Sleepless Nights

Do everything without grumbling or arguing…  Philippians 2:14

We’re tired.  And by we, I mean all of us.  There has been no shortage of grumbling and arguing in our house lately.   It’s been more of a shortage of sleep.

First, it was the roosters behind the neighbors’ barn that would jolt us out of slumber long before dawn. 

Then, for three straight weeks, somebody in this house had something that kept all of us from sleeping well at night: stuffy noses and the snoring that often accompanies them, coughing, sneezing, itchy eyes, ear infections, etc.

About a week after everybody started to recover, Lilly started waking up around midnight wanting to play.  She’d ask for a drink, a TV show, or whatever she could creatively come up with in an attempt to get out of bed. 

(Notice I used the word attempt.  We were onto her.  We were a united front that endorsed a firm, yet loving message: “Sweet Lilly-Girl, we love you, but no, you will not be getting out of bed.”  She has continued to give it her best effort, though, in spite of our unwavering stance.  I was convinced one night that she’d had a terrible nightmare, until we caught her right in the middle of her dramatic little act!  Apparently, it threw her off when Daddy went in to lay her back down instead of Momma.  As soon as Cody opened her door, the crying stopped and she said, “Dad?! Where’s Mom?”  That was the end of that.  Until….)

The latest interference with sleep in this house was the crib escapee we found at two in the morning screaming at the top of the stairs.  It wasn’t until that night that I wished we could go back to just screaming in bed.  We always knew Lilly would be the first to figure out how to climb out of her crib, since sleep is so not her thing.  But with a couple of modifications to her bedroom, we were soon feeling much better about her safety at night. 

While all of the above has been go on in the wee hours of the night, Lilly has also been waking up 1-2 hours early in the morning.  To this we have completely given in, allowing her watch TV in our bed while we doze. 

On one such morning, after very little sleep the night before, Cody was less than nice to me when I asked for help with the TV. He was mad that Lilly was in our bed and mad that he was awake at 5:30 on a weekend.  After exchanging harsh words, he returned to his snoring about five minutes later.  I, on the other hand, was fuming, so sleep eluded me.  Around 7:30, he woke up, very chipper, I might add, and asked if we could please have a do-over.  Since I wanted to remain angry at him all day for being so impolite, his first apology was not sufficient.

“I’m sorry for being cranky this morning,” he offered.

In my mind, cranky didn't quite cover it.  Looking over at him on his side of the bed, I hissed through clenched teeth, “Fine!  Are you sorry for being incredibly rude and obnoxious, too?”

Without any hesitation whatsoever, the little one that sat between us in the bed looked at me with a quivery lip and said, “Yesh.”

So much for staying mad.  We both laughed until we had tears gushing out of our bloodshot eyes!  I guess even Lilly recognizes that her shortage of sleep has been the primary source of all of the grumbling and arguing lately.  

The next day, after a comment I’m sure I took the wrong way, Cody and I started another sleep disagreement.  This time it was about who had lost more sleep, like it was some sort of “Sleep Deprivation Competition” and the winner received a prize of eight uninterrupted hours in a dark and quiet room.  It didn’t take long to realize that neither of us was going to win.

Round and round in circles we went until I choked out through tears, “I just need to be appreciated.  I just need to be reminded that this is all worth it.”  Silence filled the air between us.  Eventually, we decided to be grown-ups and make a plan.  The argument soon ended, and later that night we prayed and asked God to help us deal with the crazy hand we’d recently been dealt, and vowed to remember that we were on the same team.

I am sure I’m not the only mother out there that could use a little appreciation.  It’s not that my husband doesn’t do that for me.  He does.  I think it has more to do with the fact that a Momma’s role is so huge, that no one could ever truly appreciate and acknowledge every little thing that falls under that list of responsibilities. 

As this week has carried on, my grumbling has continued, I'll admit.  I’ve wanted someone (mainly my husband) to pat me on the back and tell me how wonderful I am for doing my job.  I love the rewards that come with being a mom, but who wants to get up in the middle of the night?  And if I do, I’d at least like my sacrifice to be noticed.

This morning, as I waited impatiently for my coffee to brew, my previous comment crept its way into my mind.   “I just need to be reminded that this is all worth it,” I had said to my husband just two days before.

And then, in the very, very quiet place of my heart, I was reminded of the sacrifice someone else made.  The most humble of all sacrifices made because Jesus decided that I was worth it.  He wasn’t encouraged; He was rejected.  He wasn’t applauded as He hung on the cross for all of my sins.  They spat on Him, called Him names, mocked Him, and yet, He decided that I was worth it.

As these thoughts were flooding the little pity party I was set on having over coffee, I found this verse:  

Whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.  1 Corinthians 10:31

I’m guessing that everything probably includes instances of sleep deprivation.  Instead of grumbling and arguing, I was reminded that it’s in the little everyday things that I’m supposed to give God thanks and praise.  Even the parts that wear me out and threaten to steal my joy.

I checked both versions that I own and neither said anything like, “whatever energizing things you do,” or “whatever rewarding things you do,” or “whatever noticeable things you do…” Nope.  It clearly stated, “whatever you do.”

While nothing has changed for me on the outside, I’m making some changes this week on the inside.  I’m still tired, and I am in no way singing praise songs at 3:00 a.m.  But when that selfish part in me wants to gain some kind of recognition, I will do my best to remember who it is that I am called to serve. 

All the things I do and all the responsibilities I own as a mother, I do not only for my family, but most importantly, I do for the glory of God.  For the One who decided that I was worth it.  So when I am tempted to ask myself questions like, “Is this really worth it?” I’ll be able to certainly, positively, unequivocally say, “Yes.  Yes, this is worth it.”

Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.      

1 Thessalonians 5:18

One, Two, Nine

In the midst of play-dough, rainbow rice, and washable crayons, Jake and Lilly’s little two-year-old minds are being filled with things like colors, shapes, numbers, and ABC’s.  Jake love, love, loves the color orange, which I’m sure is in direct violation of the Good Aggie Parenting Decree. 

Lilly can’t open a book without counting everything on any given page.  She certainly knows the number “two,” and gets tickled when she spies a pair of anything.  When she counts, though, she is convinced that all she needs to know past “two” is “nine.”

“One, two, nine,” she’ll count, proud as peaches with herself for being such a smarty-pants.  When I try to get her to say “three,” she looks me straight in the eye and says, “No, nine.”  So I guess that settles it, then.  “One, two, nine,” it is.  I’m sure that is in direct violation of the Former Math Teacher Code as well.

I’m sure the day will come when she learns the correct way to count to ten, but today I couldn’t help but think of how I will be counting, “one, two, nine” as I watch them grow up... too quickly.

The first year of my babies’ lives was one I don’t fully remember.  It was one of the most challenging yet sweetest years of my entire life.  There are chunks of time I’ve lost (Cody claims this has happened to him too), I’m sure due to the little sleep we got with two babies who were on different sleep schedules and suffering from acid reflux. 

The second year was a time of independence and milestones, like first steps and first words.  When Jake and Lilly turned two just a couple of months ago, I think it was the first time that I started to feel "it."  Life moving too fast, my babies growing up into little people with completely unique personalities, and the general sense that if I’m not careful, I might miss something as these years start to whiz by me.

One, Two, Nine.

With every new stage, I feel "it."  When everyday seems like a tiny step towards that independence I’ve waited for, I feel "it."  When the highchairs get traded in for booster seats, when the diapers get replaced with big boy/ big girl underwear, and the cribs suddenly convert into toddler beds, I’ll feel "it," too.  Sometimes, I want to peak my head into their bedrooms at night and whisper while they sleep, “Slow down, please!”  

I realize that it will not stop, nor will it slow down, even if I wish it every day.  There will always be the next stage to contend with.  Tricycles will be swapped for bicycles, and no sooner than sending them to Pre-school, I'll be watching them head off to college.  

But, I'm glad that I have that little tug in my heart, because it is what reminds me to treasure every moment of every day like it's something precious.

Ironic

Well, this is ironic, I thought, even though it really wasn’t ironic at all.

To fully explain, let me back up to Monday, the day of Messy Closets.  As clearly as God spoke to my heart, gently reminding me that Monday was not the day to be consumed with out of control closets, He clearly gave me the green light on Tuesday.

I was cleaning up after the kids’ breakfast, and I popped my head into the playroom to check on them, where evidence of a reckless tornado left the room in a complete upheaval.  I sighed and actually smiled, thinking to myself, Thank you, Jesus for the strength I need for this day.

As soon as I finished my prayer, my nostrils were attacked by an overwhelmingly foul smell.  Not the smell of poop.  Not the smell of puke.  Not even the smell of soured milk.  This was a strong, musty smell that sometimes lingers in the laundry room where wet towels do not make it to the washing machine quick enough. 

With my nose completely violated by this horrible stench, I began walking around the kitchen sniffing like a crazy person.  It was not the laundry room.  It was not the trash can.  It was not the dishwasher.  It was not the playroom.  I even checked both kids’ diapers just be sure I wasn't confusing this smell.  And then. 

Slowly, I opened the pantry door and was assaulted by the horrible smell.  No, I thought. 

Back in the spring, Henrietta started sleeping on our back porch. I never minded the ducks in the front yard, but the back porch was a different story.  After too many mornings of the kids almost sliding in slimy duck poop, I told Henrietta she needed to find a new place to sleep.  To help her find a new shelter, we decided to stop feeding her every morning. 

I used to keep a basket on the pantry floor, and whenever we came across stale bread, I’d toss it in the basket for the ducks.  When we went to the park, we’d also grab a bag of stale bread to take with us for the ducks that hang around the lake.  I was proud of my organized little bread basket.  I was.  Until, that is, I forgot that we no longer feed the neighborhood ducks, so therefore have no need for the accumulating bread in our pantry. 

There it sat- a lovely little science experiment right on the floor of my pantry.  The same pantry I had blogged about the day before.  Ugh.  When I picked up the bag that no longer held traces of bread, but an awful, smelly, green fungus instead, I nearly gagged.  It was then that I thought I heard a quiet little chuckle, followed by these words from above, Go ahead and knock yourself out, child.  Today is your day to clean the pantry. And I'll give you all the strength you need to accomplish it.

Now by “clean” I want to be clear… my pantry still looks nothing like the one in my dreams.  There are still no labeled canisters of flour and sugar.  Nothing is straight and lined up just so.  Not a single canned good or spice container is in alphabetical order, or in any kind of order for that matter.  There are still corners of my pantry that are far from tidy, but there is no question about this: Mold will no longer be invading my space. 

The only reason I am even sharing this unflattering little story is because I fear that if my husband gets his hands on this computer, he will share it and put all kinds of exaggerated spins on it, further bringing to light my “messy” life.  

So there you have it.  I shared. 

Messy Closets

I had a chance to visit with Cody’s mom this weekend, and I got to see her new pantry shelves that are this organizational queen’s dream come true!  I sat down with a sigh next to her on the couch and started talking about my pantry and how it looked nothing like hers.  In place of labeled jars of flour and sugar are haphazardly strewn Ziploc bags full of stuff I’m sure expired four years ago.  Her pantry was glorious, absolutely glorious!  Every single item could be easily found in a matter of a few short seconds.  My eyes scanned the rows of perfectly lined up boxes and canisters; I marveled at the spices and fully expected the cans of food to be in alphabetical order.  If you opened the door to my pantry, you’d have to roll up your sleeves before you could ever start searching.  It’s quite honestly a mess! 

“And the thing that bugs me most is that I used to be organized!” I said to my mother-in-law, jokingly.  “How does that happen?”

Just about that time Jake and Lilly came tearing around the corner.  Oh yeah, that’s how, I thought.

This morning I woke to two sick kids, one of whom was extremely cranky.  We won’t name names here but the girl was laying the whining on pretty thick at six o’clock am.  I knew I was about to need an extra dose of strength and patience this morning, so before I even finished my not-quite-strong-enough coffee, I started making my requests known:

Jesus, please give me enough strength to be a good mom today, because I feel like I might struggle with that.

Jesus, please give me enough strength to not allow the constant whining to chip away at me and cause me to make poor choices a good mom would never make.

Jesus, please give me enough strength to not lose it completely today.

I knew I was starting this day already behind.  I knew that I couldn’t face it alone.  In between suctioning snotty noses, taking temperatures, and making doctor appointments, I tried to locate my stash of old magazines, determined to find an article I remember reading several months ago.  I looked in the hall closet and was horrified at all the stuff I had crammed in there over the past couple of years.  Next, I checked the cabinets underneath the TV in the living room.  When books piled dangerously high threatened to topple over on me, I slammed the cabinet door in frustration, calling off my search.  Not only was my pantry a disaster, but apparently my closets and cabinets were no better.  

Right about then, I heard a whispering in my soul that said, You have what you need for today.  

I sometimes wonder why Jesus taught us to request our “daily bread” instead of a weekly supply.  How inconvenient it would be to run to the grocery store every day to get what I needed for that day alone! When I take two toddlers to the grocery store, we stock up on as many items as possible in order to prevent unnecessary return trips!  But, clearly, Jesus was not talking about food. 

He was referring to our daily provisions, including the strength I so desperately needed this morning to do what today required of me: caring for two sick little ones.  Organizing and cleaning out closets was not on my to-do list today, but I let it torment me for half the morning.

Cody often reminds me of my flaws… why is it that husbands get to do that?  He always tells me I’m an all-or-nothing girl. It’s true.  I am.  Instead of looking around and accepting that my life is so full of purpose in loving my precious children, whether they are sick or well, whiny or obedient, I get stuck when I buy into the lies that say,  

If my closets are a mess, then I must be a mess, too.  

If this one little part of my life starts to spin out of control, then the whole thing's bound to come crashing down on me!

To be honest, my life is a bit messy right now.  It is chock full of runaway Cheerios, misplaced keys, and soured milk that didn’t make it back to the fridge in time.  But I found my confidence inside Psalm 84 this morning: 

Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.

They go from strength to strength, til each appears before God in Zion.

(Psalm 84:5,7 NIV)

God never promises that every day will be easy.  Sometimes, I'd like to know why not.  Sometimes I pray really, really hard for a day that is absolutely perfect.  I pray that I would be a flawless mother with no bags under her eyes or wrinkles on her face, who never, ever raises her voice or gets overwhelmed, who has tidy closets and cooperative children who never, ever look me in the eye and defiantly shout, “No!” 

Every time I pray that prayer, He reminds me that those days don’t exist here on this earth.  He also helps me remember that no matter what I face each day, He wants me to be completely, utterly dependent upon His strength, not my own. And with Him, I will go from strength to strength, tackling each day, one at a time.  God does not promise to give us our weekly allotment of strength, but instead, He renews us and provides us with exactly what we'll need to face the day before us.  

And the strength He gives will always be enough for whatever today holds. 

At nap time, still bothered slightly by my closet conundrum, I crashed on the couch for some time with my nose in my new book, Lysa TerKeurst’s Unglued. As if God wanted to make sure to drive this point home, low and behold, right there on the fifth page or so were these precious words that I let wash all over me:

“A messy closet does not make me a mess.  It makes me a child of God who has a messy closet.”

He never intended for me to deal with closets today.  This day was about caring for my kids and appreciating the stage of life I’m in right now, even if at times I struggle just to keep my head above water.  And when the day comes for me to clean out all of the closets in this house, I know He will give me all the strength I need to tackle each of them, one at a time.  Today happened to not be that day.