'Parenting' tagged posts

The Paradox of Parenting

I walked out to the car with my son on the way to his swim practice. It was raining a little. Pattering drops fell around us as we exit the garage to get into my 2006 Honda Accord.

I asked him, “Buddy, did you check the mail today?”

He replied loudly, “Yes.”

“You did?” I asked again.


“Good job.”

I opened the door for him and as he got in I asked with a tone of displeasure, “Where’s your jacket?” He never wears a jacket voluntarily. I sometimes think he would go out in the Pacific Northwest rain with just a t-shirt and flip-flops if we didn’t make him wear more.

He answered, “I didn’t bring one,” while he crawled into the car.

I closed the door on his leg before he had completely gotten into the car.

He yelled, “OWWWWW!”

There’s Grace For That


Disclaimer:  I am still extremely new at parenting.  I also will likely rework my thoughts about parenting a zillion times before the end of my life, so consider this an observational snapshot. With those declarations made, please offer me grace in speaking about something I have mostly spectator’s experience with.  I’m aware you likely know more than me.  I’m just sharing where I am.  Right now.

I’m not going to lie, I honestly thought that once your kids were “grown” in age or self-sufficiency, you pretty much got to coast as a parent. 

My 2am Friend, or the Day I Thought I’d Lost My Son

One minute we were lounging on the picnic blanket in our backyard. Jacob was happily chewing on a toy and I was happily snapping pics of him as he rolled back and forth, wiggling his toes in the air. The next minute, I noticed he had a piece of grass sticking out of his mouth, and as I reached to remove it, he began to gag.

I picked him up, set him on my lap and looked at his little face as my heart stopped. Is he choking? He’s not breathing. He quickly drew in a breath of air. Sweet relief. And then his stomach tightened, he began to cough and then vomited right down the front of my shirt, onto my pants, onto himself. I held out a hand to catch the rest of the vomit—which just kept coming. I thought it was strange that a single blade of grass would cause such an intense reaction, but I wasn’t overly concerned. Babies get sick sometimes, and everything seemed pretty normal. I picked up my son and our soiled blanket and took him inside for a bath.

I had barely made it through the back door before he began to gag and heave once again.

Hardest years. For who??


It becomes clichéd to mention how hard parenting teens can be. Because everybody knows that-right?  What with all the hormones changing, and boy-girl drama, and friend circles changing, and learning to drive, getting a job, getting the grades, college, independence, and on and on and on and on….

And trust me this isn’t a “note” about how raising teens is easy either.  Because the cliché is cliché or “commonplace” for a reason.  It isn’t “I’m up with a baby all night” hard.  Or “trying to soothe a temper tantrum prone 3 year old in a grocery store” hard. It’s different.

It’s “the big game – and you feel like you are on the sidelines, and you wonder if you got them ready for this” hard.

And it isn’t me up to bat.  There isn’t a thing I can do.  The laid back practices, and sipping on a juice box talks in the grass are done.  You’ve coached, and taught, and thrown the ball, and yelled, and corrected, and adjusted the game plan, and tried your best with what you have and now you watch.  And you cheer.  And you pray. 

I’m Not Enough

It was 3am. I was more than sleep deprived; I was going a little bit crazy. Jacob, my new baby boy, was less than a week old, and he was hungry. His screams pierced the darkness and pierced this new mama’s heart. The pediatrician’s office had called that afternoon to say we needed to supplement his […]

Imperfect parents produce perfect kids

The parent wound is very real. I even think someone coined it, “The Father Wound.” This wound is the lingering void in the life of a person traced back to a broken relationship with a parent.

In our culture most fingers point back to an absent father, but the blame can also fall on mom. There are experts who can carefully explain how all my present problems lie at the feet of that less-than-perfect parent. They assert that depression, anxiety, addiction, and even the brokenness in my adult relationships all stem from my parents’ failure.

Without a doubt, their failures hurt me. They hurt deeply. My parents trained me. Long before I had the ability to discern, I was being imprinted with my parents’ views on life, anger management, self medication and the list goes on.
But, am I solely a product of my parents? Am I simply doomed or destined to live some sick 2015 “Groundhog Day” remake?