Response to Jan 13 Meeting

Hope you enjoy this response to our January 13th meeting with speaker Renee Farkas.  This is writtin by MT mom and excellent writer Shelby Raswon. 


Whew. Today was a bit of a punch in the gut for me! What was that Renee said? Oh, yes… “The enemy is not out there, it is our emotional reactivity.” Emotional reactivity. Emotional reactivity? Me? Let me think about that for a split second. YES, I am an emotionally reactive mama!

So what does that mean for this mama (and probably many other mothers!)? It means that when my children are having one of their squabbles and it escalates, I use some form of “screaming” to manage them. (For me, screaming is any kind of rage that takes form – whether it be silent or not.) There is no deciding on my part, it is a knee-jerk reaction. At no time, do I pause and check my heart, nor do I invite Jesus to walk with me in that moment. I act. I take control. I get a grip on the situation. Because after all, it is all about me and my needs… right?

I believe that when I react to a situation with my children instead of pausing to make a decision, it is all about me. It is all about me and my fears. Fears that lie behind the door of my heart until knocked upon by my champion-door-knocking children. What is going to happen to them if I don’t put a stop to this behavior immediately? What kind of person will he be if I don’t get control of this attitude right away? What will people think of me if I don’t keep my kids in line at the store? What will people think if my child goes to church with a big breakfast stain on her shirt? The list could go on and on.

To call it fear now is easy. To be present in my own heart and recognize my fear (hurt, anger, loneliness, etc.) in the middle of the situation is quite the challenge for me. It would require me to first take the time to name the true core of my feeling (anger is almost always the easiest one to label, but there is usually something deeper going on!) For me, naming my feelings is typically pretty tough. To name our feelings is to know our hearts. To know our identities.

If you struggle like me and have a tendency to react rather than decide, it may be time for both of us to pause. Hit the pause button when the kids are not screaming and the phone isn’t ringing. I have got to sit with God and think about some recurring themes in my parenting and ask Him to show me what triggered me into those knee-jerk reactions. We must take the time to be honest with ourselves about what really happens in our hearts in those situations that seem to jerk us down the path to “screaming” at our children. It will probably mean having the courage to visit our wounds and open them up for more healing from our scream-free Father.

I’m praying that I will be reminded of the lilies (Luke 12:27a), that I will not toil but rest and receive, that I will not scream and cut myself off emotionally but stay in relationship by emotionally engaging , and that I will learn to groan inwardly. Amen.

-Shelby Rawson



There are so many, many days when I think God must be crazy to entrust a third child to me. Swimming around in my womb is the third life He has entrusted me to bring into this world. Just as words leave my fingertips, this tiny one lets me know life is growing. And again, I think surely God is a little bit crazy… After all, I can barely keep my house in order, I have done the unthinkable and let my children see a television before they were two, and I’ve lost my temper more times than I can count.It’s that last one. That last thing I mentioned that sticks with me. It’s that last one about my temper that makes me wonder how such a perfect Father could give such an imperfect mother another precious life to shape? And yet I know He is purposeful in His giving. I guess you’d say I have some guilt, and also fear which grabs me and shakes my nerves. Fear that I will mess up with one more innocent little person. It is inevitable. I am going to make mistakes with my third born. And He knows it.

Not thirty seconds ago I lay my first babe down in her bed. But not before rocking her to sleep. Not before she begged me to make up a song and sing to her. And most certainly not before I lost my temper on her defenseless heart because she was not obeying Mommy and having her rest time. (Which is actually my fault because I haven’t been consistent with her!) More importantly, not before the gentle breath of my daughter lulled me into the submission of my Heavenly Father as He chose to remind me I was choosing to be angry. As I held her close, I kissed her face and whispered, “Mommy is so sorry.” When she wakes, I will tell her again while looking deeply into her searching eyes.

I suppose what God knows is that His perfect love has the power to cast out fear. (1 John 4:18) He knows this daughter is falling a million times over. He knows faith as tiny as a mustard seed can move a mountain. (Matt 17:20) He knows me. And He has chosen me to be a mother three times. My falling reminds me of where I am – a fallen world. My falling reminds me why a crown of thorns not only pierced my Savior’s head, it beckons my heart. My Father sent His Son because He knew I would fail and in my failing and falling I would find rest at the foot of the Cross. My falling serves to strengthen my faith and move my own little planted seeds toward the only Source of Life.

In the midst of questioning myself, I am not lonely. My plight is not solitary. At this moment, I don’t have any friends who have never let their tongue wag too loosely at a toddler. And I certainly know of more than a few who are very thankful for Veggie Tales and the Backyardigans. These are the friends with whom I share my confidence and soak tissues with shameful tears and tails of a parenting story gone wrong. When I trip over my mouth, they don’t push my face in the dirt. They know making mistakes is part of motherhood. It is encouraging to have the assurance that other moms out there are struggling, isn’t it? To know that some days you are not the only Mom who is one cream center shy of a Ding Dong.

I am furious that I lose my temper. (Sounds like an oxymoron, or something, huh?!) I don’t want to be one of those moms. Gasp! Awhh, nuts. I am one of those crazy Mothers who is tired and lacking perfection. One of those Mothers who would gladly jump in front of a moving bus to save my child. One of those Mothers who will let my child embarrass the daylights out of me in the store because I refuse to allow them to have their way. I am one of those. The few, the proud, the somewhat insane – Mothers of Toddlers. We cry. We sometimes throw our own fits. And we repent to the children we’ve wronged.

A wise woman wears a reminder on her wrist every day to show whether or not she has kept her tongue in check. I learned from this example and tried to wear a bracelet on my wrist first thing in the morning. (Of course, I just started this little habit and I keep forgetting!) It served as a prompt for me to be careful what I was about to say to my kids. Honestly, I wore three bracelets because I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I complained, or said anything that wasn’t a great example to my little disciples. It has been a great help in showing me just how often I am willing to choose a destructive way (such as yelling) rather than using gentle, patient instruction. It proved to me that many times I am not believing my Father’s direction, but buying into someone else’s plan for – not direction – destruction. The bottom line is this. When I choose to give in to my anger and discipline my children through the power of “me,” I am not disciplining my children or instructing them with the only unchangeable, indestructible power – the power of a loving God. . “…He gently leads those that have young.” (Isaiah 40:11) His strength is tender.

I want to have tender strength with my children. God has used my husband to teach me those words. And as hard as it is for me to admit… my strength is rarely tender. Oh, but I am learning. One mistake at a time. One apology at a time. I am learning.

Do you show your children tenderness and strength in the same breath? Are you falling forward in faith at this crazy job of parenting? I am falling. I am getting up. And I am falling further into faith and closer to His feet.

-Shelby Rawson

Come Find Us!

I’ve heard the phrase more times than I can count. My daughter has been saying it for over two years. It started as a routine when her daddy came home from work. Play time on our bed followed by hiding under the covers. It was a given that clearing dinner dishes would be interrupted by a tiny voice imploring Mommy to “Come fin’ us!” As always, I’d play along and call out for her. “Where could you be?!!” Immediately, little legs danced under the covers as my baby girl tried to contain her excitement. Inevitably, I would rip back the piles of covers and feign my surprise at finding her. Within a minute, she’d pull the khaki duvet right back over her head and call for me before I’d ever left the room.

“Come find usss!!!” she calls again.

As a sigh of exasperation began its exit from my chest, my husband speaks. “In a few years, that’s gonna be something we’ll always remember.” Exasperation was arrested by realization. The realization that he was right. Soon, the game that kept me from my tasks and irritated me at times would be a memory. In a moment, my chest felt the weight of reality sink deeply.

“Come find us.”

I wouldn’t hear that forever. In a few short years, I might not hear it at all. That’s when my thoughts turned to perspective on the simple, child-spoken phrase.

“Come find us” is a calling on my life as a mother. To parent well – to parent with intentionality – I must never stop looking for my children. And neither should you. As parents, it is our job to find our children and meet them where they are. “Come find us” takes on a whole new meaning when looked at from a different angle.

The privilege of looking for our children when they need to be found is meant to belong to no one but their parents (caregivers). If in our exasperation or distraction we neglect to seek after them – after their hearts and identities – one day they may very well quit calling out. Part of truly knowing the little people we call our own is seeking them out. This requires patience and wisdom. Patience is required because there are times when we will look over and over for the hearts of our children and believe that we’re missing it. Wisdom is needed for those moments when the voice of a toddler cannot be heard yet the heart is begging to be seen.

We must look for them when they’ve called, and when they seem to be silent. Hearts and identities are waiting to be discovered every day. A place within our children is meant to be found by me and you.

I will be honest. I am not the best seeker. I get distracted. I get busy. I get annoyed. I get run over by my agenda. And at times, I know my kids have probably been lost… waiting for far too long on Mommy to come and find them. It is both a challenge and struggle for me to purposefully and diligently search for the inner-workings of my babies. Many times I don’t want to stop what I am doing in order to look for a heart that needs finding. Often, I am oblivious to the tiny beat in their chest pleading for me to take notice of the rhythm it has just found.

My arms are heavy as I attempt to guide my pen in expressing another realization. It is my honor to be invited to discover every new rhythm of my childrens’ hearts. Today they invite me. They ignore my flaws and invite me to join in their self-discovery and quests for identity. Today I am honored. The question is will I run after them and accept their invitations?

Will you accept the invitation of your child’s heart?

Come find us. Go. Find them.

By Shelby Rawson

When Elastigirl is Nowhere to be Found

Blue’s Clues is pumping too loudly in my right ear. The attractive, large library headphones are strategically placed on my head. One ear is covered thereby enabling me to follow the pre-school computer game. Simultaneously, the remaining ear tunes in to my two year old running around the child’s section as he manages to annoy his big sister.

Nearly every time we visit this library my memory fails me. We walk in the doors to the children’s section and it hits me. The computers. Oh, drat.

It really wouldn’t bother me except for one, little thing. Posted on the wall, hangs a sign indicating that caregivers must sit with the child at the computer the entire time. I admit this rule keeps the equipment from destruction at the hands of small children. My problem lies in location. Being that I do not possess Superman’s x-ray vision, nor Elastigirl’s ever-stretching arms, the location of my current position has this mother of two at a disadvantage. How exactly am I to stay seated “at all times” next to my daughter while keeping a close watch on the boy who runs to the other end of the room? That’s right. The computers are at one end of the room while the books and an unlocked door are at the other. Elastigirl, where are you?

The best part is when I call for the child who seems to have gone missing and no verbal response is heard. However, I can hear squeal-giggle-tramp-tramp-tramp-tramp-tramp-bang-bang-bang, A Invisi-boy runs through the rows of books knocking several on the floor. It’s at those moments I think to myself “Well, the library has requested that we not re-shelve anything ourselves.” Revenge? Noooo. Justice? Perhaps.

What’s a mother to do? Get a leash and listen to him bark his complaints from my chair? I’ve tried the puzzles. I’ve tried the stuffed animals and puppets. But then it comes to me like an all too familiar epiphany. “Oh, yeah. That’s right. HE’S TWO. HE’S ALL BOY. Therefore, his attention span and ability to sit still last for about two minutes.” He has no matches, no scissors, pens, markers or crayons. We are in the children’s library. As long as I don’t hear the ripping of pages, I suppose I’ll attempt to be calm. I’ll simply listen to the lull of that high-pitched, mumbly dog talking in my ear.

Maybe I should have a sign posted as I enter. “This Mother not responsible for wreckage caused by two year old while sibling is at computer. For questions, please see sign on wall.”

By Shelby Rawson

I, Me, Thine

I was once referred to as a statistic by my college professor. According to him, based on my family history I should have been on drugs, failing school, pregnant or quite the party girl. I was an A student battling my demons and facing depression for the first time. My past and my present were haunting me. They were hanging on my neck and choking what I believed to be my only life out of me. Fear. Fear creeps out from under the rocks of my past.Sometimes fear comes from labels. “Dysfunctional family.” I was bound and determined, come hell or high water, I would not have a dysfunctional family. I would not have children from a broken home. I would have a marriage that lasted. I would have children who knew God and His goodness. I would have children who respected me. I would… I would… I would. Would I? Do I actually have direct control over my life? My marriage? My kids?

I listed a whole lotta things I want to see happen. Most of which are legitimate desires. All of which are solely about me. If I can make all of the pieces of my life fit together, then I will be okay. Right? After all, society is teaching me that I need to look out for number one. If I don’t take care of my needs, they won’t be met. Isn’t that yet another attitude with its roots deeply planted in the soil of fear? When I do a gut check on my decision making process, I do not want it to be traced back to fear.

Likewise, when I raise my children I do not want it to be rooted in fear. If my choices are derived from a heart of fear, then I will teach my children to do the same. I will teach my kids it is better to control and be afraid than to let go and lean on faith. That being said, I must grapple with my heart and face my fears head on. If I don’t do that, then one way or another, I’m bound to let my fears control my mothering. So what do I do? What does a person do when looking headlong at their fears in the midst of rearing impressionable, little people?

The first step is already out there – just admit the fear. Don’t cling to it and focus on it, but recognize the power it can wield. Next, acknowledge the starting place of the anxiety. It may very well be from the past. The reason it hovers around you like a demon today is because you are not the only one trying to plan your life. Satan has plans for your life, too. His plans are not to prosper you, but to take away your hope and devastate your future. This is the antithesis of what God wants for you as a person and a parent. (see Jeremiah 29:11) While satan wants you to live every day in worry, God desires for you to live every day by faith. Worry eats at your core and rots your hope. Faith strengthens your legs when you stumble and grounds itself in hope. One more thing to do is let go. You did not knit your child together in the Secret Place. (Psalm 139) God created the little people we call our own. Release your clenching hands and let God be your guide and Counselor.

I. I would. Me. My babies. My marriage. My life. My control. Noooo… Not I, Me, Mine. I, Me, Thine. As much as I want to control my life, at the very depths of my soul I know my Creator is already the ultimate control. He is the perfect control. If I seek His face and His shelter instead of doing things my “safe” way, my parenting will change. My fear laden choices will be drenched in faith. My children will see a parent who isn’t trying to control them, but to instruct them and mold their hearts. That in itself will have benefits throughout our relationship. They will learn that their personal well-being does not determine whether or not Mom is okay. They may come to know they can have their own dramas and tragedies without a parent going into a spiral of panic. That gives children a freedom of heart and a sense of identity – their identity, not yours.

I am not speaking from the all-knowing place of a woman who has been-there-done-that. I am speaking from a heart that knows what it is to recognize my own fearful parenting and disciplining as a means to control behavior. My longing is that I will parent from a place of faith and wisdom. Not just controlling myself and my toddlers, but living by example and instructing their hearts according to the Words of my Gentle Teacher.

Can you relate? Does your past affect your present? How are you making choices that allow your children to be free from feeling your fear and desire to control?

-Shelby Rawson

Parenting with an Audience: Only Two Paddles in the Boat, Please!

“I can’t believe she still wears diapers.”

“Are you still breastfeeding?”

“Do you have to stick to a schedule?”

“You mean he still takes a pacifier?”

“I never did that with my kids.”

I could add a few more “helpful” comments to the list. Have you heard any of these before? Unless you are living in a bubble, chances are someone has dipped their proverbial oars into your parenting waters. More than likely, you’ve been paddled downstream by a family member who doesn’t quite parent like you. Often times, what begins as an attempt to help leaves you frustrated and in question of your own abilities and choices. Do I believe our siblings, aunts, parents or even friends purpose to discourage us with their “help?” No, I don’t. (Do I think their silence can be golden at times? Absolutely.)

Some of you may receive unsolicited advice from others and it rolls right off you like water on a duck’s back. Wow. Great for you! Boy, do I have my days when I wish I were like you, but alas, I am not. Although I must admit, it rolls off a bit easier by the third pregnancy. Of course, I am sometimes peeling it off my back – much like an old bandage at times! I wonder if people forget how hard it is when you are just starting out at the whole parenting thing. That’s a definite possibility. Maybe they don’t remember that behind that Mama glow and Daddy pride there is an unexpected uneasiness. Maybe people don’t remember how sensitive you are to their observations during pregnancy.

I still remember some of the comments from my first pregnancy…

From the girl at the gas station (who I’d never seen before): “You’re due in July? It’s gonna be a long summer for you.”

Two weeks before my due date: “You haven’t dropped yet. It’ll be a while.” (Don’t say that to a woman 38 weeks pregnant in a Tennessee summer!)

But I have to admit, that I’ve had friends who’ve heard some doozies.

“You don’t look pregnant, you just look chubby.”

At 30 weeks: “You’ve got two months left? You’re huge!”

Those are just the ones I remember off the top of my head. You can probably think of more – maybe a lot more! I didn’t include the things said to my friends waiting to adopt and how it must be so much like pregnancy and waiting to deliver. Uugghhh… That makes my heart hurt. I must admit that a lot of the things people say are so inappropriate it’s funny as I look back. But in the middle of hormonal overload, the humor is a bit harder to see.

It just goes to show you that people (and I mean all of us) say things without always considering the heart of their audience. It’s not that what they’re saying is intended to discourage, frustrate or hurt. (At least I hope not!) I think what often happens is this. People want to pass on their wisdom and want others to learn from their mistakes and their successes. A commendable desire. It’s just that in their desire, friends and relatives can occasionally lose sight of our hearts. And sometimes, I suppose they may have forgotten that we need to find the way that works in our family.

I’ll be vulnerable here. This has been a source of friction between my husband and me in more than one instance. Here is what happens. My husband and I will make a decision about discipline or feeding, or something like that. I will have confidence in our choice… until someone expresses a strong difference of opinion. (Notice I did say strong!) I then come home lacking confidence in the choices we’ve made and questioning myself. I’m not saying this is all the other person’s fault. Huh-uh. You’re dealing with a co-dependent in recovery! And we’ve also noticed that my confidence seemed to go down the drain when I was around family. I would turn from a capable mother into a young girl, or baby sister.

Three pregnancies and two toddlers later, I have matured some in my reaction. I am finally learning that I should listen and believe the people who remind me that God was purposeful in choosing me as my babies’ mother. People can have their opinions about my child-rearing choices, but they have no right to make them for me or my husband. And, every child is different. There is no science that will work exactly the same for each of my tiny tots. So when I see the instructional oars dipping into the waters of my parenting, I have the choice to jump in their boat or stay in my own and paddle with the Fisher of Men as my guide. Only two paddles are needed for one boat!

I would love to hear some things that have been said to you as a parent, or as a pregnant woman. How have those comments rested in your heart?

-Shelby Rawson

Drinking Deeply: For the days of their youth are fleeting

By Shelby Rawson

Many days I read a blog created by mother of six Ann Voskamp. Her wisdom and tenderness are thought-provoking, convicting and inspiring. On a particular day, I felt the lump in my throat, the ache in my stomach and the burning of tears as they fought their way out of my tired eyes.

Ann beautifully describes the scene of watching her children outside. She is sitting down when her “Little girl” comes in and sits behind her. The child begins playing with her hair and chattering like most young girls do. Ann wants to remember this moment as she turns to stare into her daughter’s face. And with uncanny wisdom her child stares back at her mother saying, “I’ll stay your baby, Mama.”

Uughhh. Grab me in the chest. Get the tissues. How many times have I pleaded for time to slow down? Just let me linger here a bit longer. Let this moment always be as vivid as now. My daughter was just home from the hospital when I wept at the realization she will not stay a baby. Her fingers were so tiny they barely wrapped around my pinky. Never again will they be that small. And how often have I shed silent tears while nuzzling my cotton-topped little man? The exhaustion of mothering seems eternal, yet beholding the beauty seems but a breath.

I called my curly top over to me as we watched “Sesame Street” together. Wrapping my arms around her, I buried my face in her locks, breathing in memories. And as my breath warmed the top of her head, tears wet my cheeks. Drink it in, Shelby. Drink her in. You cannot get this back. Oh, Father let me not outlive these memories.
What memories have marked your mothering heart?
If you’d like to read more from Ann Voskamp, please go to

Tips for Tots!

Boys Yeast Rash? Try mixing one tablespoon of white vinegar into one cup of water and swabbing it on the rashy bottom. Let it dry before applying a 40% zinc ointment. (the cheapest – Kroger’s brand, or Target Brand)

Airplane Ear Pressure? A dose of Benadryl® works well because it thins the mucus, thereby helping to prevent ear infections. My daughter developed an ear infection every time she flew until my doctor suggested this.

Great Quote for Moms

All of us have moments in our lives that test our courage. Taking children into a house with a white carpet is one of them.
– Erma Bombeck

Believing Beauty : Labels, Lies and Legacy

By Shelby Rawson

I would venture to say most mothers look at their children and see beauty. I have felt as though my heart would burst just looking at my two babies. When I behold my little ones there is no doubt in my mind as to how wonderfully they were created. From their noses to knees, lips to legs… I treasure every detail. My children were knit together with purpose and without mistake.
There are two things my daughter has unmistakably inherited from me – my curls and my legs. Her curls are loopy ringlets. If you can picture Buffy from the old TV show “???,” then you have a pretty close image of my girl in pig tails. And like I mentioned, she also has my legs. I cannot remember the first time I made the comment, “look at the cute, little leggies!” More than likely, I started it before she could walk. Three years later, you would still see me pat her on the legs and say those words. So, why is it – if we have the same legs -I believe her little stems to be adorable while thinking my own are awful? What’s more, how can I believe my children are created so beautifully and struggle to see beauty in my own creation?

As I have wrestled with the questions, I’ve been afforded the glorious yet painful gift of seeing other moms battle, as well. I have witnessed beautiful mothers physically recoil as their loveliness was acknowledged. Faces of disbelief stared back into mine as I shared my perception of their beauty. One friend who could not see her own loveliness has a daughter who clearly bears her image. As we spoke, I mentioned how beautiful her little girl is and she readily agreed. Then I added, “She looks just like her mom.” Bing! That struck a chord and fresh tears followed. Something within her resonated in that moment. And something resonated deeply within me, as well. Here it is. If I cannot acknowledge and believe I am created as lovely and wonderful, then how can I teach my daughter to appreciate how she was made?

First of all, where did I get my idea of beauty? When I look in the mirror, whose voice fills my head and what labels am I wearing? I cannot begin to tell you how old some of those voices were, nor how long I’d been wearing those cursed labels. As I thought of the mirrored reflection, it dawned on me. Rather, something popped into my head. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” In an abrupt second that seemingly harmless phrase held new meaning and contempt for me.

Was the mirror my beholder? Magazines? My family? I was angry. Livid at those labels…those lies. All the comparing and measuring myself against friends, actresses and strangers at the store had played a hand in defining my beauty. Was I “knit together in my mother’s womb” by Glamour or Vogue? Not hardly. My Creator is much more brilliant. My beholder? My God. My God defines beauty. I am created in the image of the Beautiful One. He is, and therefore, I am… and my daughter is, too.

Beauty has an enemy. A liar lurks around loveliness. He has no desire for women to believe in their God-given beauty. In fact, the only one he wants to be admired is himself. Satan was once the most gorgeous of angels. Vanity overcame him and he fell from the presence of God. Then, God created Eve in His glorious image. God created woman with loveliness and purposed her form to be admired. Who is out to destroy us for that very reason? The cunning, deceptive king of liars – satan.

Moms, satan doesn’t want you to know how lovely and glorious you were created. He wants you to believe every lie you’ve ever been told and for you to pass it right on to your children – especially your daughters. If he can devastate your heart and fill you with shame, there is pleasure and gloating in his being. Furthermore, if your daughter begins to believe his deceptions, as well, he can add one more victory to his list. You may be telling your daughter how wonderful she is, but are you showing her?

I am not telling you to convince yourself or your babies that you should have legs like Naomi Campbell and hair like a Pantene model. Redefine beauty in your home. Use the ultimate model of beauty and perfection, Jesus Christ. Grace, mercy, love, kindness, hospitality and gentleness are more beautiful than any magazine cover. Let us clothe ourselves with those things and embody loveliness from the inside out. Radiance does not come from a good apricot scrub. It comes from the eternal, unchangeable assurance that you were created in the image of Glory.

What labels are you still wearing around your neck like an albatross? What labels will you pass on to your daughter?

A Little Chub, Please!

 I have a slight – what shall I call it? Fascination?  Yep, that’ll work.  I have a slight fascination with chub.  (And I am not referring to that lovely excess left after birthing two babies.)  I love those little rolls that dribble down baby’s soft legs.  You know the kind.  The rolls you wanna squeeze because they are so darn cute and pudgy.  Every time I see a friend’s baby with roly-poly thighs I get giggly.  No kidding.  My nephew is a mini version of the Sta-Puff Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters.  Too cute to resist a little squeeze!


Well, I’ve had two little squirts of my own.  And have either of them shown even a hint of squeezable chub?  Nada.  Zip.  Both of my children have had a “wrinkle” at the top of their legs.  That’s it.  A wrinkle.  No fair!  Some of my friends have joked that they make cream.  Based on the lack-of-chub history with my kids, I must make skim! 


So now I’m awaiting the arrival of baby number three.  I am still holding out for this squirmy little one to have some squishy-ness!  Bring on the rolls!!

Double-barrel Bagel

 I remember reading Wild At Heart before I had kids.  Well, okay, I only read part of it.  Anywho…  Eldridge writes about his sons chewing their toast into the shape of a gun.  At the time, I gave a little chuckle but didn’t think much of it. 


Fast forward.  I have a son of my own now.  We have no guns in our house – with the exception of squirt guns.  However, if you were to ask my son about his guns he would probably pick up anything within reach.  “Puh-keewwhhh!!” And you’d be shot by whatever object he snatches to aim.  Some days he picks up his toy barns and shoots with them.  The other day he actually ran to his sister’s dress up trunk and pulled out a scarf to use as his gun.  And this morning as we ate our blueberry bagels together, he began to shoot me.  Yes, I’ve been shot by a bagel.


I love having a little boy.  (And of course, I love my daughter, too!!)  I wasn’t raised with brothers around all the time, so the musings and activities of boys are somewhat new to me.  The fact that he was making guttural noises by the time he was six months old should have been my clue for things to come!  The adventure I have ahead with him is exciting and slightly terrifying at the same time.  While I love the snuggles and sounds of his boyhood, I am keenly aware that he may one day try to use a Wal-mart bag as a parachute!


I’m beginning to understand the saying, “boys will be boys!”

« Older entries

%d bloggers like this: