“How are you?”
It’s a question I’m asked constantly as a parent. Most often I respond with “Good” or a similar sentiment. But, let’s be honest, there are at least three crises going on in each of my children’s lives.
“How are you?”
It’s a question I’m asked constantly as a parent. Most often I respond with “Good” or a similar sentiment. But, let’s be honest, there are at least three crises going on in each of my children’s lives.
My daughter danced gleefully on her seat. Then the table.
It was her first lollipop high.
It’s a question that came to me not long ago – at McDonald’s, in fact. Just before we sold our first home in May, I was overcome with a longing for my parents and their house in the mountains of Virginia.
So I did what any Millennial parent would do: I tried to recreate a scene from my own childhood.
We took our children to eat beneath the golden arches for the very first time. As you may have guessed, our sandwiches were edible cardboard and the kids ate very little without the aid of excessive ketchup.
Really, the moment stung. “Old McDonald’s”, as my son lovingly refers to it, only heightened feelings of isolation within me.
Could I ever experience home again?
The Gratitude Gospel: Day 7
“Can we chat?”
It’s become a bedtime tradition in our home. Snuggles and conversation with Mom are how my children end their day.
I started a fire…in the kitchen…the day before Thanksgiving. Needless to say, I make a terrible Southern woman.
An infinite pour
Lava, never touch or taste
Splat! The money melts
When life hands you a free milkshake, you say “yes”. But, the truth is, the last thing I wanted was more food.
For several moments, a scene had been eating away at my thoughts. A homeless man – not more than 30 years of age – waited on a curb of desperation outside of our local Walmart as we drove past. To help or not to help? The restless toddlers in the backseat only encouraged the excuses my mind so effortlessly generated.
No. Not tonight.
So we stayed the course to Chick-fil-A. The kids would share a “happy” meal, I would enjoy a leafy green salad, and the sunset would end a perfect evening.
Only I ordered fries I couldn’t eat. Then my son’s order was wrong, which resulted in four free chicken nuggets. And, perhaps most surreal of all, a cashier placed a free milkshake in my hand: “We forgot the whipped cream and cherry. Here!”
As my son’s ice cream cascaded down my wrist, I pondered the sticky dilemma. Light was fading, and so too was an opportunity.
My struggles weren’t too different from Job’s, but my questions were not existential. I simply wanted to know the secret to feeling good. Lately, the kids had been driving me into the ground.
While Job may have reached out to questionable friends, my choice – like every toxic relationship – was one I swore I would avoid forever.
And so began my caffeinated month of craziness.
I am a mother. I have two young children. And every birthday party I attend feels like one giant lie.
To be honest, I am one who has always prided herself on control.
I maintained two very healthy pregnancies.
I lost the baby weight.
I prioritize exercise.
But, deep within, there is a secret: I have a toxic relationship with sugar. And – when no one is watching – I binge.
When you are a parent, you fear the breakdown – that moment where the wheels come off the wagon. And, if you are very unlucky, this moment occurs in a public place.