Adventures in MOPS

As I walked into the church lobby, I started to sweat. It wasn’t because it was warm out (goodness knows January in Chicago isn’t warm) and it was only partially because I was carrying two babies in their carrier car seats. Mostly, the sweat came from pure, unadulterated nervousness.

After living in our Chicago suburb for six months, three which had been spent caring for our newborn sons, I hardly knew anyone and had no real friends. I was tired, bored, and lonely. Though John had agreed to move back to Wisconsin in a few months, I knew I had to make friends, or at least meet people, if I was going to stay sane. I decided to try out MOPS, since at the very least, I knew I’d get a break from my kiddos.

I didn’t meet my new BFF that year but I did make enough friends that we changed our plans and stayed in the area. The next year, I made a few more friends, this time creating deeper bonds. By the third year of MOPS, I was leading the group and had made deep, life-long, life-changing friendships.

That’s why I love MOPS. Sure, the break from our kids is nice. So are the breakfasts and speakers. But we can find all of those things at a play group or a story time. The difference with MOPS is that we come together, as sisters, living life together. Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12 says “Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.”

Sisters, we are going to fall down and there are going to be days when we feel cold and overpowered. My prayer for each of you is that you find someone to walk with you—someone to come along and help you when times get though, and someone that you can help out too. God’s plan was never for us to walk alone. If you haven't found a MOPS group, do (mops.org). It honestly could change your life. Start walking with someone today. No mom left behind!

Adventures in Rhino Hunting

Okay, so I’m not really going big game hunting, though it would probably be easier than getting the boys to sleep.

A few months ago, George started waking up sobbing. When I’d ask him what was wrong, he’d tell me that he was scared of the rhino in his room. Patrick jumped on the bandwagon and started to tell me about hippos in their room (though he never woke up scared, so I think he was just trying to get some attention). Needless to say, our nights began to get a bit “zoo-y.”  

Over the past few months, we’ve tried everything to rid ourselves of these pesky rhinos. We’ve prayed, we’ve sprayed “Rhino Repellent,” we’ve yelled “Go back to the zoo, rhino!” For a short while, the rhino seemed to have gone away. However, the last two nights, our rhino infestation has begun again.

Here’s where I have a problem: there’s a fine line between genuine fear and nearly-three-year-old manipulation. How can I be a sensitive, supportive mom without becoming a pushover when it comes to bed time? I think this is one of those times I need to trust my MomSense and go with my gut: I think my boy is scared and needs extra love right now.

So far, we’ve got nothing that is consistently working. Each night we tackle our rhino issues in a different way. Last night, George slept with my pillow and I slept with his. Tonight, we sprayed a room spray and called it “keep away rhino spray.” Tomorrow night, who knows?

But there is one thing I do know. This time of “rhino hunting” will not be in vain. If nothing else, I want my boys to know that no matter when they’re scared and no matter what they’re scared of, they can always call on Jesus.

One of my closest friends shared the following verse with me as we’ve been going through this:

In peace, I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.  Psalm 4:8

I pray that long after the rhinos have left, my boys will remember they are safe in the Lord.

Adventures in Potty Training

The subtitle to this could easily be "A Surefire Way to Make Mama Crabby and Want a Glass of Wine (which we happen to be out of)."


I try to be very careful about comparing life with twins to life with a singleton, mostly because I have no clue what life with one child is like. In fact, this is only the second time that I (publicly will comment on the difficulty of having twins in comparison to having one. But as you read, somehow I doubt any parent of singleton children (even those parents with "almost twins") are going to argue with me on this one.


Potty training twin is horrible. It slowly sucks every ounce of patience and life out of a person. I think this last week has shortened my life by at least a month or two.


We’ve been thinking about potty training for a while, and I finally decided that the boys were ready, and so was I. I was ready for messes. I was ready for laundry. I was ready for endless "potty talk" (thank you Elmo Goes Potty for teaching my boys the word "dookie"). I was even ready for giving up nearly all of my self-respect by making up silly little cheers for each bathroom success.


However, I was not ready for losing all control of my house. The chaos is wearing me down.


Here's how our day used to go, in relation to bodily functions:

George has a dirty diaper. I'm drinking my coffee. George waits a little bit, then, when I'm ready, I change the diaper. Two hours later, Patrick needs a diaper change. Again, I change him, but not until I’m ready to. We leave for Target. Two more dirty diapers that can wait until we get home. Another change before bed and that's that.

Here's what life looks like now:


George says, "Mommy! I have to pee-pee." I put down my coffee so quickly that some sloshes over the top of the cup. Mental note: clean that up later. I open the gate on the living room and let him go to the potty, because of course, both boys refuse to use the froggy potty we have available in the living room. George runs to the bathroom, strips naked, and climbs up onto the potty, where he quickly does his business. Then he has to use two squares of toilet paper (after I tell him to use one), puts them into the toilet without actually using them, flushes, and puts his face nearly into the bowl while yelling "bye-bye pee-pee and wipe." Then, he washes his hands, getting water everywhere, and I re-dress him. Meanwhile, Patrick is running all over the house because I didn’t close the gate behind us.


An hour later, both boys have to go potty. Patrick gets there first, strips naked, and sits on the potty (while reading a book) for about ten minutes. Meanwhile George, who again is naked, stands waiting for his turn. Patrick eventually goes, but George barely sits on the seat before he is going. Flush, say bye-bye, wash hands, dress both boys, and try to explain why we don't need to brush our teeth just because we see the toothpaste by the sink. Both boys take a quick run through the house, knock a few things over, and we head back to the living room.


Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.


I decide that we need to get out of the house. We get in the car and just start to drive when Patrick says he has to go potty. We find a public restroom to use where I won't feel too guilty for not buying anything. He sits for about five minutes. Nothing comes out. I re-dress him and help naked George go. Two seconds of tinkle. I re-dress him. Everyone washes their hands, while I continuously say, “don’t touch anything. Stop, no, no, seriously, don’t touch anything.” We get back to the car, buckle up, and re-start on our way. Patrick says he has to go potty. I then realize that what I thought was "go potty" is actually "go party." The boy wants to go to a party. We stopped for nothing. I weep internally about the headache I just caused myself.



A sweet lady at church said to me, "Oh, in twelve years, you'll miss not having to remind them that they have to go potty." Somehow I really doubt that.

Marshmallow Grabber

I am a marshmallow grabber. Some of you are probably wondering, “What on earth is a marshmallow grabber?” Without going into too much detail, in 1972 there was a psychologist at Stanford University who did a study on delayed gratification.  He took kids into a room and gave them a marshmallow. He told them that they could either eat it, or wait. If they waited, they’d be given a second marshmallow and they could eat both of them. If they were a “marshmallow grabber” (m.g.) they’d only have the one. (Check out this video of a more recent marshmallow experiment: http://youtu.be/6EjJsPylEOY)

I’m an m.g.  I would totally end up eating that first marshmallow if it took too long to bring my second one.  Because of that, pregnancy was a nightmare. I had to wait 9 whole months to see if we were having boys or girls (can you tell that my husband is a marshmallow waiter—he was the one behind the whole “let’s wait to find out the gender” thing). Being pregnant with twins, I fully expected them to be at least a little early. Finally, at 38 weeks my doctor had to induce. Apparently the twins are marshmallow waiters too.

Recently, my m.g.-ness has been acting up again. As a freelance writer, waiting is the name of the game. For those of you who aren’t familiar with freelancing, here’s the process (or least the process I’ve experienced):

You spend hours (days) working on a piece. You send it off to an editor. Then, you wait. And wait. And wait. Most places say they’ll get back to you in 8-12 weeks. That’s 2-3 months. And that’s if they get back to you on time. So, the 8-12 weeks go by and you still wait. Then, when you finally do hear back, it may or may not be good news.

Can you see how a lack of self-control is a bad thing when it comes to freelancing? I find myself wishing that I’d just get bad news instead of waiting for the potentially good news.  I supposed that’s not totally true, because if I knew that in thirteen weeks I was going to find out I was being published, I’d probably be willing to wait. But not knowing, having no closure on all the things I’ve sent out…it’s darn near maddening.

So here I sit, at the computer, trying not to check my email for the thirtieth time today, waiting. And praying. I’m praying that I’ll get better at being a marshmallow waiter and that I’ll stop going crazy over things I just can’t control.

"What'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?": The Communications Between a Husband and Wife

“Baby, I’m cold,”  I called to John, who was in the living room. “Could you turn down the air conditioning?”

“Sure thing, hun.”

Ten minutes later, when I got out of the shower, I was shivering even more. “John, did you turn the air down?”

“Yeah. I turned it down right when you asked me.”

“Weird, I’m so much colder. I can’t stop shivering.”

“That makes sense. I turned the air down.”

“But it should be getting warmer then.”

“No, colder. The air down means that it will get colder. You know, the temperature will go down.”

“No, the air down means warmer. It won’t blow as much cold air.”

I should have known right then that communication wasn’t going to come easy for John and me. This was only the third day of our honeymoon and we were already having issues.

Fast forward almost exactly five years.

“John, I can’t get this lighter to work.  What’s the trick?”

“Push down on the slide bar and pull back on the trigger.”

“I can’t push down on the slide bar. I can only push up on it.”

“No, you push it down. Here, I’ll show you…”

John proceeded to show me that what he meant by “push down” was exactly what I meant by “push up.” Both of us were referring to moving the slide bar forward using downward force from our thumb.

About two hours later…

“Uh-oh! I started to top of the marshmallow stick on fire!” I called over to John..

“How’d you do that,” he asked.

“I was making a mallow and it fell off and the stick started on fire.”

“So, you started the bottom of the stick on fire, not the top.”

“No, the top. You know, when you stand the stick up to put the mallow on, you’re putting it on the top.”

“Okay, but when you put the marshmallow in the fire to cook it, that end is down, making it the bottom.”

“I can see what you’re saying,” I responded, “but I still say I started the top of the stick on fire.”

“No, it was the bottom,” he answered with a grin.

Sometimes it feels like we’re living in real life version of Who’s on First? We can use the same words, in the same language, and mean totally different things. What I find even more interesting is that when we share these stories with friends, the women often understand what I mean while the men understand what John means. 

At first I really thought John was wrong. I’m sure he thought the same of me. But now we’ve come to realize that we’re both right—we just speak differently.  Luckily, we find these communication lapses pretty funny and have spent a lot of time laughing about them. Somehow, I’m pretty sure that we’ll have plenty more to laugh about over the next 50+ years…

Little Sins

My family and I recently spent the afternoon on the rocky shore of Lake Michigan. George and Patrick played in the water with John while I sat on the beach, enjoying the view. After a bit, I started playing with the pebbles around me as I listened to the giggles floating in from the water.

Picking through the rocks, I found one that stood out.  It was nearly a perfect rectangle with rounded corners, about an inch long and a half inch wide, sandy brown in color. What made this one particularly unique was the cut it had along the middle, nearly the entire way through.

At first I wondered what could have sliced through it like that. Then, as I looked closer, I saw a grain of sand wedged in the cut. I realized that this grain had been pushed back and forth by the water, and, over a long period of time, had sliced through the middle of the rock.

It struck me that this grain of sand is like so many sins in our lives. So often they seem small and insignificant. Maybe it’s just a little lie to our children. Maybe it’s a gossipy story to a friend about a friend. Maybe it’s something that we don’t even think of as a sin, like worry.

But the more we ignore those “insignificant” sins, the more often we do them. And the more often we do them, the more acceptable they become to us. And slowly, over time, those sins cut deeper and deeper into us, causing more and more damage.

That rock, so badly damaged by such a small grain of sand, is on my nightstand now, as a reminder of the harm something “trivial” can cause. I don’t want to let sin eat away at me. I don’t want to get years down the road and wonder, “how did I get here?” I don't want to broken by something that could have easily been stopped.

Lord, I confess to you that I often put sins in categories, and some even end up in the “little” category. I’m sorry that I ever find separation from you trivial. Thank you that you renew your compassions every morning and that you remove our sins as far as the east is from the west. Thank you that you not only remove them, but you heal us. Let me be washed clean and made whole in you. Amen.

Musings on Music

I love music.  It magnifies feelings I have, changes my emotions from sad to happy, and utterly inspires me.  It’s pretty much the coolest thing ever.

To be honest, though, I haven’t put much thought into the type of music I listen to,and what I’m filling my head (and heart) with.  In fact, some of my favorite singers are what I like to call “angry girl singers.” The more angst, the better.

Because music is such a big deal to me, it’s been important that my boys don’t listen to too much “kids only” music. I’ve always wanted them to listen to and appreciate “grown up” music too. Because of that, the very first song we played for the boys was “Better Together” by Jack Johnson. Until recently, Jack Johnson was their favorite musician.

In the past few weeks, however, my heart has been changing a bit on the music front, at least in relation to my kids. While I’m still not a huge fan of kids’ music, I’m also not particularly fond of the idea that I’m pumping angry lyrics into my boys’ heads. Okay, so Sara Bareilles isn’t exactly “angry,” but really, should I have to turn down the volume on a few select songs so the boys don’t hear swear words? Probably not.

Something else encouraged this change in me. I fell in love with Francesca Battistelli’s music, and since it is completely kid friendly, it’s been playing in our car nonstop for a few weeks. Not surprisingly, my little musical boys have picked up on the lyrics. They’ve started to call out “I want Emily!” and when I put on “Emily (It’s Love)” they sing along.

Hearing those two sing “It’s love, it’s love, la la la la, it’s love” has really changed my heart. While I can appreciate secular music, I want my boys’ minds and hearts to be filled with God’s songs. When they’re singing about love, I want it to be God’s love. The Bible teaches that from the wellspring of the heart, the mouth speaks (Matthew 23:34). I want to be sure that George and Patrick’s wellspring is absolutely full of the right things. So, for that reason, I think we’ll be fasting from secular music for a bit.