Her Chairs

Mom worked every day of her life. Advanced age and debilitating health weren’t about to change that. She woke early, drove a 45 minute commute and then began the chore of getting to her second floor office. Congestive heart failure limited her steps. If she walked too far wheezing and panting made her desperate to catch her breath. It was especially hard to watch as the years wore on. 

Chairs were strategically placed every ten to twelve feet. The first one just inside the front door, with others next to the elevator, inside the elevator, outside the elevator,  down the hall, and finally at her desk. She would walk in the front door and sit down. Then get up, walk to the elevator and sit while she waited for it. Once on the second floor, chairs dotted the hallway.  When she needed to rest...a chair was waiting. The routine was repeated at the end of the day.  She was tired then and her strength was fading. So the trip down the hallway took a lot longer.  And every chair was needed.

Strength, resolve, grit, determination…whatever you want to call it…she had it all and then some.  No complaining….no whining…no pity…no excuses. Five days a week, twice a day for years. And even on her last day – though she never made her commute - her clothes were laid out on the bed, ready to dress for work. None of us knew she was taking her last breath. She quickly and quietly left this world.  

No more chairs.

She’d never imagine her chairs would leave such an impression…not only for what they did for her…but for what they’re still teaching me. When things get to be too much, sit down. Catch your breath. Doesn’t matter how many times.  

As the years go by and I mature, I realize the wisdom, strength, and faith she lived every day.  Maybe we don’t realize it at the time for a reason. Maybe we’re just not ready. What I do know is that her legacy is rich…yet as simple as a trail of chairs.

Walk as far as you can…take a break…keep going.  

Where to Look for Words of Gold

If you have kids, then you know they usually speak without filters. Thank goodness! Navigating what we say gets more complicated as we age, and that unabashed verbal freedom is very short-lived.

Our oldest son Grant was four years old and becoming interested in what he wore. It was Sunday and I had laid his clothes out for church. "Mommy, I don't wanna wear these!" He wanted to wear a pair of shorts and shirt that I deemed worthy only of playing in the backyard. Needless to say, I refused his request and a few tears later, he was in the car wearing the outfit I had chosen.

He was quiet most of the ride. When we were almost to church, he asked me a question in the voice I knew to be contemplative. "Mommy, what does Jesus say we should wear to heaven?" (You know where this is going, right?) "Oh honey, Jesus doesn't care what we wear to heaven. He'll just be happy to see us." Grant waited a few seconds before asking, "Then why does He care what we wear to church?" Bam. Words of gold from a four year old!

I thought about what our son had said and it inspired me to change the rules at our house. The kids could wear whatever they wanted, as long as it was clean with no holes. Didn't match? Didn't matter. Play clothes to church? Sure. My least favorite shirt on school picture day? Why not? 

This new approach halted arguments about what they were to wear. But more importantly, Grant's words taught me that my own pride had been steering the ship. 

Words of gold often come when we least expect them. It's a mindset to be looking and listening for their arrival. Could we easily find them in an Instagram post?  Sure. But I've found that the source makes all the difference.

Let's face it. Words from my son or someone I know will last a lot longer in my heart. 

What words of gold have stuck with you? Did they come from someone or somewhere you least expected? Share your gold below...

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.

The First Cup is Always the Best

I like strong black coffee, preferably Columbian with a bold flavor. I drink it all day. I sometimes brew cups at 9am when I awake, 11am when my son goes down for a nap, 3pm when he goes down for a second nap and 5pm to ward off the evening blues. 

I know, too much coffee.

And the truth is that I’m chasing the experience of the first cup of coffee with each subsequent cup. 

Cause that poor second, third, fourth and even fifth cup (some days) are just never as good as the first, no matter how hard they try. 

Some days I wonder why I even waste the beans on the subsequent cups. Wait, who am I kidding? We all know that even sub par coffee is better than no coffee. Especially to new mothers.

But there’s a lesson here.

I’m continually trying to recreate the aromatic, sigh-worthy, delightful experience of the first cup of coffee each day throughout the whole day. And I fail. Every, darn day. NO cup is better than the first.  

And some might argue the more coffee I drink throughout the day that’s mediocre the more I’m ruining the wonderful experience of the first cup. Because if I get just one cup, then I’m surely going to appreciate it that much more.

And the days that I stop drinking coffee before noon, are followed by mornings with first cups that are more delicious. Because I’ve waited longer for it. The anticipation built.  

In today’s world, we often get what we want when we want it as much as we want. There’s no restraint or self control. Because there’s no need, right?

And this boils down to a really nasty word. It’s so hard for me to type. Deep breath, here goes…

Discipline.

Ouch. That one hurt. I think I threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Hate it. Underline hate. NOT A FAN. See, my visceral self believes that discipline is for losers, lame people, boring people and type triple A crazies. 

But, it’s not. 

It’s for me.

And it’s for my own good.

I know that if I stop the coffee early I get rewarded with a better first cup the next day. I know that if I limit the amount of baked goods I eat in a week the sweeter they are when I get to eat them.

I know that if I save my money to buy something, the more I’ll appreciate it. And I know that if I exercise regularly, my body will be stronger.

And another one that’s hard for me—the more time I spend in reading the Bible, praying and seeking God, the better my relationships with him will be.

It honestly took me 26 years or so to understand this. 

Cause when I was a child things were easier, it didn’t need the discipline to succeed. I could ace a test with a little studying, eat what I wanted, run on fumes with little to no sleep and not much time spent in prayer and feel like things were pretty A-ok. 

Not anymore.

Ain’t adulthood a slap in the face. 

But let me use another word—one not so nasty as the previous one.

Refinement.

It’s the process of improving or perfecting something by polishing or pruning. The more I discipline myself, the more I’m refined. And believe you me, I’m glad I didn’t stay an unbridled child forever. 

I’m a Mom now and the stakes are higher. This discipline business is much more important now than it’s ever been in my life. I not only have to discipline myself but now I’m responsible for disciplining a child. 

It’s easy to understand that he can’t eat whatever he wants, stay up as late as he wants or watch whatever he wants. Then he won’t be healthy and he won’t grow up to be a refined adult. 

Basically, discipline leads to refinement which leads to a much healthier person who can then in turn help raise other disciplined, refined and healthy human beings. See the importance? 

Whew, ok, enough about discipline. Eek, even talking about it makes my palms sweat. Not an especially fun topic. I think I deserve another cup of coffee after that one…kidding.