on getting your groove back

Hey guys. Every once in a while we lose track of who we are. The days become an endless series of moments in time just to get through, and, simply put, we lose our groove. I lost my groove, y’all. I don’t think it does me or you any good not to call this what it is. I wasn’t off “brainstorming great new ideas!” or “undergoing an invigorating transformation!” I was just scraping by, to put it simply. I went to bed tired. I woke up tired. I made meals and did (ok, mostly avoided) laundry in a fog, like my arms were fifty pound weights. I’m out of the fog now, but I don’t have shame recalling it. If you have found yourself in a similar place, or if you’re in one right now, you may wonder how to dig yourself out. How to reclaim your groove, so to speak.

Here’s the deal, though: I don’t know how your groove thrives. I don’t know what exactly feeds your soul or brings you back to joy. So I’ll offer my experiences, but they may not work for you. Of course, there’s a chance they might – so read on, will you?

Jennie2018
Also, IMPORTANT: never underestimate the power of a good selfie.

Embrace a New Hobby

Even in the thick of it, when I was overwhelmed at the thought of washing a dish, I fell into auditions and voice lessons. This is my non-mom thing. You may or may not know that once upon a time I was a choir teacher. I studied voice, I led singers, I put on shows. That feels like a different life I’m in no hurry to return to or replicate, but this kind of thing still ignites a fire I thought was put out by Thomas the Tank Engine and elementary school attitudes. Being in shows – just preparing to audition for shows – reminds me I have talent beyond cute school lunches. It’s a reminder I desperately need.

Reach Out to Friends

Yes, I’m talking to YOU, INTROVERTS! I’m not suggesting all of the introverts start going out every night and singing karaoke, but really soak up the people you have. And not just the ones you always reach out to. Open up to someone new and let them surprise you. I recommend friends of different categories; let me explain. I have mom-friends that I can text “I’M LOCKING MY KIDS IN THEIR ROOMS TODAY” and they’ll totally get it. If I text that to my non-mom friends, they might call CPS. But the non-moms remind me there are shows I should make time for and books I need to read. Allow your messages to come from different perspectives. It’s good for you.

Um… Talk to Your Doctor

Yeah, this one should maybe be first. It’s the most important, in my humble opinion. But if you read the most important thing first, you might not read the rest, and I wrote more words! What truly helped me out of the funk was a medicine switch. To get to this place, I had to do a terribly frightening thing: open up to someone I don’t really know at all and say things were not great. But hey, this is what doctors are for. They won’t think you’re a weirdo. (If they do, see a new doctor ASAP.)

No matter what, just believe this: the funk won’t last forever. It just won’t – but it won’t go away on its own, either. So go get your groove back, you majestic unicorn, you. Do NOT worry if:

  • it takes time
  • it takes work
  • you fall back into a bad day after several good ones
  • medicines don’t work
  • other people are confused

You can and will thrive; you can and will groove.

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room for gray

Friends, I’m here with some pretty big news.

You can buy pre-made meals at the grocery store. I know. I KNOW. They’re in the frozen section (or, if you’re fancy, the deli), and ALL YOU HAVE TO DO is heat them up. There is the optional step of anxious thoughts, like it would be so much cheaper and healthier if I made this myself or the sodium in here, my God, has anyone at this food place ever heard of a vegetable? You know what though? I’ve tried this step, and I do not recommend it.

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Jonah clearly only cares about the healthiest of foods.

If you’re like me (and the more I meet people the more I realize… at risk of sounding like a feel good ballad, we are more alike than different) — if you’re like me, you set some decent standards for how your day should go. From the moment your eyes open in the morning, you have things to do. Backpacks to fill. People to dress. Food to make. Cars to drive. And again, if you’re like me, you see all of this in black and white. If I get Boone off to the school bus with a full belly, clean teeth, and a backpack containing everything he needs for the day, everything’s white. I did it! On the other hand, if I’m screeching like a pterodactyl about shoes and throwing white bread in his direction as we run to the bus? Black. There’s almost no salvaging the day at this point.

You may not struggle with black and white like I do. You may be able to brush off a rough morning and carry on successfully through your day. But at night, once everyone’s tucked in, there may be a little nagging thought in your mind that says well, you didn’t win today. Even if you never think this (I assume you’re a witch, a good one, like Glinda, but still), pretend with me, won’t you?

“Jennie?” you may ask, “You opened this by talking about pre-made food. How on earth does this relate?”

First of all, thanks so much for asking. It’s much easier than coming up with a witty segue on my own. I’m only one cup of coffee deep, after all. Here’s the backstory: before I was the Mama, I was a choir teacher. I taught private voice lessons to prepare students for auditions. I lived and breathed music and, while all-consuming, it was pretty great. Then I traded it in for full-time parenting. To say parenting is “great” is an understatement. Sometimes also an overstatement. I know you feel me here, parents. All-consuming it remained. Once my kids got a little bit older, I decided to dip my toe back into the water of music through the medium of community theatre. To make a long story short, theatre made a huge section of my life white again. I was more than “just a mom.” I remembered that I was talented, I was unique, I was successful in other ways. That one tiny taste of the stage gave way to more — much more — I’m currently working backstage on a show, and as soon as it’s finished I’ll be diving in to three (THREE) more before the winter returns. And I’m thrilled!

But.

(Come on. You knew there was a “but.”)

My goals, you guys. The ones that determine if my day was black or white? The breakfast, the backpack, the enriching, engaging, age-appropriate activities, the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry (oh LORD, THE LAUNDRY). Before the massive schedule shift began, I was panicked. And my sweet husband said this,

“Hey, why don’t you give yourself a week where you buy like, frozen pizzas and chicken nuggets or something, and just plan on really easy meals.”

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What I basically heard: “Just feed our children giant pancakes for every meal.”

I didn’t even give him the chance to say “just so you can feel really caught up on other aspects of your life without having too much on your plate.”

I didn’t give him the chance because I was too busy squealing something like “I CAN’T LET OUR CHILDREN’S NUTRITION SUFFER BECAUSE I WANT TO DO A THING!!!”

Then I refused to discuss it for three days. I’m very mature that way.

In fact, I didn’t give it any thought at all until I was having a rare solo trip to Target. That’s where I get most of my epiphanies, to be honest. I saw a frozen pizza (Target brand) that had spinach and goat cheese on it. I’m going to be honest, that sounds great. Sodium be damned. So I bought it. And a Margherita pizza for the kids. And some mac and cheese, some whole wheat crusted chicken nuggets, frozen veggies, and apples and bananas, because my kids can eat their weight in those. And I realized that, should I send my children to therapy as a result of me one day, “my mom made me eat frozen foods for a week” will simply not be on their list of grievances.

But, I’ll be honest with you — it feels black. If someone were to come over at dinner time and ask what we were having, I’d feel incredibly compelled to offer an excuse. “It’s frozen pizza, we’ve just been so crazy LOL.” (In my nervousness, I’d probably just say “LOL” out loud; roll with it.)

So this brings us back to the big news. And it isn’t actually pre-made grocery store meals. It’s gray. GRAY. Black doesn’t have to mean failure. White doesn’t have to mean unattainable success. I always say I’m striving for balance, but that’s exactly what gray is: balance. Moderation. Something in the middle. When you’re gray, you aren’t setting standards that are occasionally possible to reach but usually easy to miss. When you’re gray, you realize not everything has to follow a rigid schedule to be measured as success. Black and white is easy. It’s clear. Gray is muddy, and harder to see. But if you look for it? It’s there. So this week, I’m heating up frozen foods and making room for gray.

the lies i tell myself, part 4


Full disclosure, I didn’t have a great picture for today, so here’s one of Jonah that makes me smile.

OK, it took longer than I anticipated to get these four lies out. I suppose the timeline I had in mind was just another to a long list of lies… but if you need to catch the first three, you can find them here: part 1, part 2, and part 3. Which brings us to the final lie (for now, anyway):

I am the only one who feels this way.

Now, I know we are quick to blame social media for constantly showing us glimpses of other “picture perfect” lives. And yes, to an extent, the general public *may* tend to post highs rather than lows, but here’s what I have found. When I’m feeling bad about myself and I’m scrolling through my timeline, I barely give a second glance to the posts that say “today is hard, I need a hug!” I zero in on anything that looks shiny and glittery, anything that makes someone else’s life look perfect compared to my own. But this isn’t even the trickiest thing my brain does: let’s say someone posts a picture of a a family fun day. All of the kids are smiling, everyone looks like they’re getting along, and I manifest this whole story about how this family is better at family time than I am. I read so much into one tiny image that I have suddenly put this picture on a pedestal that I can’t reach. And it doesn’t matter if this family’s very next post is about a baby who never, ever sleeps or a stress overload. I don’t see those. I only see the good.

When people tell you to see the good in other people, this isn’t what they mean.

Or it shouldn’t be.

What do we say 75% of the time when someone asks, “hey, how are you?” “Fine!” “Good!” “Great!” “Can’t Complain!” So when I ask someone how they are, if I only ever hear “good!” I think: I’m the only one who isn’t good. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a cute family picture online right now. I’m the only one who hasn’t showered in four days and has really stretched the power of dry shampoo to the max. Look. I know it isn’t easy to say “actually, everything sucks and I’m really stressed, how are you?” And, you know what? I also know that sometimes things are just good. And you should be able to tell that to people without having some sort of survivor’s guilt for being in a good place.

And so, here’s my radical proposal to stop this lie: just stop. I know. It’s easier said than done. But still —

Stop the comparison. Your life is your life, and you’re doing it better than anyone else can do your life.

Stop the fantasies. Other people don’t have the picture-perfect life you assign them in your mind. Remember everyone else is as real and raw and fragile as you are, when it comes down to it.

Stop setting impossible standards. Treat yourself kindly. Treat yourself like your own child if you have to; make goals that make sense for the person you are in the stage you’re in.

Stop trying. OK, hear me out. This one sounds like basically the opposite of most self-help advice, but here’s what I mean: stop trying to be something new all the time. Stop thinking “if I can do THIS (eat paleo, run a marathon, learn a new language, etc), THEN I’ll be good.” You’re good now. Stop trying to be “better” and start being who you are meant to be.

I’ve talked to lots of human beings, and if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s this: absolutely no one has everything figured out. You may admire certain people, and this isn’t bad on its own, but when you forget that you’re admiring qualities — portions — not a whole — that’s when you run into trouble.

This isn’t a lie that can be overturned by changing how we use social media. It isn’t a problem that can be solved by giving every simple greeting a thirty-minute therapy session on our deepest life issues. Rather, it involves looking at yourself with clear, unbiased eyes (as unbiased as possible anyway, because they’re your eyes so… just roll with me, here). Don’t let someone else’s victory equate to your own failure. Acknowledge the fact that you’re on different journeys, with different milestones, and it isn’t a competition.

But all of this isn’t even the very best way to stop this lie. All you need to do is accept the fact that it is one. Think of the most “perfect” person you know — the person you wish you could be. GUESS WHAT? They get overwhelmed. They feel inadequate. They make mistakes. EVERYONE FEELS THIS WAY — EVERY SINGLE WAY — SOMETIMES. When we compare similarities instead of differences, we find our degrees of separation are much closer than we think.

So, hey. Whatever lies you’re telling yourself? Recognize that’s what they are. If you can’t see the truth alone, talk to other people. Don’t be so afraid to show some of your mess, because other people have mess, too. They do. It doesn’t have to be the same as yours to be real.

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” -John 8:32

the lies i tell myself, part 3

Hi friends… there’s been an unexpected hiatus here. I’m sorry for that. Life gets in the way, you know? But don’t worry, I still have two more great lies to share with you. Why don’t I just cut right to the chase and give you today’s lie right off the bat? Here goes…

I can’t rest until everything is done.

This includes, but is not limited to: food prep, cooking, cleaning, pet-feeding, dog-walking, exercise, devotions, and laundry (which, since we are not occasional nudists, NEVER really ends so this one’s basically a joke). So here’s what I do. I make a “to-do” list that involves everything I want to get done in a given day. It’s always really long and totally not attainable, but I make the list anyway. I feel great, intense joy when I cross an item off that list. Look at me go! Dinner is prepped – check. Beds are made – check. I showered – check.

(Yes, I like to include things like “shower” on my lists. It’s who I am.)

But, as the day goes on, my checks are fewer and farther between. Ugh, remember how I wanted to clear all of the too-small clothes out of Boone’s closet? THAT’S not getting done. Oh man — and even though I logged about 12,000 steps chasing after Jonah, AND took the dog on a walk, I didn’t specifically follow an exercise routine, so there’s another thing I can’t check off. By the end of the day, I’m spending a lot more time looking at what isn’t checked off than relishing on what is. Then I begin the internal struggle: do I stay up ridiculously late crossing things off? Or go to sleep a failure?

When those are your only two options, it’s pretty difficult to please yourself.

I fully admit I’m not great at seeing my own accomplishments. I work on positive self talk and setting reasonable goals, but at the end of the day, I like a list that is fully checked off. “Make a smaller list, Jennie!” you may say. Good idea! I’ll get right on that. Today’s lie has been vanquished! I’m done here!

…OK, if it were that simple, this wouldn’t be a persistent lie. Because, you see, some days the stars align. Some days I write a huge list of things to accomplish and then — miracle of miracles — everything gets done. I go to bed with clean floors, happy kids, and absolutely nothing in the laundry baskets. And the feeling when that happens… oh, man. I can’t even explain it. It’s like I’m invincible, safe and secure in all of the work I did. While the Bible says we shouldn’t be judged on works alone, for a stay at home mom? This is nearly spiritual.

So, yes, I will spend days and weeks and months chasing after this high. The coveted “I did it all” award. And every single day that I don’t live up to this outrageous standard, I haven’t really “earned” my end-of-the-day rest.

My thinking on this was challenged by my three year old, Jonah, who truthfully challenges me on many things. One morning, he had just finished playing his long-time favorite game, which I like to call “Dump Out All of the Toys.” Since I did NOT want to add “clean Jonah’s room” to my too-long to-do list, I told him to clean them up. He balked. He whined. He looked at me with pitiful eyes and said “but mooooooom. I can’t! It’s too much for me!” I rolled my eyes and left him in his mess. When I checked in a bit later, nothing had been done. I felt myself at the brink of a meltdown, nearly ready to get out a trash bag and throw away all of the floor toys. Then his sweet little voice asked, “mama, can you help me?”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell him to just go downstairs and I would clean his room. Hey, then I could add it to my to-do list and immediately cross it off. What sweet satisfaction! Not to mention, his room is small and I could take that tiny list-addition and complete it in no time. But I know I can’t and shouldn’t do everything for him, so I said I’d help by talking. He looked confused. I explained:

“I’ll help you by counting the items you pick up. Every time you pick up three items — since you’re three — we’ll have a tiny dance party.”

His eyes lit up at the sound of this. Not long after, he picked up his first three toys and we celebrated with a mini (ten seconds, tops) dance party. He picked up three more toys, and then we danced some more. This went on and on until —

“I did it, mama! I’m all done!”

You would have thought this kid had just run a marathon. He was glowing. He was proud of himself. I watched him complete a task that first seemed daunting but then was done in less than ten minutes. Here’s the trick, though — I knew what he could accomplish even if he couldn’t. He was selling himself short.

And I am often setting myself up for failure.

I expect far too much of my 17 or 18 awake hours each day. I realized I couldn’t keep up my ridiculous daily lists, so now I have general to do lists and daily “DONE” lists. What did I do today? I prepped meals – check. I played with my kids – check. I wrote things I needed to write – check. I can’t explain how the “done” lists have changed my mindset. I still love lists, but now my lists encourage me instead of tearing my down. And at the end of day, I can easily read through a done list… and allow myself to rest.

the lies i tell myself, part 2

the lies i tell myself, part 2

“Hey mama, do you think if you won a national handwriting contest you’d be on the news?”

“Uh, what?”

(Sigh) “MAMA. Let’s say you enter a handwriting contest and you win. Would your picture be on the news? I’m doing a handwriting contest at school, and I’m worried if I win, my picture will be on the news. If a bad guy with a gun saw my picture, he could try and shoot me for my prize money!”

I wish I could write here that I just made this little exchange up. But I didn’t. This was what Boone asked me before going to bed one night, and it caught me totally and completely off guard. I stumbled through platitudes like “we live in a really safe place,” and “no one at school wants to put you in any danger.” He was tired, thankfully, and decided it was OK to participate in the handwriting contest after all.

(I didn’t point out that the winner of a national handwriting contest probably has more thoughtful penmanship than my son, who occasionally forgets the”e” at the end of his name.)

(In his defense, this is some pretty solid cursive.)

Now is where I sadly point out that this conversation about school and guns happened prior to the recent school shooting in Florida.

And so, knowing that my sensitive, anxious child would possibly hear about this tragedy within his own school, it got me thinking. I had just told him no one at school wants to put him in danger. We just said we live in a safe place. How many parents of students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School had had similar conversations? I had no idea what I’d say to Boone. I had no idea what we would talk about. I didn’t know how to alleviate fears while answering questions, to simultaneously prepare him for and shield him from the world. And it led me to the the next lie I tell myself:

As a parent, I need to have all of the answers.

Growing up, I was privileged to have not only great parents, but also a rich community of caring, invested, intelligent adults. As far as I was concerned, these people did have all of the answers. Logic would only follow that when I was an adult, I’d have all of the answers too. Even as a child, I loved answers. I craved knowledge. I couldn’t wait to have everything figured out.

Hi, I’m Jennie, I’m 33, and I have very little figured out.

So when I sat down with Boone to talk to him about the shooting in Parkland, I glossed a bit over the gory details and reminded him about what to do if he ever sees a gun (go away from it and find a grown up you trust) and if he ever encounters a stranger acting suspicious (again, grown up you trust). I also winced a bit as I talked about what he’d do if he were ever in a scary situation like that at school: listen to your teacher. Don’t tell jokes. Stay quiet and do exactly what the grownups say. He accepted all of this much easier than I thought he would. I felt pretty great about all of my answers. And then…

“Mom, what if I die?”

Oh, blow to my chest.

I said, “Everyone dies sometime. You’ll probably be very, very old. You’ll have lived a full and awesome life. You’ll be ready. And then you’ll go to Heaven! Which is the best place ever!”

“OK, cool. Well, what’s Heaven like?”

Guys, I don’t know what Heaven is like. I’ve never been there. And I could have quoted some scripture about pearly gates and streets of gold, but this is not what Boone was after. I know this because of his follow-up questions:

“And what will I do there? Will I ever come back to earth? Do you think once everybody dies, God will just start the earth over again? Will there be dinosaurs again? Can I see them from Heaven, do you think?”

I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know

A small part of me wanted to give him something concrete. I wanted to give an answer for every question, but I didn’t have an answer for every question. So I used an old teacher trick to buy some time: “what do YOU think?” Then I realized I needed to teach my son something. Something that isn’t related to the violence or the afterlife or dinosaurs.

“Hey bud… there are some things we can know the answers to. 2+2 is always 4. Our dog is a mammal. These are facts we know. And then there are other things… things nobody really knows. You can think about those things as you grow up. I don’t know what Heaven is like, exactly. But I do know that I will go there when I die, and it will be better than anything I could ever imagine. And I do know that I will always do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

And we hugged, and we moved on, and I felt halfway decent until I realized tomorrow will likely bring another crisis I don’t have answers for. And when he’s a teen, getting his heart broken? Forget about it. I don’t know anything.

And I think that’s OK. I never want to communicate to my children that we can’t know everything so we shouldn’t try. I want them to know they can be 33 and still asking questions without answers. Learning doesn’t stop when we graduate from school. And I need them to know that not knowing something? It’s never a flaw. It’s an opportunity.

Thanks for checking out this week’s lie, and aren’t you pleased to know I tell myself so many there’s another new lie for you next week?! If this resonated with you, please feel free to like, comment, or share.

the lies i tell myself, part 1

My son, Boone, is seven. He’s incredibly bright, he loves potty words, he is, at times, extremely inattentive, and he’s an overall cool kid. For the first three years of his life, he was an only child. I was home with him full time, and we filled our days with play groups, story times, and any other kid-friendly thing that got us out of the house. And while we played, I helicoptered hard.

(Look at that toddler Boone baby. He can make no mistakes.)

I know we’re all familiar with the hovering, overprotective helicopter parent. And I think many seasoned (read: tired) parents agree that our kids can really benefit from some distance. And even as a new parent, I was aware of this. Which is why I helicoptered discreetly. I might have looked calm and nonchalant, but in reality I was side-eying everything Boone did. If he took a toy, I was quick to remind him to give it back. If he started to wander off while a librarian read a book, I would pop up to collect him and bring him back. I made quiet toy bags if we went out to restaurants so he wouldn’t bother other customers. I didn’t do this for him. I did it because I believed a cruel and unfair lie:

The lie that my child’s mistakes were my mistakes.

I just really believed that if I was parenting correctly, my son wouldn’t be rude to other kids. He wouldn’t talk back to other adults. He would be, even at three years old (or younger!) a little model citizen in public.

So I was obviously quite delusional.

Time, experience, and Boone’s little brother all worked to cool me off a little bit. I began to allow Boone to play without my reality-tv level of surveillance. I’d cringe when a situation arose, sure. I’d bite my tongue after asking him “what happened?” when we were still in public and launch into an intense line of questioning when we were in the car.

But you know what really perpetuated this lie? The fact that Boone was – is – a pretty good kid. It’s always been easy to look at the good parts of his behavior and think “yeah, I did that.” And that’s why, when Boone got his first referral at school, I screamed “WHAT THE HELL?!” and cried for an hour.

Yes. That’s really how I reacted.

Yes, really.

A note for those who don’t know: at my son’s school, a referral is a piece of paper that goes home to be signed by the parents. It explains the problem the child had, how it was handled, and if anything else needs to be done. OK, so now you’re probably thinking ok, if she screamed and cried this must have been really bad, right? Did he punch a teacher? Steal donation money? Burn down a classroom?

Umm… uh… OK. Well… ah, he was at recess, you see, and a recess monitor told him and another boy to not climb a hill. He did climb the hill. He spent the rest of recess on a bench. There was nothing further.

YES. THAT’S REALLY HOW I REACTED.

YES, REALLY.

Hindsight, yeah? In the moment, here was the perfect little newborn that I raised who was TOTALLY RUINED because I somehow couldn’t get him to listen to authority figures. How could I have led him down such an unholy path? I was clearly an unfit mother. There go the Ivy Leagues. “We’re sorry, Boone; we can’t accept you into Harvard because of your first grade referral. Pity.”

This is so insane I’m almost embarrassed to share it with you all. But I do so because every single day I watch moms and dads beat themselves up over the choices they’ve made for their kids. Public schools or private or homeschooling? Screen time or no? Local, organic veggies only or food rewards? Music lessons? Sports? Are we doing enough? Are we doing it right? Are we ruining everything?!?!

First of all: if you’re questioning and doubting and overthinking? You’re good. Please, believe me; you’re good.

Secondly – and this one may come as a surprise – your child is actually a completely different person than you. I know. I know. Let that one sink in. You could do everything correctly (oh, you won’t – this is a hypothetical; anyway) and your child will do whatever he wants because that’s how he’ll learn. And it’s frustrating and infuriating and also real life. And hey, maybe if your child doesn’t test authorities in first grade, he’ll try it when he’s much older and the stakes are much higher. Some lessons are better learned early on.

So don’t believe this lie. You will make mistakes, surely. But they’ll be your mistakes, and you’ll learn from them. Just like our children, if we let them.

Come back next week for the second lie I (used to) tell myself… and, until then, try not to tell yourself too many.

what we give to God

what we give to God

Friends! It feels truly wonderful to once again be writing for you. It’s possible I’ll throw you a what-I’ve-been-up-to post in a bit here, but know this: life has been rich, full, hard, easy, stressful, fun, and lovely since I posted last. And now it’s a brand new year, and I’d like to back into some regularly scheduled Premeditated Mama. So here we go!

I’m starting today with a confession, and I’ll close with a story from this past summer. I hope it brings some value to you.

I love Christmas. This should come as no surprise to anyone who, you know, is nearby. I’m seriously considering making tattoo #3 Christmas-themed. YES, it’d be permanent all year long. YES, that’s what I want. Anyway, Christmas and me are like peas and carrots. I start listening to Christmas music in – OK I don’t ever really stop, but I really ramp it up around September. I own no less than three Advent Calendars (or four? Five?) and don’t even get me started on my Christmas Board on Pinterest. It’s a doozy.

Also this is a sweater I willingly and gleefully purchased for myself:

But I have depression. I do. And anxiety. And after weeks (months) of Christmas excitement, I get bogged down. My brain fills up, my heart runs out a little, and I falter. The wrapping paper is too much. The cookies are too much. The laundry, which so rudely doesn’t think to at least take a rest during this busy season, is way too much. And before I know it, I’m fighting every voice in my head that says to cancel every plan. To binge-watch every show. To just, kind of… stop. And this year? Things seemed especially hard. Every day the news carries some horrible story. Every day the government seems to fall apart a little bit more. Every day the world hurts.

That was my confession. Now for a story.

This past summer was the first one that Boone could really ride a bike on his own. Near the end of the summer, he was feeling so confident (and I so optimistic, I guess) that I suggested we ride our bikes to the local ice cream place, Captain Sundae. It was a little over two miles from our house, but Boone knew there was a giant ice cream cone to be had at the end of the journey, so he agreed. We started out with stars in our eyes (that’s actually a quote from Dear Evan Hansen, which if you haven’t listened to, DO IT), and everything was great. Until we came upon a decent sized hill right outside our neighborhood, and as Boone took on speed, he lost his balance and tumbled forward. We’re a helmet-loving family, so thankfully there was no real harm done. He got a scraped up knee, but it wasn’t too bad. I asked him if he wanted to go home. “No,” he said, through tears, “I want to get ice cream.”

And so we carried on. I was, of course, asking too many questions as we rode. “Are you OK?” “How’s your knee?” “What are you thinking about?” And finally, Boone said, “Mom, can you not talk right now?” I was taken slightly aback, sure, but I figured he was concentrating on balance; then he continued, “I’m just praying a lot.” I did have one more question: “what are you praying about?” “Mom, I’m just praying that God will keep me safe on big hills.”

Because that’s all he was worried about. He wasn’t worried about bees or other cyclists or sprinklers or stop lights. He was worried about hills. He needed to give his hills to God. (And yes, Boone got his ice cream and made it back home, completely owning every hill he encountered.)

I remembered this story as I felt the heaviness of the Christmas season weigh down on me. And please remember that I find medications and therapy to be life-changing and vitally necessary to those who suffer from depression and anxiety. But I learned something about letting go from my seven year old son on that summer night, and it’s to know when to say God, I just don’t have this. And I didn’t have it as I drove to a Christmas party this past December. I felt down, though I had been taking my Prozac and crying to a therapist. So as I drove, I prayed, God, please help me to feel lighter.

And. I. Did.

I know my meds are important, and I feel like God gave them an extra boost when I asked for it. Prayer is hard for me, and it’s something I wrestle with, but this prayer was immediately felt and answered.

When Boone was on that bike on that summer evening, not falling was the most important thing. When I felt weighed down on the way to that party, feeling lighter was the most important thing. Yes, the world is so broken and sad. Yes, the news is exhausting and terrifying. But I realized that these things aren’t more important to God. They are important, yes – but there isn’t a hierarchy with your little problems on the bottom. This has been the realization that has carried me through Christmas and into the new year. I know it isn’t groundbreaking or revolutionary. But the fact that my problems – minuscule in the grand scheme – are so important and so known? It’s what I needed to learn. And maybe you needed the reminder too.

Happy to journey through 2018 with you all. Thanks for reading!