The other day, our workplace had a cookout/swim party. Because my kids love to swim and my spouse was helping at the grill, I was the designated swim-parent.

Oh, joy.

So I had to get into my suit for the first time in a year. It was not a pretty sight. Oh well, at least the pool changing area had no mirror.

As I stuffed my post-pubescent body into the Spandex sausage-casing, I rethought my fitness regime. By the time I got one leg through its hole, I was vowing to do one hundred leg lifts a day. After hoisting my other leg up and through, I had decided to perform several hundred “fire hydrants” before breakfast. And after sucking in, pulling the swimsuit over my belly, and sticking my arms through, I decided that was workout enough.

Swimsuit season always makes me reconsider my “absolutely not, never, no way” stance on plastic surgery. After all, who couldn’t use a little nip and tuck here and there?

And I’m not alone. The numbers of women who’ve gone under the knife has increased to such an extent that a prominent Miami plastic surgeon has written a children’s book explaining why Mommy is getting a nose job and breast implants (really!).

It’s called My Beautiful Mommy and is written for readers ages 4-7. The book describes a mom explaining how she’ll appear after surgery. The daughter asks, “Why are you going to look different?” and the mother replies, “Not just different, my dear—prettier!”

Yikes!

But maybe the author is onto something. Why not create a whole series of books to help kids understand their mommies:

• My Cellulite-Free Mommy, for kids whose moms have had lipo (“Not just firm, my dear—less pockmarked!”)

• My Stylish Mommy, for children whose moms are over-accessorized (“It’s from your college fund, darling—but can you say, ‘Prada’?”)

• My Tabloid Mommy, for those with moms on the front page of the Star (“Just wear this towel over your face until we get in the car, sweetums.”)

Actually, when I stop beating myself up long enough to consider the costs, not to mention the risks, of plastic surgery, I come to my senses. The only reason I’d consider it is because our culture places such a high value on outer appearances, and I tend to get swept up in all the midriff-baring mania.

The things I read and watch—whether they’re lies on the front of a tabloid magazine or the truth from God’s word—determine the state of my heart. So when I immerse myself in His truth, I remember that God adores me, whether or not my arms are toned.

And you know what else? My hubby and two sons don’t care what my measurements are, or how perfect I look. The other day, I woke up with some serious bed-hair. As I sat at my computer in a torn T-shirt and faded sweat pants, my sweet, thoughtful and obviously vision-impaired four year-old said, “Mommy, you’re pretty in your day clothes, your pajamas, or even on a date.” J

And that, my dear readers, is worth ten Prada bags, fourteen tummy tucks, and at least a thousand sit-ups.

Share this:

Hot, sweaty, back-breaking work.

That’s what I remember from my summers working as a ranch hand for Dad, the caretaker of our family’s 700-acre spread. My brother and I dug postholes, planted trees, watered plants, rounded up cattle on horseback, and even cleaned out smelly stock trailers. It wasn’t my idea of fun—but Dad insisted we learn the responsibility that went along with the rewards of country living.

While my friends sunbathed as lifeguards and helped customers in air-conditioned clothing shops in our small Texas town, I grumbled and complained my way through six summers of ranch work. (And had the blisters on my hands to prove it!)

However, Dad paid us well, and I appreciated the fact that he let us have time off for church and music camps, mission trips and birthday parties at the roller skating rink. I knew not every job came with such flexibility. And there were other perks too—a dip in our above-ground pool, long lunch breaks provided by Mom, and quality time spent with my hilarious brother.

But I can remember telling my parents I couldn’t wait to leave the ranch and our small town. I felt confined, stifled and restless. There was so much more to do and see than tend cattle and watch seedlings grow. “When I grow up, I’m going to live in a city apartment and have a window box,” I said to Mom more than once.

Life’s funny, though . . . and God definitely has a sense of humor. After fifteen years of marriage, two kids, and three cities, my husband Carey and I moved our brood much closer to Hay Creek Ranch, as my parents named it.

One of the biggest reasons for our move? We longed to be closer to family. Not only did my mother and father reside on the ranch, but my brother, his wife and two kids live only an hour away. After more than a decade of “doing life” ourselves, we realized that something was missing. We want our boys to go to their cousins’ birthday parties and invite their grandparents to see them in school plays.

Frankly, we also needed a support system. Life’s hard, and when troubles invariably arrived, we never felt quite as comfortable asking for help—or falling to pieces—with our friends (or sadly, our church) as we did with family.

On a recent visit to Hay Creek, the meadow grass was green from spring rains and the home place had never looked more beautiful. Following my grandmothers’ death, my folks had taken some of her heirloom pieces and integrated them into our home–which Mom had helped her parents build when she was six years old.

My sons had quite a time counting the cows, driving the mini tractor, and navigating the now-rusty slide that Dad had built for my brother and me over 25 years ago. I enjoyed hearing Mom tell Carey how her great-granddaddy had traded a horse and saddle for our seven-hundred acre spread. On a ride in my parents’ beat-up Suburban, we saw deer, pheasant, cottontail rabbits, quail and windmills.

Jordan, 13, went on walks with my parents, where he chased the gentle cattle and threw a ball to the two ranch dogs. Jackson, eight, fed the horses with Dad and tried on the boots and hat that had been in our family for ages, grinning all the while. My energetic children didn’t even want to nap during the day or go to sleep at night, because there was too much to see and do.

And when Carey and I took a walk hand-in-hand one afternoon, I proudly pointed out the trees I had helped plant with my sibling’s help. The once-small seedlings now grew tall and strong, providing shade around the fence near the house.

Proverbs 22:6 (NIV) says, “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.” Now that I’ve reached 40, I realize the excellent training my parents handed to me, and I appreciate the faith and values that they tirelessly modeled.

Those are the things that made me who I am, now that I’m grown up. And those are things I want to pass on.

Share this:

The whole Hilary Rosen/Ann Romney spat over motherhood makes me sad. Why? In my opinion, it’s pointless! Stay-at-home, work-at-home, and work-outside-the-home moms all want what’s best for their kids.

A few weeks ago, I asked on Facebook: “What makes you feel like a Mother Inferior?” One of my friends answered, “Everything!” I can relate–especially on certain days. Another said she feels inferior when she loses her temper with her kids. Boy have I been there!

But one young mother emailed me. She didn’t feel comfortable sharing publicly about a deep wound she’d received at the hands of her fellow moms.

She wrote, “I know a ton of moms who homeschool and they make me feel super inferior because I don’t homeschool. Every single time I am around them, they emphasize how ‘good’ homeschooled kids are. These families have turned me off to home schooling more than they will ever know, simply because of their arrogance and pride. One woman even had the nerve to ask me if my children had been wounded emotionally because I had them in public school, and public school kids are so mean. I simply answered her ‘no,’ but I wanted to say the only kids who have ever hurt my children and bullied them where her children! Seriously, every time we were around them, her children were so mean and my kids would always end up in tears.”

How I wanted to put my arms around her and hug her tight! But we live too far away from one another. So instead, I’m writing her a letter.

Dear Friend,

My heart hurt so bad when I read your message—for you, because you’ve been wounded, and for all the other moms out there, because your hurt feels so familiar. If I’m honest, I’ve been the mom who thought she knew the right way to do things, and who made others feel “less than.” And I’ve been the one who felt shamed by other moms, because I didn’t parent the way they did.

Once, I let myself be more vulnerable than usual at a MOPS meeting. I was incredibly frustrated at the lack of sleep I was getting, due to my youngest son’s night-waking.  (This momma doesn’t do sleep-deprived very well—just ask my husband!) A fellow mom explained that I should let Jax “cry it out,” even though he always threw up after a few minutes of crying.

“You can just change the sheets later!” she said, swatting away my problem as if it were a pesky fly.

Now that I look back, I think she was probably trying to be helpful, but I didn’t need advice–I needed empathy. I needed friendship and prayer. I needed someone to cluck their tongue and pat my arm in solidarity.

Don’t we all need that once in a while? Is it just me, or isn’t every mom afraid that she’s not doing right by her kids? Aren’t we all terrified that we’ll blow it so much that our kids will reject us, and God, and maybe even life?

How I long for moms of faith to support one another’s choices! I want us to cheer each other on without feeling threatened by a mom who does things differently. I want us to extend to each other the radical grace God gave us through Jesus. Let’s end these silly mommy wars–they’re no fun, anyway!

Most Christian moms are doing the absolute best they can. They pray, ask for wisdom, and make the decisions they think are best for their kids, all the while considering their children’s needs, gifts and personalities.

My friend Megan and her husband feel that God wants their family to be active in public schools. To them, it’s a mission field and a place they can make a difference. They’re sticking it out, regardless of the challenges, because they truly feel called to be in that sphere.

I used to say I’d never put my kids in a private school because public school was good enough for me, and Christian kids shouldn’t be cloistered together. But for the last few years—because of generous in-laws, and a change in our family’s philosophy about education—my kids have gone to Christian school.

L.L. Barkat, poet publisher, and managing editor at The High Calling, un-schools her two girls. She just wrote an amazing book filled with stories about their adventures.

And my friend, Ann Voskamp, homeschools her kids and is changing the world, one gratitude list at a time. (By the way, she’s had her fair share of criticism this year. Most of it from Christian moms. Grrrr . . .)

There are a lot of women who read Ann’s blog—or other blogs—and think, “I want to be her.” But we can only be ourselves.

Here’s what I know: God created you to be the perfect mom for your kids. You love Him, and them, with all your heart. That’s half the battle, right there!

Here’s what’s really awesome: He takes great delight in you. He’s not standing over you, shaking his head and thinking, “Boy, she’s really messing up today. I better step in and save those kids from her.”

Not at all.

Instead, He’s singing to you! Can you hear it? He’s singing over you grace, and love, and mercy. He’s cheering you on as you serve your family with fervent faith, remarkable endurance, and deep dependence on Him.

Zeph. 3: 17 says, “The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.”

I pray you and I will take great joy in the fact that He loves us so much . . . take a deep breath . . . and take the gloves off.

It’s time.

The image is from www.itsafullnest.com, via Google Images

Share this:

I don’t know if you’ve read the news lately (I advise you not to!), but the world is going a little nuts right now. Iran hates Israel, the Republicans hate the Democrats, and everyone hates Kony.

And while the Bible told us things would get messy, it’s still hard to remember to take deep breaths, consume the Word, and trust. We might feel that God has forgotten us. I find myself wanting to ask at times, “God—are you there? Do you care? Are you ever coming back? We really need you!”

A character in one of my favorite movies, The Count of Monte Cristo, was convinced God had forgotten him—if He even existed at all. In the film, which is based on the book by Alexander Dumas, Edward Dantes (played brilliantly by Jim Caviezal) is framed for treason by his best friend. He’s then locked away in a remote prison for thirteen years, while his family and fiancé are told he’s been executed.

While in prison, Edward meets a fellow inmate, a priest. The priest helps Edward by teaching him reading, writing, economics, and swordplay. He also enlists Edward in a plan to dig out and escape, which the two carry out together.

As the man of God mentors Edward, he encourages the lad to forgive his friend, forget plans of revenge, and acknowledge that God is real. But Edward will have none of it. You see, Edward gave up on God long before he met the priest, during his first few agonizing years in prison.

When the priest suddenly dies, he urges Edward to forget vengeance and remember God has a plan for His life. Edward tells the priest, “I don’t believe in God.” And the priest says, “It doesn’t matter. He believes in you.”

I never fail to be moved by that scene, because it reminds me that my feelings don’t affect God’s reality. His love never changes, and His presence never leaves us. This is the truth that I want to teach my sons. I have made a promise to myself to repeat these things until I’m blue in the face:

Your friends may humiliate you . . . but God won’t.

Your body may fail you . . . but God won’t.

Your youth minister may disappoint you . . . but God won’t.

Your bank account may falter . . . but God won’t.

Your girlfriend might betray you . . . but God won’t.

Your dreams may crumble . . . but God won’t.

God is perfect in love, constant in grace and holy in purpose—facts which  comfort us as we experience the sometimes-frightening changes in our bodies, relationships, and world.

As in every issue of our lives, we must look to God and His answers in order to find peace.

Share this:

A few years ago, my 8-year-old son, Jordan,  and his friend, Drew, who was spending the night, enlightened me about the already developing cliques at school.

Drew explained, “The cool kids are the ones who played football.”

“Yeah,” Jordan said, “Then there are the kids who think they’re cool—but they’re not.”

Drew nodded. “And there are the nerds, who are so smart they’re just annoying.”

Suppressing a grin, I asked in my most nonchalant voice, “So, which group are you in?

Jordan said, “We’re not cool, and we don’t care!”

I could not have been more proud.

The best part? When I told Drew and Jordan that one day, the geeks and nerds would most likely become the bosses of the cool kids (and yes, I mentioned Bill Gates), their eyes lit up.

Then suddenly, the two boys yelled in unison, “PAYBACK!”

It was awesome.

Think about the geeks of the world . . . and how much they change our planet for the better. Your favorite author was most likely a geek in grade school. That technology you can’t live without? Its creator was certainly a geek. And the non-profit gurus who advocate for the “least of these,” while simultaneously tweeting, blogging, and fundraising? Geeks—every single one.

Is your grade-school son a potential inventor, author, or world changer? You might be raising a geek if:

• He wants to learn how to play the piano . . . or the glockenspiel.

• You learn more from him than he does from you, on a daily basis.

• He can fix your computer in less time than it takes to Google a repairman’s number.

• You feel a weird sense of déjà vu every time you watch “Brick” on the ABC comedy The Middle.

• He has already picked his college and career, and he’s only eight.

• He gets into trouble at school because he’s bored.

• Weird Al, Toby Mac, and an obscure Celtic band are all on his iTunes playlist.

• You can’t find a sport he will stick to, but he spends hours drawing, singing, or making ginormous Lego models.

If you’re raising a geek, be proud. Don’t worry too much about them fitting in . . . because while it can sometimes be painful to be an outsider, “inside-ness” is certainly over-rated. (Was Jesus part of the in-crowd? I think not!)

And please—from a mom who’s been there—don’t try to force your own interests on your son, or change his desires. Instead, embrace his quirks.  Most of the time, the label “geek” should be taken as a compliment.

That’s what Marybeth Hicks, the author of Raising Geeks: How to Protect Your Kids’ Childhood in a Grow-Up Too Fast World, believes: “GEEKs, by my definition are Genuine, Enthusiastic, Empowered Kids. Genuine kids are authentically themselves. Enthusiastic kids are up for dinner with Grandma, trips to the museum, or a bike ride with Mom after dinner. Empowered kids are nurtured on all levels—intellectually, socially, physically, emotionally and spiritually. And Kids are kids! They enjoy innocent, wholesome childhoods rather than rush into a state of cynical, materialistic pseudo-adulthood. Geeks are a little uncool by the world’s standards, but they’re happy.”

So when the culture-at-large tries to fit your son into its mold, encourage him to be the unique person he is. Send him to animation camp for a week this summer. Find out more about that polka/grunge musician he likes, and buy him tickets to a concert. Better yet—go with him.

And don’t worry . . . with your guidance and God’s help, your son will grow up happy to be who our Creator made him to be.

How do I know?

I was am a geek.

The photo is from www.mcmanuscreative.com.

Share this:

Today, for Ash Wednesday, I want to share something a little more meditative than what I normally post. I wrote it a couple of years ago, and though our family has since experienced a move (to another town and another church), it captures a moment in time that I will always treasure.

Two Sundays ago, I took Communion with my almost-six year-old son. It was his first experience with the bread and the cup. And it’s something I’ll never forget.

Jackson fidgeted as we listened to a hymn and waited to receive the elements. He cuddled up next to me, held onto my arm, and looked up at me with big, blue eyes. “Is it our turn yet?” he whispered.

“Almost,” I replied.

When it was our turn, Jackson and I followed our friends up the aisle. As we reached the staff members, he looked at me to see what to do. I smiled at him and took the bread, then dipped it in the cup. Of course, Jackson did exactly what I did—a humbling reminder of the weight of my responsibility as a parent. As we made our way back to our pew, he took my hand and squeezed it. Hot, happy tears filled my eyes. This congregation takes Communion every Sunday—and I’m immensely grateful for it.

In contrast, I remembered how Communion used to feel in the church I grew up in. It was something we did only once a quarter. It seemed as flat and tasteless as the pasty-white wafers we chased with mini plastic shot glasses of grape juice.

Then, a few years ago, smack-dab in the middle of a crisis of faith, I went on a “Walk to Emmaus” retreat. When we took the elements, it was reverent, holy and mystical. We didn’t rush through it, and it wasn’t an afterthought or something we did by rote. Rather, it was both an invitation and a response, one I finally, fully understood. Obeying the Word, we came together to remember Christ’s ultimate sacrifice. And as we invited Him to join us, He invited us to share in His suffering . . . and His joy.

I had suffered a lot over several years prior to that retreat . . . with an early miscarriage, postpartum depression, the loss of friends and loved ones, and job uncertainties. Extended family members had health issues, as did I. My kids were young and I felt inadequate. My faith was shaky, my marriage was lonely, and my church-going was spotty.

But during the weekend, which was saturated in Scripture, prayer and the Eucharist, God reminded me that Jesus hadn’t suffered so I could be miserable. He had suffered so I could know the joy of overcoming. Each time I took the bread and the cup, the realization that Jesus died for even me—instead of judging me in anger, which I deserved—purged the anger and judgment from me. I felt pure and clean, as if all the tears I cried over the weekend had washed not just my face, but also my insides.

I guess I’m a slow learner; after all, it took me about three decades of churchgoing to really understand Communion! Still, I’m glad I grew up the way I did. I don’t take it for granted now. It’s sacred to me—and that might not be the case if I had grown up in another denomination.

Four years later, here I was—inviting my son to the Lord’s Table with me. Each week, I take my place in line beside my family. Prayerfully, I step forward and do exactly what I’m called to do every moment of every day as a mom: receive God’s gift of grace with a humble, awestruck heart—and invite my sons to follow.

As they grow, they’ll know their own share of suffering. But I pray they’ll also know the joy of the resurrected Christ, the hope of eternity with Him, and the truth of His mercy.

By the way, Jackson’s first Communion took place a few months after I’d had the immense privilege of praying with him to accept Christ. Before we entered the church, I had reminded him that we should pause for a moment before Communion to thank God for sending Jesus to die on the cross for us.

“But Mom, we should do that every day,” Jackson said.

Communion, indeed.

Share this:

When our youngest son, Jackson, was four, my husband took the family to dinner at a local restaurant. Afterward, as we drove home, our sons began making jokes about bodily functions.

Carey knows I have a limited tolerance for crude humor, so he said, “That’s enough, boys. There’s a lady in the van.”

Quicker than you can say “snot,” Jackson exclaimed, “Who is it?”

We laughed . . . a lot. But I cringed, too. Because teaching boys manners sometimes feels like I’m climbing Mt. Everest blindfolded—with a donkey strapped on my back.

When my frustration builds to a crescendo, and I’m out of ideas, I go to the source of much encouragement: my mom-friends. Recently, I asked them how they teach their own sons to use good manners. And I got some great advice!

• “The standard at home is pretty much we want in public so the kids aren’t confused with how we eat at the table at home versus how we eat in a restaurant”—from Charise

“Never give up, and know that most of the time their manners are actually great around everyone else but you!”—from Dalea

• “I told my sons they had to have manners in case they fell in love with the President’s daughter and had to have dinner at the White House”—from Laurel

“My husband insisted early on that our sons treat me like a queen! That meant opening my door, pulling out my chair, etc. It is really more up to the dad to teach those things, because they want to be just like dad when they are young. The result . . . four great sons with wonderful manners who treat their wives very well”—from Marie

• “When I saw opportunities where he could show good manners, I whispered to him what to do. At first he balked, but then he obeyed. Over time, it got easier, and now that he is 12, I rarely have to even whisper what to do”—from Angie

So my fellow moms, if you’re in the midst of the climb up “Manners” mountain, don’t despair. Remember that consistency is key, as are good role models.

And if all else fails—

Laugh.

Share this:

True confession: I love to watch amateur ice skating on TV.

Athletic I’m not, but after years of cheering on national and Olympic champions, I can (almost) tell the difference between an axel and a lutz. There’s something thrilling to me about watching future Michelle Kwans spin, twirl and jump around a rink. And since this year is the Summer Olympics, that means the Winter Games of 2014 are only two years away. Hooray!

Maybe part of my fascination stems from the fact that I come from a very competitive family. We’re not super-outdoorsy, but just try to come between one of us and a trophy—of any kind. At our annual family reunion, we have horseshoe and ping-pong tournaments for kids and adults, complete with poster-board tracking systems and awards.

So I got to thinking: if this parenting thing were an Olympic sport, I could possibly be a medalist—or at least a contender. See if you can identify with some of these mom-sports:

• Weightlifting. Sure, those big guys in spandex can bench press twice their body weight, but can they carry a weepy first grader, a purse full of the latest Happy Meal toys, and a bag of half-melted groceries? I think not!

• High jump. I’ve hit the ceiling so many times after my oldest son hit my youngest “accidentally” that I’ve started wearing a bicycle helmet, just in case.

• Long jump. I can cover the distance from the couch to the television in less than a second in order to shield my grade school son’s eyes from a suggestive commercial.

• Curling. This event doesn’t involve a broom and a funny-looking puck, but does require you to raise your upper lip at the gross dinner conversation your son is having with his father. Extra points are awarded for not making gagging sounds.

• Hurdles. Any parent is a pro at this. It comes from years of experience going to the bathroom in the middle of the night without stepping on backpacks, Legos (ouch!), or small living creatures.

• Balance beam. I may not be able to do a back flip on a four-inch piece of wood, but I’d like to see any Olympian juggle kids’ practices, church obligations, work, marriage and family demands without getting dizzy and taking a dive.

While parenting is not a competitive sport, we moms are champions at comparing ourselves to others–and measuring our kids against impossible standards. We want our children to be as godly as Tim Tebow, as fast as Usain Bolt, and as cute as Shawn Johnson.

Unfortunately, that usually doesn’t happen—and we feel like the competitor who just missed the bronze. Before I became a mom, I read all the “right” parenting books, attended classes, and decided that I would never spank, yell, criticize, or use television as a babysitter. (Yeah, right!) And I thought I was being realistic: after all, I didn’t say that I would nurse for two years, use cloth diapers, or sew my son’s clothing out of recycled draperies.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting the best for my family. But I need to remember that I’m human, and my children are, too.  I’m the queen of unrealistic expectations—I have the crown and scepter in my closet to prove it—which only sets me up for disappointment.

So I’m slowly learning to clear the hurdle of unattainable goals and simply enjoy the race God has given me. Pray for me, won’t you? If I can achieve that sense of contentment—with God’s help—it will be worth its weight in gold.

This is an edited version of a piece that appears in Dena’s book, Grace for the Race: Meditations for Busy Moms, which is available for Kindle here. [link: http://amzn.to/yITlIL]

Share this:

Nothing will make you feel more like a “Mother Inferior” than dealing with a strong-willed kid—especially a toddler. Boy, have I been there.

Like many first-time moms, before my oldest son was born, I had a clear idea of my future parenting world. I pictured a happy, intelligent, godly child who would love and obey me—with a sunny attitude. I also imagined that I would be patient, kind and firm but loving. I planned on never, ever yelling at, spanking, or bribing my child.

Jordan took a grenade to those ideas within the first few days of his arrival. He had trouble nursing, was colicky, and had lots of ear infections. I ended up suffering from severe postpartum depression, and every day seemed to last for months.

Though medicine and counseling helped me through the initial frightening weeks of motherhood, my world shattered again when Jordy became a toddler. His personality and mine—so similar—clashed hourly. Many days, my husband came home to find both of us in tears. I remember one particularly black day when I’d tried every trick in my book and gotten nowhere.

I came very close to slapping Jordy, and it shook me.

At the time, I didn’t know anyone who had experience the “strong-willed child” phenomenon, and I felt so alone. My husband worked long hours, and I often felt like running out the door, screaming. The guilt was overwhelming, too. It hurt me to admit (and still does), but during those preschool years, I harbored immense anger and resentment towards Jordan. I felt like he had high-jacked my life, and that he was in control—not me.

Wasn’t motherhood supposed to be my highest calling and joy? I asked myself. Weren’t the other women in my church telling me to “treasure them when they’re young, dear, because they’ll be grown up and gone before you know it”? I knew something was dreadfully wrong with me as a mom. After all, sometimes I couldn’t wait for Jordan to grow up. It made me sad, weary and frustrated beyond words.

Now that I have quite a bit of distance from that extremely dark period, I realize that my own strong will affected the situation, as well. (God has done an extreme makeover on me over the last few years!)

Finally, my sweet, godly mother sent me a CD from Focus on the Family about strong-willed children. While listening to it, I cried and cried. I didn’t feel alone anymore—and I knew I wasn’t crazy. Jordy was a particular kind of kid, and I realized that if we could harness his will into something good, he could become a wonderful leader . . . and he might never succumb to peer pressure!

Things didn’t change overnight—at least not with Jordan’s behavior. But my perspective changed, and I shared my struggles with a prayer group and with other moms, who helped me persevere. My husband and I began to pray daily, “Lord, break his will, not His spirit.”

We threw the typical parenting advice out the window, and instead we began to use natural consequences and creative tactics to capture Jordan’s heart and bind it to ours, and the Lord’s. I learned his “love language” (quality time) and began to plan times when he and I could do fun things together—go to theme park, attend a musical, take a road trip. His dad did the same.

Slowly, Jordan grew in obedience. Inch by painful inch, we made progress. And by the time he was nine or ten, I could honestly say that I was having tons of fun with him. Now, at 13, Jordan is a happy, intelligent, godly young man with a heart for the underdog (typical of strong-willed children) and many gifts. He still tests us from time to time, and he loves tormenting his younger brother. We’re approaching the teenage years with a good bit of fear and trembling.

But my fellow mom, if you’re reading this, I just want you to know that there is hope. Having a strong-willed kid isn’t the end of the world. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel—and it’s not a train.

Share this:

Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.

—Katherine Hepburn

Do you ever find yourself burning with questions that have no answers? Such as:

• how can a boy who effortlessly opens restricted e-mail files have trouble closing the toilet lid?

• why do men and boys always “flick” the remote control at the exact moment we women become interested in a program?

• how can men live with dirty socks strewn all over the house, but get upset if there’s one empty ice tray in the freezer?

And, most importantly:

• why in the world are men and women so different?

God did create us different—for a reason. In his book Bringing Up Boys, Dr. James Dobson says that men “value change, opportunity, risk, speculation, and adventure” while a woman’s temperament “lends itself to nurturance, caring, sensitivity, tenderness, and compassion.”

I think life would be pretty strange, and downright sad, if both sexes were alike. Imagine if your husband were like your best girlfriend, only when he borrowed your clothes they came back all stretched out!

But how do we survive daily living with other human beings (namely, men) who sometimes seem out to get us? As one of my favorite T-shirts says, “This marriage [or family] was made in heaven—but so was thunder and lightning!”

One thing I’ve learned is to look for ways I’m similar to the boys in my life, and build upon those. As I’ve pondered those things that drew my hubby and I together when we were dating (shared talents, values, and a love of enormous amounts of popcorn consumed while viewing old Andy Griffith reruns), I’ve tried to rekindle those “sparks” as often as possible.

And though I don’t enjoy some of things my sons do, I try to stop what I’m doing and enthusiastically partake in their passions when they ask me to. It’s an honor to be asked, and I know it won’t happen forever!

I also firmly believe we should affirm men in their uniqueness. Our high-speed, high-achievement culture puts enormous pressure on their shoulders, and criticism only adds to the load. A hug or a kiss can be just the ticket to letting them know we appreciate them.

I’m blessed to have a husband who shares my faith and my values. He’s also wonderfully romantic and faithfully supports my own dreams and goals. My sons are affectionate, creative, smart and hilarious. I could go on, but you get the idea. Now, if I can just say these things out loud once in a while, I’ll be on the right track.

So now I have a few more questions:

• When was the last time you affirmed your husband or son? If your hairstyle was completely different the last time a compliment came out of your mouth, the time is ripe to say—out loud!—the nice things you’ve been thinking.

• How long has it been since you participated in their passions, without complaining about the sweat, dirt or broken fingernails involved?

And, most importantly:

Do you know a good place to hide the remote control?

Share this: