Wazy Wednesday’s With Wachel.

Wednesdays are so wazy for me in fact that I don’t even bother to sound out my words correctwy. Wednesday’s haven’t always been wazy , but today I was sick in bed ( again ) with who knows what reeking havoc on my body. While I was wying there , I got an idea! 

Show your readers what you make when you are sick, lazy, breathing, sad, happy, or just plain human on a Wednesday night. So, this is what we did.

” Children , come hither from outside in the barn and help your Mother make dinner!” She said.

” No! We are having way too much fun in the mud and getting new grass stains on the new pair of jeans you just purchased!” They said.

Oh, but you will LOVE this dinner. There are no vegetables, and you get to make a mess, and then eat it. And after we are finished I will buy you each a brand new unlimited supply of candy bars!” She said.

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So, here are your ingredients. We had extra buns from a cook out, so I made do with a fun dinner with the kids. Plus, I learned about this fun recipe at my cousins house growing up. It was always so much fun making our own little pizza’s together. And then skinny dipping in their pool. I could have left that last part out, but why?

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Obviously these brands can be switched up, and different sauces and cheeses can be used. But if that happens, you might die. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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So then you give each child a plate of their own, you know to boost their self esteem levels that they are capable of making their own dinner. Which you know they are not, that you will still have to help. 

You will help them spread the sauce over the bun, then let them choose a cheese for the topping. Since I am mean I only gave them two choices.

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The girls loved this part! They are natural cooks. Barefooted in the kitchen with their Momma. Adah chose a hotdog bun because she doesn’t like hamburgers. Understandable.

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Asher refused to smile for the camera, because he hated this part. It also wasn’t Papa Johns, like I requested their Father to bring home the night before. See? I’m not Wazy.

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Please don’t judge the quality of my photos. My professional photographer quit because I wasn’t paying him. Jokes on HIM because I am an amazing photographer. Like better than anyone. My photos are real and raw. And really, really bad.

So I let everyone place their pizza’s on the baking sheet, and I baked them at 350 for around ten minutes. In those ten minutes two out of three children got into a fight over the Halloween candy from a school party. I poured a glass of wine out of BOXED wine, because I am awesome, and one nameless child pooped in her pants for the second time in one day. Leading me to research selective IBS when tired.

What did you eat Wachel, you ask?

Well, I ate this. Trying to feel healthy and better about my life.

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This bread is the bomb.com , and you can find it at your local Costco. It’s great with just butter, but your best bet is to smother it in Nutella if you really value your life.

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So , here’s my healthy pizza . That I later paired with local cinnamon buns my sweet husband brought me home because he knew that I felt like a glass of red wine at a Baptist convention. Not appreciated, alone and a little too fermented. ( I was sick .)

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See how mean he was to me? Just awful, especially when I made him a fancy salad to make him think I worked WEAWY hard in the kitchen while fighting a sinus infection. See?

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Thank you for reading my most boring of all blogs. Maybe I gave you a quick and easy recipe for your kids on those nights where you cannot even. I hope I did.

I love you all, and all the easy things.

I love feeding my kids healthy foods, but on Wednesdays I Stwuggle .

Tune in for more Wazy Wednesdays With Wachel. Share with your friends that are equally as tired as we are!

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Dismissing trauma in our lives for the sake of gratefulness is never healthy.

I had a funny dream last night that my husband and I were able to go back in time. We chose to both go back to the year where we first started dating. Knowing full well we were married, but in teenage bodies with all of these rules was comical at first. Then we began to get in trouble with our parents for closing the door to my bedroom, and spending too much time together.

What was funny at first became an annoyance, and we wanted to go back to being 27 and 28. We realized that many times we wished to go back to the way things used to be. When everything was new, and exciting. Every little kiss was something to write about in my journal, and each time we held hands I thought my heart would explode. My love for him grew, as we grew. 

In the dream, we tried to explain to my Dad that we were in teenage bodies, but we were really ten years older than that. It didn’t take us long before we were sick of living in the past.

I woke up in the middle of the night, puzzled but sure The Lord was teaching me something. As I lay there in the dark, with both of our daughters pressed against me and my husband on the other side, I began to play the dream in my head, again and again. Soaking in each detail and dissecting the events that occurred.

After an hour I was finally able to go back to sleep, only to wake up to a sickness that had me bed ridden all day.

It was our daughters third birthday, and as I laid in bed sick as a dog, the Lord dealt with my heart through a series of dreams. As I slept, he spoke in an intricate web of dreams.


All the dreams had the same meaning – stop living in the past.

This day three years ago we were given a beautiful baby girl. At 7:05 pm I heard her cry, as I cried too. Longing to see the precious girl I had waited so long to meet. 42 weeks of holding her in my womb. As soon as Matt held her up to my face for me to kiss her, intense pain shot through my right leg, and up to my right shoulder. I screamed in pain, unable to control my sobs. The nurse administered Morphine without my consent, and what happened over the next couple of hours I will never be able to remember.

I do not remember meeting her for the first time, or nursing her. I had to ask several family members and close friends if they even came to the hospital, as I wasn’t aware of my surroundings most days. I do not remember this picture being taken, or kissing those sweet cheeks.

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The pain in my physical body wasn’t as bad as what was going on inside my soul. I was dying hour by hour, trying to make sense of what had happened. I had only gone to the hospital because of numbness in my left arm, and I left with a baby. A baby that was cut out of me.

Entering our home and passing by the home birth kit killed me a little more. Trying to focus on my newborn baby, while dealing with intense abdominal pain wasn’t for the faint of heart.

I felt violated. Unloved, and very , very angry.


On this same day of Adah’s birth three years ago, old emotions come back to the surface on my mind. My body wants to react in muscle memory to that day. It’s as if my body remembers the trauma, the tears and the intense regret.

While I was given new life in a daughter, a part of myself died that day.

All day I have wrestled to celebrate her life, and disassociate MY death from HER life.

When we celebrate LIFE , we are joyful . When we honor DEATH, we can be mournful.

I had a dear friend ask me today:

” On a day that was so hard for you, how do you celebrate her life?”

My answer is that I am still unsure. I am still working through the grief of that day, and I am still enjoying my life with my sweet girl. My miracle child.

Just because I love her, and I thank God daily for her life does not erase what her birth did to my soul.

While I sang Happy Birthday to her today as she ate her requested chocolate doughnut, I wept inside. I wept for what my soul longed for. My last baby to be born at home into my arms.

Today I wonder how many times Jesus has wanted something GRAND for our lives that we didn’t accept. I wonder how many times I’ve lived in the past, just like my dream. Frustrated , but never aware of my deep longing to live in the NOW. How often have I held on way too tight to what could have been, while missing out on the present.

Dismissing trauma in our lives for the sake of gratefulness is never healthy.

It’s just like a car accident:

We don’t love what the accident did to our car, or the injuries it gave us, but we are thankful to be alive.

I am thankful she is alive. I do not like what the accident did to my body. To my mind.

Just because we are dealing with the horrors of the past, does not make us ungrateful. We can have the most grateful heart, and still be hurting.

Let me say that one more time. We can still be overcoming past hurts, and still be grateful for the life that we have today.

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Celebrating her life today, and always. Redeeming her birth in my mind, everyday. Loving her more , everyday. Trusting God that her birth wasn’t in vain, everyday.

Dismissing trauma in our lives for the sake of gratefulness is never healthy.

I had a funny dream last night that my husband and I were able to go back in time. We chose to both go back to the year where we first started dating. Knowing full well we were married, but in teenage bodies with all of these rules was comical at first. Then we began to get in trouble with our parents for closing the door to my bedroom, and spending too much time together.

What was funny at first became an annoyance, and we wanted to go back to being 27 and 28. We realized that many times we wished to go back to the way things used to be. When everything was new, and exciting. Every little kiss was something to write about in my journal, and each time we held hands I thought my heart would explode. My love for him grew, as we grew. 

In the dream, we tried to explain to my Dad that we were in teenage bodies, but we were really ten years older than that. It didn’t take us long before we were sick of living in the past.

I woke up in the middle of the night, puzzled but sure The Lord was teaching me something. As I lay there in the dark, with both of our daughters pressed against me and my husband on the other side, I began to play the dream in my head, again and again. Soaking in each detail and dissecting the events that occurred.

After an hour I was finally able to go back to sleep, only to wake up to a sickness that had me bed ridden all day.

It was our daughters third birthday, and as I laid in bed sick as a dog, the Lord dealt with my heart through a series of dreams. As I slept, he spoke in an intricate web of dreams.


All the dreams had the same meaning – stop living in the past.

This day three years ago we were given a beautiful baby girl. At 7:05 pm I heard her cry, as I cried too. Longing to see the precious girl I had waited so long to meet. 42 weeks of holding her in my womb. As soon as Matt held her up to my face for me to kiss her, intense pain shot through my right leg, and up to my right shoulder. I screamed in pain, unable to control my sobs. The nurse administered Morphine without my consent, and what happened over the next couple of hours I will never be able to remember.

I do not remember meeting her for the first time, or nursing her. I had to ask several family members and close friends if they even came to the hospital, as I wasn’t aware of my surroundings most days. I do not remember this picture being taken, or kissing those sweet cheeks.

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The pain in my physical body wasn’t as bad as what was going on inside my soul. I was dying hour by hour, trying to make sense of what had happened. I had only gone to the hospital because of numbness in my left arm, and I left with a baby. A baby that was cut out of me.

Entering our home and passing by the home birth kit killed me a little more. Trying to focus on my newborn baby, while dealing with intense abdominal pain wasn’t for the faint of heart.

I felt violated. Unloved, and very , very angry.


On this same day of Adah’s birth three years ago, old emotions come back to the surface on my mind. My body wants to react in muscle memory to that day. It’s as if my body remembers the trauma, the tears and the intense regret.

While I was given new life in a daughter, a part of myself died that day.

All day I have wrestled to celebrate her life, and disassociate MY death from HER life.

When we celebrate LIFE , we are joyful . When we honor DEATH, we can be mournful.

I had a dear friend ask me today:

” On a day that was so hard for you, how do you celebrate her life?”

My answer is that I am still unsure. I am still working through the grief of that day, and I am still enjoying my life with my sweet girl. My miracle child.

Just because I love her, and I thank God daily for her life does not erase what her birth did to my soul.

While I sang Happy Birthday to her today as she ate her requested chocolate doughnut, I wept inside. I wept for what my soul longed for. My last baby to be born at home into my arms.

Today I wonder how many times Jesus has wanted something GRAND for our lives that we didn’t accept. I wonder how many times I’ve lived in the past, just like my dream. Frustrated , but never aware of my deep longing to live in the NOW. How often have I held on way too tight to what could have been, while missing out on the present.

Dismissing trauma in our lives for the sake of gratefulness is never healthy.

It’s just like a car accident:

We don’t love what the accident did to our car, or the injuries it gave us, but we are thankful to be alive.

I am thankful she is alive. I do not like what the accident did to my body. To my mind.

Just because we are dealing with the horrors of the past, does not make us ungrateful. We can have the most grateful heart, and still be hurting.

Let me say that one more time. We can still be overcoming past hurts, and still be grateful for the life that we have today.

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Celebrating her life today, and always. Redeeming her birth in my mind, everyday. Loving her more , everyday. Trusting God that her birth wasn’t in vain, everyday.

Put yourself in a position to be refreshed.

With the windows open on both sides of the hallway on the second floor, I stood right in the middle and let the breeze hit my cheeks. The rain storm began and was relentless to stop as the cool air made it’s way around our home.

Standing at the top of the stairwell , with my arms stretched wide open I thanked Him for the home He provided. The dreams He saw in my heart, and made happen on Earth. Thinking of all the times I have had the privilege to visit heaven for a brief moment, standing in this hallway that spoke of history and memories galore made me feel like I was tasting a slice of heaven once more.

The rain was relentless to stop, pouring more growth onto our land. It was then I thought to set out our Mums that sat on the front porch to be watered.

In the pouring rain I set out four plants to receive refreshment from the rain. Moving them into a position where they would gain the growth they needed wasn’t easy for me.

I got wet and muddy. But I knew it was needed for the growth of the plants that I wanted to see blossom. Often growth isn’t possible without re-positioning ourselves.

I stood on the porch and watched the plants that I wanted to see blossom get refreshment. I wanted to see them in their full potential, their full color and shape. I knew they could be beautiful if they were provided the right amount of water and sunlight.

Standing in the shelter of the rain the Lord spoke to me as He does so often in the most creative of ways:

” It’s not unusual what you are learning here. I so often ask my children to step out into what doesn’t feel comfortable for them, only to have them refreshed by my spirit, and renewed by the mind of Christ. “

I sat in the rocking chair watching the rain nourish my plants, and I knew.

I knew that if I wouldn’t have placed them outside in the rain where they could gain refreshment, then they could have died.

It takes a step of faith, saying:

Hey Lord. I need your spirit to come upon me and make me new. But I know that I cannot remain in the place that I am currently in. I will step off the shelter and into the rain that you have provided for my gain. I will stop trying to hide and stay dry. I will step into what you have for me, even if I get soaked. Even if I get muddy, I am willing to walk into what you have for me.

In the largest of storms, even the smallest of plants get promoted as they gain strength from the rain He pours upon them.

Will you step out into the rain, or stay dry under the shelter?

For me, the risk of getting a bit uncomfortable and chilly is worth the growth that will be produced at the end of the storm.

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The beauty that will be shining from the soiled dirt. The first blossom of the weathered , yet cared for flower.

What I am saying is this: In order to grow spiritually we have to step out into the storm sometimes. We have to move our positions in life, into what his living water has to offer.

He never asks us to do things that we cannot handle, but He DOES ask us to trust what He says about the particular season that we are in.

My kids are so full of crap.

It’s officially Summer in our house. No more school, no more 6 am wake up calls. Somehow I have found I need an extra cup of coffee, added to the 7 that I drink in the mornings. Although there isn’t really a big routine going on around here, Summer is already stressing me out. 

I know what you are saying, it shouldn’t be this way, Rachel!

Right, and I agree, I really do.

I would like to share something super personal about our children that I birthed.

In the Summer, they poop a lot.

I’m not talking about once a day like normal children. I am talking like, 3 or 17 times a day. It’s something that has been heavy on my heart to share with you. At the end of this blog you will find a GOFUNDME account for toilet paper that is needed for all the sh$%ts they are taking,


I’ve discovered that Summer to them means relaxation. Right? I mean, doesn’t everyone relax more in the Summer months. The beach, the pool, sun bathing, beer drinking on the beach. Although our children are only allowed to do certain of those listed, because we aren’t in Europe, they have found other ways to relax.

They poop.


Loading up the van for the pool, one kid screams they had to poop yet again, after going twice that morning.

” Ok, go ahead! I’ll wait here!”

” No, you have to wipe me!”

( AT WHAT AGE DID YOU LET YOUR KIDS WIPE THEIR OWN BUTTS? I’M BEING SERIOUS.)

This said child is now 20. Too old? I DON’T KNOW.

I FEEL LIKE THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO PASS SOME SORT OF INTELLIGENCE AND AIM TEST.

FIRST QUESTION:

When you poop do you,

a) wipe while you are still pooping

b) wait until you are finished and just use one wipe, then later complain to your Mom your butt itches?

c) skip the wiping because your sibling is in there watching you and you are self conscious.

d) wipe effectively, but forget to put back on your underwear because you’re 4.

e) I don’t poop on the toilet


During our stay at the pool I had to watch the kid that I have that isn’t yet potty trained like a Hawk. Knowing those certain facial features and hip movements that produce crap, I am an instant spotter of a swimmy diaper disaster. I have been traumatized way too many times to count from the liquid poop immersing from the bathing suit into the adult swimming pool.

Once Rhema shut down the pool for two days her poop was that stank.

That being said, all of our children like to poop at the pool. Like an excessive amount, to the point where I have contemplated  setting up an open bar just for myself.

” Oh, you have to poop again. Cool. I’ll just be here sipping on my Corona with lime. “

This time in particular all was the same, so much poop.

We left and had to go to the grocery store to get dinner supplies. All three children to one of those amazing carts with the TWO steering wheels that HATE me, because one child is always out of a wheel. That third wheel phrase was invented by a Mother using one of those carts. She was cussing under her breath as the third , left out child screamed on aisle 3.

” Mom I have to poop! “

” AGAIN? How do you have anything left in your body? Can you hold it until we get home?”

” Yes.”

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So we left. Halfway home said child starts saying they cannot hold the poo any longer. I began to sweat thinking of cleaning up a poop infested car seat.

” MOM! PULL OVER RIGHT NOW I HAVE TO POOP!”

So I did. I got off on the most ghetto exit, put the van in park and put a diaper on a child old enough to marry in some countries. I felt violated, and concerned for the smell that was about to enter the van.

The business was done, as the youngest child slept peacefully in her carseat. Blissfully unaware of the great stench coming from her sibling. The one she looks up to the most. Thank God her eyes didn’t have to see the horror beside her as I clean said child up. I vowed to take this child out of my will when the poo got on my foot.

” SEE MOM! THAT WASN’T BAD AT ALL! I FEEL GREAT NOW!’

It was sort of like giving birth. Not what you planned on. The baby is all happy because your boob is in his mouth, and you have sh*$ coming out of your vagina for WEEKS. 

Well I had poop in places I couldn’t find in their entirety. I just vowed to shower in bleach when I returned home.


Believe me, I’ve prayed about starting a support group. But the reality is that I will not be able to attend. Someone will be pooping. Maybe not even my kids. Maybe I’ll be pooping. Oh dear Lord. It could happen to me too.

If you see me at the pool with my children, just hand me a clean swimmie diaper and some bleach. It is most likely that one of my offspring has relaxed way too much during Summer Vaca.


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Hurry up and wait!

I’m naturally a laid back woman, until a massive oak tree falls on my house. It’s just one of those things that I never expected when thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I just didn’t sit there in 9th grade Drama class enviosioning my handsome, hardworking husband, several children and a tree on my dream house. Much less did I even dream of a house, it was more the people. The experiences I would have as a wife and Mother. The house was in the background, and I could see it, but it wasn’t within my reach of focus.

Until we got married and a house was all I needed to make me happy. Surely we would find a place to plant our roots and raise a family. Instead we moved seven times in the course of our 8 year marriage. Always upgrading in certain ways, but each time I longed to make a house a forever home.

I know for sure this longing came from growing up in a single wide trailer with my five other siblings. My parents are amazing and raised us so well, but I was always ashamed to have friends over, always dreaming of when my Father would build the house of my Mothers dreams.

I brought this insecurity into our marriage, always striving to be ” home “. Working hard to fill each home we had with love and organization, the decor we could afford ( which was next to nothing ) and making a house a home, wherever that was.

It wasn’t until I was 27 years old that I felt at home. I felt as if I had arrived to my destiny, a place that would receive all of me. All my wounds and I walked through the threshold of the front door, and I instantly felt the presence of Jesus like nothing I’d ever experienced before.

Knowing full well so many sweet souls had lived here, and that I was only a second hand bystander of all that they had built, sown and reaped before I was even born. A legacy God chose for me to take the baton after so many had been so ragged taking care of it. Pouring their lives into preserving the home and property, honoring its infant days and those who abided for so many years raising children, and calling this place their home.

It was my greatest honor to take over their jewel.

I know for a lot of people a house is just a house. That is fine. That is normal. But for me, longing for an historical home for so long, just a place that is mine , was so important to my heart. A place our children had room to grow and to play. A safe haven for friends.

Sometimes at night, when all is quiet I walk the halls turning off all the lights, and I run my hands along the walls. feeling each detail and groove,  acknowledging its history and what used to be. I truly appreciate all this house has held together and birthed. The people that dwelled here and the joy and laughter all these walls have heard.

The expression ” if these walls could talk ” makes me grin. Yes, I do wish they could tell me stories of families gathering here. Marriages mended, babies born, children saved by emergency surgeries. I feel all of it when I am home. All the joy. All the peace. All the hope.

When our oak tree feel onto our home, it didn’t just damage the house. It hurt my very soul. It brought back memories of living in a small space, feeling out of place and hopelessness set in. I had to fight daily to invite peace in and anxiety back to hell.

Yes, it could’ve been much worse. No one was injured.

But the emotional toll it’s taken on me and our daughters hasn’t been easy. We all love this home and property so much that its shaken us up.

Thankfully the children rooms were unharmed and their lives are pretty much back to normal. As for me, I miss my own bed. I miss my room. I miss feeling at home at night. It grieves me that our room is suffering more and more damage as the days pass, and restoration has yet to begin.

In that room, our sixth baby went to heaven and our seventh was born , bringing life and an abundance of joy and hope to my heart.

These things are silly right? Why am I so attached to a house?

It’s because Jesus gave us this home. It’s because we fought for years and years to find it. It’s because we went through hell and back to even purchase this place. It’s because one of the last homes we lived in I was constantly attacked by demons. It’s because Jesus knows the desires of our hearts, and he gives us those things when we obey him. It’s because I am so attached to the heritage of our home, the Godliness that was the foundation for even building this home.

I don’t get to write a lot these days, but I just wanted to give you guys a glimpse into our reality right now. Insurance is slow moving, and we are working so hard to get our home back in order.

We are so thankful for friends and family that have stepped in to feed us, donate funds, and even house us.

It’s situations like these that we see how many people love us. It’s truly a blessing and we are so grateful for everyone who has helped.

This whole situation has taught us a few key things for loving and serving those we love in crisis:

  1. Do not ask how you can help. Most of the time the person going through trauma cannot even think clearly. If they have children, offer to take them for a day. Bring them a meal. If it’s their home that was affected, bring them groceries. Water bottles. Toiletries.
  2. Do not offer to help if you don’t really mean it.
  3. Be a doer. If you’ve offered to help your close friend or family member, show up. Show up and ask what needs to be done. If they have children, entertain them for the parents to make decision and act on those decisions.

Often times we see a crisis with someone we love but do not know how to help them. Because we do not know how to help them, its common we do nothing. I’m guilty of it.

But after this experience I’ve seen hollow offers and words fall short. It’s the actions that speak louder than the text messages.

Show up for people. Be His hands and His feet. Check up on them. Be encouraging.

And above all, be a positive light in a dark season for those who are shining a flashlight to see through the smog.

A little update on the circus

My life is like this one big circus that no one pays to see, but if they stuck around just for one day they would want some popcorn, maybe a cold coke and some KitKat bars as they watched me and my five hundred children live life.You guys, it’s been a long time since I’ve blogged and I just want you to know that my heart misses it. Just. so.much.It’s impossible to do a lot of things lately, and my writing has hit the back burner on simmer. I still want to write, it’s just that most days I cannot even keep my eyes open to drive.I’ve missed interacting with my readers, and sharing what is on my heart. I try on Facebook some, as I’m rocking my toddler to sleep. Every second of alone time I get I enjoy doing things like sitting and not using my brain.But enough about that. That is depressing right? You didn’t come here to hear a sob story! No! You came here to be entertained. So I thought it would be fun to do a little update of what my life is like these days. I know it seems like I share a whole lot on Facebook, but there are a lot of things I keep to myself.Let’s talk about my kids first, because with everything else I have going on, they are my favorite.

Asher– Oh man. The kid is ten, which is insane to me, because I was just in labor with him yesterday begging for an epidural at a 7. As I am typing this he is vacuuming the kitchen with his own free will, because he sees a need and just does it. He’s like that. I do not deserve a kid like him, but here I am typing this out while he watches his brother and cleans the kitchen. He is thriving when he has a task, a job. He is driven and doesn’t like to just lay around. I learn more from him in my daily life than most adults I interact with. I struggle with the fact that he is so willing to help, so I ask him for help more than I should. He truly is becoming my friend, and reminds me a lot of his Daddy. I really depend on him as Matt is working so many late nights trying to get jobs done. We are a good team.

Rhema– The girl should have her own TV show. I am not even kidding right now. Earlier Asher was wanting to play a song on his ipad , so he spoke to Alexa and said:

” Alexa, play Post Malone, CLEAN VERSION!’

Rhema overhears this request and yells from the other room-

” POST MALONE ALWAYS NEEDS TO BE CLEAN ASH!”

Not that I make it a habit of letting them listen to this dude, but such is life when your kids are in Public school and like, OUTSIDE THEIR HOME.

Today I told the girls to have a rest time in their room while I laid Luca down for a nap. I walked in to check on them and Rhema was under her covers with reading her Bible. That’s just the kind of girl she is. Always asking questions about Jesus and life in general. She talks about her three siblings in heaven like they are here on Earth.

Rhema likes things a certain way, especially her room. She is forever rearranging things around to be more practical and eliminating chaos. She will be some sort of designer or leader of a Country. Girl knows what she wants and she gets crap done. She also helps a lot with Luca and is willing ( when she wants to be ) to help around the house. She is a great friend to so many little girls, and is super kind hearted. She is the life of the family, and when she is away at a friends house the house is quieter, and lamer.

Adah- Adah is in a season where she is transitioning from being the baby of the family into a little girl. She starts Kindergarten in the Fall and I am a little worried. Socially and Academically she is young for her age, due to me babying her for 5 years. I am not sorry about this because we have snuggled more than any of my other children. So many sweet memories of her glued to my hip. She’s my biggest snuggler which has been hard bringing Luca into the mix. She’s handled stepping down as the baby like a champ, but every now and then I see the repercussions of her love language not being met like it used to be allllll day long. She is hardcore physical touch, and I am not. It was easy when she was my only one that wanted to snuggle, but enter the most demanding baby in the history of ever, her baby bro.

She’s emotional and sweet and growing into such a gorgeous girl. She keeps me on my toes and is constantly wanting my attention. I have to make myself slow down and stop whatever task I am doing to paint her nails or fix her hair. Although those things are LAST to do on my list of a million things, they are important to her. She teaches me daily to lay down my life for her. Like literally, she would rather lay in bed with me all day and snuggle. She’s the sweetest.

Luca- Listen to me, this baby boy was exactly what my heart needed. He completes our family. He is super cute. He is super smart. He is super wild, crazy and really difficult in public. He currently enjoys nursing like a newborn and screaming in shopping carts, running from me at the pool and enjoying strangers food.He knows no limits for how fast he can run without busting his tiny ass. He knows no limits for how well he can swim in water or how well he can walk down stairs. He is constantly either in the toilet with his new toy or my hairbrush.His current favorite pastime is taking off his diaper while I am doing something like trying to get out the door for an appointment. He also enjoys stuffing his mouth with food and then spitting it all out at a restaurant.He is the fourth for a reason. He is so much fun and so much cardio for me at the same time. I am convinced he is trying to keep me in shape by still nursing and running a thousand miles a day to keep up with him.He is loved.__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ I have started getting very busy renting out our home for weddings and events. It’s given me this different purpose in life that I feel like I really needed, aside from being a Mom. I didn’t think I would ever be in this place of feeling like I needed more in my life than raising four children, but here I am. Really enjoying meeting and connecting with talented business women. It’s given me this new pep in my step in a really draining season of Motherhood.Literally working out of a home where we live has its challenges and positive things as well. Making it look like we do not live here for events is always interesting, and I’ve learned that my children cannot be here at all.I’ve learned that they feel violated when strangers are here and they are told to be quiet, or stay upstairs. This is their home first, and my work venue second. I am learning to balance being a Mom, and working. The working isn’t a bad thing, which I’ve had a hard time with mentally. I know that God has placed this in my path, and that what we have been given is a gift that we have to share with our community.Last night a close friend asked me:” If someone were to show up tomorrow and offer you a million dollars for this house, would you sell?I sat for a moment, then answered no.To me this home is the first home I’ve ever felt actually comfortable in. Not afraid, not ashamed, not out of place. It’s where I’ve blossomed into my own skin, and became fearless, bold and a little nuts.It’s so special to me that I feel the need to invite people over , to share it. To make it my forever home, and at the same time my career.I used to be afraid of meeting new people, making new friends or being in a situation where I might feel uncomfortable.Now, I welcome strangers into my home and I am never afraid. I am so at peace with where I am , and who I am that meeting new women is actually fun! I wouldn’t have been able to say that even a year ago, but learning to let go of a lot of things has helped me just embrace people as they are and who they are. The mindset that I’ve been in lately is:I can learn something new from each person I meet.I feel like you have to be in that place of humility to survive and remain sane. Am I right?________________________________________________________ All three of the older kids start a new school in the Fall. We’ve decided on a Charter school , and I’m really excited about their future there. The teachers are enthusiastic and happy to be there, the building is going to be brand new. This will be Adah’s first year in full time school, and she is really excited. I will have a season of only one child at home for most of the day, and I really think that I will have more time to invest in writing my second book, and schedule many more events.I’m also excited to announce I will be starting a Podcast in the Fall. All about adventures in parenting, and running a venue and being a little crazy.It’ll be so much fun!I’ll be sharing about how we keep Jesus the center of our home, and how we teach our children to use their spiritual gifts. How very imperfect we are, and how things can get super crazy around here. About friendships and relationships in general. I’ll do several question-answer sessions and have lots of fun guest speakers. I’m excited to start to interact with you guys again in the blogging world, and soon in the Podcast world.I just wanted to update you guys who I love so much and pray for daily. Thanks for reading!   hubbard  Photo : Tobacco Road Film Company “

Authenticity

Raising four young children in a large farmhouse has it’s benefits and some downfalls. My downfall is that there are so many closets. To some that may be a huge win, but for me that means that behind closed doors, I am not that organized.

It’s easy for me, with a baby on my hip to quickly throw dirty clothes into the bathroom closet, and welcome in a house guest for a play date. For all that they know I am tidy, especially in the places out of sight.

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Photo by Chassity Chen Photography

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In this current season of motherhood, I also took on hosting events, weddings and photography sessions in the same house I mom in.

It’s been a challenge for me to balance keeping the house tidy, yet remembering that four tiny people live here and need to feel like they can make a mess in their rooms. I never want them to feel unwelcome in their own  home, or feel like it’s simply a museum, ready for people to come view. I want them to have fond memories of meeting new people and making new friendships.

Along with this physical season, the Lord has been teaching me about authenticity.

Spiritually, and in my everyday life.

A few weeks ago I found myself one by one cleaning out each closet for fear that a guest would open one of them and discover that I threw things in there without a thought to where they should go. It wasn’t a fearful decision, it wasn’t because I thought they would think badly of me. It was because I wanted even the little areas of my life to be cleaner.

I wanted to be more intentional with the space I am given.

As I was cleaning the first one out, the Lord said:

” Just as you are making these closets fresh and new, I want you to open up each part of your life to me. Give it to me. Open all your closets with all your crap for me to see. Let’s clean it out. “

So we did. With each closet he taught me about being real and being vulnerable to his voice, and at the same time being an authentic woman of God that people can trust.

From Brides coming to view my venue, to friends and family in my home.

I felt it was important to ” have nothing to hide ” , whether it be my bathroom closet where all my girls hair bows are, or my heart.

You see everything has a spiritual connection when we are walking with him. Everything that we choose to do in the physical, screams to the heavens.

The trash bags piled up as the weeks went on. I am still working on the chaos being organized, and I’m learning that I really do enjoy my life more when things have their own place.

In saying that, I am learning what to share, and what to keep between me and Jesus.

What to give my energy to.

Being organized has helped me to feel less anxious when I do schedule a viewing. This also echos in my walk with him, being honest with him , and letting him look in my closets. You see, he already KNOWS my flaws, but it’s a relationship. Just as I share things with my husband, and he helps me in life, so can Jesus.

But he doesn’t FORCE his love or affection on us, because he respects us. He wants us to ask him.

He’s working on areas of my life where I once felt shameful.

I was ashamed of being unorganized, but it wasn’t the mess I was ashamed of. It was that I allowed it to BECOME the mess that it was.

Maybe there are areas in your life that you’ve allowed to get to the point of chaos, and now it will take you a long time to clean it out.

I’ve been there.

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It’s not that Jesus cares if I’m organized or not, it’s that he wants me to feel comfortable in my own skin. If that means he can teach me to organize my closets, an area that doesn’t come naturally to me, but makes me feel better about myself, then I’m all for this journey.

He wants me to like me. Because he likes me.

Speaking of being liked, not everyone will LIKE the authentic you. This is ok. Not everyone is meant to connect. You do not have to attend each fight you are invited to. You don’t have to go to that party if it makes you feel uncomfy.

But let me tell you something. I am learning to respect myself more in this journey of being unapologetically ME. Honoring people and places that have helped me become the work in progress I am today. The speakers, the churches, the worship leaders, the friends that have taught me that I am always in His presence. I have unlimited access to his voice in my life.

In being authentic, I am also honoring the fact that they are too.  They all have experiences with the Father that vary. That is what is gorgeous about being in the Kingdom of Jesus.

Learning what to clean out and what to keep can be hard. But worry about your own closet.

Understand that people’s closets will look different than yours. Because you are all on a different journey with him.

It’s so vital to not be suspicious of other people’s hidden things. It plays with our minds and allows negativity to creep into our spirits. It makes us feel gross because we aren’t meant to live that way. We aren’t meant to feel the need to prove points and be correct.

We are meant to focus on our own shit. Yep. I said shit.

Nor are we meant to cast judgement, or keep a record of wrong.

Our most important focus in our walk with Christ, is to allow Jesus to love us with an abundant love. That’s all.

You know why?

When we are righteously LOVED, everything else falls into place. Because his love is so divine that it penetrates all the junk.

Just as people are getting married on my property and celebrating life here it’s so important to me to make this place, this place that I dwell in a place that HE dwells in.

He has more room when I have provided a cleaner space for him to move.

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Let’s get rid of the witch hunts for authenticity and just focus on ourselves. Look at our own crap that needs to be cleaned out. Ask him to give us HIS eyes to look into our spaces that he wants to rearrange. Rearranging can bring you so much joy in the end.

There is nothing new in the kingdom to be BOUGHT to reorganize your space.

He paid for it all.

What Mother can’t get her Childs Birth date right?

I haven’t blogged in about ten thousand years. Since the Earth is only around 6 thousand years old, I take full responsibility for messing up that Math for you guys. In fact, I take full responsibility for messing up so many things in life right now.

The ability to do math and basic things with my hands lately has affected my blogging lifestyle. Per say. While my hands want to type, they are sort of tied up wiping baby butts and serving the other three children mediocre dinners while Daddy works late, again.

I’ve missed you guys. I’ve missed writing and sharing and feeling sane, and showering daily. While our fourth baby is a massive blessing, he is also a spider monkey in human form and is making my life this very crossfit experience I never signed up for. Crossfit is for experienced people that have worked out before. I feel like when I signed up for this fourth baby I was a little limp in the bones. A little out of shape.

I’m now bound by this contract for 18 years, and I’m scared because I don’t have the right protein powder to replenish the amount of milk that he drinks from my breasts on a daily basis.

When I say out of shape, I mean in Mother form I was a 400 pound beached whale just waiting on a rescue mission to save her, with like birds already surrounding her , ready to declare her dead and ready for consumption.

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Story time!

All three of our older children got into a Charter Academy for this Fall. We are super excited, and ready for a change. This also means that I had to transfer documents from their current school, as well as make copies of my soul and uterus for the new school. They weren’t super accepting of my placenta as a form of ID, but I am working with it.

As always, I wait until the last minute to send in copies of anything important, as I am sitting on my butt watching the clock change to bedtime hours daily. I do nothing all day, in case you are wondering. My life is super peaceful and quiet.

Today I happened to finish my Soap Oprah, so I decided to go and make copies of all the important documents, and things they needed for the new enrollment.

We get to the Register of Deeds, and I realized Luca didn’t have any shoes on. This is ok. This is normal, it’s warm outside. Except he is now walking , so I knew this would be an issue while trying to make copies of the Last Supper of Jesus. AKA birth Certificates of my offspring.

You would think that it was our Lord’s last bite the way they went about handling my paperwork.

I’m sure I saw someone in the back light a Menorah and say a prayer for my shoeless child.

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I’m standing there filling out these forms for my girls, all the while Luca is reluctantly on my hip trying to eat the complementary pens on the counter for people like me that do not come prepared with a pen of their own. I keep trying to teach him that the pens aren’t like Chick Filas mints. You can’t just grab 7 and expect everyone to turn a blind eye.

He starts getting annoyed with being held captive, so I put him down. Shoeless and unafraid he begins to roam his new found territory as I try to use my mushy brain to fill out important things I should know about my daughters.

I nod my head, and assure the front desk woman that everything is correct, as she ushers the documents to the back.

The woman in charge walks towards the front desk, mean mugging me. Oh mercy. What have I done now? I mean, I mopped my kitchen floor last night after the kids used icey pops to decorate for Spring!

She whispers to the sweet lady I am dealing with, and I hear her because I am basically a ninja that can hear a four year old lying from 43 miles away.

” Yeah she wrote the birthdate wrong. It’s not the 12th, it’s the 11th. How can you get your child’s birthdate wrong? ”

I had obviously written the wrong number down. I am obviously a special needs Mother.

My special needs include – someone help.

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Listen Rhonda, I know exactly when she was born because she roared out of my vagina like she was late for yoga class. I couldn’t even cough before the Doctor got in there, as she was waving at me from my lady hole.

I KNOW she was born on the 12th. The 11th. The 11th. Math is hard and everyone needs to calm down.

Ma’am , since you wrote the date wrong and we had to run it through the system, that’s an extra $14 over your normal $24 rate since she was born out of this County.

Luckily for myself, my treasure is in heaven and in my wine cabinet, so I wasn’t worried about spending an ungodly amount on mistakes.

Listen, that’s what Jesus died for. My mistakes. So if you could just send him that bill, that’d be great Jeannine.”

Let it be known I will not be applying for any accounting jobs. Writing numbers down isn’t my strong point.

The tiniest Haggerty, overtaking my heart and sanity day by day.

Don’t talk about my friend like that.

If you are like me you couldn’t give a flying flip what your friends house looks like for a playdate. When you walk into their home only to see cereal poured out all over the kitchen floor, it gives you all the freaking warm fuzzies that you are in fact not the only one that cleans crap up all the day long.

You went there to catch up with your friend and maybe have a mid day beer. Let the kids go wild outside while you complain about your mom bods and intend to do nothing about it.

Am I right?

Lets reverse roles here. You are the one hosting a group of women. You are frantically trying to make your house look like Southern Living magazine, when in reality ten minutes before guests arrive you still have a wet towel on your head from your shower that you took five minutes ago and only one eye has mascara because you dropped the tube and now you cannot find it FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

You put this pressure on yourself to present this life that isn’t real. Tiny people that have tiny fingers that make big messes make your house look like an episode of Hoarders.

In this Season of my life I’m learning to let my guard down. To allow women to see that I am just one big blob of Mom. They can hang out with me and be one big blob of Mom too. I am the blob. Half the time my friends and I just sit in silence because we lack quiet. We nod our heads if we need a refill of wine. Yes, I love you. Yes, I need more liquid.

There is a part of us as women that takes pride in a clean home, I know I do. When my house is a huge mess it makes my day even more stressful, so I tend to clean more often that I have in the past. This isn’t what I am talking about.

I’m talking about stressing ourselves out trying to make our homes spotless before having a guest over. Guess what? That friend, if she is a true one will feel more at home sitting on your mountain of clean laundry sipping her lukewarm coffee, than she would in a museum of clean diapers and perfect throw pillows. Maybe she would even help you fold while you cried about how your baby hates to sleep. Or hates you. Whichever.

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I walked into a friends house the other day with all four of my kids in tow. They were in rare form after school. They were hangry. I was just angry my birth control didn’t work. I was hot and lacking laughter, so I knew I was at the right place at the right time. This friend makes me keel over with belly laughs that I someday hope to receive abs as a gift from. They keep trying to resurface but I keep eating cheese.

I watched as she vacuumed up spilled snacks on the floor and I remember thinking to myself:

” Oh my gah. Just leave them , my baby will just crawl right over and clean those up. Don’t be so hard on my friend. She’s great.”

And so I said it outloud, and so the babies did eat them off the floor. Because they are both fourth children. They do everything for themselves. Just the other day I passed her 14 month old on Main street. It looked like he had picked up an Uber job on the side. Someone has to pay for College around here. Fourth kids just take the wheel. Pun intended.

Until my friend couldn’t take it anymore and started cleaning up again. I watched her spray cleaner onto the coffee table and clean up leftover whatever.

I thought to myself again, hey be easy on my friend there.

She’s a fantastic Mom. She strives to love everyone she comes in contact with. She’s a fighter, in a righteous way. She fights to keep her marriage Godly and her children in check. Her relationship with Jesus first. She’s an encourager. A giver of all things , big and small. She can see what I cannot when I walk into a room. She can see a need and meet it to the best of her abilities. She can make you feel seen and heard and give you one of the best hugs on earth. She’s my friend.

She’s more than her perfectly scrubbed kitchen table or her home cooked meals.

I love her for her, not for her clean house or her perfect life.

These are things we place on ourselves that no one gives a s#%^ about.

I think these are things we forget when we are awaiting our guests in our home. We forget that they are aware we are Mothers too. Our lives and busy from sun up to sun down and in between. We are tired, constantly. We all strive to do our best and sometimes that means leaving those dirty dishes in the sink to pick up your toddler and dance in the kitchen.

They came for the chats and laughter, not for your bleached sinks.

Next time you are hard on yourself for the way your house looks or the roots that are six inches overdue for color, tell yourself :

” Hey. Don’t talk about my friend like that. She’s more than those things. She’s awesome.”

And while you’re at it , tell yourself too.

” Hey. Don’t talk about me like that. I’m trying.”

Photo by Amanda Sutton

He overlooks my crazy.

It’s been a hot hashbrown minute since I have blogged about anything spiritual. My days are so jam packed in this season, that sharing about them other than Facebook updates is scarce.

I’ve been in this mommyhood fog of dirty diapers and homework, so much so that I have felt farther away from Jesus than ever. It’s silly right? I am doing what he has called me to do, be a Momma, yet I feel far away from Him.

I know He is right here, even now sitting beside me as I write this out. He’s there when I’ve had it up to high heaven with my 5 year old and her new found attitude , and lack of respect for my personal space. He’s right there when I am running from store to store, with a baby on my hip and a little girl begging for candy on aisle 3.

But today, He was there in a new way. A way that I just have to share with you guys because it’s so vital for us as Mothers to know that he cares about every.single.detail.

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The day started off all wrong. I missed my alarm to take the big kids to school. When I finally awoke it was to my 10 month old pulling my boob literally out of my shirt to get his breakfast. What the?! It’s 8 am. Perfect.

The kids are supposed to be at school no later than 8. It’s fine. I like them to make a fashionable entrance just like I did in High school. At least I’m ensuring they actually attend school. I’m winning.

:: I’ll back up here for those that aren’t aware that four years ago I had no choice but to go on an anti anxiety medication, or I would probably die. I actually almost did.::

My medication ran out over the weekend, so I had to wait until monday to get it refilled. Usually I am super responsible about this and get it refilled early, but our week and weekend was jam packed. I just plum forgot.

I ran the older kids to school and called my pharmacy requesting a refill. Explaining I would need it today, as I had been out.

By this point I had a severe headache, body aches and my vision was starting to be affected. ( 1 1/2 days without ).

I get to the pharmacy only for them to tell me that my Doctor wanted to schedule me a follow up appointment before he would refill my medication. He had done this without notifying me , otherwise I wouldn’t have gone all the way to the Pharmacy.

My eyes watering with tears of desperation, my ribs tightening just as the did before I started this life changing savior pill, I prayed.

                            On the verge of a massive panic attack, I continued to pray.

I sat in the drive through window, and talked to my Papa aloud. I cried and told him that I needed his help. I needed my Doctor to answer my calls, and call in my meds.

I decided to wait in the parking lot, waiting for his call. All they needed was for me to schedule an appointment, no big deal. I could wait.

If you have never suffered from severe anxiety, AWESOME! If you have, you can relate to how I was feeling, and how my body was reacting to the withdrawal of my medication. I was completely in my right mind, but my body was showing signs of rebellion to my mind. That’s how anxiety works with my body right now. My mind, my emotions, all sound. My body, chaos. 

I am perfectly capable of caring for my children, and extra children. Nothing is wrong with my mind. Other than lack of sleep.

Though I’ve had some judgements thrown my way , I know I am a good mother above all.

Knowing that a friend was coming over for a play date, I knew I needed to get home. I didn’t have time to sit there and simply wait. I had decided that I would have to be fine until they called in my prescription. I had to be. I told myself it would be just like what my body was like before the meds. I functioned.

I started my ugly mini van and headed towards home. Tears streaming down my face, I was desperate to breathe correctly. Desperate to get some relief from my body crawling out of it’s own skin.

I would go home and brew some chamomile tea, put on my big girl panties and ignore my bodies screams. I had done that for two whole years before I reluctantly took the miracle pill. I survived, and spent many days fighting to breathe, but I made it out alive.

I turned onto the road that led me home, to my home that God had given us in just the right season. Our home that was his promise to me. I began reminding him aloud of the promises he has made to me in the past few years that I am waiting to be fulfilled.

Sure that he keeps his promises, I prayed on.

Not even praying about my medication issue , he spoke straight to my troubled body:

” Rachel, look in your glove compartment. “

” My what? I’ve never put my medication in there. Just like napkins and chapstick.”

” I know. Look in the left corner underneath the napkins.”

I laughed and playfully stuck my hand in there. LOL JESUS. Wouldn’t that be crazy if I…..

Found ONE Paxil.

My fingers grazed it as tears streamed down my face. There’s absolutely no way this is what I think it is. Is it?! It’s probably a freaking mint that one of my kids hid away so their siblings wouldn’t find it.

I pulled out what my fingers had found in the left corner.

Just one lone Paxil. 

You guys. Never have I EVER put my medication in there. Not once.

It was in that moment that I held in my hand something that I needed so much. My earthly body for now is flawed, and he knows that. He knows that this one pill would make my day a thousand times easier.

I couldn’t help but cry and praise him for how very personal he is to us, as his children. I knew that HE put that there. There is NO other explanation. He met my need. MINE. His flawed daughter who needs medication in this season to function. He loves me despite that, and from today’s events, he loves me BECAUSE of that.

He loves me for the traumatic lives events that lead me to a life of recovery from medication.

I held the pill in my hand for so long that it began to soften.

So tight, I held it like I was holding his very hand as I drove.

I am telling you all this to show you that no matter where we are in our lives, he is right there. He isn’t ashamed of us when we are reliant on modern medications. He celebrates with us when we find just the right balance.

His ultimate goal and will for our lives is healing, but until then he meets us right where we are. Right when we need him.

I needed this today, I needed to feel him down on my level. Motherhood is hard enough, but dealing with anxiety from the pit of hell makes it much more challenging.

I am no special woman, anyone can hear from Jesus. That’s his gift to us when he died of the cross, giving us his Holy Spirit to speak to us.

I know that he is often speaking to me, to us. It’s just that sometimes I am not listening. I cannot hear him above the noise and Cheerio spills of four children.

But today he heard my cry and sent me a miracle that may seem small to some people, but to me it was everything.

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(((( photo by Amanda Sutton ))))

He heard my crazy self. He overlooked the fact that I am not perfect. ::gasp::

Does he do that?

He sure does.

A healing birth after trauma.

Before I write this I want to specify that a healing birth after having a difficult one doesn’t always happen. Often women are left scared, and forever changed from the one birth that left them traumatized. I was there for four years. I was hurt, wounded and angry. Sure that I would never view birth the same. My heart longed for just one more positive experience to end that note on.

For me, that happened. For you, I pray it happens. But, if it doesn’t , please know there are ways Jesus can heal you heart, other than birth. There IS hope for you. Your pain doesn’t have to stay.

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As soon as I knew my labor was real, unlike the three other false labors I had experienced, I literally prayed for the pain to come.

Some would look at me like I was insane, asking the pain to overtake my body. I understood that I lived and flowed through the new covenant with Jesus, the one where it was his will to take the pain of labor away. I knew women that had experienced a pain free birth, and I believed their stories. I also knew deep down in my wounded heart that I needed to feel the pain this time.

There is something about agonizing pain that makes the ending of the pain beautiful. This deep breath after holding it underwater. A gasp of oxygen.

With each wave of pain I welcomed it, not to accept punishment, but to FEEL my body do something I had longed for. Something I prayed into, long before Luca was conceived.

Each pain I felt, I grew closer to Jesus, allowing my body to lay at the foot of his feet and to soak in his presence. Each tear that formed in my eyes, everytime I looked at my husband and cried out for him to pray over me, I felt Him. I felt his joy over this life I was bringing into the world in the way I wanted.

The pain was unbearable, so much so that I shook with each contraction, and yet I loved them all the same. Each pain brought me closer to my promised baby.

When you are in such great pain, you cannot think of anything else.

I couldn’t think of anything else but meeting my son. I imagined how Jesus must have felt on the cross that day, thinking of only us, his children. I imagined how he literally welcomed the blood, the pain and the tears as a sign of his love for you, for me.

The pain was something I needed to experience for myself, in my walk with him. The pain did something in my spirit that a perfect, pain free birth couldn’t have done. I laid my pain at his feet, my every whim and move HAD to succumb to his presence. I was weak, but he was strong.

I needed Him, I needed to need Him.

After pushing him away for so long after my traumatic birth, I know that he allowed me to experience a long, painful labor , all the while holding me in his arms. I needed to be weak as a child needing her Daddy to fix it.

He allowed my pain to kill my pride. He didn’t WANT me to be in pain, that is not his perfect plan, but he allowed it.

I will tell you that I have never felt closer to him. I have never lifted my head to the heavens, begging for him to comfort me more that I did that night, and into the morning hours. I needed my Dad. He met me.

Just when I thought I would pass out from exhaustion, he lifted me up, to keep pushing until my son was earthside.

After two hours of pushing, with no progress, I lost all my couth. Every ounce of dignity I had went out the window and I screamed out to my husband:

” PRAY FOR ME RIGHT NOW. I CANNOT DO THIS!”

The room fell silent as everyone began to pray out loud. I had nothing left in my physical body to give. I was depleted. Done. No strength left in any bone of my body.

Right then I decided I would put aside MY strength, and allow HIS to overcome my physical body. It’s just a body right? It doesn’t define my very soul, and who he has created me to be! It’s my shell, the one that long ago I had given to him to reign.

I stood up and Luca started to descend, just as everyone had prayed.

I was unaware of his birth position being dangerous, I could only focus on one thing, to get him out.

With the incredible knowledge and fast thinking of my midwife, he finally arrived.

Seeing his face and instantly connecting his soul to mine forever was immensely emotional for me. All I could do was breathe in his presence and allow my body to relax. I hadn’t done this alone.

It took my Heavenly Father and a relentless team of loving people to bring him into my arms.

When I was so very weak and helpless, they were strong. It is completely possible to draw strength from other people cheering you on. That’s exactly what I did.

Absorbing their passionate desire to see me succeed was intoxicating.

This wave of love overcame me as I held my longed for son for the first time, teaching him to breathe on his own. Awakening his senses to the love that surrounded him in me, and especially in my arms.

Though I knew of other people in the room, I could only see his face. Our eyes meeting for the first time in the physical, a rush of love filing my senses. Nothing else in my life mattered, my pain was whisked away in the moment of his birth.

Suddenly I wasn’t wounded and alone, but a proud Mother embracing her gift.

I was still intoxicated as I climbed into my own bed, in my own home.

This cloud of joy and overwhelming passion for this tiny human overcame me as I welcomed our three other children to meet their prayer over sibling.

I have never felt more loved by Jesus than I did that day. Every ounce of me was filled with his strength. My body that was once so hard towards the world, so blistered and bandaged, hiding my weakness , was opened up.

My wounds for the world to see were healed in my weakness, only because he needed me to reveal them to him.

My body was infected with grief, yet he healed me that day.

Jesus is a gentle Father. He respects us to the point of allowing ourselves to harden to his presence. It’s only when he admit that we are weak that he swoops on to help us.

He respects our grief that he feels with us. It’s never his will for us to hurt, but it’s always his will for us to heal.

Finding a foundation at ULTA, my personal hell.

There I was, alone and very afraid of what would come next. My palms sweating as I opened the double doors to my fate. The night my confidence and dignity was zero percent.

I had only been to ULTA one time in my life, and that was in my prime. That was ALSO before a pre teen looked more put together than I ever will be. ( where is their ugly right of passage? How can they skip this? It humbles you. )

What is happening to this world? (( tiny soap box )) because I was ugly in middle school and most of high school, it’s made me a better person. They are skipping this compassionate and grounding season, now what will they do? Work at ULTA?

I knew immediately this was my personal hell as soon as the freaking UV LIGHTS hit my face, revealing every inch of blemish and sleepless nights. Surely I was getting sun burned walking in there. Do they want me to get sunburned so they can sell me more expensive products?

My first mission was to avoid eye contact at all times. Though I was clueless, I didn’t want to chit chat with perfect eyebrow Barbie about how I look like I am 56 at age 30. I had about thirty minutes to pick out a foundation that made me look rested and a liar before my baby wanted to nurse. I am not tired, see! I wasn’t up at 5:45 AM sipping coffee and contemplating running away to Puerto Rico.

I just wanted some foundation to cover up the fact that I haven’t slept in ten years, how do you explain this to a woman that you aren’t sure has your sense of humor? Will she feel sorry for me? Probably. Avoid the eye contact, keep walking. Act like you know what you are doing, just like being a Mom.

I would like to go back to the lighting in this place. I am fully aware that they make it this way to make you feel fugly so that you will buy more things from them. It’s basically a genius idea, I mean they had me passing every mirror in utter horror that I walked out into public looking like that. Even my own mother wouldn’t have claimed me as her own.

Each mirror I would pass I made a mental list of things I now needed to better my face:

No more pregnancies.

That’s all I could think of.

I realized I must have filled in only one eyebrow, the best I know how ,  ( like my 5 year old could do ) then must have gotten distracted by a child or 4. Or a husband that was looking for something in the kitchen, because he hasn’t lived here as long as I have.

After spinning in circles and crying from my blemish exposure and lack of self confidence I started the journey to find the foundation I had gone for. The one my sister ( cosmetology major ) had recommended. She said it would make me look 17 again, and I believed her. She’s so sweet.

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There are 4,457 types of expensive foundation in ULTA. It makes it difficult to choose. Luckily for me I have a keen sense of direction and it only took me 3 hours to find the brand I was looking for. Ha! Jokes on them.

So I find the brand, only to notice that there are more choices than an olive bar at Harris Teeter. First of all, who needs that many olives? Second of all how do I choose which one will make me look less homely?

I want one that makes me look responsible , yet rested and alert. Less dehydrated by coffee. Is that a 3.0?

I started testing different shades on my neck. Three shades to be truthful. If we’re being honest here, and since it’s my blog.. it was 6 shades. By then end I looked like I had a skin disease and I chose one that I thought matched the best. Actually I nervously took three of them into my hands, mixed them up and chose one. I had to get out of there. The fluorescent lighting was toying with my mental state.

Foundation, check. Now I needed something to help my brows since that is the thing everyone and their Mother is into right now. Right now I’m into finding LOL dolls on Amazon and eating my kids leftover Tyson dino nuggets. I’m also super into not getting pregnant. Do they have a brow package for this?

Several sales women passed me, looked me up and down and probably knew that there was no hope for me. I was dressed in my maternity Target sweatshirt, and skinny jeans that are two sizes two small ( THANKS BABY NUMBER FOUR AND CARBS ).

No one even asked me if I needed help because they knew that answer. Yes. Yes I do need help in more areas than my face. Are you also a nanny slash makeup consultant?

I found something that resembled a brow kit , threw it in my cart and hoped for the best with my life. They say a woman’s brows are the frame of her face, but I say how do you do that and can you teach me in very hushed tones while I drink a nice Merlot?

I army crawled my way to the check out after choosing something I knew everything about. While looking for face masks I found one that has red wine in it. It felt like home holding it in my hands. Mommy is here. Shhhh.

The cashier asked for my phone number and email address, I was hesitant to share for the simple fact of maybe she would enter me into a makeover contest…then the people would show up when I wasn’t wearing a bra. Everyone watching would be traumatized but my before and after would be redemptive to millions.

I walked out of there confident that I have a lot of work to do to be more attractive, a little baby weight to say goodbye to and a lot of concealer to use.

But most of all I learned to love myself more, so I stopped to eat my feelings with a Wendy’s frosty that I downed quickly so I wouldn’t have to share with my offspring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Santa, I’m awful.

Dear Santa,

 

I am writing this on behalf of my children that you would spare them my punishment for being an extremely naughty lady. Though I hate the term naughty and it makes me feel a little slutty, that’s the term you use. So I am rolling with it. I don’t even have time to be slutty. My lingerie drawer consists of my husbands old sweatpants and my Dad’s Carolina sweatshirt he gave me when we got married. If that doesn’t scream sexy I don’t know what does.

It’s no wonder I am so fertile with those threads.

Since I’ve been lying to them about you, I figured you could cut me a break this year. I usually give you all the fame, which is cool. But the deal is that I’ve been a bad mom this year. In fact, my seven year old is watching my baby so I could sit here for ten minutes and type this out just to feel sane.

Which is fine, she’s a better caretaker than I am. She remembers her vitamins and is always the one that catches me in the middle of a curse word. I’ve had to say I’m sorry to her more times than I can count, because she is more mature than I am.

Since I am on the naughty list, I don’t expect much. I feel the need to confess how I’ve lived my life lately, it isn’t pretty. I do really mean not pretty, I haven’t been pretty since baby number three. Now I am a busted can of biscuits just waiting to be baked in a hot tub of wine because my body aches in places I didn’t know I had. That sounds like communion. It is because I am so holy in this season of my life where I barely can hear myself think, much less get on Jesus’s wave length. I have to go up on my rooftop, light candles and hope a baby doesn’t wake up before I hit verse 3. OF GENESIS.

I’ve been studying Genesis for three years. It’s going well and I am learning so much.

Getting ready to teach a class on what I’ve learned actually, Santa. But I’ve put it off because of all the Holidays coming up and all the food I have to bake. Maybe next year. Also I don’t get any sleep at night because my baby has to be actually SOAKED INTO MY BODY LIKE BUTTER ON BREAD.

I feel like you’re pretty tight with Jesus, so if you could tell him I love him and have been sending smoke signals for years now.

( kidding. yall. )

 

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I practice fake patience with my children daily, you know what I mean. That fake I want to run away smile with a side of a little kiss on the cheek. I really love my children, but there are some days I am not sure I was made for this life. So I smile, and prepare dinner with two children on my legs and one on my breast. While making chicken breast. It’s ironic yet horrifying at the same time.

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I’ve determined that I am a mediocre adult with special hidden talents such as, skipping pages of a 123 page bedtime story while making up the story and looking at the clock wondering if I have enough time to shower before I fall asleep… I can breastfeed and pick up toys with my toes at the same time. I’ve been known to pick up a grain of rice with the baby in the Ergo.

I can cry about my day of my five year old acting like a small rabid puppy in the car rider line, and no one will ever know because of my fashionable sunglasses. That’s TALENT. That’s also called hiding, which I am famous for when the dog pukes in the house. I miraculously am consoling a teething baby so that my husband can clean that ish up.

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My mini van is in no way an impression or mirror image of my actual home. My Mini van is our vacation spot , really. There are enough snacks to last a week if need be. Luckily my children only like preservative filled crap, so no worries on the spoiling. Nope! Fresh goldfish for everyone.

There are most likely Chick Fila chicken nuggets, enough for a Thanksgiving feast. That’s actually what I signed up to bring for this Thursday. I even have the specialty sauces on hand and a few spare fries that made their way into my van by tiny, greasy fingers.

And Santa, if I am late to said gatherings of the Holiday nature, please note that it isn’t my fault. I have children that take their sweet time to look presentable, while I look like a walking dead extra. That is my specialty. I don’t want to upstage anyone. It’s my pleasure to look decomposed.

 

Santa, being a Mom is my greatest adventure and my greatest journey to feeling peace that I’ve ever been on.

Be kind to them this Christmas. I’ll just be here praising you for all the presents I wrap at 3 am.

If you could possibly drop me a box of cheap wine down the chimney, I would be much grateful. It can even be the Aldi brand. I don’t discriminate. I see all wine as equal value until it proves me wrong.   Which basically never happens. Because 4 children.

Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

 

 

Why Field trips are the WORST.

If you are a Parent that thoroughly enjoys spending time with your children when they are supposed to be in school, and you could be grocery shopping alone… this blog isn’t for you.

If you dread that form that comes home every few months asking you to be a chaperone on a FIELD TRIP, this one’s for you buttercup. Pour yourself a nice glass of vino and let’s talk field trips.

The number one thing I loathe about Field trips is that they always start early in the morning. I am one of those Moms that runs, no literally RUNS out the door with my undressed baby on my hip, lunch boxes hanging by my teeth and children still in denial they are going to school. I am also still in denial I am even taking them to school. Did I forget one ? How many did I birth?

I am no perky morning person. My perk left me after I weaned our first child if you know what I mean. The only perk I have now is if coffee has also been perked. I need lots of it before I can even talk. Words try to form and come out of my mouth but nothing is happening. I need to go back to bed and start over. In three hours.

Field trips be like ” We are starting at 5:30 AM , so parents, if you could be there by 5:45 to help set up the crafting area that would be great.”

At this ungodly morning hour when my children whom I love DEARLY should be out of my hands, they are in fact right at my hands asking for the 11th snack of the hour. To their dismay I only brought two snacks so they will starve before the lunchtime break. It was nice raising them. It will be my fault that they starved , but they will make lovely pine cone christmas tree ornaments that they can break on the car ride home.

In these early morning hours where I am forced to talk to other adults before I would even talk to my husband, I am also forced to make my face look like I am having a great time. Yes honey, I love hay rides when it’s 45 degrees out and your baby brother is trying to claw his way into my shirt to breastfeed. It’s my pleasure to be here for your special day that you will not remember next week. I love you. You’re my favorite.

Listen, my children get plenty of interaction with other kids. Plenty of vacations and play dates. They lack nothing as far as a social life and educational outings. They go with my husband all the time to the dump. They learn a lot from Youtube videos ( don’t freak. I kid. ) and pretending to be mothers in their playroom.

” Yes Laura, come on over! My house is a wreck but I have wine!” 

They don’t need field trips. Not until they are well into Middle School and can go without their loving Mother dragging them out the door in the wee hours of the morning. It’s bizarre to me that I torture them FOR THEM. Like, I get them out of bed to go to a place that is for them. Not for me. Why am I the one pushing this issue here? I feel wronged.

 

Thank you for reading, and if you see me at a field trip anytime in the near future, just give me a gentle side hug and hand me a coffee. Maybe hold my baby. It’s an emotional morning for me. Please know that I went through hell to get here on time and I was still late. Also, I may have gone to the wrong location first, and then made it here even later.

It’s no ones fault but my own. I am the one that signed up to be here as soon as that pregnancy test turned positive. I held in my hand a life long membership to all the field trips in the world.

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