“I hate my sister! I wish I was an only child!”
These aren’t the words a mother dreams of hearing, yet I venture to say they’re heard in many homes. Whenever they’re voiced in mine, my heart breaks in two.
My girls love each other, and I catch them all the time having Hallmark moments, moments where they cackle and grin simultaneously, making their faces mirror images…moments where they dance around the house acting like nuts and singing their favorite songs…moments where they whisper in quiet corners while glancing up to make sure I can’t hear.
(Following is a post by my 10-year-old daughter, inspired by a conversation we recently had about a reality show and the impact of criticism. Ella is wise beyond her years and has excellent insight on how we parents can help our children meet their potential in a loving, positive manner).
A while back I was at a friend’s house, and we stayed up late watching the show “Dance Moms.” While I really liked their dance competitions,
Being a mom is a blessing. At the same time it’s hard.
Not rocket-science hard, but test-my-patience hard. How can something that looks so simple from the outside arouse the monster in me and crush the wall of sanity I once deemed indestructible?
As a child I put motherhood on a pedestal, holding many romanticized notions. I’d coddle my baby dolls until they were threadbare, stroll them around the house, and line them up neatly to teach school.
Growing up is a jungle. Having four daughters, I’m passionate about how young girls today navigate that jungle.
We’re all familiar with stories of mean girls, cliques, backstabbing, and social media nightmares started by one impulsive picture or post. We’ve heard of how depression and anxiety may get triggered by a single online incident. Peers cause damage quickly by spreading a rumor or picture through social media, and because kids don’t have the skills to cope with it yet,
I was 23 when I started dating my husband – 23 and in love with my job.
My friends teased for loving work so much. It wasn’t normal, and I knew it. But I worked with amazing people at Alabama Power. I was lucky to get a job since the company was on a hiring freeze. Best of all, I had a boss who believed in me. And as his faith in me grew, so did my opportunities.
I don’t know about you, but getting my family ready for church on Sunday mornings can send me over the edge sometimes.
It’s a paradox for sure, the cursing under my breath and snapping at everyone because they can’t move fast enough. Here we are, preparing for holy ground, and all I can think is, “Enough, already. I’m done.”
Once I get to church, however, something strange happens. The tightness is my chest relaxes,
It was a gorgeous spring day, and I was happy. I had the sun on my face, love in my heart, and overwhelming gratitude for the family my husband and I had recently started.
Life was good.
As Harry and I sat in the grass outside our home, watching baby Ella crawl around with an explorer’s curiosity, a sense of peace washed over me. Everything I needed was here. My only agenda was to enjoy the scene before me.
Imagine for a moment a boy walking into his friend’s house for the first time. It’s not just any ordinary house; it’s an estate. There are marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and 6,000 square feet of antiques. Also on the property is a tennis court, a swimming pool, and private exercise quarters.
At first, all the boy does is gape. Once he composes himself, he turns to his friend and asks the million-dollar question:
It all started with a pair of blue swim trunks.
The fact that he was driving a ski boat didn’t hurt.
I knew Harry in college, but not until a year after graduation did I really see him. He was at the beach with his friends; I was there with mine. We were all hanging out and reveling in the freedom of being young, carefree, and financially independent.
I turned to my friend sitting by me in the boat.
The other night I was dead asleep when I heard my daughter creep in my room. She was shaking and crying, and even in the dark I could tell she was troubled. Since she had a friend staying over, I was extra worried. In choking sobs she told me they’d done something terrible.
I dreaded what I’d hear.
“We w-anted to p-lay a j-oke on my sisters,” she cried. “So we p-ainted their faces with m-arkers while they were sl-eeping.
I should have been exhausted, but I wasn’t.
I needed to sleep, but I couldn’t.
Instead, I only wanted to look at my new baby girl, an eight-pound miracle named Ella. After an 18-hour labor, she arrived around midnight. As we settled in a hospital room, our surroundings dark and quiet due to the time, I savored a moment alone with her. The nurse had left to gather supplies. My husband was getting food.
All babies are miracles, but sometimes…sometimes a child enters this world in a way so rare and remarkable we want to shout from a mountaintop and glorify the work of God.
That’s how I feel in sharing the story of Laura and Colby Clark, a Mountain Brook couple with two beautiful daughters, Madison, 12, and Abigail, 9. I met the Clarks several years ago when my oldest daughter became friends with Abigail. Immediately I liked their family and admired how Laura and Colby were raising their children.
Even when we think they’re not watching, they’re watching.
Even when we think we’re not parenting, we’re parenting.
The life of a parent is a classroom, a breeding ground for lessons. We can rattle off advice all day, but only when our kids see our advice in action does it hit home. Whatever we expect of them, we must expect of ourselves. To be better parents we must first be better people.
Modeling good virtues is a big part of parenting,
Around this time in 2012, I was living in survival mode. Overwhelmed by life circumstances, I woke up every morning with anxiety and fear that on any given moment, I just might crack.
It had been a trying year for our family, and one full of tests. I felt like I couldn’t catch a break because crazy things kept happening.
First there was the tree that fell on our newly renovated home. Then there were two close calls involving my kids.
We had a freak accident last night that could have ended tragically for my nine-year-old daughter, Ella. I wasn’t planning to write about it, at least not yet, but when I woke up this morning I felt the need to.
My sweet Ella
I suppose it’s my small way of thanking God for a miracle, one I can never repay but will always remember.
It happened around 7:30 p.m., when I was in the kitchen working on the computer.