Being a Warrior in My Own Home

Let’s be honest, most of my days are filled with cleaning dishes, entertaining a whiny toddler and putting things back in their places after said toddler blows through the house like a hurricane.

Seriously, toothpaste ends up in the kitchen, socks under the dining table, cooking spatulas in the shoe bucket. I’m thankful our house is a little bungalow or else it would take me hours to go from room to room replacing things.

A good day usually means I get a shower in. Actually, a good day means I get some writing in. I usually opt for the keyboard over the shampoo when given twenty quiet minutes, sorry hubby.

It all seems the exact opposite of being a warrior on a battlefield. Warriors wear armor, shout battle cries, risk their lives and gain glory each and every single day.

I am fascinated with King David’s Mighty Men in the Bible, who have crazy tales of admirable feats. There’s one story in which David says he wishes he could have a drink of water from the well in his hometown. At the time, his hometown of Bethlehem was occupied by the enemy, the Philistines. That’s no problem for three of David’s Mighty Men. They risk their lives, breach enemy lines and smuggle back a pouch of water for David’s parched throat. (2 Samuel 23:15-17)

At another time, one of David’s men, Benaiah, fights with a lion and wins. (2 Samuel 23:20)

And a third battle that fascinates me is when Eleazar stands his ground against the Philistines while his army flees. The Bible says his sword became fused to his hand. Thanks to God, Eleazar beats the Philistines almost single-handedly. (2 Samuel 23:9-10)

Glory and honor. Fighting against a dark force and beating the odds.

Minus the blood and guts, there’s something really cool about being a warrior. It’s being called to fight for something, it’s taking action against a dark enemy, it’s finding courage when there really shouldn’t be any.

So I’ve been toying with the idea that maybe I CAN be a warrior—in my own home. Maybe I’m in training. A young Jedi, I suppose. (I got you, Star Wars fans.)

I fight for my family and I fight hard. I fight to keep our basic needs met—ya know food on the table and babies in clothes, ahem CLEAN clothes, kinda thing. I also fight to keep us physically healthy—doctor appointments, medicine, cleaning to keep the germs away, although notably not my strong suit.

I also fight to keep us doing things that are mentally engaging, and restful and social—fulfilling those needs.

Now spiritually I could do more, but my husband and I pray and pray hard for our marriage, our children, our children’s spouses and futures and more. That’s definitely a battle.

There are many times I want to give up. I want to stay in bed all day and stare at the ceiling, oh that would be beautiful. But I get up. I face another day, another battle and fight sometimes valiantly and sometimes just enough to keep us alive.

But the truth is that my role as a mother at home is honorable. I may not have stories written about me in the Old Testament, thank heaven, but I am certainly a HUGE part of my son’s and my husband’s stories. I may not slay thousands or risk death by battle wounds but if I didn’t do what I do then my household would crumble.

Yes, it’s a much smaller scale but it’s really important. And while I’m changing another diaper, or putting all of my son’s books back on his shelf (again) it doesn’t feel very admirable, but it is. It’s a thousand tiny, small things done with love that lead to one big thing— impacting someone’s world.

One husband, one son at a time.

I can raise my sword to that.

How I Lost My Social Skills

Take two very socially adept gals together for coffee one morning, then throw in four children under the age of five, a blaring television or noisy restaurant, sleep deprivation for both gals and a long list of parenting anxieties both are personally feeling.

Now tell them to have a meaningful conversation.

Excuse me, what?!

Instead you’re gonna get fragmented sentences, very little eye contact (Billy just bit his brother), forgotten trains of thought and lack of focus.

This is for real.

When did talking get so tiring?

I remember thinking being a stay at home mom was going to be so great because I could be super social and just spend all of my time chattering away with other mothers of beautiful angelic babes who sit still and listen intently while I make a great point about this or that.

Ahem, wrong. So very wrong.

It’s enough to leave even the most socially adept person flailing in what used to be charted waters. Cotton mouth. Silence. Stammering. What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, conversing as a new mom.

In the past, I liked to think of myself as an expert in conversation. I had it down. I could listen, respond, ask a powerful question and then offer some insight all while standing on one foot sipping a latte backwards.

Now I’m lucky if there’s even one moment of connection between my chatting buddy and I.

It’s like I’ve lost someone I loved—the good conversation. To be honest, I think pre-baby I had one with someone who wasn’t my spouse 4-5 times a week or more. Now I’m lucky to have 2-3 a month. And I’m grieving. Started with denial, then moved to bargaining and now—acceptance.

I don’t mean to be too dramatic but this is a real thing in my life. Extroverts, raise your hand if you feel me.

Let me offer you some words of wisdom if you’ve had a similar experience.

Embrace the change: Once I accepted that this was my new normal, I began to leave my conversations feeling more fulfilled. I learned how to pick up where we left off when interrupted by children and how to ask powerful questions even though there was broken eye contact. I started to count all the positive connections that actually happened instead of feeling a void where I thought there should be more.

It’s ok for the conversation to be “not so great”: Sometimes just being with another friend who has children is good enough. There doesn’t always need to be some titillating conversation happening to make the time together worthwhile. Also, sitting in silence can be a good thing. Eek, that’s so hard for me to write, but true.

This is a season: I’m not going to have a diaper wearing, attention snarfing, into everything toddler forever. Eventually he will grow up and entertain himself. That’s a relief. So this is just temporary. I will also hopefully eventually return to eight hours or more of sleep per night. At least that’s what my friends say, bless them.

Don’t take it personal: Just because I can’t seem to string super intelligent sentences together doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. It means I’m a new Mom. And if my girlfriend doesn’t seem super interested in what I’m saying it doesn’t mean I’m boring, it means she’s a Mom too with five thousand things to think about at once. I cut myself some slack and life got a whole lot happier.

Overall moral of the story: go easy on yourself, be patient while conversing when children are around and make sure to leave the kiddos at home every once in awhile and enjoy an uninterrupted chat with a friend.

When Life Hands You A Dual Action Breast Pump

Make milk, right? Just like squeezing lemons to make lemonade. I know, ew, right? Welcome to my reality. Breastfeeding. I’m now getting an image of my mother cringing. She’s particularly private about these matters. Me? Obviously, not. 

And when it’s 3am and a hungry newborn is testing the sheer capacity of his newfound lungs? Thank goodness for breast milk and the boobs that are squeezed to make it. 

We’re 9 months in, ladies and gentlemen, and my little babe is still alive!

Hallelujah.

And mostly in part to this fantastically versatile rack. Excuse my French.

I’m going somewhere with this, I promise.

A woman’s body can not only grow and birth a child, but it can also feed one. What a mind-blowing thing.

So I’m not quite sure why I waste so much time being overly sensitive and self-conscious about this new bod I now have. 

Let me be real here for a sec. I have purchased nothing short of seven pairs of jeans since having my son. I’ve returned five of those pairs for a new pair and one of those new pairs for ANOTHER new pair. 

Here’s what I’m saying—I don’t understand my body at this point. It’s a weird shape and size. I don’t know how to dress it, how to feed it as much as it needs, how to regulate it’s hormones or even what to do with these tiny new hairs that have sprouted in the front of my scalp—ahem, fun stuff. 

Post pregnancy has got me like—um, hello, when will I see Ashley again? Cause it’s been 9 months and there’s no sign of the pre-pregnancy bod. 

I’ve asked around about this.

Some mamas will say, “Oh wait until you’re done breastfeeding, then you’ll feel like yourself again.” Others will say, “Get used to your new self.” And then there’s the annoying ones who say, “I’m way skinnier now than I was before having a baby.” Well la de da to that. 

So here I am, tired of feeling negative about my body and letting bitterness seep in. I take my index finger and point it at society.

Excuse me, society, how can you make moms feel bad about their new bodies? Your beauty marketing, social media and endless weight loss gimmicks have got us moms feeling glum. 

Do you not realize that these bodies grow and sustain human beings? 

I’m convinced that my post pregnancy body should be a trophy. Well done, Ashley, you made it through carrying delivering and caring for a human being! Now look at that body to prove it. Gold star, blue ribbon! 

In the Bible, specifically the Old Testament, women were valued for their ability to make children. Not that it was a perfect system, but I’m sure they didn’t spend nearly as much time as we do stressing about getting back to “pre baby weight.” They probably swung their post-birthing hips with pride instead.

Maybe they even (gasp) wore clothing that showed off their post pregnancy tummies. For that specific reason—to tell the world they made a baby! 

Hallelujah and congratulations.

I want to feel this way about my body.

The truth is that I have a beautiful son who was crafted by the God of the universe in my womb and I have nothing to be ashamed of, not the flab around my middle, the bags under my eyes or the weird little hairs on my scalp.

I’m a mom! I’ve been a lucky lady, privy to something truly miraculous and beautiful. But the mirror doesn’t remind me of that truth. And neither does society.

It’s up to me to choose to feel beautiful and to be proud of what my body has done. It’s up to me to choose to believe the truth that I find in the Bible about how God created me and how my identity and value is placed in him. 

Cause those seven pairs of jeans are fickle friends. One moment fitting great, the next not so much. 

And that’s ok, cause my jeans don’t represent my worth anyway.