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motherhood

He was loving me anyway.

I cannot remember the last time I wrote about my kids, but I’ve got some stuff bubbling up that’s too long for Instagram. So I’m going mommy-blogger here for a few posts…

I constantly feel like I’m keeping my baby boy at arm’s length. Feel free to psychoanalyze me. Maybe it’s because his tastes are different from mine, even at this young of an age. I often think to myself, I hope he turns out cool. Why is he laughing at that? Maybe it’s because his birth and infancy were hard for me. I spent a lot of hours staring at him instead of holding him, trying to figure out how to get him to fall in love with me. Maybe it’s some sort of buried guilt that he’s about to start kindergarten and I never stayed home full-time with him as a baby, though I think we all know how well that would’ve turned out. Maybe it’s razor-sharp memory, the one that allows him to describe the outfit he was wearing the day I missed an event at preschool.

Whatever it is, I put it in my head that it’s caused a rift. I constantly feel like I’m keeping my baby boy at arm’s length. And I don’t want that. I’m crazy about him, and I want him to feel it. I want him to like me. I want him to look at me and feel joy. I want him to forget about all of the times I’ve let him down and hurt him. I want him to give me grace. I want him to believe the best in me. Wait a minute, do I want my son to act like Jesus?

Last night, I took my boy on a date and I actually felt nervous at times. It’s been a few months since we were alone like that, and I didn’t know what to expect from this kid who’s getting older by the second. Would he hold my hand? Would he enjoy our time together? The answer is yes, to all of those things. At one point, he wrapped both arms around both of my legs and I felt all of that weird stuff just melt away. It hit me as he sat on my lap at one stop, letting me scratch his back. He was loving me anyway. All of this time.

He does like me. He does look at me and feel joy. He might remember all of the times I’ve let him down, but he gives me grace. He believes the best in me. He acts like Jesus. And as if to answer my thoughts, two different times throughout the night I heard him say, “Momma? You’re the best momma I ever had.”

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motherhood

It’s not natural, and that’s okay.

When I realized I was going to marry my husband, I quickly warmed up to the idea of being a stepmom. I’ve always been great with kids and just assumed I’d be a mother at some point. Like a lot of girls, I’d always pictured my family looking somewhat like the one in which I’d grown up – two kids, maybe one of each, a few years apart. Stepmotherhood could easily blow that picture to bits, but I was good with it. I figured we’d have one more and be done. It might not always be easy, but it would be natural.

Ames was born just before our first wedding anniversary, and I was surprised to find that he was hard… for me at least. My husband and stepsons and family and friends all seemed to love him easily and naturally, but I felt empty most days when I looked at him. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was there – a dark, nagging voice in the back of my head that told me I wasn’t cut out for this. Just nine months after he came along, right when I felt like I might survive this newborn thing, we found out we were expecting again. And then came the anatomy scan at twenty weeks, when we learned we were expecting twins.

I remember lying flat on my back in that ultrasound room, looking at all of the boys in my life fist-pumping and yelling with excitement. I remember staring hard, squinting at them even, trying to figure out what they had that I didn’t. I remember looking back at the screen and asking God why. Why would He bless me this way, when I wasn’t even feeling accomplished at my current motherhood situation. Why, when there were women all around me longing for children? That dark, nagging voice came back again. I was terrible at this, and more was only going to make it all worse.

It wasn’t until my twins were over a year old and we found ourselves pregnant with Hadassah Lee that I heard God’s voice beat the dark, nagging one to that sweet spot where my heart meets my brain. I stared at that pregnancy test and laughed in the bathroom stall at a megachurch in Atlanta. This time, my Father’s voice showed up first. Either that or this time, I chose to hear it first. I’ve called you to this, and I won’t leave you alone in it.

And suddenly, things got easier. Not in a task-related way, but in an emotional way. Everything felt lighter. I found it easier to love my stepsons and toddlers and messy, chaotic life. My pregnancy was one of the worst to date and somehow I just sailed right through it. I had a beautifully redemptive birth and and a gracious newborn season with my tiny queen. Everything just started to make more sense when I accepted this new idea. Motherhood doesn’t have to be natural. To this day, it doesn’t feel that way for me. Walking with Jesus just makes it easier. His yoke is easy, his burden light.

I wasn’t created to be a master of motherhood. I was created to learn motherhood from the Master.

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community fashion motherhood

Anything but mauve.

My most tumultuous years with my mother were in my early teens. By the time I was driving and going to parties and making decisions in dangerous times, I had already mellowed out. I remember still being in high school and apologizing profusely for the way I’d treated my mom at the tender age of fourteen. Middle school wasn’t super sweet for me, and my entry to puberty felt a little bumpy. There was glitter in my hair and I didn’t even need to wear a bra yet. Things felt a little twisty.

So man, did I treat my mom like trash during that twilight between childhood and the teenage stage (which is of course when I reached total enlightenment). And the claws almost always came out in the morning. I’m an odd version of a morning person. I have no problem waking early. I pop right up without issue. Seriously, I don’t even need an alarm. But I don’t love lots of stimulating conversation first thing. I don’t want to eat before the sun rises, and I don’t welcome any constructive criticism before the rooster crows, either.

So back then I was a ticking time bomb, because all of those things happened on a daily basis. There were encouraging murmurs for me to eat. There was side eye about my outfits or the way I wore my hair. There were questions about lunch accounts and projects and how late did I think I would be at whatever activity after school. You know, that super offensive prying stuff parents do. And so I’d explode, always toward my mother. I’d say hurtful things and roll my eyes. I’d ignore her until she raised her voice just enough for me to look at her like she was idiot for talking so loudly. I’d huff and puff and complain and threaten.

After one particularly nasty spat, I stomped up to my room. Whether I was sent or took my own terrible attitude up there, I don’t know. What I do remember is pitching a fit about my outfit when I arrived back to my room. I had nothing to wear. It was picture day or something super important, and I needed to change for the billionth time. And my hair was a mess. I  was crying and grumbling and trying to change when I got caught up in tights and buttons, which made everything worse. We’d definitely be late for school now, but I’d find a way to blame it on my mom.

And then my dad walked in.

My father is not like my mother. He is not naturally warm and nurturing. He does not struggle like she does, with serving and giving and pouring out until he’s empty. I grew up feeling very supported and loved by my dad, but also very fearful of him. He had a tendency to react harshly in heated situations, and then he’d process with me later. So there I was, stuck halfway through an outfit change with tears and snot in my hair, and Scary Gary entered the room. He was clean shaven and in a suit, not a hair out of place. He’d undoubtedly heard me and my mom while getting ready for work, and I was done. I was in for it.

But he didn’t say a word. He just walked across my bedroom to me and helped pull the new jumper combination over my head, zipping it up the back and pulling my ponytail out of my turtleneck. His silence told me everything. I was acting out, I was in the wrong, and he loved me anyway. He was going to let me deescalate and calm down and repent by myself. He was not going to drag me there this time, not when I was already so vulnerable and ashamed.

And then suddenly, he reversed the jumper backward over my head, leaving me in just a turtleneck and tights and shoes.

Anything but mauve, Rach. I tell your mom this too. I just don’t like colors like mauve and taupe.

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household management motherhood the whole & simple gospel

Ready or not.

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an adapted excerpt from a letter to some of my Influence women

I picked a piece of dead Christmas tree off of the bottom of my foot this morning. I’d been fighting off a cold all weekend and therefore slathering Thieves oil on my feet, and therefore walking around on tiptoes, and therefore not as nimble as usual, and therefore stepping on dead Christmas tree twigs. We cut down down beautiful trees at a nearby farm, and they have since betrayed us and died – a full week before Christmas. As I pulled the greenery off of my foot, I grumbled a bit.

Here’s the thing, women of mine. Christmas is coming, ready or not. In sickness and in health, dead trees or live, presents wrapped or not. Baby Jesus came, ready or not. To borrow an Andy Stanley phrase from a recent favorite talk, about the years leading up to Jesus’ birth…

God told Israel over and over, “Listen, I’m gonna do something with you. You can either work with Me, or step back and watch Me work.”

He’s pretty much down for whatever. It’s either, or. We can choose to be a part of God’s story or not but when He’s ready to move, He moves. Let’s be the ones who are ready for Him to move. Open hands, open eyes, open hearts, all of the time. Especially this week. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to celebrate His move towards earth, towards me. I’m standing here with my heart as wide open as I can get it, whispering thanks that God loved me enough to send me His son one Christmas night.

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household management motherhood

Advent is not about me. Freedom!

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So there I was teaching last month, zooming through Colossians 3 and giving women ways to let the peace of Christ rule in their homes over the holiday season. I felt the Lord depositing some serious truth and freedom into me as I prepared, so I was in the zone that night. And then out of nowhere, bam! Someone typed something along the lines of, What are some of the traditions the Kincaid Parade enjoys during the holidays?

In a melodramatic sort of way, tradition is a trigger topic for me. Tradition means I feel the pressure to make memories and leave a legacy. Tradition means I have the potential to mess up, to let people down, to fail. Failure. Fear of failure. It always comes down to this for me, doesn’t it? But enough about that.

But y’all? Advent is not about me. It’s not about my identity as a mother, or my skills or creativity. It’s not about making memories or leaving a legacy. Advent is not about tradition. It’s about receiving a gift I didn’t deserve. And once I’ve received that gift, it’s about enjoying things like the holidays through its filter. I’m intimately aware of how good grace feels when I don’t deserve it. I’ve got that receiving-the-gift part down pretty solid. Now it’s time to move on to the enjoying-the-holidays part. Now it’s time to embrace a little tradition. Here’s how I do that.

I buy all of the kids silly, footed pajamas every winter. I also get them each a new ornament, based on something they loved or experienced that year. We cut down our trees at a nearby farm. We eat Chinese food on Christmas Eve after church. Whoever finds the hidden pickle ornament in the tree gets to open the first present. I wrap all of my presents in brown paper, year after year. Once our children are old enough to appreciate gifts, they each receive three.

Well look at that! An actual list. I’m excited to build on it, with timidity and joy and freedom. I’m also excited to see what sorts of traditions you women enjoy! No rules. Just give us all a little taste of what your Christmas looks like. The sky’s the limit. Join the link-up below.



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community marriage motherhood

It was fresh, and it was loud.

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I got married ten days before Christmas. Everything was cold and warm, at the same time. It was as perfect as we’d pictured. Candles amongst flowers, holly berries tucked into corsages. That week felt like a dream. In the days following, we tried our best to figure out how to handle holiday traditions that we had brought into our marriage. Whose houses do we visit, and when? When do we open presents, and how many? It was a whirlwind few weeks, and we made it through, but it wasn’t easy. It was fresh, and it was loud.

I remember sitting in my in-laws’ living room on Christmas Day, watching twenty people open presents at the same time. There was screaming, laughing, paper flying. Nobody could see the floor. Nobody knew what anyone had received or given. Nobody stood a chance at being heard. I watched in horror, with a little fascination on the side. I’d grown up with a quiet and tidy, one-person-at-a-time-and-please-don’t-rip-the-paper tradition. I didn’t know how to wrap my brain parts around what I was experiencing.

As the years have passed, we’ve sort of hit our holiday stride. We’ve set up boundaries and torn down walls. I’d call it an awkward, bumpy rhythm, but it’s a rhythm nonetheless. And it’s ours. It beats to the song of the Kincaid Parade, and I’ve grown imperfectly comfortable with it.

I’ll be sharing more tomorrow night, and I’d love to have you.

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