I've Had Enough!!

I’ve been having some internal struggles today.  I am again feeling like I don’t know my place in this world.  I desire to use my talents in a way that glorifies God, while bringing love and joy to others, and to myself.  I would also like to be paid, if possible, to ease the strain on my family.  In some of my darker moments, I could no more name a talent that I possess than I can do quantum physics.  At other times, I am at a loss of how I can use my talents in a way that glorifies God. 

This often leaves me feeling out-of-sorts and with no clear purpose, as if I am floating through life and not being a good steward of the wonderful things the Lord has blessed me with.  I then begin to feel useless and ungrateful; then the dreaded word starts cycling in my head.   

The word that I would love to completely cut out of my vocabulary, as if it never existed, is “enough”.  I detest it.  It mocks me.   It pushes all my buttons and has the potential of sending me into a tailspin of depression.  It triggers my feelings of inadequacy and incompleteness.

I can get trapped in the destructive cycle of negative self-talk, and it all centers around the word “enough”.  Does the word mock you too, gentle reader?

“I am not enough.”  “I’m not a good enough mother.”  “I am not a good enough wife.”  “I am not a good enough employee.”  “I am not a good enough Christian.”  “I’m not a good enough friend.”  “I don’t keep a clean enough house.”  “I do not make enough money.”  “I do not have enough talents.”  “I am not enough.”

But the wonderful thing is that the light of Christ shines through all these to show them for the lies that they are.  These are lies that Satan feeds us, hoping to discourage us, hoping to take our attention off God and to dwell in our own inadequacies.

Matthew 19:26 tells us that, with God, all things are possible.  For those who have accepted the free gift of salvation, we are made whole and complete through the love and power of God and Christ Jesus.  

It’s true that, by myself, I am not enough.  With God, I can do all things.  So, when the negative self-talk starts cycling in my head, who am I heeding and who am I shutting out?

God always provides, and He doesn’t need my help to do so.  God desires my love, my commitment, my obedience, and my faithfulness, but He doesn’t extort them from me.  It is always my choice.  It is my choice to love Him, to serve Him, to be faithful and obedient, and not because I am trying to repay the gift of salvation, but because I WANT to.

Shine the light of the Lord on the lies in your own life.  You’ll be amazed at what you’ll find.  You can free yourself from the shackles of self-doubt and live in the light, love, and glory of the Father.

With God, I am enough.

Too Tired to Think Straight

I’ve had several nights in a row like this.  As a result of a crazy, heavily scheduled week, accompanied by some changes in my life, by the time 10 pm rolls around, my eyes are burning and begging for sleep.  I can hear what you are all thinking.  Just go to bed, right?  Oh, I wish it were that simple. 

I have some obligations to fulfill before I can turn in.  I had to write my Examiner article (thank you to those who read them!). I felt compelled to write a blog, since I haven’t done so in a week.  Also, I had already scheduled myself to tutor and it was too late to cancel the hour.  I also picked up some part time work for my old firm, doing some accounting work for them.  Thank goodness it’s Friday, because I know if I tried to do some work on that now I would be transposing numbers like crazy. (Fun little fact about me, my eyes work independently, at times causing me some grief when I read or deal with numbers.  Being tired greatly exaggerates the issues I have with this).

Beyond that, even if I went to bed straight this minute, with my eyes burning and my body crying for the mattress, I would lie there awake.  Don’t ask me why.  I don’t know.  I have had sleep disturbance issues for as long as I can remember.  Two nights ago, I was really tired, eyes burning, achy, etc., and turned in relatively early.  I fell asleep ok, but then woke every hour.  I don’t know why that happens, but it is terribly frustrating.

Last night, feeling all the similar symptoms after a long (and HOT) day, I did turn in at 10.  At midnight, I was still awake.  I got up and took an over the counter sleep aid, praying it would kick in quickly and that I would be able to wake up at a decent hour the next morning. (Fun fact #2, I am extremely sensitive to sleep aids.  Even if I take half a dose, they have been known to knock me out for 12-15 hours.  Waking me up if I’ve taken one is like trying to wake a dead person. Seriously.)

So, I don’t know what to do.  I have tried just about every OTC sleep aid, and have been prescribed a few.  Bottom line, unless I know that Jeff is available to hear and care for Quinn during the night and when she wakes up, I won’t take them.

Occasionally, getting up and taking a really hot bath will work.  Or, going to the kitchen to get something small to drink sometimes works.  Anything to change from lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.  Like every other woman, my body can be screaming for the need to rest, but my brain refuses to shut down.  At those times, it’s best to just get up and make the list or tend to whatever I’m thinking about.  An hour out of bed doing chores is better than 3 hours of tossing and turning.

So, now you know why I’m writing, instead of sleeping. Tell me friends, what works for you when you can’t sleep?

Editorial note: You should have seen the errors in this sucker before I posted.  Even then, I wouldn't be surprised if I missed some!

Competition, Fear, and Motherhood

I promised myself that I would never be “that” mom.  I would never compare my child to another.  I would only evaluate her on her own merits.  That lasted for about 2 seconds.  From cutting teeth to pulling up to first words, I’ve been asking other moms when their kids hit milestones and secretly worried when Q wasn’t doing things as fast.

I have the awareness to know that this is completely ridiculous and has no bearing on her intelligence or development.  Yet, I still can’t seem to put to rest my own worries.  I know this has nothing to do with Q, but is a reflection of my own insecurities as a mother.  I never thought I was capable of such love until Q came along.  With that love also came a crazy fear and endless worry.

I have no illusions of being a perfect mom.  It’s not possible, so why drive myself crazy with it?  I do, however, want to be the absolute best mom I am capable of being.  God gave me an awesome responsibility when He blessed me with Q.  For years I had prayed that God not give me children unless it was His will and until He felt I was able to care for them and raise them according to His will.  I had resigned myself to not having children, if it meant that I could better love and protect them by leaving them unborn.  Having worked through some pretty hefty issues in my life, I did not want to pass those issues on to my children, or worse yet, be so blinded by those issues that it would materially affect my children and leave them damaged and scarred.  Thus, I hit my knees every day and prayed that God not bless me with children until I was truly capable of raising them.

Q was a wonderful surprise for us.  She has been a blessing in so many ways.  God, through my sweet Q, has taught me what selfless love really means, as well as patience, kindness, and forgiveness.  I am not a perfect mom.  I mess up on a daily basis and, sometimes, I take it hard.  I am still looking for the balance between firm and dictator.  No one tells you how hard it is to determine if your child is acting willfully when they can’t speak!  I want to be permissive when I can be and always loving.  I want to raise Q to be a strong Christian woman. 

I still hit my knees every day, thanking God for entrusting me with the care and guidance of this precious soul, and begging for the wisdom, knowledge, and patience to do the job right.  I ask for forgiveness when I mess up, from both God and Q.  She may not have the capacity yet to understand it, but she will someday.  It will be, I hope, a blessing to her.  I want her to know that while I love her without measure, I will mess up and, more importantly, I will own it.

I’ve said it before; prayer is the most important tool we have.  Use it often.  Pray for yourselves, other parents, and if you have a moment, pray for me.  As always, thanks for reading.  J

Maybe the Gypsies Got it Right

As much as I hate to admit it, I have become a fan of reality TV.  I’ve recently started watching a show on TLC called “My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.”  It’s a fascinating look inside an under the radar culture.  After just a few episodes, it is crystal clear that there are precisely defined gender roles within a Gypsy marriage.  The men make the money, the women are exclusively housewives. 

While I’m not naïve enough to imagine that every Gypsy marriage is a happy one, the ones that are shown have love, respect, and longevity, even if the values seem old-fashioned.  Gypsy girls are married in their late teens.  Their entire life they are brought up with the idea that they are to be a wife, mother, and homemaker; their husbands make the decisions and are exclusively responsible for providing for the family.  The women have enough fire in them that I doubt the men make decisions without consulting their wives.  I’m torn about the premise of this lifestyle.  I can clearly see both the rigid restraints, and the freedom behind such an upbringing. 

I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunities that have been afforded to me.  I am an attorney, even though I am currently a homemaker.  Should something catastrophic happen to my husband, I will not be at the mercy of family, welfare, minimum wage jobs, or feel the need to immediately remarry so that I can take care of myself and my children;  I can simply go back to practicing law.  I also have no doubts that my education and training help to establish a balance of power in my relationship.  I have seen many marriages where the women were virtually at the mercy of their husbands because they had no education or training and could not provide for themselves or their children outside of the marriage.  Most of those that I have seen are not happy.  The man treats his wife like an indentured servant, and often devalues her. Luckily, this is not the case for me.  Jeff is the biggest sweetheart I have ever met.

But the Gypsy girls are groomed for motherhood and homemaking.  There is freedom in that as well.  If your biggest aspiration is to be someone’s wife, have children, and take care of a home, then a lot of pressures are erased.  They don’t feel they “should” be financially contributing to the family.  Their role and their work are clearly defined.  While I believe every girl has the right to be whatever she wants to be, including a homemaker, I can acknowledge that an awful lot of guilt seems to weigh on the former working woman who decides to stay at home.  There’s the feeling that you just aren’t doing enough.  There’s the guilt of knowing how much you could be contributing financially, but aren’t.  There’s also the feeling that you need to explain your choice, as if electing to be a stay at home mom isn’t a worthy aspiration.  Seemingly, the more skilled and educated you are, the more this choice is called into question.

I believe every woman needs to have the capability to provide for herself and her children.  I also believe that the opportunity to stay at home, raise your children, and care for your husband and house is a blessing.  I just wish I knew how to combine the two and erase the confusion, doubt, and guilt.  Maybe the Gypsies have it right, maybe not.  But, you have to respect a culture where the women are proud to be wives and mothers and the men provide without question. 

What do you think?

The Life Unexamined

I wrote an article tonight for the examiner regarding the benefits of therapy.  If I had my way, everyone would have a few sessions.  I remember blundering through my 20’s, engaging in behavior that was self-sabotaging and did nothing but bring me misery.  I can’t count the number of times I would ask myself, “Why do I do this??”  I had the awareness to know that something was terribly wrong, but didn’t yet have the tools I needed to recognize how to change those.

I grew up in a secretive family.  You didn’t discuss your problems, you didn’t ask for help.  You plastered a smile on your face and pretended everything was terrific, even if your world was falling apart around you.  I would experience crying jags that would last hours.  I could never predict what would set them off or even articulate what was wrong, I just knew that I was terribly unhappy and felt alone, isolated.

My entire life, I have craved close, emotional relationships with other women.  I wanted so desperately to have a friend who knew all my secrets, and loved me anyway.  I wanted someone whom I could trust completely, and who trusted me.  But while I desired these relationships, I also feared them and kept women with whom I could have had this type of relationship at arm’s length.  That kind of trust and closeness was scary.  I couldn’t truly believe that if someone know me, the real me, they’d stick around. So, I largely surrounded myself with narcissists who required nothing from me but attention.  It’s easy to be the friend of a narcissist.  All you have to do is keep your mouth shut.  No worries about them knowing the real me, they weren’t interested in anyone but themselves.

As the years progressed, I found my periods of depression becoming less intermittent and more pervasive.  It eventually blossomed into a full blown, deep depressive disorder.  My faith in God and my fear of Hell are the only things that kept me from taking my life. 

God knows our every need.  He put me on a path that I would have never contemplated, where I ended up making one of the best friends I have ever had.  She knew all my secrets, and loves me still.  She could see when I was about to crash and burn, and treated me gently, with love and compassion.  She calmly suggested a great therapist to me over and over again, even though I declined so many times.  Finally, I realized that normal people don’t go to bed hoping to not wake up the next morning.  I called the therapist and have been in counseling ever since.

My life has improved a million fold.  I will forever be grateful to Melanie for her friendship, her love, her care, and her concern.  She is the angel God sent to me in my time of need.

If you didn’t know it before reading this post, I am pretty open about being in therapy.  I don’t feel it’s anything to be ashamed of, nor is it anything to hide.  If I can help one person, just one person, the way Melanie helped me, then it will have all been worth it.

My family still keeps secrets.  I think it embarrasses some of them that I am so outspoken about being in therapy.  I’m sorry they feel that way.  Therapy is a tool, nothing more and nothing less.  Secrets are poison and I’m no longer interested in keeping them.  My life is an open book.  Maybe that’s why my name is Paige.  J

Loving the Night Life

I am a night owl.  My best hours are from about 10 pm to 2 am.  Having a baby certainly put a crimp into that lifestyle.  Regardless of how many times I try to explain that to Quinn, she insists on both of us waking up rather early in the morning.  Although it sometimes results in me being very sleep deprived, I still love this time of night.  The house is quiet and my thoughts seem to flow to paper so easily.  It’s my “magic” time.

Perhaps because I love this time of night so much, I keep forgetting to order decaf when I meet the girls for coffee.   Yep, I had a big old cup of full strength coffee a couple of hours ago, ensuring that even if I wanted to go to bed, sleep would flee from me.

I don’t understand the 8 to 5 world, although I lived in it for many years.  Regardless of what time I actually woke up, I wasn’t alert and ready to communicate with the world at large until 10 am.  There was a running joke in my old law office that you just didn’t talk to Paige before 10.  It wasn’t that I was in a bad mood, I just wasn’t awake yet.  I don’t know where my circadian rhythms got so messed up or if I was always this way.  For as long as I can remember, I loved the night and dreaded early mornings.

This is probably why I loved college and thrived there.  College towns cater to the night owls, as there are always people up working on homework and projects they procrastinated on.  Restaurants, neat little coffee shops, and, of course, Wal-Mart are always ready to greet the night owl in a college town.  Your class schedule, for the most part, could be arranged to suit your preferences.  When I could swing it, I never scheduled a class before 10 am.

There’s also the small problem of my odd reasoning skills in the morning.  As the alarm goes off, I start bargaining with myself and the laws of time and physics don’t seem to apply in my house.  I can absolutely convince myself that I can shower, do my hair and makeup, and get dressed in 5 minutes.  So, see? It isn’t a problem if I hit snooze and sleep another 15 minutes.

Now that I have Quinn, and get to stay home with her, I don’t have to worry so much.  Quinn doesn’t care what I look like when I’m feeding her breakfast.  I don’t have to use my unique reasoning skills until Sunday rolls around.   Then it’s a scramble to get us ready for church because, once I realize that the laws of physics and time DO apply in my house, I’m screeching, “We’re going to be late!!” every five minutes.

I’ve tried to be an early worm and a morning person.  My apologies to the sun, but I just don’t have it in me.   I love the nightlife!

Living in Fear

What are your innermost thoughts and dreams?  In a perfect world, what would you be doing?  For me, the answer has always been writing.  I’ve been writing short stories and poetry since I was in elementary school.  I still have my first story, “Flowger, the Talking Ant”, written and illustrated by yours truly. Whenever I close my eyes and picture myself in the future, I’m always an author.  Always.

I started working on my first manuscript when I was a junior in college.   The average novel ranges anywhere from 45,000 to 150,000 words.  My manuscript languishes at around 14, 500 words.  Since beginning that manuscript, I have dropped it and come back numerous times.  I’ve also started work on at least 4 other manuscripts. 

So, it begs the question, why don’t I finish any of them and attempt to get published?  Like so many other things in my life, the reasons are varied and intertwined with emotion.  But boiled down to the simplest reason, I don’t pursue what I love because I live in fear.

I fear that I’m simply not talented enough.  When I was eleven, I showed someone I trusted, an adult, the beginning of a short story that I was working on.  I was hurt when my paper was returned to me and the person said, with a disgusted look on his/her face, “It needs a lot of work.”  I was crushed.  There was nothing positive said.  Even the person’s body language suggested there was nothing I was doing right, nothing worthy of praise or celebration.  I stopped writing for a period of time.  If this person thought my work stank, then I had no business writing.

Although I fully understand that I’m an adult and have the capability to put that instance behind me, it still haunts me.  I still hear the inner critic that whispers to me that I have no talent and I am wasting time.  Even now, when I am publishing articles at examiner and my own thoughts on this blog, I am scared by the possible reaction, especially as I am posting my own creative works here.  I crave positive feedback, while realizing I will never fully believe the good things people have to say about my work.

Being a writer has always been my ace in the hole.  It is the fantasy that I believe will cure all the ills in my life.  We aren’t making enough money? No problem! I’ll finish and publish my book and that won’t be an issue any more.  It’s my panacea for what’s ailing in my life.  If I actually finish my book and try to publish it, I’ll have to face the reality that either I’m not talented enough to be published or that even if I am, it will far from solve the problems in my life. 

I am making headway.  I am writing almost daily now.  I am publishing articles on examiner; I am posting my thoughts here.  I’m also tweaking my definition of success.  I may never be able to make a living with my writing, but I hope I am making a difference and touching a life here and there.  Knowing that there are people who look forward to reading my next article has been a salve on my wounded confidence.  I appreciate you all more than you know. 

Thanks for reading.

From the Mist: An Original Poem

In the gray mist
I wait
Patient always
Through endless time
No fear, no worry
Calm solitude
Complete peace
Watching earnestly
Seeking the ray of light
The opportunity
Then I will emerge
I am born
Fresh from the mist
Original and new
Exisiting in my purest form
Never compromised
Never diluted
Always strong
I was
I am
I ever will be
From the mist
Into the light
Unchanged and true

Food and Mixed Messages and Weight Issues. Oh My!

Food and I have a long history.  We’ve been BFFs, we’ve broken up and made up, we’ve tried to make it work, promising things would be different this time.  Sadly, you need food to live.  If I were addicted to anything else, cigarettes, drugs, alcohol, I could kick the habit and walk away, never to indulge again.  But again, there’s the unavoidable truth that food is necessary to life.

I don’t ever remember there being a time when my weight was not the elephant in the room, pun intended.  It was brought up at pediatrician visits, while shopping for clothes, on the playground, when asking for treats.  I trust you see the pattern here.  The mixed messages I received about food still haunt me in my adulthood.  Being told I needed to lose just a little bit of weight, immediately followed by an offer of frozen pizza or ice cream.  Being told that I shouldn’t eat donuts, after they were bought, brought in the house, and I’ve already eaten one. Viewing foods as “good” or “bad”.  Deciding I was going to “be bad” and have an ice cream.  Food is food.  It’s all fuel.  You could live on a diet entirely of donuts and not gain weight if you stay within your calorie range. Granted there are foods that offer better nutrition and other health benefits, but it’s still fuel. 

Sitting here now, in my early thirties and with my present body, I can look back on old photographs and see myself with a clearer perspective. I was never a petite child, but I was certainly never the gargantuan I believed I was.  In high school, I shot up several inches, grew curves in the right places, and can look back fondly on my pictures.  Dare I say it, I was even pretty!  But that’s not how I felt then.  I felt like the fat girl.  The girl who never got asked out.  The girl “with the great personality” who was “so funny”. I watched my friends go out with the boys I had crushes on and my heart broke a little more each time.  With each new scar, my personality grew a little bit more out of control.

I have tried every, and I do mean every, method of weight loss out there.  Dexatrim, Phen-Fen, Xenadrine, Acai berry pills, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Nutrisystem, diets I’d found on the internet.  I even dabbled in anorexia, bulimia, and excessive workouts, up to 5 hours a day.  Nothing worked, at least, not long term.  I’ve probably gained and lost well over 1,000 pounds in my life.

After a time, I became DEFIANT about my weight.  See? I could be smart AND fat.  I could be successful AND fat.  I could have lots of friends AND be fat.  I could attract men AND be fat.  It was my personal war against a world that proclaimed we should all be size 2s.  I even think I used it to test Jeff’s love for and fidelity to me.  You love me? Really? How about after I gain 20 lbs.?  You still love me? How about after 50 lbs.? 100 lbs.?   The love was still there, unwavering. Inside, I was screaming in the prison I had built for myself.

The programs I tried never worked long term because I was addressing the symptoms of the weight gain, rather than the cause.  Even with therapy, it’s a bit like fighting a Hydra.  For every head I cut off, 3 more seem to sprout.  I have so many emotional issues tied to eating; it’s going to take some time to sort them out.  How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

I’ve started losing weight again, with great success.  It took some hard work, and I don’t mean exercising or logging foods.  Strange as it may seem, I had to give myself permission to lose weight.  I had to tell myself that it was ok to take care of myself, that I deserved it.  I had to see myself of someone worthy of love, something I had been fighting against for years.  I have spent more years hating myself than I care to remember.  I have to be kind to myself.  Food is fuel, but it can also be enjoyed.  A little indulgence here or there is ok; perfection is not an option, nor is it possible. 

I want to see my Q grow up.  Most importantly, I don’t want to pass these food issues on to her.  I can preach to her all I want, but in the end, what I do, how I treat myself and take care of myself are the lessons she’s going to learn.

A Secret Place - An Original Story

           All Bertie wanted was a safe place, a secret place.  She wanted to hide away from her job, her family, but mostly from herself, even if only for an hour.  She didn’t want to disappear forever, just periodically.  All she needed was a little time, just enough to siphon off the stress and strain she felt.  There were days when she felt she would crack from weight of trying to keep things together.   She sometimes felt like Atlas, the weight of the world crushing her into insignificant particles.

She couldn’t lie to herself.  There were times when all she truly wanted was to curl up in a ball and die, with no one noticing.  Of course, that was quickly followed by a vision of her funeral.  Some days she envisioned a vast crowd of mourners, distraught over the end to her short and glorious life.  Other days, she envisioned an empty room, save for the casket her body was in.   These moods were usually brought on by a dirty little habit of hers.  She would spend hours looking at the MySpace or Facebook profiles of people she once knew.  She convinced herself that her life was worthless and devoid of meaning and that her former acquaintances were living fulfilled lives, stuffed with meaning and happiness.  The critic in her head, who sounded remarkably like her mother, was forever whispering, “You’re not good enough.   You haven’t done enough with your life.  You’re unimportant.”  Never mind the fact that Bertie was a successful attorney with a loving husband.  She somehow always managed to forget those minor points.  Bertie understood on a purely intellectual level that she had accomplished great things and overcome difficult tasks.  On that level, she understood she was a bright, lively, funny, intelligent woman.   But on the emotional level, she was very much a five-year-old, feverishly yearning and pining away for total love and acceptance from her parents that, frankly, she was never going to get.  On nights like that, Bertie prayed fervently for a secret place, one without judgment, timelines, pressures and recriminations.  She knew if she didn’t eventually find that place, she might do the unthinkable.

Bertie didn’t typically believe in mystical things.  She accepted most things at face value, placing belief in what she could touch, see, and hear.  So, the first time she made time stop, she was understandably shocked.

One minute she was being publically humiliated by one of the partners in her firm and the next, well, she didn’t know what happened.  Roger Thompson, a named partner and resident jerk of the firm she worked for was still in front of her, mouth open, face red and scrunched, finger pointed.  But, no sound issued from him.  In fact, now that she was paying attention, she realized silence filled the air.  No radio from the receptionist’s desk, no phones ringing, and no copier going off, nothing…just blessed silence, as comforting as a favorite blanket.  “I have finally snapped.  I have finally lost my mind and gone completely crazy” Bertie thought as she looked around.  No one was moving. 

Not entirely sure what to do, she decided to enjoy the break before she woke up in the local mental hospital.  She had brought a particularly juicy novel to work in the hopes that she would actually be able to take a lunch and enjoy the book.  Of course, there is no rest for the weary, or in her case, the low associate on the totem pole. No lunch and no trip to the fantastic world depicted in her book.

Bertie carefully dodged Mr. Thompson’s finger frozen in air and walked back to her office, careful not to bump into her coworkers who looked remarkably like mannequins.  Bertie grabbed the book, and on a whim, decided to read it on the particularly comfy couch in the reception area.  If she was going nuts, she may as well make the most of it and take all the enjoyment she could. Bertie nestled herself on the couch and began reading, uneasily at first.  She found it hard to get interested in the story that previously captivated her because she kept expecting to wake up.  Eventually the scintillating prose captured her again and, before she knew it, she had finished the book.  Startled, she looked around.  Everyone was still frozen; she had finished a book and had yet to emerge from a dream or in a hospital bed.

Bertie started to freak out a little.  What started off as strange, slightly amusing and a good time to read had turned into a frightening scenario.  She returned to her office and pulled out a steno pad.  She found it easier to think when she could make lists, probably part of the anal-retentive behavior that made her a good attorney.  She started going through the events of the day up to when everything went wacko.  Nothing was out of the ordinary.  So, she tried to relive what was going through her mind when Thompson started bawling her out in front of an audience.

All she remembered was the humiliation and anger that was surging through her.  She had wished that he would shut up or that everything would just stop and she could sneak away.  Wait a minute….she couldn’t possibly have stopped time by thinking about it….That was impossible.  And yet, here she was, in her peaceful office while the rest of the people were stopped.  She glanced at her wristwatch, also stopped.  She then paused to look outside the tiny window in her office. Everything there was frozen as well.

Well, she surmised, if I can stop time by thinking it, maybe I can start it by thinking it.  She thought it best that she be back in front of Thompson before testing her hypothesis. Grudgingly, she trucked back down the hall and got back in front of Thompson’s pointed finger.  She thought to herself, I wish everything would start again and presto….just like that she could smell Thompson’s horrible breath as he continued screaming at her.  The phones were ringing, the copier was humming, and everyone started moving.

Bertie was beyond belief.  She had to check, had to make sure….so, she wished time would stop again.  Silence fell around her and everyone froze.  Bertie froze and restarted time several more times, unable to believe what she was doing.  No one seemed to be adversely affected.  They just stopped and started back up like little wind up dolls.

It seems Bertie got what she always wished for – her own secret place, any time she wanted and anywhere she wanted.  All she had to do was wish.  Suddenly the world was truly her oyster.  She had “time” to do anything in the world she pleased.  If she wanted to eat a leisurely lunch and then take a nap, she simply stopped time.  If she wanted to read an entire book uninterrupted, she froze time.  There were no more early mornings or late nights. She simply completed projects in her secret place.  The partners were astounded as Bertie could now do the work of three people in half the time.  Raises, bonuses, and perks started coming her way.

All was well and Bertie was living an exceptionally fulfilled life until one morning she looked in the mirror and noticed the fine lines around her eyes and mouth.  She was a little troubled as they seemed to appear overnight.  She pushed it out of her mind as delayed stress reactions. 

She went about her life merrily, freezing time whenever it suited her, until the day she noticed the lines were deeper and she had some liver spots.  These were such that Bertie could no longer ignore them.  She was definitely too young for liver spots and the wrinkles were too deep for someone her age.  She quickly phoned for an appointment with her dermatologist.  But her doctor just laughed at her concerns and ignored her pleas that she did not suntan and there was no reason for the premature aging of her skin.  Her doctor merely nodded and then recommended skin products with sun protection.  It just didn’t seem right to Bertie.  She was too young, she didn’t abuse her body or her skin and she shouldn’t be aging at this rate.  But follow-up consultations with other dermatologists confirmed that despite her careful living, she was aging quickly.

At the first sign of the fine lines, a thought in the very dark corners of her mind began to grow, quietly whispering that the ability to stop time must be connected.  Quietly insisting that just because time stopped for everyone else didn’t mean it was stopping for her.  Bertie sat and thought about that.  How many times had she stopped time since she discovered she could?  And how long were the intervals?  It was impossible to tell when the clocks and watches were stopped.  It never seemed long to her.    

Still, even if time didn’t stop for her and she continued aging, it didn’t explain how her skin had aged 10 years in the space of a few months, it just couldn’t be possible.  She tried to estimate the intervals by the number of projects completed and books read.  Her estimate was staggering and she quickly dismissed it as inaccurate.  There was no way she had lived 10 years in her secret place; she hadn’t stopped time long enough for that to happen.  While she was convinced her premature aging and her special powers were related, she was equally convinced that there had to be more to the problem.

Terrified, she made a solemn promise to herself that she wouldn’t stop time again until she knew what was going on.  But that was like a heroin addict trying to go cold turkey.  She couldn’t do it.  Her bosses were accustomed to her massive level of output.  If she no longer could do the work in her secret place, she would be fired because she simply couldn’t keep up.  Her friends and family now depended on her superwoman abilities and endless energy.  Additionally, she had no idea how to go about finding out what the problem was.  She wasn’t about to advertise her ability and there was no research available on the subject.  Her dream had become a nightmare; she resigned herself to her inevitable fate.

Bertie kept stopping time, kept going to her secret place, more and more frequently.  To her family and friends, it seemed as Bertie aged overnight.  She didn’t wake up one morning and find a gray hair, she woke up and found herself gray headed.  The wrinkles got deeper, the liver spots multiplied.  One day she was ram rod straight, and the next she was hunch backed.  The physical problems created new terror for Bertie.  What if she had a heart attack or a stroke while she was in her secret place?  Would the world stay frozen while she died a slow, agonizing death?  Would the world return to normal once she died?  She didn’t know.  The familiar feeling of carrying the weight of the world returned.

Finally, it was too much.  One day, at the ripe old age of thirty five, Bertie just didn’t wake up.  Her body was exhausted and could no longer do what she demanded.  No one understood what had happened to Bertie.  Everyone assumed some new disease had accelerated the aging process.  There were rumors ranging from the mundane to the extreme as those left behind tried to make sense of Bertie’s untimely death.  There were rumors of cancer, exposure to radioactive material and even alien abduction.  The truth was far more extraordinary, but Bertie died without telling a soul.  Bertie lived her life wishing for a secret place.  Her desire was stronger than she could ever fully comprehend.  Her craving to take a break and isolate herself from the rest of the world ended up killing her.  The once young, vibrant woman had lived a lifetime in her secret place and had died with the body of a women three times her age.

Parenting

If parents ever really sat down and considered the responsibility involved in raising children, the human race would die out.  There are no do-overs, no receipts, and no second chances.  It only takes one, ONE, defining moment in a child’s life to forever scar or encourage.  No child is born thinking that he is ugly, or stupid, or that his laugh is annoying.  No child is born thinking that she has weird feet, or that she’s fat, or that she’s somehow not enough.  A child is told this about himself.  Depending on who is telling him, and his support system, he will either believe it, internalize it, making it a permanent part of himself, or he’ll discard it, though it may have planted a seed of doubt.

Consider this issue one step further: communication is largely nonverbal.  Although we are largely unaware of it, we are forever scanning our audiences for nonverbal cues.  Body language can reveal anger when the voice is saying everything is fine.  So, when you are telling your child something, does your body language back you up, or are you giving mixed signals?  Are you telling your child not to bully another while you stand aggressively over them, invading their space and pushing your agenda on them?  Don’t misunderstand, discipline is appropriate.  But again, how are we going about it?

This issue came to light for me on two separate occasions.  I was playing with my nine-month-old when she started grabbing for my glasses.  I calmly grabbed her hand and told her, “We don’t grab mommy’s glasses.”  This repeated a few times before she seemed to get the idea.  Then, out of the blue, she reached out, viper quick, and grabbed, not only my glasses, but a good deal of hair.  It hurt immensely and I reacted out of pain, anger, and frustration: I popped her on the leg.  It was not a hard pop, more to get her attention.  But, in that moment, I saw in her eyes that I had broken her trust.  I had done something that she had not conceived of as possible in her short time on this earth: I had hurt her.  I instantly felt shame flood me.  I can never get that moment back and I can’t redo it; it is now part of our history.  On the second occasion, I was cooking dinner while she was eating a snack in her high chair.  She had been babbling and cooing to herself, getting increasingly louder.  She then started yelling and screaming, just to see if she could do it.  I told her, “We don’t yell.  Let’s use our inside voice.”  Again, we repeated this pattern a few times before she seemed to understand.  Like the glasses incident, after a significant pause in the behavior, she yelled her loudest yet.  I whirled around and was on the verge of shouting, “WE DON’T YELL!!”  when I realized what I was about to do.  The absurdity of it stopped me and I was glad I was able to put the brakes on.  I was about to give her a mixed message: yelling at her that we don’t yell.  How ironic.

Parenting takes patience, fortitude, and bravery that most of us aren’t aware we have until we try it.  Because we are imperfect, and we live in a fallen world, we will screw up.  We will hurt our children.  We will scar them.  We must be able to forgive ourselves, ask forgiveness from our children when necessary, and keep going; doing everything we can to minimize the damage. 

Be kind to other parents, reach out when you need help, and ALWAYS remember to pray.  God is the greatest ally we can have on our side.