motherhood for the introvert

Shy was the word used to describe me in elementary school. That, and the girl with the freakishly skinny wrists. But then my family moved from the only town I had ever known to a new town several states away. Suddenly, my need for friends and fun outweighed the fear, and my life as a social butterfly began in full force.

That move was a turning point for me. I had lots of friends and I liked it that way. I wanted to be with people and always know what was going on. Still, I craved alone time but often skipped it for fear of missing out. As a result, whenever I took personality tests through high school and college, I was always pegged an extrovert. That is how I saw myself.

Years later, after I had children, I realize the truth: I am an introvert. People who know me in real life are sometimes surprised to hear that. I wouldn't call myself an extreme introvert, but I think I am returning to my kindergarten roots in a way. I'm no longer shy with people, but my energy is found only after time alone. The pressures of motherhood smoked the introvert right out of me.

Lately I've been thinking about parenting and personality. Sometimes it feels like I will explode from the inside if I don't have the opportunity to just be. Alone. Without the chatter. A girl needs time to do important introverty things like stare out the window, sit for no reason, or write bad first drafts without an agenda.

But having three small children at home does not allow for such luxuries a lot of the time. Instead, I improvise. I find little ways and crazy times to squeeze in the quiet.

How does your personality effect your parenting? What are some things you have discovered to help you maintain the balance between being who you are and being who those little ones need you to be?

new look, old fears

I'm standing at the edge of change here on this Monday morning. And I don't want to jump.

It has been in the works for a while now, these changes. The first was hurried along a few months ago when a new reader commented, asking if I was a scrapper (scrapbooker? scrapbook doer?) too. As you know, I am not. But from the looks of my blog layout, you would think otherwise.

Which is why change is coming. I'm not sure exactly when, as the Weblog Awards have interrupted my anticipated flow of the first change coming to be. (I think voting continues through today.) But don't be alarmed if one day you click to chat at the sky and discover a change. The sky will not have fallen, but the clouds may have cleared a bit. In other words, I'm gettin' a new layout, y'all. Stay tuned.

The second change is a bit more fuzzy. I am beginning to accept the fact that I am a writer. There is nothing more terrifying to discover, it turns out. Except maybe if I woke up with no teeth. That would be more terrifying. Still, I am stuck in a staring match with myself and my future. I'm winning. Fear is the perfect excuse not to act because, you know, I'm afraid.

And so I wait. Not the God kind of waiting where you don't want to wait but you know it is what's best for you and then you end up glad for the interim. Because even though I know the next step, I am instead sitting in the dark corner of comfortable, biting my nails, stuck between ignoring it and embracing it.

I know that is possible to jump in and be free. But I'm not quite there yet. So I wait for a grown up to tell me what to do. For a boss or a teacher or a parent to come, take me by the hand and give me instruction. But I also wait for the truth to feel true and for the fear to subside. I am beginning to think neither one is going to happen.

I suppose I'm just going to have to trust. I knew it would come to this.

on being important

In the sixth grade, I had to write an essay with the title When I Get Older. The first sentence went as follows: When I get older, I will look tan like my Grandma.
The essay continued in an equally ambitious manner: I won't die my hair. I will be short and small. I won't wear bell-bottoms but I hate it when Grandma's look 21, so I won't dress in fashion either.

For a page and a half I described all the things I would be when I got older. I would have lots of friends, I would host Christmas at my house, I would spoil my grandchildren.

The kicker though, was the final sentence of the essay. I will be important. That was the climax, right after I will work in an office - clearly the fastest way to importance.

Everybody wants to be important. We may not state it that way, as I did in the sixth grade. But everybody wants it, we just define it differently. I wonder what important looked like to me as a sixth grader?
If you are a Wemmick, importance belongs to whomever collects the most boxes and balls, as described in this book by Max Lucado.
I suppose as a kid, important had something to do with neon rubber bands in my braces and a tire swing in the backyard. As I grew up, if I made good grades, kept the peace and managed to get a boyfriend then I felt important.

As an adult, I often think about where I am finding my importance. Is it my role as a mother? My relationship with The Man? My college degree? Perhaps a better question is this: who gets to decide what makes someone important or not? How do we define worth?

Max Lucado suggests purpose and importance is defined by the inventor. If he invents the thing, then he gets to say how it works, what its for, why it was made. He's not the only one.

being here

Life in my fourth grade classroom began the same way everyday: Mr. Lahr called the roll. I spent the first half of the alphabet listening to my fellow students say here as their names were called. I was focused and alert, because if I didn't say here or present or at least grunt and raise my hand, I would be counted absent. Even if I was there.

You had to pay attention and respond, or it would be as if you weren't there at all.

Not much has changed since the fourth grade. It takes work to be here during December. I mean really here. I can get so focused on the then that I forget the now.

I charge my camera batteries in anticipation of the joy of Christmas morning, but I miss out on the wrestling match happening in front of the tree on December 22.

I spend time pouring over fun cookie recipes to make with my kids but end up frustrated when all they want to do is fight over who gets to lick the bowl.

Perhaps I should make cookies by myself.

Or.

Perhaps I could shift the goal from make cookies with the kids to make individual batter covered bowls.

It is all about changing our expectations. Because if I'm saving up all my worship and expectancy and joy for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, it's very likely that I will experience disappointment, conflict, frustration or all three.

So I have an idea. I want to purpose to notice the joy in the everyday. After all, isn't that what my blog is all about? But December doesn't feel like the everyday! you say. December can feel more like the crazy. That's why I'm inviting you to join me on my quest to notice and revel in the daily.

Next Monday, I'm going offer an opportunity for us to share our journey of noticing with each other. It could be as simple as a photo, a glimpse of a treasure you discover while taking a walk or a moment captured during your kids playtime.
A Poppy with his grandson.

A girl all dressed up with no place to go.

A boy caught in the act.

It doesn't have to be a photo. It could be a story, a memory, or a thought you have that helps you to reflect and notice and celebrate even in the midst of busy and planning and crazy.

It doesn't have to be about Christmas. I know some of you may not celebrate Christmas or perhaps you aren't one of those people who turn crazy in December because you have perspective and inner peace and sense. Share that with us.

The only rule is that you notice. And then tell us about it by linking to your post on the Mr. Linky I'll have set up. You can link to a post you have already done in this theme, but I would encourage you to continue to notice this week, even if you don't document it.

You have a week to think on it. And to let me know if you have any brilliant ideas on what to call this little project of ours. Now let the celebration begin. Happy December 1.

an unexpected gift

Snow doesn't usually fall here in November. I'm not sure it was in the forecast for today. We simply woke up to one excited voice exclaiming "It snowed!" And so it did.
Within minutes, we were all outside in coat-covered jammies, hair un-brushed, eyes wide with wonder, to take in the first snow of the season. The kids weren't sure what to do, as it was only enough snow to show off but not so much they could really play.

So they simply stood in the midst of it. They touched it. They tasted it. They smiled at this most unexpected gift.

I want to be as they are when the unexpected shows up. Rather than fret and plan and wring my hands, I want to step into the unexpected with gratitude and delight...hair un-brushed and eyes wide open.

just tell it.

Everyone has a story.

Every story is important.

Just because you can't tell it perfectly doesn't mean you shouldn't tell it at all.

Just because it may have already been said doesn't mean you shouldn't say it, too.

Just because you aren't the best one doesn't mean you can't be one.

You may not be famous for it. You may not have invented it. But you still need to say it, to speak your story out loud, to see who might be listening.

Because everyone has a story. And one of them needs to hear yours.

Twilight

I did not plan to write about the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer mainly because of the vampires. That is not my favorite. I have tried to explain the books without using the words ‘vampire’ and ‘love story’ in the same sentence and it is not possible.

Now please excuse me while I clumsily grope for my dignity as it flies swiftly out the window.

Seriously, here's the truth. I liked the books. However, I am not going to tell you to run to the nearest bookstore and buy the Twilight series and here's why:

• I don't want anyone to say Emily recommended they read a book about vampires. That is not what I want to be known for thankyouverymuch.
  
• Even though I liked them, my primary hangup with the series revolves around the fact that the main character had no life until she found her soul mate. I take issue. I gag on my own spittle. I object.
• Once you start it will be hard to stop until you are done. Nobody has that kind of time.

If you haven't read these books, here is the basic story line. A seventeen year old girl named Bella moves from big city Phoenix to small town Forks to live with her father. She basically hates life until she meets a fellow student named Edward. He is dazzling. He is mysterious. And, she later finds out, he is a one hundred year old vampire frozen in time at seventeen.

As I was reading, I was rooting for them, cheering with gusto. I gave myself permission to be silly and ridiculous and swoony. It was fun and entertaining. As the series continued, I honestly grew tired of cheering for them. I wanted to allow the book be what it is without over analyzing. But the codependent-you-complete-me kind of love that they had for one another was a bit over the top even though I can be a sucker for swoon.

The books are said to be clean, though dark, romance for young readers. As a mom, however, you may hesitate to share this series with its intended audience: your 13-year-old daughter. I wouldn't let mine read it. And as much as I tried not to let the vampire part bother me, there were times when it did. If you are sensitive to that, it may be something you can't overcome.

After my last post, some of you expressed concern about the dark theme of these books, questioning if it was appropriate for believers to read. I've struggled with how to address that issue, as I don't think there is one way to look at it. Since I've read all four books, I was clearly not bothered enough to put them down, but I understand why someone might be. I found this article written by Mark Matlock on Christianity Today's website that speaks to this topic, if you are interested.

I noticed another article in Leadership Journal, a magazine for church leaders. In the Toolkit section of the current issue (Vol. 29 Number 4), Twilight is highlighted as a relevant book in popular media: "While the content may be a bit racy, the novels do raise important questions about personal responsibility and consequences."

I do have specific opinions about different parts of the series, but I didn’t want to have to write this post under a spoiler alert. Perhaps I will post some of those in the comments section. So if you read the comments, consider yourself warned.

fiction

What began as a favor to a friend (sure, I'll read the first book in that series by the end of November so you will have someone to see the movie with even though I'm not sure if I will be interested or have time), has turned into a two week long fascination (I'll read every spare moment I can find until I finish this book because I am so incredibly interested).

I should have told myself this would happen. Because when Myself gets involved in a story, Myself cannot put said story down. Well guess what? Myself has gotten herself involved. So involved, in fact, that what was supposed to be one book has turned into four.

I have now read all four books in the Twilight series. I know.

I'm still processing what I think of them and will talk about that in a separate post (sorry to drag this on for you who haven't read these books). But one thing reading so much fiction lately has me thinking about is what makes a good story.

Stephenie Meyer says on her website that the idea for Twilight came to her in a dream a little over 5 years ago. The morning after her dream, she was compelled to record as much as she could remember of it, only to discover as she went about her day, more of the story would unfold.

The story continued to demand an outlet: "Bella and Edward were, quite literally voices in my head. They simply wouldn't shut up." Her fictional characters came to life in such a way for her that the very mind who conceived them could hardly keep up.

Writers of fiction are fascinating to me. I believe with my whole heart that fiction is the most difficult genre to write. Rephrase: good fiction is the most difficult genre to write. To create a story that is compelling, that moves, that is both believable and magical: grounded in the facts while flirting with the fantastic. It feels risky and vulnerable, the thought of writing fiction. I think we owe a debt of gratitude and respect to those who are willing to take that risk and allow their imaginations to be exposed to a world full of critics.

Now I'm off to work on my critique of the Twilight series.

the year's last, loveliest smile

Kimba over at A Soft Place to Land is having a Fall party today. I was planning to post some of my fall decor, but I'll be honest...its pretty lame. I'm thankful to her for forcing me to stop and think, though.

The seasons to me are God's gracious reminder of time passing swiftly by. I need to be reminded of that sometimes, as it is easy to forget wonder, to ignore beauty and to strangle the silence with the loud. Somehow, the sharp, confident coolness of the autumn air brings clarity of thought and heart. Clearing out the heavy, humid drudgery of September, autumn ushers in change.
The trees exchange their green summer shawls for more colorful fanfare, a reminder that even the deepest roots don't guarantee stability. Change must come. There is a time for everything. A new school year. A new President. Fresh episodes of The Office and Pushing Daisies. New. Different. Change.
I don't want to be pushed along by time, flailing and trying to keep up. I want to move with the rhythm of it, to respond to my Creator, to breathe in this cool, crisp air. I want to take time to notice the deep and the detail while living in the obvious and the practical.
According to writer William Cullen Bryant, "Autumn is the year's last, loveliest smile." And so I reflect along with creation, as it bids a golden farewell to the year that has passed. A lovely smile indeed.

an unlikely voice

The life of my grandfather was one of discontent. An often grumpy man, his days were filled with the sound of his own mumbled complaints muffled only by the mind-numbing applause of The Wheel of Fortune. It seemed there was little that pleased him.

He smoked brown cigarettes, long and thin and drank all his life until he realized he was an alcoholic and decided to quit. He became extremely active in AA and had a few years of sobriety before his body betrayed him, worn down from years of alcohol abuse.

He died in June of 1993. I was 16.

Even in the midst of his cloudy unhappiness, I believe Grandpa enjoyed his grandchildren. Every now and then, Grandpa picked us up from school in his faded yellow car. My sister and I sat on the cracked vinyl, hot in the back seat and made awkward conversation with him, painfully aware of the generations that separated us. Upon arriving at his house, Grandpa would lead us into the kitchen, push the permanent piles of mail and newspapers aside and offer us a snack: two hard cookies, brown on one side, yellow on the other with white cream in the middle. He would then burn the popcorn and season it with Krazy Mixed-Up Salt, served up in plastic bowls.

It seemed to me that he tried hard to make us feel comfortable. I felt guilty for wishing he would just give us a Popsicle or a cupcake. So I ate, compelled to action by an internal sense of compassion and pity that I didn't understand.

Surprisingly, Grandpa was one person who encouraged me in my writing. Maybe underneath the alcohol and layers of hurt and damaged relationships, he was a writer himself. I don't know that to be true, but it could have been, I suppose.

For my birthday, he gave me two magazines on creative writing. I still have them somewhere. He also cut an article from the local paper about a girl my age who had won $25 in a writing contest. I assumed he thought I could do something like that. He folded it carefully and sent it in the mail, writing in capital letters: Emily, It’s not what it says, although that’s important. It’s the writing. Grandpa.

I still have that, too.

I don't know much about the demons that haunted my Grandpa all those years. I don't know what caused him to make decisions that would bring pain and heartache into the lives of those he was called to protect. The way I see it, he didn’t know Jesus, didn't cherish his wife, and never learned how to show affection. Had he made different choices, his legacy could have been beautiful and life-giving. But in the midst of his confused priorities, he chose to see me, even if only in part. He noticed me even though noticing people did not come naturally for him. He appreciated my writing and encouraged me to do it often and to do it well.

Is encouragement coming from an unlikely voice in your life? Sometimes its hard to see the good when the bad hurts so much. But it is sweet to realize that the Lord uses all types of people in all kinds of ways to inspire courage within us.

she spoke, she wrote

Well, SheSpeaks is over and I am overwhelmed in many ways. Mostly good ways. It is humbling to realize how much I don't know about things, but I am also equipped to learn more about that which I am passionate. Namely, writing.

I enjoy writing. Have I mentioned that here before? I sat in workshops about writing, taught by women who have written all their lives, surrounded by women who love words. It was divine. It was exciting, scary and divine.

No one had rocks in their pockets. The women in my peer review group were gracious and helpful. They made some great suggestions as well as encouraged me enough that I'm almost convinced I'm not crazy.

During the main sessions, I had a sweet glimpse of the Father's heart toward me. He is gracious, patient and kind. He has brought a sense of clarity in the foggy mess that is my mind these days. And He is excited, too.

Finally, this thought: I always think the best gifts are the ones we don't expect. Especially when they come from God's hand.
This is Karla, Megan, Jami and me. We knew each other vaguely through our blogs before the conference, which is how we connected once we got there. And oh, how we did connect. As much as I love words, I can't think of any to describe how thankful I am for them this weekend.

When I signed up for this conference, I didn't know a single person attending. I didn't expect to make friends, much less friends who are funny, who watch The Office, who love words as much as I do, who aren't afraid to cry in public. What a blessing to discover these comment box robot people not only exist, but they are vibrant, emotional, beautiful women with real lives, real kids and real faith. I'm so glad I met you, friends.

she speaks, she writes

There's nothing like paying for a sitter so that you can go to the Panera parking lot, eat lunch on your lap, contort your body to type on the keyboard that has mayonnaise all over the "w" and update your blog by mooching off their wi-fi. Not because you don't have internet access but because you have 3 kids.

There's also nothing like having people walk by your car, see you on the computer and think you are doing something important. But really you are just desperate for some time alone and for a place to speak it. Which I guess is important after all.

I know I could go inside. But there are people inside. So I sit here in my car with mayonnaise on my keyboard, thinking about why I write and those of you like me who write because you can, because you want to, because if you didn't, you would be denying a part of yourself.

And I think about blogging and how it is a place for those of us who love to write and kind of sometimes have something to say but don't have to have an agent or risk rejection to do it. And we can be the editor, publisher, AND the author and use all the run-on sentences that we want. And begin lots of fragment sentences with conjunctions.

It's all very egocentric, really.

I'm going to She Speaks tomorrow. It's a conference held by Proverbs 31 ministries to encourage and equip women who speak, who lead and who write.

I will be among those who write.

I signed up back in February and, like a raving mad lunatic, also signed up to be in a peer review group. That's when you bring something you've written and let other people read it while laughing and pointing and throwing rocks at you. Who would sign up for a peer review? Why am I subjecting myself to the madness?

Some of you I will see there, I know. I look forward to meeting you, as long as you kindly leave your rocks at home.

unpacking treasure #1

I have been finding some really great treasures over the past few weeks. Part of that is because I still have boxes from our last move that I haven't exactly gone through. This time, though, I'm trying to focus on actually getting rid of things we don't need or want. And so I open boxes and bins that haven't been touched in a few years. And then I find this:
It is actually one of several like it. I would tell you how old I was when this was written, but then I'd have to move my family out of state and beg the CIA to enter us into the witness protection program.

More to come.

a story bigger than mine

Another memory.

I am in 9th grade English class and we are reading The Glass Menagerie. I’ve just been assigned to read the part of Laura Wingfield. I always hated reading plays out loud in the cold, fluorescent classroom. It was all so…unnatural. I always ended up reading the descriptive stuff in the brackets on accident. I don’t know which I hated more: when there were too many characters and everyone had to double up on parts (you get to be the bagboy, girl with the basket and man #2) or when there weren’t enough characters to go around and you didn’t get a part at all and just had to listen to the monotone.

I much preferred reading plays alone, in my own head, so I not only could imagine the scenes playing out like a movie but I got to be every character. You know how it is in the classroom: you are assigned the part of Laura Wingfield so instead of listening to the story and following along as the action plays out, you find yourself skipping ahead, marking all of Laura’s lines, sure that you can clearly pronounce all the words in the script so as not to make a fool of yourself…until you become aware of the long pause that has settled in on the classroom and someone mercifully whispers “Hey, aren’t you Laura? Go!” And you’ve kind of missed it, the very thing you’ve been preparing for, however small.

Sometimes I feel that way in life. I can get so focused on my part, my role, my purpose, my story, that I miss the bigger story. The bigger story that isn’t just the bigger story, but it is THE ONLY STORY. Because “It isn't a flood, it's not a tornado, Mother. I'm just not popular like you were in Blue Mountain” makes no sense if you say it out of the context of the whole play. Yeah, I had a moment with the attention on me…but so what? That isn’t a story, it's only a part...a fragmant of a story. To me, my story only makes sense in the context of a story that is bigger than mine.

God has a story He is writing and He has saved a part just for me! There are days when I falsely believe I would rather BE the story than just play a part, but I think there is relief in realizing that we get to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. And as I trust Him to live in and through me, there is no concern as to whether I will be able to pronounce all the words.

Sometimes you just have to choose the pencils

She wanted the pencils, I could tell she did. Her daddy was sitting in the too-small chair in the children's section of the bookstore and she was vacillating between a small, brightly colored and obviously educational activity book...or the set of pink princess pencils. She held them both, one in each hand and she quietly asked her daddy which one he thinks she should choose. He repeatedly told her it was her decision to make, she could choose either one. No sooner had the words come out of his mouth, than he was giving her a list of pros and cons about each potential choice: the pencils are pretty, but the activity book might last longer; the pencils have to be sharpened and then they get smaller and smaller, but the activity book has pages and pages of endless fun. "But the choice is yours to make," he was sure to add.

I smiled to myself as I noticed the fathers' inability to remain uninvolved in her decision. It was obvious to me which she would choose after his comments...what 5 year old would choose the pretty pencils after daddy clearly explained how impractical they were? I missed what happened next as my own daughter came up to me with several copies of the same board book and I realized she was rearranging the entire Sandra Boynton collection. I was somewhat glad for the distraction as it helped me maintain my cover.

When I looked up again at the daddy/daughter duo, I realized they were standing up to leave and she seemed very satisfied with herself. As they passed by me, I noticed in her hand she held the pretty princess pencils and in that moment, a strange realization came over me. I never would have chosen the pencils no matter how badly I had wanted them. And it made me think of all the other things that I do to please people or in attempts to make the "right" decision. Not only did the little girl make her own decision despite the implied frivolousness of that choice by her father, but her dad actually let her make that choice and seemed glad that she did so. And he was happy to buy the pencils for her.

I want to be more like that. Not making foolish decisions in haste or greed, but in those things where the outcome is neutral but the process is the point, I want to give myself permission to make the choice that is fun and exciting. I think as a kid I was always so worried about making the "wrong" choice in things that I had a hard time just being a kid. Sometimes you just have to choose the pencils. I think it is a liberating experience.