SheLoves Magazine

Wellness Wednesday: The One Decision I Regret Most

“I wanted to forget that I’d ever felt that momentary joy preceding the horrifying loss of my one and only pregnancy.”

By Tara Rodden Robinson |Twitter: @tararodden 

When I went to church this past Sunday, I grew a little tense. It was Mother’s Day and I usually avoid any public observances that include motherhood. It’s not that I have a bad relationship with my mom—in fact, quite the opposite. It’s that Mother’s Day reminds me of an inescapable fact: I am not a mom.

Just the other day, I got treated to big dose of all the mom-ness that I am not privy to. I had been invited to a mid-week happy hour–a drinks with the girls evening. I arrived at the bar early so I could sit and sip my wine in peace for a while, just to enjoy the sensation of having nothing to do and nowhere to go.

When my friend arrived, another woman rose from a table across the room to intercept her. I knew this was going to happen—my friend had told me that she’d invited others to join us—and I knew that probably all these other women were going to be complete strangers to me. No big deal: I’m good at meeting new people. What I didn’t know was that all the women at the table had kids in the same Montessori school. Yep, it was a Mommy’s Night Out.

To be honest, my non-mommyness didn’t phase me. At least not at first. The conversation didn’t revolve entirely around kids. We talked about other topics, like one woman’s impending divorce and her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s complete meltdown. And when they learned that I am a productivity coach, the group became positively enraptured, asking me all sorts of questions about time management and such. But then the dreaded moment arrived.

“How old are your kids?”

I paused. Swallowed.

“I don’t have any kids,” I replied.

Cue the crickets.

“Oh!” she said, finally.

I didn’t realize how truly awkward that moment was until a few days later when I received—no lie—a handwritten letter of apology from the person who’d invited me.

Damn.

Looking Back

It’s not that I never wanted children. I was just very ambivalent for a long time. Plus I was waiting for the right time: the time when we had a stable income and health insurance. When we finally got around to trying, I was 38 years old. It took me three years to get pregnant. And in my eighth week, I miscarried.

It felt as if my heart had been ripped from my body. I spent weeks doubled over with grief. And when I wasn’t howling in pain, I was in my office, working as usual, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. I didn’t (and still don’t) understand the shame that came with the sadness. Why should I be ashamed of myself? I hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet for the longest time, I wanted to forget that I’d ever felt that momentary joy preceding the horrifying loss of my one and only pregnancy.

My aunt, one of my mom’s younger sisters, tried to comfort me. The little book she sent told me, “never doubt that you are a mother.” Of course, I know this is bull****. Mommies have actual children. For me, no child equalled not a mommy.

Do I sound bitter? I don’t mean to. There are many things about my life that I love. I have a lot of happiness, joy, abundance. There is only this one thing that is missing.

In Hindsight

I wish I could go back and talk to my still-ovulating younger self.

I’d tell her that there is never a right time to have a baby. I’d kick her butt and tell her to stop second-guessing her heart’s desire. And I would tell her to throw out her birth control pills and get herself pregnant.

When I look at my younger friends, the ones wrestling with the same ambivalence about being a mom, juggling the same timing issues and looking for that just-right moment, I want to take them by their shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle. I want to yell, “When you’re fifty and menopausal and highly accomplished, the only thing that will matter to you is your family. Please, for goodness sake, have one!” If they didn’t call the cops first, would they get the message?

I wonder how my cocky twenty-something self would have reacted to such a visit.

I hope with all my heart I would have listened to me.

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Dear SheLoves readers, take a few moments to consider these questions:

• If I got a visit from my twenty years older self, what would she most want me to know?
• The heart’s desire I am second-guessing right now is …

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About Tara:

Tara Rodden Robinson is an author, coach, and educator. Known as The Productivity Maven, she blogs at tararobinson and tweets @tararodden. She lives in Corvallis, Oregon, with her husband and their two dogs. She is working on mastering complex yoga poses and searching for the perfect gluten-free bread recipe. When she’s not writing, coaching, or teaching, she’s out in the wilderness hiking and watching birds.

Making Memories: When Small Moments are Cradled in a Mother’s Big Love

“When we grace a shared moment with our undivided attention and love, we create heartprints that can be carried with us, always.”

By Stefanie Thomas | Twitter: @stefanie_nicole

When I was a kid, it was always a bit of a thrill when the Avon Lady paid our home a visit. I’d study the glossy pages of the catalogues she delivered, making note of which treasures my heart desired. Strawberry-scented lip gloss! Bath powder, complete with a fluffy pink powder puff. A necklace with a pendant of a pigtailed girl on a swing. (She’s tucked away in a drawer somewhere, but this cute girl still swings on.) I especially appreciated when seasonal items were featured. Poring over pictures of Christmas ornaments made me excited for the coming holiday.

Mother’s Day was another occasion that seemed to be a big deal in the land of Avon. When I spotted this little plate in the catalogue, I knew I had to get it for my mom:

A Mother’s Beauty

What strikes me as funny today is (A) what does “Love is a Song for Mother” even mean? and (B) that I would have had to go through my mom to order the plate, so she couldn’t have been too surprised when she unwrapped it on Mother’s Day. But the beautiful thing about my mom is that she always seemed surprised, reacting as if whatever I’d given her was the best gift she could have received. Yes, even those fake red roses whose polyester petals we’d doused in Babe perfume (or was it Charlie?). You’d have thought we had given her the world.

To start from the beginning, my mom was an adorable baby:

Right? When she first learned to speak, she couldn’t pronounce her own name – Faye – so she called herself “Little Pay.” This, combined with the fact that, as a child, she tied a rope to a piece of wood and dragged it through the forest as her pet alligator, is, to me, heartbreakingly cute and only makes me love her more.

I remember my mom coming to my school when I was a kid and my classmates saying, “That’s your mom? She’s so pretty!” I felt proud that my mom was lovely on the outside, but what made me even more proud was how lovely she was on the inside.

Fond Memories

When kids at school got picked on, my mom encouraged us to reach out to them with kindness. She could often be heard reminding us, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” While some kids on the playground were echoing narrow-minded or racist beliefs, my mom taught my sisters and me to be loving and inclusive. I am so grateful she never tolerated prejudice or hatred.

Ours was the mom who let us blow through straws into a mixing bowl full of milk to make bubbles. When my friend’s mom arrived to find us at the kitchen table in all our bubble-blowing glory, she scoffed at what a waste of milk it was and asked my mom, “How could you let them do this?!” (This woman was a little on the stern side–she made her kids wear slippers in the house at all times–and to this day, if I get a whiff of Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew perfume, I am immediately reminded of her.)

Not all of our friends came from happy homes, but my parents created an environment in which others felt safe, comfortable and taken care of. Our friends knew they were welcome at our house, that they would be allowed to stay for dinner, play loudly and make a mess. More than once we took in friends, teens who had it so rough at home that they lived with us for a while. I am so glad our house was that house.

My mom is patient, gentle, wise and loving. She inspires me with her spiritual practice and offers reminders of God when I need it most. My mom has blessed my life in countless ways, but as I give thanks for her today, I’m remembering some sweet simple moments we shared when I was about five years old.

Just Mom and Me

Our home was usually busy with activity, but once in a while I’d get my mom all to myself. It didn’t matter what we did, getting one-on-one time with her was a treat. I have fond memories of sitting on the bathroom counter, watching mom apply the face mask she’d made from whipped egg whites. Then it would be my turn. We’d let our masks dry and then carefully peel them off, marvelling at how smooth and clean our skin felt. Mom had her hands full raising three little girls, so I don’t imagine she got much time to pamper herself. Having a few minutes to give herself an inexpensive, homemade facial might have been my mom’s attempt at squeezing in some overdue self-care, but for me, it was memory-making material.

It felt special.

Another experience I often recall took place one winter’s day when mom and I had the house to ourselves. We munched on popcorn and sang along to Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits Volume 2 as we watched snowflakes fall outside. And then we cleaned out the fireplace. My mom folded over the top few inches of a brown grocery bag, and together we used the wrought-iron broom and shovel to carefully fill the bag with delicate black ashes. It was the most menial and mundane of tasks, probably something my mom was happy to cross off of her never-ending To Do List, but several decades later, I still fondly remember how special it felt to take on this job together on that quiet, snowy afternoon.

Once, when I was unable to sleep because I was sick with the flu, my mom scooped me up in my favourite pink blanket and together we retreated to the family room couch. She fixed me a little snack, and together in the early morning darkness, we watched The Flintstones. I was sick and I could have been miserable, but something about having my mom’s undivided care for me, being up together when everyone else was sleeping, made it feel all better. I still have that pink blanket, and my mom is still there with TLC when I need it.

How Love is Felt

Years ago on The Oprah Winfrey Show, author Toni Morrison raised the question, “When your child walks into the room, does your face light up?” More than parents’ words, it’s the love children can see that makes them feel special. For me, it wasn’t just sharing these experiences with my mom that propelled me to deposit them in my Good Memories Bank. What made these simple moments special was that my mom’s face did light up. I could feel that she was as delighted to be in my company as I was to be in hers.

Life can get busy, and perhaps at times we feel the pressure of having to divide ourselves among many people and demands. Writing this post reminded me that it’s not always the big events and gestures that have the most impact.

A sliver of a day devoted to homemade facials, or cleaning out the fireplace, or even cuddling through the flu can become a treasured memory.

- When we’re present with the ones we’re with, when our faces reflect the love we feel, the ordinary can become extraordinary.

- When we grace a shared moment with our undivided attention and love, we create heartprints that can be carried with us, always.

Happy Mother’s Day, to my own beautiful mom and to my beautiful SheLoves sisters–whether you are a mom or long to be one, whether you’re celebrating your mom today or missing and remembering her.

Thank you for making the world go ’round.

This one goes out to YOU!

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My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• What are your favourite mother memories?

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About Stefanie:

Stefanie is a Registered Clinical Counsellor living in Vancouver, BC. She feels blessed to work in a helping profession and is grateful that her work requires her to show up not in a power suit but with listening ears and a compassionate heart. Stefanie enjoys spending time with family and friends and has never met a kid or baby she doesn’t like. She is a noticer and appreciator of birds (chickadees, herons, eagles) and many a beach rock has come home in her pocket. Stefanie is a lover of music, tv and movies, and she is gifted at absorbing and retaining useless pop culture trivia. She loves walking, fresh air, the smell of dirt, and anything of the salt and vinegar persuasion. She can often be found puttering.

Finding Your Right Parenting Way: Five Questions to Ask

Tales from the Parenting Trenches

“Given how varied parents, children and contexts are, how could there be one best way to parent?”

By Sabrina Connell | Twitter: @sabrinaconnell

I had a friend who could not have been more my opposite. I’m fairly certain she kept me around because she didn’t have enough people in her life who would openly disagree with her. In addition to opposing personalities, political and religious views, we had incredibly different parenting styles. Yet, despite our differences in parenting, all of our children, who shared classes together, thrived. While my husband and I often allowed our children to sleep with us, frequently played with them and gave them room to negotiate with us, she and her husband drew more strict boundaries and encouraged more independence in the form of their children packing their own lunches (including their two-year-old), comforting themselves at night when they were scared and playing without adults involved.

She freely expressed her opinion that she was parenting correctly and I was operating in error. Was one of us wrong in our parenting? More importantly … was one of us more right?

Numerous books promote varying parenting styles. Recent popular books like Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother and Bringing Up Bebe may even suggest that parenting styles in other cultures might be superior to ours. Given so many options and arguments, what should we do as parents?

Parenting style depends on so many various factors that I’m convinced there really isn’t a one-size-fits-all type of mothering.

• What outcomes are you hoping for?

Parents make choices in the service of values they hope will shape their children. In raising her children, my friend was seeking to help them develop self-reliance and independence. We, on the other hand, were aiming to raise our children in a manner promoting community and interdependence. Every parenting choice we make is in the service of some type of goal or desired outcome that is shaped by our own values.

• In what type of context are you raising your children?

Children being raised in urban neighborhoods face different challenges and expectations than children raised in suburban or rural neighborhoods. As such, different parenting strategies may be required. Globally, children around the world develop in vastly different contexts with dramatically different parenting practices, and yet still they manage well. For example, among the Efe people of Congo, West Africa, Efe babies learn how to use machetes very early on, because knowing how to do so is helpful in securing survival in the Ituri Forest!

(Photograph by David Wilkie, from The Cultural Nature of Human Development, page 6, by Barbara Rogoff)

• What type of personality do you have?

Are you more sensitive and reactive? Or are you stoic and able to conceal your emotions? Admittedly, I’m a bit of a push-over with my children and being strict or firm feels unnatural to me. I’m pretty sure my children even see my attempts at being strict as contrived and forced.  Similarly, some parents are naturally more structured and organized, while others are more spontaneous and … unorganized (myself included).

• What type of resources and social support are available to you?

A single mother who works numerous jobs to support her children may have a different level of energy and availability for her children than a mother who works part-time and enjoys the support of her relatives. Similarly, some parents raise children in communities where libraries, playgrounds, schools, and parks abound, while others raise children in communities that lack such resources.

• What type of child do you have?

Many of us who have more than one child can attest that even within our own family systems, we often adjust our parenting styles between our own children. My son and my daughter require different routines, different encouragement and different discipline.  If I were to tell my children that touching a particular object could be dangerous, my daughter would carefully back away while my son would take such information as an invitation to discover the potential danger himself.

Given how varied parents, children, and contexts are, how could there be one best way to parent? There are few absolutes in childrearing beyond wanting the best for our children and seeking to help them thrive using the resources, knowledge and abilities available to us. In addition to monitoring our judgment of others’ parenting practices, we may also want to monitor our judgment of ourselves. Rather than questioning whether or not we’re parenting our children right, perhaps we can take comfort in the fact that we’re asking that question at all as it reflects our motivation to raise our children well. Kudos to all you momma’s out there making the most of what you’ve got this Mother’s Day weekend!

For a fascinating peek at how babies are raised in different contexts, watch the documentary Babies.
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About Sabrina:

An artist-turned-academic, Sabrina spends her days navigating between a wide variety of roles including that of mother, wife, graduate student, researcher and daydreamer. She is currently a doctoral student in the Communication Studies program at Northwestern University where she researches the various ways in which children and parents engage media and technology and the potential effects these interactions might have on the development of children. Prior to her time at Northwestern, Sabrina earned a Master’s degree in child development from Tufts University, as well as a Master of Arts in puppetry from the University of Connecticut. She has a passion for all things involving play, whimsy and the art of nurturing.

Image credit: Boy in field, by Thomas Fleenor

RELATE with Helen: Pathways of Friendship

“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” Anais Nin

By Helen Burns | Twitter: @helenburns

Last night, John and I returned home from a trip to Germany where we ministered at a relationship conference and spoke in several awesome churches in the very quaint and beautiful city of Detmold.

The time I spent there was so extraordinarily special to me because I was able to share it with my husband, John. It fed my soul in ways that perhaps only a girl like me, who grew up Mennonite, could truly appreciate.

The Language of Hearts

Something awakens and stirs me so deeply when I can connect with my Mennonite Russian/German roots in such a palpable way. We may live across oceans, but the language of our hearts and heritage connects us deeply.

I’ll never forget my initial introduction to this small, but remarkable group of people…

I had just finished teaching my session at Charlotte Scanlon-Gambill’s women’s conference in Bradford, England, when a group of seven rather tender and teary-eyed women approached me and said,

“I think we are your people.”

At first those words seemed strange to be hearing in England, but very soon it all made sense. Their ears had tuned in to certain words and customs that I had brought up during my teaching—things that would be unique to someone raised in a Mennonite church and home. We shared a common history, a common faith, a common language, common customs within our community, as well as common food.

Sharing Community

It was a ‘moment’ I’ll never forget. Time stopped as we shared our stories and our journeys to “here and now”. Suddenly I was lost in a world of beautiful familiarity, speaking German and found myself longing for a delicious feast of my favourite dishes that my Oma, Mom and aunties would make like Borscht, Perishky, Kotletten or a yummy helping of Rollkuchen, served with a juicy slice of watermelon. My mouth is watering as I write.

Following our encounter in England, we continued to stay in touch with each other. I became especially connected to my friend Vera. We were so very aware that our relationship was divinely orchestrated by God for a greater purpose than we could understand at the moment.

This recent trip was my third visit to Detmold and this stunning community of friends that God so graciously introduced into my world. The opportunity to minister there astounds me and blesses me beyond what I could express in words. It simply makes my heart and soul sing ridiculously loud!

Building Family

I am continuously in awe of how lavishly and thoughtfully God knits His big, magnificent family together. He is the divine connector-of-the-dots, and not one detail ever escapes His notice.

Over 25 years ago, God asked John to lay down his dental practice to plant a church. I knew it was a clear directive from the Spirit of God and I willingly released the security of the financial stability that dentistry afforded us as a family. I admit however that I struggled laying down a deep desire to travel and explore the world. I couldn’t imagine there would ever be enough money in our budget to do that ever again.

I love how God puts His desires in our hearts and then uses them as a cord of connection to His heart. He is an extravagant Father who loves to lavish His children.

I have traveled to more countries than I would have ever imagined in my wildest dreams and it has been with the greatest purpose imaginable—to grow and build the family of God. It has all happened so beautifully and organically. I have been learning to leave the details to God. He knows what He is doing.

It was just a few short years ago that I found myself in Bradford, England, where I met so many people with whom my heart will forever be connected, and in the midst of this glorious opportunity walked seven more friends—friends of my history and friends of my destiny.

These gorgeous Mennonite sisters were so hungry for God that they dared to step out into an unfamiliar place, get on an airplane and head to a conference that they had seen advertised on Christian Television. It was there that our lives collided and we have never been the same since.

God is always up to something! He has created pathways for us to walk on that will supernaturally align our destiny with others. Much fruit has come from that one encounter—there are always multitudes on the other side of our obedience to God.

My heart so resonates with these words from Romans 8:12-16…

“So don’t you see that we don’t owe this old do-it-yourself life one red cent. There’s nothing in it for us, nothing at all. The best thing to do is give it a decent burial and get on with your new life. God’s Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go!

This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike “What’s next, Papa?” God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know who he is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what’s coming to us—an unbelievable inheritance! (Message)

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My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear:

• How has God aligned your life and purpose with others’?
• Which friendships in your life have come as a result of obedience to God?

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About Helen:

Helen Burns and her husband, John, speak around the world on the topic of relationships. They host the popular TV show “Relate with John and Helen.”

Unbalanced: Learning the Unforced Rhythms of Grace

“In reality, my life is a ridiculously amazing (amazingly ridiculous?) jumble of overlapping intersections.”

By Angela Doell | Twitter: @adoell

I have many questions in life. Zillions. However, I do know one thing for sure. I have figured this out and I will boldly declare it to be true only because I love you and want to be helpful:

Balance is baloney.

After 37 years on earth (twenty of those as a working gal and 16 as a mom) I feel like I can confidently say there’s no such thing as balance when it comes to being a mom, a wife, a friend, a working woman. It’s silly nonsense.

If your days are a constant quest to do it all, do it impressively, and keep smiling–I feel you. I vote that we agree to take the pressure off.

The word “balance” doesn’t work, for starters, because it suggests that my life can be compartmentalized–one area separate and unique from another. Family on one side of the scale, work and ministry on the other. In reality, my life is a ridiculously amazing (amazingly ridiculous?) jumble of overlapping intersections.

To be balanced would further mean that these separate parts of our lives carry equal weight, neatly divided… And yet I feel that what I focus on actually has all of me. When I’m with my family, I’m all in. There isn’t a corner of my heart that isn’t theirs. I love them wholly. When I’m at work, I wonder what my kids are up to at school. And I’m as passionate about the work and ministry that consumes my days. Serving in church, pastoring, creating –it’s where I find my purpose. It follows me home, finds its way into our dinner conversation, shows up in my dreams.

Family and Work are all up in each other’s faces, zero regard for any personal air bubble. 

As long as we’re doing real work, committed to a marriage, or raising complicated children, perfect balance is unrealistic. Add divorce, illness, addiction, or any other complication to the equation and it’s fully overwhelming.

I fell off a ladder recently. I was on the top step, stretching to paint a high wall and lost my balance. My husband happened to be nearby and he actually caught me. (He’s totally my hero.) Once we got over the shock of that little adventure and brushed ourselves off, he started to tease me. I didn’t just suddenly fall over, but it was the slow back and forth of a doomed woman which he found amusing:

- I reached too far with the paintbrush, tipped a little to the right and made a gasping “Whooah” sound.

- I attempted to regain my balance by leaning to the left, an “Ooooah” escaping my lips in the struggle.

- I overcorrected in my fearful panic, causing the ladder to swing. (At this point Rod had dropped what he was doing and was beside the ladder, arms outstretched.)

- I jerked right, thought I had things under control for a second and made a loud rejoicing exclamation sound like “Ahhhhhh”, which set me off again and caused the ladder to fully topple, landing me in the arms of my lover.

Our lives can often feel like the swing of that ladder, causing us to sing and dance in an attempt to make it all work without losing our cool. It’s a funny illustration … but it’s sometimes accurate.

While balance isn’t gonna happen, I do believe it’s possible to find harmony in the ebb and flow, the movement and rhythm, of life.

The key is to recognize my life isn’t my own. I am not in control here. In the still morning hours as I turn my face to God, make a physical and spiritual effort to seek Him first, He reveals the areas that need a little attention in my life, where I’m out of sync. He teaches me through the seasons of intensity, where I hold onto Him for dear life. I bring my stressed, weary cry of help and He, in turn, whispers “rest.” I feel His convicting nudge urging me to move when I’ve been comfortable too long. He reminds me of my purpose, asks me to lean into the stretch that I’m feeling, sets my wobbly knees straight with conviction.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” Matthew 11:28-30 MSG

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My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear your thoughts and comments:

• What are your thoughts on balancing family, work, life?
• What have you learned through the seasons of feeling off-kilter, out of balance?

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About Angela:

Angela and her husband Rod have been married for 18 years and they have two children, Madison (16) and Miller (12). Angela works at Relate Church in Surrey, BC. She loves finding beauty in everyday life and is passionate about communicating the grace, hope and reality of a living Jesus.

Small Screen Confessions and Learning to Love the Big Picture

How could I encourage my clients to embrace their uniquenesses when I kept the fact that I taped Gilmore Girls every day hidden like a dirty little secret between me and my VCR?

By Stefanie Thomas | Twitter: @stefanie_nicole

I love TV. More specifically, I love watching good TV shows. Now, I know that what’s good to me might make you cringe or yawn, or change the channel, but crying over an episode of Parenthood is as satisfying for me as laughing until I cry at the hilarious 30 Rock or Parks and Recreation. And I have two seasons of The Good Wife on DVD to thank for helping me get through a nasty bout of pneumonia this past Fall.

What I love about TV is that it can be what we want, when we need it. It can be light and amusing or meaty and compelling. It can make us laugh, dance and remember to be kind to one another. (Thanks, Ellen!) It can teach us, make us feel connected and inspire aha! moments. (Thanks, Oprah!) Maybe it gives us a chance to put our inner detective to work while trying to solve a crime show mystery. (“I knew it was that guy! Those beady eyes were not to be trusted!”) Or maybe a touching moment onscreen allows us to tap into some buried emotion, facilitating catharsis. (“Uh, why is my face wet? Oh, I’m sobbing. I guess I needed that.”) Quirky new shows (New Girl, anyone?) offer fresh appeal, while reruns of an old standby can bring nostalgic warm fuzzies. (You can come and knock on my door any time, Jack Tripper!)

Unwind

Perhaps you’re with me when I say that after a challenging day, unwinding with a sitcom can be just what the doctor ordered. Case in point: After doing intense trauma counseling today at work, it was a delight to come home and guffaw my way through The Big Bang Theory. (I heart you, Sheldon Cooper.) Other times, getting wrapped up in a good drama is the best medicine, especially when the show’s emotional crescendo is cradled by just the right song. Chord struck, heartstrings pulled, it’s a beautiful thing.

You, dear readers, might wonder “Why is she writing about TV? She usually writes about relationships, and she hasn’t mentioned her Grandma Dot once!”

Family History

Let me back up and mention that I come by my love of TV honestly. My entire family appreciates the tube, and I know exactly which shows my parents and siblings like to watch. My younger sister writes a weekly recap of American Idol which entertains me to no end, and my older sister and I like to compare notes on our shared favourite dramas. One of my awesome aunties often starts our phone calls with “So what did you think of The Bachelor?!” And last year when I went to stay with my hilarious almost-80-year-old great-aunt, she made me watch Breaking Bad with her, saying “Oh, it’s a real corker!” But I can’t think of anyone who enjoyed watching TV more than my dear Grandma Dot. (There she is!) She’s been gone for almost 12 years, but the image of her nestled into her corner of the couch watching one of her favourite shows is as clear in my mind as if I’d just seen it yesterday.

When I was a kid and slept over at my grandparents’ house, Grandma would let me stay up late and watch TV with her. I’d crawl into the king-sized bed between her and my Grandpa and, propped up on a mountain of pillows, we’d set sail on The Love Boat. In no time, Grandpa would be fast asleep, but Grandma and I would enjoy every minute of high drama on the high seas. And then–here’s the exciting part–we would watch Fantasy Island. I’m sure much of it went over my head (I was six years old, after all), but what made this late-night viewing so special to me was that it was something we did together. I may not recall anything about the episodes we watched, but I remember exactly how it felt to be tucked in between Grandma and Grandpa under their heavy royal blue bedspread, the glow from the TV our only light. There was something thrilling about having Grandma all to myself and being allowed to stay up late watching these grown-up shows with her. When our shows were over, we’d roll onto our tummies and stare out the window, admiring the twinkling lights of the city that seemed to sprawl out forever beneath their hilltop home.

Cable Company

Whether we’re escaping to another world or relating to another world, the small screen can have a big impact. Some days, TV itself may be the only company we want, and other times, we can’t wait to tune in alongside our loved ones. There’s one deliciously nerve-wracking show that my sisters and I only watch if we’re together. It’s fun to experience a collective cringe as our unlikely hero narrowly escapes getting caught (yet again), and my killer (pun intended) imitation of the show’s high-pitched theme music always brings comic relief. But to me the best part is having this carved out pocket of time to spend with my sisters. Dexter may bring us together, but he often takes a back seat to our catching up, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But I guess here’s the real reason I’m writing about TV. If my posts for SheLoves Magazine are about relationships, this one can be filed under: Relationship with Self.

Judging Myself 

It’s true, I grew up loving television, but somewhere along the way I started to judge this love, to think that there was something less-than about being a fan of the tube. Perhaps it was that I started to encounter more and more people who said things like “I don’t have cable. I’ve got better things to do than watch TV.” I began to feel embarrassed that I enjoyed something that others deemed a mindless waste of time. Suddenly I felt sheepish that in my spare time I might rather tune in to a favourite show than read up on current events or run a marathon.

I counsel a lot of young adults, and I regularly encourage them to be themselves. Many who grace the chair across from me judge themselves harshly, making endless comparisons to others who seem to be doing more, or being better. They feel ashamed of who they are and how they like to spend their time. When their self-rejection rears its ugly head, I reach for my imaginary pom-poms and cheer “You are awesome! Your love of comic books (or horses, or video games, or making spreadsheets just for fun) is a big part of what makes you YOU. Claim it! Embrace it!”

Few things make my heart happier than seeing others start to own who they are, to allow themselves to do what they love and to love what they love. So how could I encourage my clients in this when I kept the fact that I taped Gilmore Girls every day hidden like a dirty little secret between me and my VCR?

One of the perks of my job is that what I’m preaching to my dear clients lands on my ears and sinks into my heart, too. If I’m going to honour the unique interests of others, I should honour my own, too.

It’s a work in progress, but I’m learning to love what I love, to appreciate and celebrate what makes me ME. So, here I am, waving my imaginary pom-poms as I say it again, loud and proud: I love TV!

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About Stefanie:

Stefanie is a Registered Clinical Counsellor living in Vancouver, BC. She feels blessed to work in a helping profession and is grateful that her work requires her to show up not in a power suit but with listening ears and a compassionate heart. Stefanie enjoys spending time with family and friends and has never met a kid or baby she doesn’t like. She is a noticer and appreciator of birds (chickadees, herons, eagles) and many a beach rock has come home in her pocket. Stefanie is a lover of music, tv and movies, and she is gifted at absorbing and retaining useless pop culture trivia. She loves walking, fresh air, the smell of dirt, and anything of the salt and vinegar persuasion. She can often be found puttering.

TGIF: My “30 Going on 13″ Moment

On forgotten business cards, my Jambalaya family and sleeping in the backseat of a minivan.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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I got a promotion at work last year. Not the kind that results in a corner office, prime parking spot and stock options. But the kind where you get a moderate raise, a fancy title, continue to do your old job (with the dream of a replacement—“soon”), work longer hours and get a fresh stack of business cards.

I find the practice of swapping business cards archaic and awkward. Much like a good handshake, handing out a business card is an art form. I lack the prerequisite swagger needed to hand them out with any semblance of credibility.

This guy has swagger:

In stark contrast, I’ve got a lot more of this going on:

When I’m not moonlighting as a sandwich consultant, I work with engineers. In my experience, most engineers consider non-engineers, an overhead cost, and “a suit”.

Now add the fact that: I’m female (minority), younger to my peers (inexperienced), a communication major (fluff degree) with work experience in TV broadcasting (condescending smirk). Let’s just say, the odds are stacked against me.

My business card is the neon stamp of approval that grants me access to this otherwise members-only club.

Without it, I’m basically toast. This is where my story begins.

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On the eve of a business trip to Toronto, I was working late at the office. Seriously sleep-deprived, I eventually packed my bags to go home but had a sneaking suspicion I was forgetting something important.

You know where this is going …

At the tail end of my 1.5-hour commute home, it dawned on me: I’d forgotten to grab my business cards.

I was catching an early morning flight, still had to pack, do laundry and make crucial changes to a presentation. This (this!) lapse in planning was a boo-boo of epic proportions.

While I wanted to go into a “Jim Carrey-esque” meltdown, i.e. slamming my head into the steering wheel, I started crying angry defeated tears instead.

How could I forget to pack them after my boss reminded me? All this work on a presentation and I wasn’t going to make a professional first impression! Nobody wants to be on the team with the person who “ran out of business cards.”

7:30 pm

After raging crying on my driveway for three minutes, I walked into the kitchen where my parents were eating dinner. Afraid I was going to burst into tears, I avoided eye contact and rinsed out my lunch Tupperware in the sink.

“I forgot to grab my business cards,” I said in a monotone Terminator voice. “I really needed them for my trip.”

“Do you have any extra cards at home?” my mom asked.

I exhaled and nodded my head, “No.” I served myself a plate of food, then headed up to my room.

7:45 pm

Back in the kitchen. I was washing my empty plate, when my dad, who was now munching on a fistful of sweet sticky dates said, “If you want to pick up the cards, I can drive you.”

I looked up at him tentatively and said, “But it’s an hour-and-a-half away …”

Half-chewing he replied, “That’s okay. There won’t be any traffic this time of the night.”

“Are you sure … ?” my voice trailed off.

My mom who was clearing the dinner table urged, “Go get dressed.”

Just as I was about to climb into the minivan, I noticed my mom standing right behind me with a pillow and a blanket.

“Get in the backseat,” she said handing me the pillow and the blanket. “You can rest on the drive there.”

“The family is a haven in a heartless world.”
- Christopher Lasch

You Can Rest

As I climbed in the van, I felt my knees buckle and my lips quiver.

The words, “You can rest,” made my head spin.

Remember that movie “13 going on 30” where Jennifer Garner plays a game on her 13th birthday and wakes up as a 30-year-old woman? Well, this moment, was the exact opposite.

Here I was, an able-bodied 30-year-old woman, in scuffed sneakers, an oversized hoodie, whimpering in the backseat of my parents’ minivan with a blankie. For crying out loud!

First I was crying, because I love the relationship my parents share. They truly enjoy each other’s company–whether it’s going to buy a bag of mulch for the backyard, or driving their adult daughter to pick up business cards in the middle of the night.

Then I was crying, because I realized they had loved 30-year-old me for as many years. Thirty years of being bailed out, taken care of and consoled. Thirty years of encouraging me, protecting me and looking out for me. Thirty years of (metaphorically) leaving the light on for my prodigal heart.

Sure, sometimes their “encouragement” felt like pressure, “protection” felt like suffocation and “looking out for me” sounded an awful lot like paranoia. But the bottom line was that these people–my parents–love me. They would go barefoot to hell and back for me.

What about people who don’t have a loving family?

I was semi-hypnotized by the streetlights whizzing by, when I realized we were driving through Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside (DTES), a.k.a. “the rough part” of town. Just outside the protected bubble of my minivan was screaming visual proof of poverty, drug use, prostitution, crime and violence.

In February, I was at the Justice Conference in Portland where I heard stories about lives that took a drastic turn for the worst because of emotionally unavailable parents.

Girls with parents who were caught up in numbing their own pain with alcohol, drugs or multiple sexual partners. Girls who had no one to call after running away from home, getting pregnant, date raped or overdosing. Girls who had no one to call from a gas station, bus stop or payphone.

So the girls went back to their:
… abusive boyfriends,
… pimps, and
… dealers.

They never stood a fighting chance.

A good friend often says, “When you have roots, you can have wings.” I need “the roots” of my family, who love me unconditionally ”to have wings.” I needed a two-hour drive to grab my business cards in the middle of the night, so I could feel confident about giving a stellar presentation at work.

Driving through the DTES, I found my heart overflowing with gratitude for my mom and dad, who were happily chatting away, snacking on spicy fried peas in the front seat.

My family is a thick jambalaya of characters, who share food, bad jokes and the remote control. We celebrate birthdays, new jobs and great haircuts. We stand together in failure, heartbreak and buffet lineups. We sit through terrible high school plays, teary weddings and depressing waiting rooms. We parade around in our pajamas, talk with morning breath, tease each other, address fashion faux pas and wander through Walmart. We are fiercely protective, borderline codependent and wildly irrational when it comes to loving each other.  In a nutshell, their unconditional LOVE, gives me the courage to journey through the good, the beautiful and the downright ugly of LIFE.

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So, dear ones …

- Who cares about your rest?
- Who needs you to show up for them with a pillowcase and a blankie?

Love you more than a comforting bowl of Coconut Shrimp Soup and Lady Apple Cardamom Cake,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

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My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

A Picture of Divine Love: For Sarah

“Go ahead, try me … Give me a chance to show you how much I can love you when you have gone out of your way to be unlovable.”

By Shekinah Jacob

The first time I saw you in the flesh, your body was still attached to mine, breathing my oxygen, sharing the same sheath of skin.

The unbroken umbilical cord made us one body, and when they placed you on my belly I struggled to register that moment in history, my mind panting to grasp it through the haze of exhaustion and the memory of the abyss of pain I’d been lost in just seconds before that.

I held your bloody, slimy fingers and croaked, “Hi there.”

Your eyes, filmed over with mucous and afterbirth, gazed out at the world you’d only heard but never seen.

And then they severed the umbilical cord; you were returned to me bathed and wrapped up, your face emerging from the bundle of linen like a newly-bloomed rosebud, an oven-warm loaf of bread– fresh delivery from another world.

When you were on your way out of my body, I felt as if I was at the butcher’s, being torn apart in a neat vertical line separating my right pelvic joint from the left, as if I were cleaved in half, all the way up to my cranium in order to make a passage for your entry into the world.

Extreme pain is like being stuck in the vortex of a fire. And they say fire purifies; it burns out the dross and births gold. I know that is true, because the pain distilled my love for you: drop by sweaty drop. It collected in an eternal reservoir of unfathomable, immeasurable love that never runs dry.

Catching my Breath

Although you are now four, you are still too young to know that the sight of your small eager face gazing at mine makes me catch my breath. Every now and then, I pull you close and hold you for a few moments. Sometimes you toss your head like a perky horse and wriggle out of my grasp, and then I use some guile to keep you there–a redundant question, a whispered nonsense of a secret, a silly joke. And while I keep you this close, I drink in the smell of your nutbrown skin, nuzzle your twig of a neck, rub my nose in your wayward hair.

Sometimes you turn around with a giggle or a puzzled stare and I stare back at you with all my strength, willing my eyes to send you a message that says I love you for being you.

Because you are mine.

Because you have my eyes and because your chipped tooth is the cutest imperfection I’ll see in my lifetime. And I want you to know that I will always love you.

Go ahead, try me.

Get impossibly fat, fail at something big, hate me for no reason, take your anger at the world and direct it at me. Give me a chance to show you how much I can love you when you have gone out of your way to be unlovable.

I keep telling you that God loves you just the way I do.

I tell you that I know he loves me too. But the truth is that often I lose my way in the maze of my own rational thinking.

God Loves Me 

I build walls with my imperfections, so I can blot out a perfect being. Just to help Him out, you know, so He can have his morning cup of tea without having to take me in with the view. On these days when I can’t look at myself in the mirror, I have moments of lucidity when I feel God’s pain at being left on the other side of my wall.

I want to believe that He loves me the way I love you, but it’s real hard.

It’s as if I can see all that love, but my heart tells me it’s just a pretty mirage in this desert of my making, that if I walked over for a closer look at it, all I’d be left with is the shadow of myself in the sand.

Wild Hope 

You’d think it would be easier, that my crazy mother-love for you would give me some insight; would help me hold onto the fact that perhaps a God who illogically courted pain for me, who deliberately picked out the worst kind of death to prove his love, might enjoy loving me, no matter what … despite my “what if’s” and “but why’s,” despite the manic Mondays and frivolous Fridays, despite the endless nail-biting, self-hating hours spent running after love.

But it’s real hard because often my heart refuses to keep up with my mind.

So, give me one more chance to hold you close again, to hear myself speak the unintelligible language of love, to keep murmuring until I detect in it the faint echoes of the real thing. Until my wild hope turns into the quiet certainty that I’m keeping a similarly insane love waiting, for me, on the other side of my wall.

About Shekinah:

Shekinah is a drama queen who lives in Chennai, India, with her knight (not always in shining armour because it tends to get too hot to wear metal clothing) and their two toddlers who make her laugh, and love her on bad hair days. Her idea of heaven is coffee, a good conversation, and cupcakes with zero calories. She likes writing about her family because it’s a good way to preserve the memories, and more enjoyable than taking photographs.

Image credit: EXISTENCE © Sara Robinson | Dreamstime.com; S Olsen via Pinterest

Letter to My Eldest Daughter

“… there are hardworking, brave, crazy, passionate blood-women pulsing in that exposed heart of yours and you took in their guts and soul with your mother’s milk.”

By Sarah Bessey

Blog: www.emergingmummy.com | Twitter: @sarahbessey

Dearest Anne, my full of grace girl:

It seems sometimes like you were born without a rib cage around your heart–you are so tender, so wide open, so innocent and welcoming that I can hardly bear it. You love so quickly and easily without thought of looks or creed, economics or appropriateness, borders or demarcations. Your default setting is trust, forgiveness offered before asked.

So, I want to be your rib cage, to protect your heart from bruises or breakage but the truth is that your heart is strong and wide for its very exposure. And you are so brave in your innocence, I learn from you. You made me a mother, small girl, and now my own ribs are cracked wide and through loving you, I am reacquainted with my own thumping too-tender self, and I am discovering a wide family of global sisterhood.

I claim my corner of your life and half of your blood, for the teaching of the big nouns and verbs of love and peace, justice and mercy, faith and laughter, servanthood and courage, along with the sacredness of work and beauty through the small daily life we live together now. There isn’t much drudgery in laundry and dishes anymore. I have found God in these small tasks because, together, we are learning. Nor do I find despair in working for freedom, equality, mercy and justice in our own family ways, because together we are learning hope and making space for God.

You see, you remind me a lot of myself. You may look like your Dad, but in your heart of hearts, you carry my temperament and personality. Sometimes that thrills me. Other times, it terrifies me. Because I simply want to tip over and pour everything of my own self out for you; I want you to know NOW what took me 33 years to learn about myself.

And knowing that you take after me in the good ways and in the let’s-be-honest-I’m-a-wreck-sometimes ways, I feel like I could write a book of rules and wisdom hard earned. Stupid things like, hey, don’t dye your hair black (trust me–it never washes out) and also, Charlie perfume makes a really poor cover-up for the smell of cigarette smoke. I know we’ll get to those ridiculous stories of my life, the ones that make you laugh at me. But I’ll also tell you my other stories about how I fell in love with your dad and what I think love looks like; how I love you and your brother and Evelynn, deep into my marrow, where my bones are alive.

I’ll trace the line of time backwards for you until you see the women that came before you in a great cloud of witnesses for your life. Not to burden you, small pixie, but to empower you.

After all, there are hardworking, brave, crazy, passionate blood-women pulsing in that exposed heart of yours and you took in their guts and soul with your mother’s milk.

We are thumping along with you, out here in the world now, reminding you that you are fearfully and wonderfully made. And you have a voice and a reason for being. You have a future and a hope. Know who you are, small girl, and when you forget, we’ll remind you. You are already a girl after God’s own heart, your ears are tuned to the Holy Spirit’s frequency and you comb the air like a spider. You’re paying attention.

Be a woman who loves.

How am I so blessed as to raise you up into womanhood? Your own story, yes, all yours, will be a beautiful thing to see unfold and I’m privileged for my front-row seat. You have helped me see every other mother in the world with walls-crumbling-down eyes. Every little girl could have your face, and now it’s not enough just to raise you well to a suburb with a mini-van to go to church on Sunday and pay your taxes. I am learning the counter-cultural in my own life and sowing it with prayer into yours. A life that tells a story of love, because every girl could be you, every mama could be me and every woman could be us, so we speak up, we pray, we sow our seed in hope and faith.

One morning, when you were four, we sat together and you asked me if I remembered when you were a baby and how we used to make each other laugh. I think you must have been looking at old pictures of that (but who knows? maybe you do remember?).

And I said, Yes, yes, I do remember.

And you said, We loved each other right from the start, didn’t we?

Yes, yes we did.

Love, Mummy

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Editor’s note: Sarah first wrote this post on International Women’s Day 2011. It gripped my heart then and has been one of my favourite pieces of Sarah’s ever since. This week, I made an exception with this post and asked Sarah if we could repost it from emergingmummy.com. I wanted our SheLoves readers to also have an opportunity to enter into this story, so it may be part of our collective memory as a sisterhood. –idelette xo

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About Sarah:

Sarah Styles Bessey lives in Abbotsford, BC with her husband and three tinies. She’s a happy clappy Jesus-lover, advocate for Mercy Ministries of Canada, blogger, writer and simple living/social justice wannabe. She blogs at www.emergingmummy.com and tweets from @sarahbessey.

I’ve Never Been Married, But I Have Been Divorced

“I’m not married and I’ve never been married. I have been divorced, however.”

By Ashley Mandanici | Twitter: @ashleymandanici

My parents split when I was 10 years old. Although I’m sure it was nothing nearly as devastating as the split between Barbie and Ken last year, it quickly became the lens through which I began to view my life.

I can never claim to understand how either one of my parents felt, but I can say with complete confidence that divorce separated me from my parents as truly as it separated my parents from each other.

All of a sudden I was living with two adults who were trying to reclaim their long lost youth, at the same time as I was being confronted with the reality of my own. As I entered my teenage years, I realized it wasn’t getting any easier. Nothing is more damaging to the fragile ego of a teenage girl than when her mother goes on more dates than she does.

Being the Child

Divorce is strange and unnatural for everyone involved, but I dare say it is more foreign to the child. Both parents have lived life without the other at some point, however for the child, being distanced from their parents is an altogether new experience. It’s hard for a child to see his or her home being broken, even if the home looked broken before divorce entered the picture.

In Mark 10:13-16 we read the story of Jesus blessing the little children:

“Then they brought little children to Him, that He might touch them; but the disciples rebuked those who brought them. But when Jesus saw it, He was greatly displeased and said to them, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God. Assuredly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.” And He took them up in His arms, laid His hands on them, and blessed them.”

“I needed someone to push through the crowd for me.”

In his book Woman Though Art Loosed, Bishop T.D. Jakes makes a fascinating observation: “It is interesting to me that just before this account took place in Scripture the Lord was ministering on the subject of adultery and divorce. When He brought the subject up, someone brought the children to Him so He could touch them.”

When my parents divorced, they determined the best way to deal with their child was to assure me they would always be friends, and to take me to a counselor. I am sad to say, however, that neither of those things proved very comforting to me.

I needed to be dropped into the lap of my Savior, not dropped at the doorstep of a counselor. I needed someone to push through the crowd for me, not so that I could receive another sermon, but so I could rest in the protection of my Savior’s arms.

Now, I am not here to bash on counselors, or bash on the divorced, and I am certainly not here to judge anybody else’s decisions–Barbie and Ken included. My purpose in writing is simply this: whether you are 10 or 50, whether you are a parent that is divorced or a child that is divorced, I pray that the first place you find yourself at any time of great pain and loss, is in the presence of your Savior.

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My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear:

• Have you been affected by divorce?
• How have you made sense of it?
• Any other thoughts or comments?

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About Ashley:

My name is Ashley and I am the Children’s Ministry Coordinator at Relate Church in Surrey, B.C. My mission is to develop the God-given potential in every child who crosses my path *Insert Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” here*. I love all things jazzy, particularly music, and I tend to break into song throughout the day for no apparent reason. I blog here and tweet @AshleyMandanici