There are better house cleaners than me. This is fact.

I’m not in denial of it anymore, either. In fact, I wear this badge proudly. I see it as one of the benefits of approaching my 40′s – I really don’t care what you think about me anymore, because I know I’m awesome. And if you see a few dust bunnies under my dining room table? I think I’ll survive your quiet judgment.

In the summer my house gets particularly funky, what with all the being outside and all. This is why I never understood Spring Cleaning. Why clean like crazy in the Spring? I go crazy in the Fall when I become reacquainted with my broom and duster again.

But where I am lacking, Bryan takes up the slack. He ACTUALLY CLEANS the house, while I just make the house APPEAR clean with trick lighting and strategic furniture placement.

I used to feel guilty when he cleaned the house. I took it as a sign of my failure that I couldn’t manage to pick up a broom while he worked outside the home all week.

Lately I’ve been working on taking responsibility for my actions.

Instead of blaming my bad day or the fact that I’m too tired or something else came up, I simply accept the fact I am a little bit of a slob. This may sound like the opposite epiphany to have, but bear with me. If I admit I am a slob, then I can either change or live with it. No more making excuses or blaming someone else.

So now I practice thankfulness instead of guilt.

If Bryan cleans the house, I thank him for helping me instead of barking at it him that I CAN DO IT, ALRIGHT? I WAS JUST ABOUT TO DO THAT. And if I have to apologize because I played Plants vs Zombies all day instead of emptying the dishwasher, I apologize and thank him for picking up the slack.

Guilty feelings breed drama, and I’m kind of over the drama. I’d rather own it and move on.

There are people in this world who go through life with very few regrets, and I’m not one of those people.

My inability to make a decision or figure out what to do next paralyzes me, and I find myself under the constant pressure of wondering whether I should be doing something different than what I’m doing at the moment.

It doesn’t matter whether the issue is big – should we visit my mom in the Midwest this summer or my in-laws in California? – or small – should we stay home and chill today or go for a hike? – I churn the options around in my gut, usually until a deadline forces me into a decision.

Often we end up doing nothing.

I feel like I regret everything. Even if it’s amazing and perfect and exactly what I needed, I still wonder if there’s something else I should have done.

Like today.

Today we stayed home and chilled, but I can’t stop wondering whether I’m squandering away the summer because we stayed home today. And then I remember Ruthie starts three weeks of day camp next week and won’t have a moment to relax, so I’m back to being content with my decision today. Until I’m back to wondering whether this is quality time with my daughter before she’s gone all day.

You see that wrinkle in my forehead between my eyes? That’s my frown wrinkle, though I prefer to think of it as my thinking wrinkle.

It sounds more justified.

We spent the afternoon at a craggy beach earlier this week, and the kids collected two buckets of white sea shells. Mostly they were broken and smooth from the waves and sand, but they were infinite in number – a true delight for the obsessed.

Ruthie was focused that afternoon. While Thomas played in the distance with the friends we’d come with, she hung back, eyes to the ground, methodically searching for shells in a grid pattern.

That evening at home Ruthie laid the shells out in rows and announced she was selling them – small ones for a dime, medium for a quarter, large for fifty cents, and the one fully intact shell for a dollar.

Alrighty, I said. I’ll take two of the small ones for a quarter a piece.

Before I knew it, she’d caught the attention of everyone who walked by: Would you like to buy a shell? she asked sweetly, turning back to grin at me every time she dared to ask.

She asked everyone from the dog walkers to the neighboring teenagers to the church goers who park in the lot next door (who were the only ones who made a purchase, by the way; score one for Jesus!).

Then yesterday as I made dinner I noticed she was engaged in a project – marker in hand, looking for tape, in and out the front door, NOT antagonizing her brother.

Eventually she came to me and asked, “Mom, how to you spell ‘would’? Not the kind of ‘wood’ that’s a tree but the kind of ‘would’ that says ‘would you like to buy a shell?’”

I went outside to investigate this curious sign project and found that she’d re-purposed my magnetic clips (I later found piles of paper abandoned on the floor at the foot of my refrigerator) to hang her sale signs along the fence. She’s managed to cover the perimeter of our yard, hanging a sign on each side to let the world know she is selling shells.

As I’ve watched this unfold over the last few days, I’m intrigued by all the elements of her personality that blossomed to make this happen – focus, ingenuity, tenacity, and self-starting initiation – elements I fear she’d always use for evil rather than good.

My little girl is growing up. She’s using her mind, she’s creating, and she’s solving problems (no tape? no problem! I’ll use clips!).

I’m growing up, too. I didn’t intervene. I didn’t freak out over the magnet clips. I didn’t try to control any element of this process.

She asked me to spell a word, and she asked me to buy a shell.

It’s all her, and I’m so proud of that.

The kitchen is a mess, the laundry is unfolded, the bounty from Costco is still piled up on the table. Yet? I sat in my chair all night… doing… nothing.

And now that I’m moving this party to bed, do I feel refreshed? Relaxed? Rested?

Nope. I feel guilty, unproductive, and lazy.

What IS this crazy relationship I have with busyness, anyway? I got three hours of sleep last night, so yes – I’M A LITTLE TIRED. I fell asleep some time after 2am and my alarm went off at 5:30, so yes – I SAT IN MY CHAIR STARING AT THE WALL.

I think that’s grounds for not hauling a few laundry baskets up the stairs, don’t you? So why do I feel like such a jerk? It’s not like I stayed up until 2am on purpose – I simply couldn’t sleep.

And seriously. Laying around in my pajamas while someone else acts responsible is, like, the best fantasy I have right now. I don’t even dream of running away (anymore) – I just want a couple hours to remind myself what it’s like to have a couple hours.

My dysfunction is so fickle: I WANT! I DON’T WANT! I WANT!

Right now, though, I want sleep.

Bryan played this video for me the other day and prefaced it with, “You’re going to be mad at me for about 5 seconds, but then you’re going to think it’s really funny.”

I’ll admit I wanted to be mad, but I know myself too well – I embrace my inner Eeyore and live it proudly. I complain loudly. I whine dramatically.

I know I’m the one who takes for granted all the blessings in my life – my house, my job, my kids, my gadgets, my amazing husband who beats me over the head with his optimism and grouch-crushing humor.

For instance, I complain DAILY about the shoddy wifi connection in my bed. IN MY BED. Oh poor me. I can’t access the internet on my iPhone in my bed for TWO WHOLE MINUTES. What a terrible tragedy of epic proportions. I remember when I had to plug my giant computer into the wall where I worked to get an internet connection – I didn’t even have the internet at home.

I’ve actually heard this rant a thousand times from Bryan’s own lips. In a glass-half-empty/glass-half-full kinda world, he’s more likely to say, “Isn’t it AMAZING that we have this AWESOME GLASS???”

And that’s what I get, now, whenever I Eeyore about something that isn’t going my way. I get Bryan all up in my face with his big grin and wild eyes yelling, “BUT ISN’T OUR LIFE AMAZING???”

I love that guy.

Yeah, she may call me Boss Lady, but she’s always telling me what to do.

I find that I really like being the boss lady. I oversee three project managers and my assistant, as well as various illustrators and animators. I love working with this team. I learn a lot from this team.

And I’ve learned a lot about myself, being the boss lady.

I’ve learned that it really sucks when your team has to work a weekend because you have the gift of procrastination. I’ve learned that kindness builds bridges. I’ve learned that praise is a great motivator, and generosity breeds loyalty. I’ve learned that it’s okay to leave things undone at the end of the day… unless I’ve squandered my time. I’ve learned that I hired great people, so I can stop trying to do their job for them.

I’ve learned that I need to keep reminding myself of all that I’ve learned.

I’m not sure what it is about motherhood that I just don’t GET at first glance, but I feel like all the lessons I learn about being a mom I learn while being something else. I guess a detached perspective is the story God chooses to tell me – I’m just thankful he continues to crack a hard nut like myself.

But anyway, as I thought about how much I love to serve my team and see them succeed in their jobs and give them the tools they need to be awesome producers of great animations, I realized I fail so spectacularly at doing this for my own children.

I do not serve my children generously – I take what I need from them. I do not get excited to see them succeed – I want them out of my way. I do not always give them the tools they need to be awesome – I criticize them.

Surprisingly, I don’t feel guilty about this. Guilt is not from Jesus – he does not shame me to action. Conviction is from Jesus – he gives me clarity to see what I’m doing really looks like, and frankly I’m not all that impressed by it once I can see behind the curtain.

So I pray tonight for my hard, cranky, selfish heart to be as generous and kind and encouraging to my kids as it is to my team.

And maybe, just maybe I’ll make my kids call me Boss Lady, too.

I estimate there were at least four lunches, and about ten tupperware containers. Inside those containers were half eaten sandwiches, untouched apple slices, some leftover taco meat, and an unopened package of string cheese.

“What DO you eat at lunch?” I asked, suspicious.

There was a Hot Lunch Incident earlier this year in which she threw away the lunches I sent and told her teacher I didn’t make one for her. Lies! All of it! She just wanted to eat the “free” hot lunch at school.

I discovered this fraudulent behavior when I received a bill for $25 and a strongly worded letter about feeding my child. Okay, well, there was actually no strongly worded letter, but this was the judgment I imagined everyone at the school was feeling toward me.

So when I see half eaten sandwiches, untouched apple slices, some leftover taco meat, and an unopened package of string cheese, there are questions.

But IF I am to believe that my daughter is, indeed, no longer stealing from the school district, this now begs the question, Why are you wasting my food?!

I am tempted to let her buy hot lunches using her own money. This has great potential to backfire on me, but in my imagination she’ll realize the value of her money and how it translates to the value of the food she’s wasting.

I’ve already started this lesson a bit.

Ruthie likes to draw on things – my walls, the car, her body, whatever. She’s destined to be a tattoo artist. Or graffiti artist. Or a member of a chain gain working off a minor misdemeanor charge for vandalism.

The last time she wrote on her pants I made her pay me a dollar for all the extra work I’d have to put into cleaning them. (You know, cuz sometimes the handle on the Spray-n-Wash bottle gets jammed and it’s a real pain in the neck). She slumped in her chair a little, but she didn’t argue.

I think she got the message.

Ruthie’s not the only one learning a lesson, though. I make every attempt to control her conscience, to dictate how she feels and responds, to make her GET THE MESSAGE.

But I can’t. I’m not the Holy Spirit. And seven years into this parenting thing, I’m finally getting it.

I can teach her discernment and shepherd her heart, but in the end she makes her own choices. And since that’s the scariest thing I can imagine as a control freak, I’m left to trust Jesus with her heart and her future.

Mail Man Mail Man do your duty
Here comes a woman with an African booty

This is what they’re singing on the playground these days while jumping rope.

When I was a kid we sang about bubble gum and ice cream, but now it’s about getting laid by the mail man.

I once got in trouble for telling one of my parents’ friends I was going to sock him right in the kisser. I thought we were all kidding around, but apparently I was not the funny one. I was mortified that I had said something wrong, and cried DRAH MA TAH CLY before I finally apologized.

We were at Bridgeman’s Ice Cream on W. 66th in Richfield, Minnesota after church, in a corner booth opposite the kitchen door. THAT’s how clearly that embarrassing moment is etched in my mind.

So I asked Ruthie if she knew what that meant, and she was all, I don’t care.

And I was all, WELL YOU’RE GONNA CARE!

Okay, I didn’t really say that. But I THOUGHT that. And I also thought about my hands around her neck. And I also thought about locking her in a box.

But that’s normal, right? Please tell me you think about that all the time, too. Pretty please?

Anyway, what I REALLY said, was that the mail man is being told to treat a woman like she’s his wife, only she isn’t, and what does Jesus say about that? And how is a man supposed to treat a woman who is not his wife? And for that matter, how is a man supposed to treat ANYbody? And who is that man supposed to listen to – Jesus? or a bunch of first graders who are taunting him to sleep with the first woman he runs into???

Okay, I edited that part a bit for age appropriateness.

Maybe.

But we had our little conversation, and it was all just dandy. This was months ago. And just last week when I asked her again how that little jingle went, she rattled it off like an auctioneer and I was all, Wow, you still know that pretty well.

And she was all, Yeah.

And I was all, Sooooo, you’re still chanting that on the playground then?

And she was all, Kinda.

So we had that same conversation. Again.

And I realized parenting is not just about being a broken record, but about being THE LOUDEST BROKEN RECORD ON THE PLAYGROUND.

I’m pretty sure this was the best Mother’s Day EVER.

Breakfast at my favorite spot, church, sun, a nap, and time in the garden. It’s how we spend most Mother’s Days, but this year I felt like the party drunk hugging everyone and crying, “I LOVE YOU, MAN!”

Everything about this day felt perfect before it even started, and I didn’t even care what happened. I just knew it was going to be GREAT.

I attribute a huge part of this to the fact I really like Bryan these days. And when I say I really like him, I mean I REALLY like him. A lot. In fact, I like him so much right now I barely leave the house because I can’t imagine doing anything else besides snuggling up next to him.

This generally makes life bearable for a married couple, so I highly recommend doing whatever you can to really like your husband.

(Hint: attempts to change him will NOT make life bearable).

Really liking my husband has a trickle down effect because even though my kids are making me grate my teeth, I actually wanted to be with them today – a far cry from the Mother’s Day Escape Plans I tried to get away with the last couple years.

I also attribute the general success of today to the fact I totally forgot it was Mother’s Day weekend until late last week. This left no time for me to build up expectations, which gave me no reason to bitterly seethe when my expectations weren’t met.

Maybe I should only speak for myself, but I’m convinced marriages break down from a fatal cocktail of equal parts selfishness and unmet expectations. I know I’ve spent a lot of the last eight and a half years wanting what I want, expecting Bryan to give it to me, and growing bitter when I don’t get it.

Personally, I’ve never been happier than when I simply decided to like my husband again, for better or for worse.

Thanks for a great day, Babe. And kids? GET IN BED!

It DOES get easier to fly on an airplane to grandma’s house when no one needs a car seat and everyone schleps their own stuff.

But parenting also gets harder.

The sassing is more sassy, the doors are slammed harder, and the testing is more… testy.

I have the same conversation over and over (and over and over) again with a certain strong willed child who shall remain nameless: when you do THAT, the natural consequence is THIS, so to avoid THIS you should try not doing THAT.

Just once. Please? Humor me. Just try it on to see how it fits. Who knows? You might like it.

I think the fatal error I keep making in my head is that I want this to be EASY. I don’t want to get off the couch, I don’t want to have this conversation right now, I don’t want to be inconvenienced.

In other words, I don’t want parenting to disrupt my life.

Wha-?