The Making of M.O.M.

And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.

Romans 8:28 (ESV)

The long stints in between posts in not necessarily a sign of busier times in our house (though that's true) nor a sign that I don't enjoy blogging anymore (which is not at all true) or even that I don't have anything to say (certainly not true, if you know me at all).

The truth is, I've always considered this a place where I can be real. Even in real life, I'm generally open, honest and fairly easy to read. Whatever crosses my mind generally comes out of my large, gaping mouth - which can often not be a good thing.

I've never been a person with many secrets (though I have some buried somewhere deep inside and locked away - trust me) and I've never really understood people who keep so much of their lives private and tucked away from the people they care about. In fact, I've often thought that the way believers can give God the most glory is to be real, to be honest and allow your imperfections to radiate the glory of God, show His immeasurable mercy and then rejoice in your imperfections being made perfect in Him.

And I still believe all of that. I'm not too worried about people coming to our house and seeing the sticky, mysterious blotches that are spattered across our kitchen floor. I'm not anxious about folks coming over for playdates and seeing the piles of laundry on the table in our living room. In fact, I don't even really care if everyone in the world knows that we eat off paper plates 90% of the time. (We're not green. At all.)

I understand that people judge us and think we're crazy because we have nearly 7 kids all ages 7 years and younger. I know that we are talked about when we leave the room and often people ask bystanders which are our "real kids" and which are adopted.

So I think my hesitation with coming here regularly and sharing my heart is because lately, I'm hiding more things in there. Pondering them, turning them over in my mind, wondering why none of the jagged edges become smooth with the constant turning and tumbling and wear.

Things that are more than just "am I parenting this child the right way" or "what if they figure out I'm not nearly the person they think I am" or "what happens if they see me looking less than up to par." Because the fact is, if you know me at all you know those previous questions don't get to me all that much.

The thing that keeps me from coming here and sharing the trivial, mundane and even the profound is the fear of being found out on a much deeper level.

What if I don't have this whole God thing as figured out as I thought I did?

Because the nitty gritty truth is that once you begin telling people that you've been called to be a missionary, they expect you to be some sort of super-Christian. Someone who has a direct line to God and who obviously knows more than the average Christian about obedience, Scripture and must have this super-human prayer life.

And I'm NOT good at dealing with that kind of pressure.

Last night one of our youth came into the kitchen where I was carrying on a casual "I'm a pregnant woman and here are my struggles" conversation with another pregnant, youth-worker Mom and he said, so casually, "I didn't know y'all were going to Africa?! Why did y'all decide to do that?"

Why did we decide to do that? Is he serious? I think he was sincere in his question and it wasn't like he was trying to make it sound flippant but clearly we didn't just decide one day to pick up our family of 9 and move to East Africa.

It's a delicate balance between trying to always seem confident and composed in your calling and wanting to shake people and scream, I don't have it all figured out either!

And it's not like we feel okay with sharing our struggles with just anyone. Because, good gracious, who do we share them with?

Supporters? Um. No. Because the fleshly side of me wants to continue seeming like we have it all figured out so that they don't lose their confidence in us. I mean, good golly, $8,000 per month is A LOT of money to raise and we don't want to jeopardize the faith that those who've already partnered with us have put in us. We need every supporter we currently have, plus about 200 more.

Friends? Yes, we can but typically even our closest friends can't really understand the hidden struggles we are facing. Because moving to a different continent is a tad different than moving across town or taking a new job or deciding to adopt. Not that we believe that any of those callings are any less spiritual or God sized but we are moving to a 3rd world country for crying out loud. It's like me trying to understand the pain my dearest friend has over her empty womb. I can try my best to understand, empathize and cry out to God for her. But I don't really get it. No matter how much I want to.

Family? Not exactly. Most of the family that has acknowledged that we're leaving isn't exactly supportive of our calling. Fueling their concerns and giving them more reasons to be opposed to us isn't exactly top on my to-do list.

Other missionaries? Sure. They are usually good people to reach out to and sometimes they can get it. But for some missionaries, they took no kids on the field with them. Or they didn't have to raise support. Or maybe they're sitting right where we are, struggling with the things God is calling them to do but their flesh is yelling out in defiance.

So Luke and I sit in our room most nights, tossing back and forth our worries, our anxiety and our fears. It's a lot like trying to throw back and forth a handful of spaghetti. The first few tosses go okay but eventually it falls apart and ends up scattered all around us in a huge mess. We're covered with failed attempts to grasp totally what the other is pitching out to us.

The one person I should be falling on my face before, the God of all creation, the Lord who called us in the first place, seems so distant right now. I should be falling before His throne, nose pressed to the floor, wearing a blisters on my face from tears mixed with our cheap carpet.

And that's where it ends. That's the struggle. Because I know that if I did just that, answers would come, anxieties would subside and fears would be brought into light. But I also know that nasty places in my own flesh would be revealed. Cancerous wounds would be exposed and I'd have to own up to the rotten flesh I've allowed to live and eat and grow on me over the last few months.

Cleaning wounds is painful. I have enough pain in my life right now. I don't want anymore.

In addition to all of the anxiety, fear and struggle I may have with our calling comes your everyday pain, conflict and struggles with our children, family, friends and just life.

It's a balance to keep it all in perspective and trust that in due time God will make all things work together for my good. But missionaries, pastors, best-selling christian authors and the like can't admit to the struggles with the things of great significance right? Especially as it pertains to their specific calling. Because aren't they suppose to know God? Like, really know God? Shouldn't people who really know God not have such struggles? After all, can't they just pick up their "direct line phone" dial up the Big Man and get all their questions answered, their problems solved and have peace with life all in a quick, easy prayer?

I've said this before, maybe not here but to others: I really think that in many ways living in Africa won't be nearly as hard as the getting there.

Please Lord, get me through the getting there. And heal me of my rotten flesh somewhere along the way. In the meantime, I'll be waiting to see how all of this will work together for my good.

Parenting a stubborn and strong willed child is interesting to say the least. I really thought Lucas was strong willed as a 2 year old. Little did I realize that God gave me Lucas as merely preparation for Aaron.

Before I launch into all of the difficulties that I face with my sweet 2 year old boy, I want to make one thing very clear. I love this boy of mine. Love him so much that if I dwell on it my insides ache. When he wraps his skinny little arms around my neck and asks for a "tiss" and "ug" my heart almost explodes. His laugh infects my soul and his smile brightens my days. I love him so much more than I ever thought possible. Nearly 3 years ago when the social workers walked him into our home, I never could have imagined how I would love him as my own flesh and blood. And now, it rarely crosses my mind that he's adopted. I cannot imagine our family without him. He's an integral part of what makes our family feel full of joy, life and love.

Earlier this morning, he sat on my lap and cuddled with me as we watched a movie for school. As I rubbed my lips and cheeks across his hair and smelled the top of his head, I thanked God for everyday that I get the privilege to be his Mom. I don't take it lightly that the Lord specifically chose me to be his Mother.

But the truth remains that he tests me on just about every level that a two (nearly 3) year old can. I've known he was strong willed since he was about 8 or 9 months old, when the temper tantrums began if I took a forbidden object from his pudgy fingers. They weren't your ordinary temper tantrums that a typical 8 or 9 month old would display. They lingered and lasted much longer than a baby of that age's memory should allow.

Potty training him has been a constant battle. I've said time and time again that I'm done with trying to break him of diapers. But, every few days he asks to go in the potty and every, single time I think, "Maybe this is it! Maybe he's ready!" So, we strip off the diaper, sit him on the toilet and battle begins.

"Okay Buddy, push out some pee pee and poo poo," I plead.

"No. I done. I go pay," he retorts, before his bottom has even rested firmly on the seat.

"But Bud, you've not even gone potty yet. You want a piece of candy? If you put your poo poo in the potty you can have a GREAT BIG piece of candy!" I try to not let the frustration well up within me as I hear his whining begin.

"No! I go pay!" His excitement with the potty turns to a furrowed frown as he looks at me with his chin nearly touching his chest.

"If you don't potty you can't wear your Thomas undies," I remind him. "You want to wear Thomas, don't you?"

"No! Put.on.my.diaper! I poop in my pants!"

And with those words, I'm done. Because how can I make him go poop in the potty if he understands that he can just go in his (requested) diaper? I've tried candy, TV, more Thomas stuff, everything I can think of to get him to go to the potty and still, NOTTA.

Unless it's on HIS terms.

And I wish it stopped there. Meal times are a battle. EVERY.SINGLE. meal time. He's not a picky eater, per say, but a defiant eater. One night he will dog down some mac and cheese and chicken nuggests. Two days later, he refuses to even take a bite of mac and cheese and gags, spits and chokes when I demand he put some in his mouth.

One day he LOVES potatoes, the next day he shuns all of his dinner because his potatoes are touching the other food on his plate.

And then there's days like yesterday.

Aaron LOVES Mexican food. He has never rejected it when I cook it at home and when we go out to a Mexican restaurant he gets his own bowl of salsa and eats it using a chip to spoon it into his mouth. But on Monday night I made a new recipe. A super yummy, totally edible Quesadillia Casserole. (for real, click on that link and then look for those little packs in your grocery store, tasty stuff!)

It was good! Even our picky eater (Elizabeth) ate two plates of it - and she is super picky! But, since it didn't look good to Aaron, he didn't even take a bite. Instead, he shoved it across the table, frowned and said, "I no wike it!"

The one bite I forced him to put into his mouth (because a few times in the past when he's rejected food he's not even tasted, I've made him take a bite and he's realized he likes it and then eats) he spit into his hand.

So, we began our multi-time a day mealtime routine of excusing Aaron from the table to his room. We do not allow disrespectfulness at our dinner table and he was certainly being disrespectful. We have a rule that everything on your plate MUST be tasted. And, if it's something you've eaten previously and enjoyed then you must finish it before you can get seconds of another item. (Does that make sense?)

Since Aaron refused to taste his dinner and began scowling at everyone in sight he was excused. Then began Aaron's screaming, crying, stomping and fits that are now also a mealtime routine in our house. Once he settled down, we again offered for him to come eat dinner but he refused.

This isn't the first time he's refused to eat something I've cooked so, like the other times, he went to bed without dinner. Man! That is a hard to do! But, I REFUSE to be a short order cook. Everyone else in the house has likes and dislikes too, and I try to make something at every meal that I know will please all of our eaters.

The other rule that we have had to implement for Aaron is that if he rejects a meal all together, we wrap up his plate and he receives it at the next meal. We've done this a couple of times and each time he's initially acted as though he wouldn't eat the reheated leftovers. But, after realizing we were not budging, he ate.

Yesterday was a different story completely. At breakfast I reheated his plate of Quesadillia Casserole. After 30 minutes of him screaming, kicking and whining at the breakfast table, I excused him and told him he would not be offered breakfast any longer and since he'd still chosen to not eat his food, he would be offered it for snack. I rewrapped his plate and put it back in the refrigerator.

At snack time, the same fit followed. While everyone else at their snack he was offered his plate of untouched, reheated food. Again fits, screaming and generally nasty behavior. But this time it was not only fueled by his hatred of the food on his plate, but his food deprived body's hunger. A hungry 2.5 year old is a MEAN 2.5 year old. Anybody picking up what I'm putting down?

I reminded Aaron that he'd need to eat his food if he wanted a snack. He refused. I then told him that if he chose not to eat it now, it would be his lunch.

Repeat the food rejection for lunch and afternoon snack. By the time Aaron woke up from his nap he was fit to be tied. The only thing he'd consumed since afternoon snack the day before was WATER.

Man o mighty he was a jerk. I mean a REAL LIVE JERK. His hunger was overtaking his body and he began flinging his body on the floor or against any hard surface he could find to prove the point that HE WAS PISSED.

Luke and I joked that he was fasting for something and just forgot to tell us. Dude, we would have prayed for him. (Actually, I did.)

Dinner time rolls around. By now, I bet you can guess what happened, can't you? Everyone else gets potatoes, pork chops and carrots. Guess what Aaron was served?

Yep. Reheated Quesadillia Casserole. By this point I'm questioning whether or not it's even healthy for him to consume food that's been reheated so many times. But I knew if we caved at this point all of my efforts all day would have been in vain.

After much crying, screaming, being excused from the table multiple times and allowed to return, Luke basically force fed him the now crusty, dried and totally gross casserole. He ate it while rubbing his tummy and saying, "Yummy, yummy" and slightly gagging. (I'm not even kidding.)

After he ate the (get this) FOUR BITES that it took clean his plate of the wretched Quesadillia Casserole he was offered the same dinner the rest of us ate. He gobbled up the carrots because those are his favorite and then REFUSED TO EVEN TASTE THE REST.

ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?!?!

So guess what Aaron was offered for breakfast this morning? Delightfully reheated pork chops and potatoes.

And, after I sat him down and talked to him, saying, "Buddy. You can have some cereal but you must eat your dinner from last night first. Please eat it Bud. Please don't go all day without eating like you did yesterday."

And after leaving him at the table for 40 MINUTES with a frown on his face, he ate it. Followed by 2 bowls of cereal.

Sweet mercy. I've got Dr. James Dobson's book on order at the library and I hope to have it picked up tonight.

But while I wait to glean some of Dr. Dobson's knowledge, do any of you have any words of wisdom for parenting a strong willed child? I'm all ears. I'd love to talk to you about this in the comments section, so if you comment, check back for replies.