my eyes fixed on Him and I don't worry about the rest.

And yet when the blow came I crumbled so quickly, I hurt so badly, I'm still in a tail spin from the from the fall out. Why?!

Because it's bigger, it's simply so much bigger than her. The blow isn't the words from one person, it's  the accusation of a thousand voices over decades. This is pain rooted in fear. Fear that I am unacceptable. Fear that I will be rejected. Fear that I am too much. Fear that God's approval and love for me will simply not be enough and this longing will swallow me whole.

I don't combat these fears by running around like a puppy desperately hoping to please all my masters with tricks and charm. And I don't combat them by cowering in the corner and crossing my fingers that invisibility might minimize the amount of darts thrown my way. I combat them with truth.

I am accepted by One who knows all there is to know about me. He understands me, He made me the way He did on purpose and He is pleased with me. He knows my flaws and faults and they DO NOT disqualify me from His love or His service. And though it may feel like the desire to be understood or accepted by my peers could steal the very breath from my lungs, His word is truer than how I feel and it says He breathes resurrected LIFE into those that look to Him.

If I want to be free. Not a performer, not a prisoner, but FREE. Then I stay the course. I fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of my faith, who for the joy set before Him (which was seeing ME restored to a relationship with HIM by the way!) endured the cross.

He is the stronghold of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?

Love in training.

To my Future Daughter in Laws,

I think about you.  Actually, thats probably a gigantic understatement. I think about you ALOT. There will be four of you ya know. Four of you and one of me, and that is a bit terrifying when I think of all the ways we will affect each other's lives and yet so much of what's making you you and what's making me me is developing independent of each other for these next 20 something years. It's a lot to take in for an over thinker like myself.

So I guess I just wanted to share how you were on my heart last night; and how I hope maybe I'm doing at least one little thing right by you even all these years before I meet you.

Last night 4 handsome little gentlemen came to my door.

Okay in the name of authenticity, only three of them came to the door, one was hiding down the street refusing to take part because he'd had a different picture in his head of how this all should unfold and well, if you are the daughter in law who ended up marrying this particular gentleman..I probably don't need to explain much more about how well this change in plans was received! And while we're being honest I should mention that among the open doors, grateful hugs and perfect manners included in this night, there were also fights over seats, tears over dinner choices and frustrated wiggling bodies over long long lines. We're not writing perfect movie scripts over here, there's 7 real human beings making a go of this thing, so it's gonna be messy. We're okay with that. 

I digress. 

Regardless of how the play by play unfolded, in the grand scheme of last night, four mini men and their dad took their big sister and mom out for a night of Disney on Ice to celebrate Valentine's Day. At this point only the two year old even cares about Disney characters, but the tickets were given to us and the chance to do something out of the ordinary is all that's needed to make a memory. So Ryan gathered the boys together and involved them in the plan to surprise their mom and sister with a night in their honor. And with a ringing of the doorbell our 'simple made special' began.

There they stood, button up shirts, hair swooped to the side and silly little grins on their faces. And as I looked at them, I thought of you.

Because one day, these boys will be grown. And they will be yours. So even though for right now, I get to enjoy their beaming eyes and hilarious not-so-subtle excitement at the 'secret surprise' they are plotting, I am hoping beyond hope that when they get older it feels natural and normal and even obvious to them that they would take these silly little holidays like Valentine's Day and use them as an excuse to stop for a second and celebrate you. The girl in their life.

It's not so much about Valentine's Day. I'm not even sure you'll grow up caring about Valentine's Day, or liking surprises at all for that matter. But I can't think of a girl who doesn't like to occasionally feel thought of and celebrated. Who doesn't want a guy who sees value in taking the opportunity to turn simple into special from time to time.

It's fun for me, and it's great practice for Macy as I help her manage her expectations and even allow the simple to speak love and thoughtfulness to her heart despite all it's hiccups and imperfections. But ultimately I want you to know that when Ryan and I were scheming up this night, I was honestly mostly thinking of you.

I'm so glad I married a man who's parents went on date nights every single week. We can't make that regular of a thing happen at this stage in life, but dates are certainly a priority and the idea that we need to keep doing special things just the two of us is not anything I've ever had to convince Ryan is important. It's normal to him, it feels obvious. I was also lucky enough to have a mom who got me all dressed up for my own dad to take me out on multiple dates during my childhood. I felt extremely special in those times and I learned how to allow someone to treat me as such.

Sweet daughter in laws, I don't know what crazy habits my boys will bring into their marriages with you that will drive you nuts because it's just so completely off from what you consider normal. I am sure there will be plenty to laugh about, and a few serious ones to apologize for. But at least in this area, I hope that in some tiny way we're building in to them the habit to cherish you.

Because yes, right now, the thought of girls may make all of them crinkle their noses and stick out their tongues. But I can see the future. And I know one day they're gonna be head over heels crazy in love with you.

I'm just trying to teach them how to show it well.

Oh the Insanity.

So awhile ago I began writing down a list of all the rules I had no idea I would ever EVER need to make into rules. The sheer lunacy of the things that come out of my mouth as I daily police these mini people is beyond explanation. That must be part of the loneliness of motherhood as well as one of the biggest reasons the 'mommy blogger' world has exploded the way it has. So many hours, of SOO much material, being poured out in every direction from the mouths of our wee ones.  It just begs for an audience. Sometimes I go about my day imaging there is a live studio audience just watching the sitcom that is my life. Cracking up at my perfectly timed double takes, or my witty replies, or my wide eyes as I carefully turn my head so the child causing such bewilderment can't see. In my head, the sane adult people in the room are sympathizing with me, giggling with me and covering their mouths in shock with me ... and yet, in reality all around me it's crickets.  Because the crazies causing the crazy, have no idea it's crazy! Somehow in their little minds, it makes perfect sense to ride your bike down the hall, or start a cheerio war in the living room, or bring giant bowls of water into their carpeted rooms to 'cook' with. 

Ah, but blogging, and Facebook can help this phenomenon immensely! If you can remember the moments long enough to post them, at least you can get the pay off of the cyber world joining in the fun and laughing with you for a bit. And it can also serve as a mini memory-proof bank, since as I told you, some of the things that happen are so completely illogical that the likelihood of me even believing my own memories is extremely low.

So for your studio audience, viewing and laughing pleasure. 

May I present to you, the top 10 things that yes, have in fact at one point or another actually happened enough times to warrant needing to be addressed and explained as actual RULES in our home.

10. We do not roar at strangers. 

9. You may not have 5 bananas in one day. 

8. We don't give out bandaids at bedtime. Go ahead and judge me moms, but try it once, it will NEVER END.

7. You may not make mommy the super villian in your game.

6. When in the shower, you may not throw full cups of water straight up at the ceiling ...and consequently ALL over the entire bathroom.

5. You may not bite my shirt, put your head under my shirt, or reach your hands up my shirt. 

4. You may not call me anything that rhymes with Mom. Responding with 'Yes Tom.' (or Dom, Som, Fom, Pom...) is not an acceptable substitute for 'Yes Mom.'

3. You may not get up at 3:00am, wake up your other two brothers, turn on all the lights and play dart gun tag up and down the hall.

2. When you are told to take a shower, and it's earlier than you'd like to wake up, you may not go get in the shower and lay down on the floor of it and fall back asleep for 20 minutes before someone finally comes in to check on you and wakes you back up.

and finally, to be said with the straightest and sternest of faces, so as to finally end the complete madness ensuing in the bathroom...

1. Everyone gets a turn to flush their own pee! You may not flush anyone else's pee but your own!

Enter gigantic SIGH (here)

Tip toes.

I think I've forgotten how to write.

I've been gone from this blog for years now. Yes the occasional, once yearly post might have popped up here and there, but really, my commitment to pushing myself to articulate the unfinished, pre-processed deep changes and soul stirrings going on inside me has been on pause for quite a while now. At least as far as this blog has been concerned.

I'm not apologizing for it. It was coming, it was time. I know there was a mighty work occurring in my heart. One that needed to plant into the deepest, darkest, most private places where I could be okay knowing there was only One who saw, One who understood, even all that I did not understand, of how I was being changed. What was being birthed in me.

It began before I knew there would be a fifth baby. It started with an urging toward simplicity. And an assurance that I was seen. It called for quietness. It called for patience. It called for trust. It asked me to take all that I wanted to be; all my longings to be recognized, understood, significant, to bundle them all up in a blanket and plop 'em down at the foot of my Lord and find peace. Rest. And as I did my heart suddenly felt less grabby, my thoughts less panicky. I was discovering a secret. And it felt good to know it, instead of write about it.

It continued as I learned of the newest and most unexpected life growing inside me. But now this call for quietness no longer felt like a struggle. In fact all I wanted to do was be quiet. And hide. And grieve. And wonder if I'd ever be okay again. You'd think this would feel shameful. But my God is a God of grace, and intimacy and kindness. And He again promised me He saw me. And that I needed no one but Him to understand what was at work in me. He urged me to feel all the feelings. To lay the mess and the confusion and the fear before Him and again find peace. This time He took my offering and He used it to propel my heart into a swell of compassion and mercy and reverence that my old self hadn't even known was missing. It was a time of humbled gratitude, but for me, there could be no writing about such mystery. It would all come out flat.

It went on. There was a journey of stripping bare and laying down. As my eyes opened to see how desperately I sought to secure, provide and protect my own little bursts of joy throughout my days. Again He whispered to my heart to trust. To believe that He really could be my whole portion. And that I would never ever be able to taste His fullness until I stopped filling my hands with my own trinkets. I burned them up right there at His throne, trembling and skeptical but relieved that the battle was over.

And then came the waves. Currents of grace and abundance and humbling, shocking, unspeakable kindness. And His voice. So near. So real. Asking me one more time to trust Him. To believe that it was HE. Behind it all. To bury every bit of skepticism and judgement and pride that had kept me at bay as a servant; instead of a beloved, doted upon and intimately tended to, daughter of the King.  I spoke of this some, I shared it with a few. But I didn't write it down. There was too much awe, too much wonder. The blank screen and blinking cursor felt overwhelming.

And now, here I find myself, a good three years later at least. And I think I've forgotten how to write.

Everything is different now. The propensity toward quietness seems now to be the dominant force. My need to be understood, far smaller. And it's been so long, it should be easy to walk away. And yet the restlessness is there. Urging me to speak. To articulate. To process and share and push myself once again in this fashion.

So I'm going to try. But the beginning feels daunting. So bear with me as I tip toe back in. It might take a while to find my new voice.

Thanks for journeying along.

Ten.

My baby girl is 10 today.  Double digits, if you will. 

I have no idea how we got here. To be honest, I think I remember the first 11 months of her life and then from that point on I was too up to my eyeballs in pregnancy, babies, nursing and diapers to remember much else until now. Okay, that's probably not true, I remember a lot; but part of what I remember is that I needed this little girl to become much older, much quicker than she probably would have had she been born into a typical 2.5-children-and-a-dog type family.  There might be some truth to the fact that I have some mommy guilt about that.  And about not being able to give this precious girl a little sister to pour all of her gushing, feminine, emotional and maternal heart into. Oh how the mommy guilt over that weighs heavy. But her birthday also means that I've been on this journey of motherhood for a decade now and one thing I've learned for certain is that the guilt (and angst and uncertainty and longing to do better) is kinda just part of the gig.

I've spent the last 10 years waiting to turn in to the kind of mom I pictured myself being. 

The kind of mom that I strapped onto my exterior for probably the first 2-3 years before all the weight of it finally came crashing down all around me and I had to face the facts that this was no role one could try to hold their breath through. I think I honestly believed at one point that if I tried hard enough I could stay ahead of every single developmental stage and behavior and attitude and phase; maneuvering them gracefully with all the wisdom, patience and intentionality of a mom other moms want to ask advice from. So every failure felt so hurtful, so disappointing, so shameful. I'm not sure why I thought that I could begin this job already knowing exactly how I was going to do it, who I would and wouldn't be like, what I would and wouldn't do. I'm not sure how I didn't realize that such an obvious aspect of being a mom would be learning and growth...and therefore failing and stretching and changing (and looking like an absolute mess a lot of the time because of it) would kind of just come with the territory. But somehow I did and it caused so much heartache for me early on. 

As I sit here this afternoon prepping party plans for my daughter's big 10 yr old sleepover party. I can't help but reflect on how similar she and I are. See, my Macy Grace doesn't want to admit that she has much to learn either. I told you I needed her to get big and helpful like super duper fast. And boy did she rise to the challenge. But jumping into those 'oldest kid' shoes, also splashed a whole bunch of people pleasing and need for approval all over her sweet little self. And I can tell the idea of not measuring up, not being everything she expects herself to be weighs heavy on those 10 yr old shoulders of hers. She's so much like her mama it sometimes hurts to watch.  

Because of this, you'd think heading into the teens years with her would terrify me. But I'm done being fearful.  I'm sure I'm a little naive, it's kind of my MO apparently, but I'm actually really excited.  Because I've seen what happens to a heart when it is so afraid of failure that it claws and clings and fights not to experience it. See, it might struggle for a moment, but when it finally can't hold it's head above water any longer; that's when the hands go up in surrender. No more performing, no more running after perfect pictures, no more desperate hope that someone or something else is going to give you that sense of satisfaction you're looking for.  

And that's when the freedom rushes in.  

It's in the surrender, the laying down of all those false hopes, that real Life gets found.  Acceptance is the sweetest when we stop trying to earn it. Grace is only tasted when we know we know we don't deserve it. 

I walk this path daily. And the older my daughter gets, the more excited I get to walk it with her as well. I get to be the soft place where she falls. I get to point her to the One who needs nothing from her but offers her everything she needs.  I know this journey well, and as I watch her growing, changing, becoming this tiny version of a full blown adult right before my eyes; I know she's already taking baby steps down it herself. And it fills me with wonder and humility and gratitude. 

She is kind. She is smart. She is empathetic and lovely and stubborn as all get out.  She is helpful and hilarious, she is emotional and thoughtful. She is sensitive, she is passionate, she is prideful and she is insecure.  She's both needy and fiercely independent at the same time. She's delightful. And she's mine.

I can't believe I get to learn about being a mom while she learns about being a woman.  What a gift she is to me. My Macy Grace.

Happiest Birthday sweetheart. 

Love Mom.

On Christmas Cards and Photo Sessions

I'm a lover of Christmas cards. So if you're expecting some hilarious rant, hating on them and all their pintrest style perfection...you might be disappointed by this post.  

True, they have become quite the elaborate spectacle these days. I'm not opening up my mailbox to your standard, grab the most decent pic from your last vacation, slap it in a costco preset design and call it a day, type cards anymore folks. Not by a long shot. Some of the cards I receive now look like they've been ripped out of a jcrew catalog for crying out loud. Seriously, these things belong in coffee table books and artistic portfolios. They are bea-U-tiful. And I luuuuv it. Honest. Every day I feel like I'm opening presents when I go get the mail, and then I hang them, as like, ACTUAL ART on my walls and it make me super happy. 

Every other month of the year I don't even get my mail. No seriously, my mail has been sent back to the post office more times than I'm willing to admit because the box gets too full between times I go out there, it's kind of a problem. 

But not in December. In December I actually watch the clock and look forward to the late afternoon 5 minutes I get every day to pop out to the mailbox (all by my wonderful self!) and pull out a new stack of envelopes. As I'm typing this I realize how depressing that may make my life sound that this is a highlight, but you'll have to tuck that away as a side point because we're moving on. :)  

I have to tell you a story. 

It begins with a photo session for said Christmas cards by my sweet friend and talented photographer Melissa Babasin. We went through the usual motions, picked the 'coordinated-but-not-like-we-tried too-hard, but-more-like-we-just-happened-to-match-my-scarf-to-her-shoes-to-his-shirt-to-that-splash of-color-on-the-inside-of-his-collar, type coordinated' outfits. Heh. We brought the blankets and trekked through the weeds at the right time of day, we did the kids hair (a once a YEAR type of deal around here) and we worked hard all day prior to align nap and snack and meal times so we'd be set up to have the happiest kids you ever did see when it came to show time. 

And you guys. It was MISERABLE. The whole photo session. Horrid. 

There were tears, and threats and shameless bribes. There were sticks swung and smacked into faces, photographer directed hugs turned into suffocating neck squeezes which toppled kids over and erupted into wrestling matches. There miiight have been an ill advised joke about a boy from school which mom miiight have thought would produce a simple and natural laugh/smile from a certain little girl and instead produced a 15 minute, snot wiping, eye puffing, 'that was SO embarrassing' sob session. (Shoot you guys, can you tell I'm new at this?? Big time momFAIL.) 

It was ridiculous to say the least. But our photographer was a pro and rolled with it all, snapping away. And Ryan and I, well we did that thing you do where you pretend you're good natured and chill enough to laugh all this off so that the pictures don't capture the proof that in reality you're so ticked at your kids you can't even see straight. ;) And we got through it. But I was SURE there would be nothing usable.

And then we got the pictures. And here's where I'm supposed to say how it was a miracle, the pictures were amazing, I loved them to pieces and was so thrilled with my precious family and we ordered our cards and everyone lived happily ever after. The end.

But though the pictures were great and I WAS amazed at the talent of my friend and so excited to have sweet pictures of the seven of us; that's not the story I want to tell you. 

When Melissa sent me the link to my pics I was also able to flip through sessions of other families she'd taken pictures for recently.  

And here's where I show you ugly Katie. 

With the trauma of our ridiculous photo session still fresh in my memory, I spent longer than I should have clicking one at a time through those other family pictures and here's what I thought to myself. 

"See? What in the world is wrong with my family? Look how sweet all those kids are just standing there. Hugging each other, smiling (not scowling, crying, making goofy faces, or squinting awkwardly), resting their precious little heads against their parents, laughing and having a wonderful time. That session was probably so much fun, that family must really love each other, they're so lucky, they're doing something right, I'm DEFINITELY doing something wrong, why didn't I get THOSE kids and THAT family?!?"

It was a low moment I let myself sink into and I sat there pouting. Unhappy with my lot in life, ungrateful for the precious lives that surround me, discouraged and down on myself and my kids.

Yuck. 

Fast forward a few weeks. I had printed out some of the best pictures to fill some of the frames on our wall.  And then you won't believe it. I heard the strangest thing from some friends who were over and saw the pictures. They were commenting on how amazing the family picture of us was, how sweet and calm everyone looked. And I almost choked. One of those obnoxious, sitcom style, drink spewing, BaHA!! type chokes. I quickly did the thing you do where you try to explain, "No seriously! that is NOT what this picture was! Cameras have amazing lightning like shutter speed and this was a split second in between disasters. For reealz!" 

But I could tell they only kind of believed me. 

I've received quite a few comments since then as well, sweet things people say on Facebook or when they're in my house and see the couple I have up. And I've also been getting all of your amazing family pictures in my mailbox every day. 

Maybe it's because of that very low moment I allowed myself to sulk in this time around; maybe it's because this photo session felt particularily wild. But the voices in my head when I hear those comments, or see other family cards have been very eye opening to me. Because I don't see what others see. When I look at my pictures I see my fingers, clenched strategically around a certain son's fidgety hands. I see my tight lipped smile. I see the tiredness in my eyes. I see the kid about to dart, I see the tears about to fall, I see the sticky stains of lollipops awarded even though the 'good behavior' most definitely DID NOT happen, just because sometimes sugar squeezes out one itsy bitsy moment of smiling peace. 

And it made me realize that when I look at all YOUR pictures, I don't see what YOU see either. Neither of us are seeing reality, we're seeing a super fast shutter speed snap shot and NONE of the frames on either side. Pictures MAKE things look magical and frozen and perfect. And they make great holiday cards because of it! But we don't need to open them every day and think we are glimpsing an accurate picture of the daily hum drum grind of real icky sticky life. 

We don't need to do that to ourselves! 

Let's enjoy the amazing magical cards and pictures we get in the mail, let's smile at each others gorgeous families and stellar designs and let's use them to decorate our homes and remind us of how much we love our friends and how fun it is to be creative. But let's NOT let it steal from us even one teensy moment of contentment with the life we are living, the realness of it, the rawness of it, the unedited messiness of ALL the frames of it. And for goodness sake. Let's be nice to ourselves. And our families. How 'bout I go first. :)

Thanks for reading friends. 

Merry Christmas! Enjoy a mixture of the sweet and not so sweet that is our family.