The Day the Cat got a Hair Cut

There are some moments in motherhood that stand out to me more than others. For all the sweet, and heartwarming moments, there have been a small, but strong, share of times when I was embarrassed out of my mind. Or left feeling like an epic failure.

One such memory was this past spring. Emma was reaching the end of her ability to enjoy an afternoon nap, but I was desperate to keep her rest time going, so I could get stuff done. I had laid her down, put books in her bed in case she just wanted to read, and left a sippy cup of water with her if she became thirsty. All conditions were favorable, and she had her head on her pillow when I quietly left her room. Olivia was occupied with a reading show, so I told her I'd be doing some quick gardening. I wasn't back there for more than 15 minutes when I heard the voices of strangers coming from under my porch.

I dashed up front to find a middle aged woman, and a grandfatherly looking man escorting my shirtless Emma up to our backdoor. I must've been in shock, because I didn't know what to say. I snatched Emma up, and stood there as they told me she must've climbed our closed and locked gate, because they were driving by and found her standing by our busy road. THE HORROR!!! They were very sympathetic, and tried to explain their respective kids had done crazy things, too. Their attempt to make me feel better was like putting a thin Hello Kitty bandaid on a gushing artery. When they left, I sat with Emma, clutched in my arms and bawled. Every possible bad thing that could have happened went through my mind. I felt like the worst Mom in the world. It all happened in a flash, and I was shaken to my core, reminded that I can do my very best for my kids, and it may still not be enough. God is entirely in control, and my illusion of having everything in hand is simply that...an illusion.

Last week, a sweet friend of mine with a new camera and lens, asked if she could get some more practice and take pictures of our girls. We arranged a time, I found some props and got the girls dressed up in match-matchy outfits. I even did Olivia's hair, which is kind of a big deal, because she HATES having her hair brushed. The pictures were taken, and my Mom-heart swelled with pride upon seeing how my friend captured our kiddos. See for yourself....they're adorable!!!

I love this one, too. Especially since you can see Olivia's pretty hair, which is daily battle as it nightly attempts to become a dread in the back.

Ahh, our pride and joy! What a gift to have some great photo of the girls! We shared some of these online, and many of you exploded our feed with kind comments about our offspring. We felt proud. Whether it's right or not, parents always get a great feeling when their kids make them look good.

But that was last week. The end.

While we were still riding on the high of "We love these pictures! We have the most precious girls! Look how adorable they are!", yesterday came. We had finished school, and I'd sent the girls to go play in the sunroom while I cleaned and prepared lunch. I had just finished the dishes when I realized how quiet it was. Too quiet.

I took steps in their direction when I heard the cat protest from the sunroom. With my eyes toward the cat, with alarm, I noticed great chunks of black fur surrounding poor kitty on the indoor-outdoor carpet.

I raised my voice to ask "What is going on?!", but my voice fell as my eyes lifted. Before me were two ragged looking children, one holding scissors in her hand. I quickly saw that the cat had been the lucky one. In disbelief, I surveyed the damage.

My poor, fair-haired Emma, who formerly had a cute shoulder length cut, was now sporting a blunted-choppy pixie.

Olivia, the culprit with the scissors, tried to explain "We were playing pretend beauty shop....(with REAL scissors)". She saw me start to cry, and all of a sudden, beauty shop had lost it's fun. The work on her own hair revealed that she had gone to serious lengths to shape her once beautiful tresses into a dramatic mullet. She was clueless as to how she looked, or the consequences she had just poured on her head. Seeing that she was unaware of the gravity of her actions, and to lighten the moment for myself, I lined her up and took a few mugshots for the family photo book.

I made a call to Andrew. I never call him at work unless something is urgent, so he picked up, knowing something was wrong. Through tears I told him how Olivia had gone all Edward Scissor-hands, with scissors (that had escaped my lock and key), and I had no clue what to do, or how to begin to salvage what was left of their hair. I sent him pictures while we were on the phone, and he laughed so hard that I started laughing, too. It was a futile situation, so there was little to do but laugh. Side note: Andrew is my favorite and has such a way of bringing the right perspective and humor to a situation.

We mulled for half a second about a consequence, but soon saw that leading Olivia to a mirror was devastating enough. Her eyes welled with tears when she cried "I look like a BOY!!!". She agonized further when I told her, "No sweetie, we can't tape it back on". She began making loud declarations of NEVER-EVER leaving the house, or EVER seeing her friends EVER again, since she looked like a BOY! While she was moving out of denial and into anger, I made a desperate call to my friend Brooke. Brooke cuts hair and providentially was off at the time. She must've heard the panic in my voice, because she reassured me that she'd come right away.

All I can say is that good and skilled friends are INVALUABLE in this kind of situation!

Brooke did her best not to be horrified at what she saw, and made an excellent recovery of Olivia's handiwork. As for me, I was reminded that I can do my best as a Mom, teach them well, put good food in their bellies, and "stuff" is still going to happen. I talked to my Dad later in the day (who also got side splitting chuckles out of the pictures) and he brought it all home for me. He said to tell the girls that no matter what their hair looks like, that he thinks they are still beautiful. He also encouraged me: "Jenna, you are a great Mom! Please remember that this is not a reflection on your parenting." Those words were gold.

I can do my very best for the girls, but they are still children, and life happens. Mistakes happen. Sometimes they embarrass me. Poop happens. They will try to escape. And from what I hear from other girl moms, playing "beauty shop" is inevitable. What I can do is try not to take it personally. I love my kids no matter what they do or look like. Some of their actions work toward my sanctification more than others, but I'm learning that sometimes, the best response is just to laugh.

The AFTER photos:

Emma is obviously devastated.

Olivia's first words upon seeing her recovered hair: "MOMMY! How did Brooke make me look like a girl again?! She must have magic!"

P.S. Thanks to Lori for capturing some beautiful photos BEFORE the hair drama. To Brooke, for rescuing me in my hour of need! And to Andrew and the rest of my family, for helping me laugh. Y'all are the best!

The Kitchen Window

Our kitchen window is one of the few east-facing windows in our home. It's a comforting sight when the first glimmers of daylight brighten the the room while I'm making our morning coffee. This window has been a favorite spot of my succulent plants, as well as a lesser favorite of mine...house flies. With little people always coming and going, we had our share of flies sneak in. Once they enter, they seem to head straight for that window. It's brilliantly lit, and appears to lead to freedom, but is really where they meet their end. I keep a fly swatter just below the sink, and when flies are in abundance, I go to work. Andrew upped my game with one of those electric tennis racket fly swatters. The zap is so satisfying, but I seem to best reduce the headcount when they were cornered in the window.

I don't really need to tell you where this is going, but I'll draw it out for the sake of analogy. A week or so into fly swatting, I noticed the window getting a little grimy. My zeal for killing flies left me approximately ZERO grace in my touch, and made for some messy spots on the window. The warm weather has kept the flies healthy and steadily streaming in every time the girls go out to play. I have kept the swatter handy, and refuse to clean the window because I'll just be back cleaning it again tomorrow.

I'm embarrassed to say that this pattern of swatting-not-scrubbing went on for several weeks. If any of you are familiar with the term "house blind", then you'll understand that I had a bad case of it. Sometimes there are just too many day-to-day things that need your attention over noticing other projects, so some things often are left unpainted, unfixed, or generally uncleaned. That was guilty-guilty me to-a-T, where that window was concerned.

That is until yesterday. Company was coming and I gave a good hard look at that window. I was horrified. Those seemingly small, clear fly guts added up over time, and what I beheld was a massacre. I was so disgusted that I even checked my calendar to guesstimate how long it'd been since the window had fallen into such filth. How many dear friends had come and gone and seen that disgusting sight?! I was sickened.

I immediately whipped out the cleaner and did what I should have done ages ago. A few minutes of scrubbing later (because you know, eww, hard-dried fly guts), and suddenly, my view of the backyard became brighter! The sun shone in with greater resiliency, the grass in the backyard even appeared greener, and to top it off, the kitchen seemed cleaner! It was amazing! Such a small change made a drastic difference.

A peek through the window the following day felt shocking as I realized the contrast from what I'd grown accustom to seeing. Why had I lived with it like that for so long?! There were beautiful things to behold outside, but I had gotten so used to seeing them through a film of fly guts. That lens became the norm, and I didn't realize how bad it was, or what I was missing.

As I pondered this, I began to imagine how this is like our spiritual lives. How long do we let one little sin mar our vision? We use an "acceptable" variation of taking the Lord's name in vain, aren't faithful to correct the kids when they are doing something they shouldn't, or any number of seemingly harmless things. We buy into the lie that 1 + 1 doesn't = 2. But it always does, no matter how you figure it. We say: "It's no big deal", or "I can deal with that later", but we don't. As I've found with math and fly guts...they always add up.

Before we know it, we've let loads of little pests in, and we get used to how things appear. In our messy attempt to deal with the situation, we have created a disaster. We've forgotten how things should look, and swapped reality with a view through a grimy film. For believers, I pray that if we aren't faithful to deal with killing little sins when they're small, that we would be awakened to the dirt on our glasses, and get to work through repentance, and turning away from whatever may be hindering our vision.

Let's be thankful for the Lord's prompting our hearts when it's time to move on, change, or just clean up. And also be grateful for the ones who are faithful to lovingly point out any habits of sin in our lives. "Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but many are the kisses of an enemy." - Proverbs 27:6 Just like windex does wonders for a dirty window, confessing and turning from unkindness, laziness, or _________ (fill-in-the-blank), does wonders to clear our vision for how the Lord wants us to live.

Are you looking through a dirty window? Has a little time with a certain sin created a sub-par film that's hindering your vision of the Son? If so, I pray He moves you to get to work and do some scrubbing. Sometimes it takes no time at all, compared to the beauty and clarity that await you.

P.S. To the flies that are persistently invading my kitchen window...I've had enough. I'm waiting, fly swatter in hand. Followed immediately by windex.

The Most Eventful Week

The later half of July will go down as some of the most memorable days of my year. Because I have what's known as "Mommy Brains", I am going to jot down the highlights here so I don't forget. For my memory, and of course, for your sheer amusement.

A dear, longtime friend announced her pregnancy to me last fall, and graciously accepted my offer to be her doula. This would be my first birth to attend (other than my own babies!), so I was a little gittery as her due date approached. I read a couple books to refresh, got excellent advice from doula friends, packed my bag, and had the kid's and my suitcases ready for a good week before baby was due. Two days before baby was expected, I got the feeling that I needed to head down south to be closer to my friend. I'm giving credit to the Lord for urging me to make the trip, because I hadn't been in town even 24 hours when my friend sent the text saying her water had broken!

What a privilege it was to help my friend labor through the night, then have the reward of meeting her baby the next afternoon! That rush of joy and elation when a baby is born hit everyone in the room, and was an excellent high to drive home on after being awake for 32 hours straight. *Note: there is such a thing as a doula hangover after a long birth!

Once mission **Bring on Baby** was complete, the girls and I spent another couple days seeing family. Before I could leave, my Mom finally (FINALLY) decided it was time to part with her old, unproductive hens. They had lived like queens of poultry in their fancy coop, given their best eggs, and it was time to hit the freezer. The only catch was that Mom couldn't bear to watch her girls depart, so arranged a sweet crew to assist me in the butchering. These fine city folks put on their best farm faces, and helped me get the job done! They exemplified great bravery, and were eager to learn about everything, from catching it to place in the cone, to seeing everything inside of a hen that you don't see when you buy it from the grocery store. Six hens was pretty quick work with 5 helpers, and now Mom's freezer is stocked with stew hens. May they rest in peace.

Once back at home, I set about returning to normal. This included washing clothes, and watering growing things outside that were starting to look a little crispy. Andrew had mowed the grass just before we'd returned, so as per our mowing routine, anything that shouldn't be mowed, gets put up on a bench or landscaping timbers. I noticed the kid's t-ball stand near a flower bed, so grabbed the stand part and swung it away. What was below made me gasp and jump back.

A copperhead snake was perfectly coiled up underneath. It didn't move, so I quickly ran and grabbed a pellet gun. Olivia watched from a safe distance as I aimed...and only nicked it enough to make it angry. Fail. I had also grabbed a long handled garden tool, so slammed it down to hold the snake in place while I took aim again.

Y'all, if you're ever unfortunate enough to come across one of these snakes, let me tell you, they are aggressive! Get thine self away!!! Or drop an enormous boulder on it's head so it doesn't chase you down. In fact, I suggest keeping a boulder with you at all times just to be on the safe side. The snake, unhappy at my efforts to kill it, began recoiling and lashing out towards me (but couldn't move...thank you garden tool), and then the next pellet made contact with it's evil little pea-brain. Buh-bye, horrible destroyer of safety in one's own backyard! For kicks, we offered it to the cat. She messed with it until we put it in a bucket to later show to Andrew.

As if we hadn't enjoyed enough excitement after the snake, the following day I received a text from Andrew saying he was heading home with a raccoon kit. Yes. Evidently he and his coworkers had been hearing something like birds chirping in a wall for about a week. After that, they heard small footsteps on their ceiling. They ruled out birds, and called a pest control guy who pulled a mad mama raccoon and three babies out of the wall! The next morning, Andrew went into the office to hear more chatter and realized a baby had been left! He pulled it out of the wall and brought it home for us to nurture. Oh joyous rapture. NOT.

With Andrew's lunch break too quickly over, I found myself the new surrogate mother of a week old raccoon. It's eyes weren't even open, it made horrible chattering sounds, would. not. stop. crawling. and, (thank you internet) I learned that baby raccoons require stimulation in their, urr...nether regions, in order to properly urinate. Or their bladders will explode. Or something like that.

When the kids went down to rest in the afternoon, I found myself sweating in the garage, wrestling a crawling baby raccoon, forcing it to take a bottle it didn't want, to drink milk it certainly didn't like, and getting raccoon pee on my shorts when it let loose of it's bladder to the rub of a towel between it's legs. Yes. That happened. I couldn't make this kind of thing up. Raccoon = 1, Trophy Wife = 0

The internet also informed me that baby raccoons need to eat every two hours, so if you will, please repeat the above scene a few more times, with vigorous scrubbing my hands raw in-between each feeding. This went on for only a few more times before Andrew returned home and I waved the white flag. The helpless masked baby he lovingly named "Bandit" (because we have to name every thing that comes past our gate), HAD. TO. GO. Andrew was very understanding that a raccoon that young was extremely high maintenance, and that if I had to keep caring for it, he might never have clean socks or underwear ever again.

Kind friends of ours whisked it away the next morning, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That is until we walked into the backyard and noticed a chicken gimping around. Her wings were droopy, and began to twitch. Andrew guessed that she might have mites. He caught her, I lifted up her feathers, and to my absolute HORROR, she was crawling with them. As is common for poultry keepers, I immediately went into horrible chicken-Mom guilt. It looks something like; assuming the coop hadn't been cleaned frequently enough in my absence, being too busy to notice and could have caught it earlier, neglecting to do more preventative because I should have seen this coming...you know, the usual.

The truth is that when you have free ranging birds, other wild birds have access to their grazing area, and can infultrate with their wild creepy crawlies. Its disgusting, and I'm considering a sound machine with "No Trespassing" bird calls for all the native winged-animals. Okay, so maybe humor is another stage of disguising the Mom guilt, but whatever man. I'm in recovery.

I dove into what I immediately knew to do. That evening found me bathing the affected chicken in warm, soapy Dawn detergent water. It might even sound relaxing if you ignore the fact that there were mites and a chicken involved. This poor bird sank into the warmth, enjoying a little relief from all the itching. Afterward, she pretended to be dead when I dried her off and dusted her with DE power. For those out of the know, DE powder is diatomaceous earth, aka pulverized sea shells. The power looks like powdered sugar, but is really minuscule razor sharp sea shell bits that will cut the exoskeleton of a tiny critter. **Insert evil laughter**

For those in the know, you are likely smart enough to wear protective eyewear when using DE powder! Alas, I was not. The bird decided to become un-dead, jumped up, fluttered her wings, and poofed a fine dust of DE powder into my eyes. I awoke the next morning with the feeling that my eyes were peeling away. A look in the mirror revealed about as much, and may have falsely indicated to others who saw me that day, that I was a druggie or heavy drinker. I would've loved to have defended myself, but didn't think anyone would believe that I had simply, stupidly failed to wear protective eyewear when dusting a mite-ridden chicken with sea shell powder after a bath in my vintage enamel-wear bucket. I mean, who wouldn't believe that?! Seems a simple enough explanation to me.

With the hen in quarantine, I knew I had to take drastic action with the rest of the flock. What's that saying about an ounce of prevention? Yes, well after a few pleas for advice on some chicken forums (yes, those exist), my fellow fowl friends informed me on the best course of action. A insecticide used on cattle in minuscule doses would be non-harmful to my birds or eggs, yet efficient enough to deter any more pesky pests. Instead of chasing down 30+ chickens with a syringe during the day, I waited until dark, when everyone had gone in to roost. Because I like to keep Saturday nights alive and wear pajamas with fabulous camo crocs out to the coop.

They were all perfectly lined up, ready for me to dribble a little magic syrup on their backs. Everyone remained calm, except for the banty hens who screamed at me, like I'd come outside, entirely for the purpose of harassing them. The ungrateful wretches didn't understand I was simply there to save their lives. Over 30 chickens treated, and I could finally sneak back to the house and sleep. Ahh, sleep!

When Sunday afternoon rolled around, we ended our exciting week with one final adventure. The one thing out of the whole eventful week that had been planned: getting a kitten. But true to form, and how our week went, nothing went as planned...and we left with two kittens. But that's another story for another time.

The Killjoy

Today I was "That Mom". You know the kind. The one who shows up when everyone is having a really fun time, and ruins it. The one who sees slightly potential danger and freaks out, stopping everything enjoyable and looks like a major killjoy. Yeah, that was me today.

My father in law is here, and this afternoon, he and Andrew took the girls swimming. I assumed this to mean "with a flotation device" for the two year old (FOR THE TWO YEAR OLD!!!), but I was wrong. I arrived on the scene with sandwiches and quickly came close to a nervous breakdown. My adrenals are shot, so it doesn't take much to push me over the edge, but to my Mom-eyes, I was witnessing my child drown.

I saw little Emma, hurling herself from the step towards my FIL and Andrew, and staying under far too long for my comfort. Without waiting, I began yelling "Grab her! Pull her up!!!", as if they hadn't been doing this for at least a good 10 minutes before I arrived. But seriously y'all, if ever there were a pearl clutching moment, this was it. I contemplated diving in to get her, but the menfolk were RIGHT THERE. Why weren't they moving?! GET MY CHILD UP INTO THE FRESH AIR!!! NOW!!!

But they waited. I could feel my adrenaline shooting through the roof, even though I could see her kicking her legs and quickly rising to the surface. They could have pulled her up because she was right in front of them, but they didn't. They waited much longer that I would have, and let her work it out before helping her.

Even after she burst to the top with her pursed lips becoming an enormous smile (she had obviously mastered holding her breath under water), I was still in a panic. How could they not be holding onto her at ALL TIMES?! How could they let her get in without her puddle jumpers?! This was madness!!! But then Andrew asked me to watch again.

I was fairly certain a second time would do me in, but I watched once more as my FIL put her legs behind her and pushed her towards Andrew. What I saw this time was that she held her breath, was propelling herself with her feet, and was actually learning how to swim. Her face got towards the surface, and when she hovered for just a bit, Andrew reached and pulled her up. She took a big gasp of air, and she was beaming. She was doing it. Go figure.

Since my pool-panic, this scene has been haunting me all day long. My little girl in the water, seeming to be struggling, with her Papa right there. He could pull her up at a moment's notice, but he waits. His goal isn't to keep her head above water the whole time, but to teach her how to swim. He's right there after all, so she isn't going to drown, but he is patient to rescue her, so she can get in those crucial seconds that will teach her a lifesaving skill. What an irony that she has to be under the water for a bit before she can learn how not to drown.

This resonates with me so deeply at this point in my journey. I feel so much like a little girl out in the middle of a big, deep pool, learning to swim. If only I could be done with this lesson and just swim already! None of this flailing my legs, kicking for the surface that seems so far away. No more burning of my eyes and lungs while I wait to break the surface. I'm exhausted. But I know my Father is right here with me. He knows precisely how long I can hold my breath, and is more than capable of pulling me up at the right time. Why would I ever doubt Him? He's teaching me something greater than just treading water, or holding my breath. There is a greater end to this season of life, more than what my little mind can comprehend right now. It's for a beautifully bigger purpose. If I'll just keep at it. And I will, because I know He is with me.

Lent Doesn't Last

For months I've had the desire to write. I feel like I've been wrestling with myself as I type and end up throwing everything into a draft folder. Why? Because what's on my heart has just felt too heavy to share. I realize that some of my writing has been for my own processing, but the feeling has been inescapable that God wants me to share about my brokenness. So I press on, because there is healing in the truth.

At thirty years old, it'd be fair to say I've experienced the gamut of human emotion. However, losing my babies in September caught me completely off guard with a never before known depth of grief, mourning and even depression. On the morning of September 18th, I awoke to the sweet kicks of our 14 week old surviving twin. Hours later as my body began laboring, I begged God to spare our baby. I was in agony as I realized I'd have to deliver our little one long before he was ready. I wasn't ready, but God gave me such comfort. Flesh of my flesh went into the ground that day, and it has changed me. How could it not?

Initially it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I vividly remember this happening as a child on the school playground. You miss a monkey bar rail, or trip, and suddenly you're desperately gasping for air. Grief felt like a sucker punch to my lungs, and for the first few days I literally struggled to breathe. Healing increased as the days turned into weeks, and things didn't feel so terribly raw. Eventually, there were more good days than bad ones. More days doing the normal things we did before, and less days trying to muffle my sobs into a pillow, trying to keep the girls from hearing Mommy cry.

In November we became pregnant again, and I felt hope once more. A baby certainly wouldn't replace the children we'd lost, but it could bring joy and healing to our hearts. My parents had come to visit us for Thanksgiving, so when we were around the table, sharing what we were thankful for, I announced our baby due in July. Everyone was elated, then the next day, broken again as I had an early miscarriage.

A search for answers in the following month led to a diagnosis of my having a MTHFR gene mutation. This means my body can't optimally process B group vitamins on it's own. It may seem minor, but an impaired absorption of B's or folate can contribute to all kinds of health problems...including miscarriage. This discovery made it feel like my body had been betraying me, but I was still grateful for an answer. My new supplements quickly made me feel like a brand new person. I was alarmed at how good I felt in comparison to how tired and depressed I had been in the months before. What a delight to have renewed energy, feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and laugh again. It finally felt like things were going to be okay.

A couple months of supplements made me feel like we'd found the missing piece, and that it was safe to try again. I bought something to give to Andrew to help me announce that we were pregnant once more, but I hesitated. It felt too confident a thing to give when I had so little confidence to claim. I told him one evening after dinner, and as with the 5 pregnancies before, his eyes lit up with joy. He makes my heart swell. Maybe things would be different this time? We didn't know. It felt like we were holding our breath. Just a few days later, we had to part with that baby, too.

That this little one flew to Jesus during the season of Lent is significant to me. Lent is a time of reflection, of mourning, and of numbering our short days on this earth. Our lives are a vapor. The past 6 months of loss have felt like an extended season of Lent to my broken heart. What I've had to give up has felt too precious to lay down. I don't know why we've lost these little ones. And right now I have far more questions than answers.

The verses from 2nd Corinthians 1:3-5 are why I feel compelled to share this part of my story.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of all compassion and the God of all comfort, Who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows."

As much as I would love to wrap this story up with a Hallmark ending, I can't. It's not time. Maybe like me, you're somewhere in the middle, still waiting or searching for answers, still catching your breath. Though I have been burdened by this suffering, the Lord has met me in the hardest places, and has comforted me to overflowing. He is growing me, my marriage, and our family. The old, useless bits are breaking away, and He is creating something more beautiful out of this dust. I don't know how much longer I'll be here, but it's going to be okay. He has reminded me that Lent doesn't last. Easter is coming. His resurrection abolishes death, and removes it's sting. Because of this, I have such great hope, and so can you.