The Makeup Bag Moment

Saturday rolled around and it was time to go pick up hubby. I was thrilled and I wanted to look nice. I’m down 9 pounds, and thought I’d do something other than the no makeup/messy bun/leggings look that I’ve been rocking for months. I’d try to look cute for him. So I got my jeans on, and a cute t-shirt, flipped my hair up out of the way and yanked open my makeup drawer.

It’s not actually an entire drawer of makeup, for those of you wondering. It’s just the drawer that held the few makeup items I had.

Had.

My precious, wild three year old had opened every tube of LipSense color, remover, gloss, poured out what she could, let the rest dry out. Okay, no lips. I’ll just do my powder and my eyes.

Mascara? Open, dried out. Eyeshadow? Covered in dried LipSense. Powder? Same as the eyeshadow. Even my eyeliner was broken to nothing.

Now, it’s been three years since I bought any makeup, and it’s been MONTHS since I wore any of it, but it was mine. In my drawer. In my bathroom. I thought the couple times she ran out with a little color smeared on her face was just nothing. I cleaned her up, and the closed drawer made me feel like all was right inside the drawer.

I completely lost it. I was crying, and chunking things in the trash, and I called my hubby and he seemed confused, a little like he couldn’t hear me, and a little like it didn’t matter anyway. But he pointed out I should have left already. More tears as I hung up the phone, now mad that he couldn’t see my problem for the problem it was.

I stormed around, angry and crying. My 6-year-old tried to comfort me, and even told me she would try to buy me new makeup. I turned to look at her and it hit me. I hit my knees and pulled my three littles close. I lost my peace over some makeup because of a million other things weighing on my heart. I kissed each of their sweet faces, helped the girls with their hair, and we went to get my husband.

I don’t care about makeup. While I can’t replace 15 tubes of LipSense, or even the other things I have right now, losing my peace over that moment was silly. It wasn’t the real issue brewing under the surface. I was forced to admit that the tears and ache had nothing to do with makeup.

It has to do with working out how robbed I feel of the dreams I had for the next few years with my two boys. Good things can also be hard things. As much as the peace of God has overwhelmed me through all of this, I still have so much processing that I’m working on.

It looks a little like this:

Did you know I am a curriculum nerd? I was so excited for the curriculum I was going to use with the boys this year. I thought it was going to be a great year.

Did you know I am getting to stay home for our school year? I had so many activities planned for the boys.

Our activities, places we would go, things we would see. It all sits in a basket in my mind, full of things that were going to be that never got to be.

It’s my least favorite brain basket. Sure, I have plans with the other kids and those haven’t changed, but they aren’t the plans I had with the boys.

So I lost my peace over a bag of makeup. I’m thankful I didn’t unpack and live there – not over the makeup, not the with the basket of undone things. I returned to God and asked Him to remind me why we are doing this, to remind me what He is doing, and why He calls us to surrender the hardest of things and let Him have the wheel.

Friend, what are you losing your peace over? Is it the real problem, or just an outlet for something else you need to deal with?

 

The Wrong Wish

My precious girl has a head full of curls. Beautiful, bouncy curls that I just love to play with. She has a hard little noggin, so she doesn’t complain too much about the combing, brushing, or detangling.

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These curls. So precious.

Every time I brush her hair, I wonder how I can teach her to love her hair (and her other features). Too often, girls are so concerned about how they look, about being trendy enough, attractive enough, good enough. I struggle with feeling like I am not pretty, and I’d like to protect her from these feelings.

There isn’t something obvious from my past that I can pinpoint. Certainly my parents both told me I was pretty, or cute, or adorable, as a young girl. No one ever said I wasn’t pretty, but I struggle with it just the same. I know I’m not alone. Girls are always changing their hair, makeup and wardrobe trying to look just right.

I almost called my sister. She has curly hair (even curlier than Princess W’s hair). I was going to ask her what she thought could have been done, early in her life, to help her love her curls. She’s had a love/hate relationship with her curls for as long as I can remember.

But it hit me before I dialed, as I whispered a little prayer. I need to help her love Jesus. The more she experiences Jesus, the more she will accept how God made her. And the bible warns that worldly beauty fades (and the standards change all the time), but true beauty is more like a heart condition.

My new prayer is for myself, that I would focus more on my daughter’s heart and less on her curls, that I would lead her to love Jesus, and let His love consume her in ways that no amount of motherly, worldly, or self love ever could.

With ea h new revelation that i need to point my kids toward Jesus, I also recognize my growing need for Jesus, for His love, His forgiveness, and His acceptance. I cannot believe He was willing to die for my sins. I marvel that He is always with me, always guiding me. I am in awe that God picked me to be the mom of 4, stepmom of 2. I am humbled and overwhelmed and scared that I’m really messing up this big responsibility. I pray that He will fill in each gap I create, or miss, or overlook, or even ignore.

10 Weeks Ago

I missed my 9 Weeks Ago post last Monday. Boo! I like recapping what I’ve learned in a week from a baby. This weeks post is about being the mom of a daughter, which I never thought I’d get to do. In fact, I was terrified to do it. (Just ask everyone! I didn’t want a girl, her daddy did, but not me, I wanted another boy….and we already have 4 of those!)

So, we have our girl. She’s pretty and wears pink and she’s very round right now. She is full of smiles, and is quite demanding. And as a woman, as someone’s little girl, I’m afraid for the days when she is hurting. Because I can relate to what hurts a girl. I have always believed that raising boys is a calling from God, and we must cover our boys in prayer, and we must teach them to love God, respect women, and to live life on purpose.

I have not always been as intentional as I want to be; sometimes I get caught up in the routine of washing dishes, doing laundry, mopping floors and fixing meals. I miss some of the lessons, and even let bad behavior slide because I’m tired. Or overwhelmed. But just because I miss it sometimes, doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh heavy on my heart to be intentional about raising these boys.

I pray that they will serve God in all they do. I pray that they will work hard, will wait for marriage, that they will help their wives dazzle, and lead their kids to God. Sometimes, I look around our world and wonder if these things are possible, but I keep praying. Now, I’m holding a daughter and I don’t always know what to pray for, for her. So I pray for her husband. I pray for him the same things I pray for the boys.

Sure, I pray for her to value her purity, and be dedicated and a good wife. But my picture for raising boys and the goals I have are a lot clearer to me. I prepared myself more for raising boys, and this whole girl thing sometimes leaves me wondering if I’m cut out for all of this. I know how badly I’ve been hurt, and I pray she never experiences hurt like that. But I know how much I’ve grown from those hurts, so I pray that she sees the opportunity in every situation, the good, bad and ugly ones too.

She’s only 10 weeks old, so things are still so easy. Diapers and feedings and baths and lap play, these are the easy days. I pray that her dad and I will have the endurance for the hard days. I pray this for her hard days, the boys’ hard days and our own hard days.