It's So Much Better Your Way

Last month in response to Bell’s, “Let’s Talk” ads, I reposted a blog entry I wrote a few years ago outlining my struggle with anxiety and depression. Yep, it’s true. Stephanie Donnelly your Pastor’s
wife deals with a mental illness. For the past four years I have been taking medication daily to stave
off the symptoms. When I first started taking it I felt like I had just been thrown a rope. I still had to climb out from the pit but suddenly it felt doable – I didn’t have to do it on my own strength.

But Stephanie…

          1) If you believe in a God who heals, you don’t need medication. You just need to pray more.

          2) Maybe if He hasn’t taken it away yet, it’s because there is some secret sin in your life that                    He wants you to repent of.

          3) Really If you were just to do a better job of taking care of yourself, and getting enough                        sleep, you wouldn’t be struggling so much.

          4) You really just need to relax. Maybe take some yoga classes.

          5) Don’t accept any labels from a doctor who isn’t a believer. That’s a form of 

              condemnation. You need to be speaking life over yourself.

          6) Just drown out the negative thoughts with singing!

          7) You just need a vacation.

A number of these comments were from a fellow Jesus-follower, a professional counsellor and a nurse; the rest are my own.

I have a friend who was diagnosed with a mental illness shortly after I met her. “Stephanie, if I had diabetes, I wouldn’t think twice about taking insulin.” And in the words of another friend, “Your brain is a part of your body. If your body is unwell, what do you do? You treat it.”

When I recognized the subtle onset of suicidal thoughts, I was reminded of my friends’ words. Finally, I scheduled and attended an appointment with a psychiatrist with whom I had cancelled twice.

After beginning the smallest dosage of my anti-anxiety medication, the suicidal thoughts left. After the first increase, I started to feel a bit lighter. After the second increase I felt like myself again - for the first time in four years. Praise Jesus.

Over the last four years I’ve often prayed that God would heal me from my struggle. I mean, who wants to be on anti-depressants for the rest of their lives? Really. It took me a while to realize that He HAS been healing me. He was choosing to answer my prayer through medication. Yes, He is totally able to say the word and remove this struggle from me. However, in His wisdom He has chosen to answer my prayer differently than I would like. He often has gently reminded me that His grace is sufficient for me. I have not always handled those reminders well. I have a lot of growing to do. I’m very thankful for His patience with me.

A couple summers ago I decided I was going to wean myself off. I did everything right. I spoke to my doctor, got her advice on how to safely begin. I reduced my dosage by the smallest amount possible and BAM – enter the worst two weeks of my life since beginning the medication. I stuck it out for nearly 14 days and then much to the relief of my husband, I decided I, as well as my marriage and my kids, needed me to stay on the meds.

I had plans to try again when Asher started school, but then with our upcoming move I decided not to throw another big change into the mix. I was going to try again in May this spring, when I could get outside more.

Ha. So. Fun story. Last month Kyle and I went with my family on an adventure to Cuba. Well, somewhere between here and our holiday destination, my blister pack with my week's worth of medication went missing from my checked baggage. I discovered this in the dark of my hotel room in Veradero after the kids were asleep. After going through every bag twice, I announced. “Ok. I don’t have my anxiety medication. I’m probably going to have some withdrawal symptoms. But, this week I’m going to get lots of rest, be outside every day, we’ll be with family, and I’ll be able to choose what I’m going to eat carefully from the buffet. It’s going to be fine. Kyle, it’s going to be fine. Please don’t be worried.”

“Ok,” he said, “I’m not going to worry.” His face was telling me a different story.

That night as I lay in bed trying to convince myself it was going to be ok, the lyrics to a song (Defender) that had been playing and replaying in my brain for the last few weeks started to drown out my worry…

Eventually sleep found me. We had a wonderful holiday. We really enjoyed being with our family and having all the little cousins together. It was great. I was definitely slightly dizzy the entire time, feeling a little ‘tipped’. I felt more tired than I thought was normal and at night when I would lie down to sleep, I would hear noises that weren’t actually there – as confirmed by Kyle, “No Stephanie. No one is clapping. Just go to sleep.”

But here’s the thing. I didn’t realize until after we came back, when Kyle asked if I would share with our church family about being healed from depression, that it had actually happened… I think I even responded with, “Well, I’d be happy to share anything – I just want to make sure that what I’m saying is true.”

But friends, here’s what’s true. The last time I went from 75 mg of my medication down to 50 mg, I felt like I was thrown into the pit again. Life became heavy. I was miserable and definitely spent time by myself in our car in an empty parking lot feeling numb and empty. That was after only ONE week of having my meds reduced by a third. It has now been five weeks being medication-free. I’m not going to lie, I’m still a little dizzy now and then but on the whole, I really feel ok. Joyful even. I did raise my voice a bit too much when I caught Asher spitting on his floor and trying to hide it by wiping it up with his bare foot, and I did make too big of a deal about Sophie not being willing to try some sort of new granola bar. But you know what? I’m able to reign myself in. I wasn’t able to do that before. I feel less tired than I have been in years really and although I do have some OCD tendencies I’m noticing a bit more frequently, I’m able to redirect my thoughts so much better than I ever was even before the real struggle began when I became a Mama.

So...seven years later, I'm five-weeks medication free and feeling surprisingly normal. Can it be I've been on the receiving end of a subtle and quiet miracle? Dare I say it?... Guys... My depression is gone!!

The medication I’ve been on have been attacking two issues simultaneously, the first (anxiety) was something I have lived with since before I could talk and as such, I’ve devised various coping devices over the years to help me to function. My anxiety was brought to the forefront when the black cloud of depression descended; according to the psychiatrist, this is quite common. I’m going to carefully assess my anxiety levels in the next while, inviting the honest observations of my husband while my body acclimatizes to no medication and use that to decide whether or not beginning the medication again would be helpful. And yes, I promise I’ll speak to my family doctor as well. But for now, I’m going to celebrate this victory. Problem one of two has disappeared! No more depression! Praise Jesus.

Please, please don’t let the take away from this be, “Just stop taking your meds! You’re going to be fine!”

Let it be this. What you are going through in this season of your journey matters. Your pain and struggle and mess doesn’t have to be a permanent fixture in your life. Your struggle can be used for something good and constructive and helpful and beautiful. Because He allowed me to walk though this, and helped me to be brave and share with others, I’ve been able to be a voice of encouragement for others who struggle with similar things. I have two friends, one who was recently suicidal and another who struggled with anxiety silently for years who decided to be brave as well and open up to their doctors about their need for help. I have another friend who was feeling torn about putting her own child on anti-anxiety meds. Because I shared my story, she shared hers with me and I was able add my perspective to her thoughts. I’ve been given the gift of being able to walk with another friend post-suicide attempt. God has used me in my mess as a part of his plan for the healing and restoration of others. He really does make beautiful things out of the dust.

He didn’t answer my prayer for healing on my timeline or in the way I wanted Him to. I’ve experienced a lot of tears and frustration because of this. But…because he held off on healing me in the way I wanted to receive it, and do it His way instead, He has been able to use me to walk with others and make them feel not crazy. Over the last four years, of all the advice, and medication, and talks and support I’ve received, the most valuable has been friends willing to be vulnerable with me and share their stories of personal mental struggle. Their stories have given me hope, direction for healing and bravery in the face of all the junk. And I can honestly stand here and say, if all of this experience has made it possible for me to be that person for one or two others, you know what? I am so thankful for that. It makes all this mess worthwhile.

We all have our own messes. If He can make something beautiful out of mine, He can do the same for you. Of course He will. He had a plan; I just couldn’t see it. He has been patient and gracious with me when I’ve stumbled. Even when I couldn’t see it this whole time He has been fighting for me and I’ll I had to do was stay still.

Bar Mitzvahs and Antidepressants in La La Land

The more I’ve practiced being courageous in sharing my story, the easier it gets. Striking up conversations with strangers in social situations (or on buses/airplanes) and letting it happen organically has been a great way to practice. If it goes badly, ah well, I don’t have to talk to her again. If it goes well, great! I’ve made a new friend. Today I was reminded of one such conversation with Sarah, a woman I met on my way home from California a few years ago. I’m so glad I decided to be brave that day. Maybe some day I’ll be lucky enough to see her again…

“Alright, alright, alright! Keep moving, you five! Shuffle along here.”

I turned my head and peeked over the seat in front of me in curiosity, trying to see which brash air stewardess was conducting traffic this way. To my total delight this was no air stewardess but a hustley bustley mama of five who looked around my age. Behind her, five little heads of varying heights donning yarmulkes or braids and uber-modest dresses that matched their mama’s bobbed obediently behind her. A tall muscular man with dark features with full lips also wearing a yarmulke was bringing up the rear. I had just come from a week-long adventure in L.A. with Kyle as he had been testing at the Gracie Jiu Jitsu headquarters in Torrance to become an instructor. I had been around some seriously tough individuals the last few days and this guy seemed like he would have fit right in. I don’t think he was mute, but I quickly noted that in this family dynamic, it was the wife that did most of the talking.

“You! Sit beside your father! You! You’re a chucker! Sit here by the aisle. The rest of you! These seats are yours. Sort yourselves out! Ay yay yay… I need some cwaffie. Is anyone serving cwaffie? Wait! I have some here.” … She was from New York!!  I put down my book and prepared myself to do some eyes-closed eavesdropping for the entirety of the flight. This was going to be awesome.

She finished directing her clan and paused beside my row. “Oh… YES!” I thought to myself with building excitement in my heart as it became clear who was going to occupy the empty seat beside me, “This day just keeps getting better!”

“Whew!” She plunked herself down in the chair beside me. “Ay yay yay. Yes! You! I told you to sit there! Yes! You have to! Play nicely with your brother!” She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, turning her face to the ceiling, resting only moments before turning around in her seat to face her kids again. “Ok, you know what we need here? We need to sing a song! Let’s go!” She began stomping both feet simultaneously, clapping loudly and singing a rousing version of some celebratory song in Hebrew, increasing her volume in an attempt to distract them from their squabbles… or maybe to encourage her crew to join in? “Nope.” I decided, “This is definitely to make up for their lack of enthusiasm. This woman is my hero.” Ignoring the stares of the other passengers, she carried on until all her kids joined in; even the little one with the soother was clapping on her Father’s lap. The father remained silent and expressionless. The song ended with raised hands and a cheer. The kids went back to their books and gaming devices, and the Mama swinging her legs out of the aisle and settling into her seat suddenly seemed to notice me.

“Hi, I’m Stephanie.” I offered, “I have a couple kids too but they are with my parents at the moment. This seems like quite the family adventure for you!”

She introduced herself. Her name was Sarah. She and her husband Malachi were on their way to Israel with their five children to celebrate the Bar Mitzvah of their oldest son. The original plan had been for Sarah and Malachi to just bring their son for a short three-day visit to Israel but when Sarah’s sister had caught wind of this, she was disgusted with the lack of ceremony surrounding such an important event and had purchased airline tickets for the while family to spend a week in Israel together. This was the first time in 13 years this family had been able to travel without a stroller. They were flying from California to Toronto and had a connecting flight that would bring them to Israel. “It’s not a big deal” she assured me, “it’s going to be fine.” My respect for this Powerhouse was growing.

She noted my not-from-here accent and asked me what brought me to California. I told her about Kyle’s Jiu Jitsu training and how much we enjoyed the sunshine and the novelty of the palm trees on front lawns still decorated with Christmas ornaments. I shared with her that orange trees hanging heavily with fruit seemed as common as maple trees for us, and how one of my favourite things this week had been to pick fresh limes from the tree in the back-yard of our AirBNB every morning to slice into my glass of water. She chuckled at my amazement and asked if I had had the chance to explore LA a bit.

“Not really” I admitted, “Kyle’s schedule was more full than we were anticipating, BUT I did get to spend a number of hours exploring Long Beach on my own!” She told me she worked in Long Beach and asked what surprised me most about the city. I told her about people I saw at the harbour front bundled in winter hats and jackets, and wearing shorts, (it was 18 degrees Celsius and sunny), people riding Segways instead of walking on the sidewalks, and the shop owner I met on the harbour who bitterly complained about the “Terrible weather we’re having”. Sarah shook her head and scoffed, “Yes. We’re from New York originally. This really is LA LA land…” We both had a little laugh about that (and I understood the title of the recently released movie for the first time), before I added,

 “I did get a little turned around at one point and was surprised at the number of homeless people there seem to be.”

“…Yes. That is definitely a problem here.”

Sarah, it turns out, works within the Social Service system. She regularly interacts with individuals who live on the streets or in sub-optimal conditions. She told me often something that she finds incredibly frustrating is that if people would just take the medication they were prescribed, they would not be struggling so much.

I took the opportunity to share with this new friend, the short version of my journey with depression and anxiety and how much the medication I’ve been taking has helped me to function relatively symptom-free, and how thankful I am that it is available to me and although I believe in a God who loves me and hears me and is able to heal me, I’ve had to get to a point where I accept that for now, He’s choosing to heal me through the medication. Maybe someday He’ll see fit to remove my need for it, but for now, I don’t have to deal with the symptoms and that needs to be enough for me.

She nodded thoughtfully and then began to share a little about her faith and her prayer life and how it played a role in her work.

In a weird way, moments like this are the best gift that living with depression and anxiety have given me. Practicing being brave in vulnerability with others has opened up doors to conversations (sometimes with complete strangers) about deeper things of the heart that may not have happened otherwise.  I walk away from these conversations feeling humbled by how I’ve been trusted with a glimpse of someone else’s heart or scars, and with a feeling of “See? That wasn’t so scary. You’re not the only one who deals with this stuff.”

We chatted for a while about prayer, our families and Sarah’s work. Eventually we got onto a story about a morning she was pulling into a parking lot of an apartment complex when she noticed a man, face down on the side of the road. She stopped the car and dialed 911. She explained the situation and was asked, “Well, is he breathing?” “Are you asking me to go check? No way am I going to do that!” Eventually an ambulance came, checked the guy out and it turned out he was just drunk and hadn’t taken his medication for a while. He was moved somewhere safe and Sarah got on with her day. “You know, when these people aren’t on their meds, they are just Crazy!" She paused, glancing at me nervously, "...No offense.”

Oh man. This was too much. I erupted in giggles, startling my new friend, whose surprise quickly dissolved into laughter of her own.

This woman was bringing their five children on a multi-flight trip to Israel to celebrate a Bar Mitzvah. She had announced to the entire plane that one of her kids was prone to barfing. Her huge but possibly mute husband seemed completely disengaged, so when the kids are all squirmy and squabbling, instead of asking her husband to help, her solution was to sing a song as loud as possible all the while clapping and stomping hoping the kids will join in. She had asked no one in particular in a loud voice a number of times about whether or not there was “Cwaffie” available, all the while holding one. And finally because I tell her that I’ve been on some medication for anxiety and depression for the last while, I’m the one who is crazy.

What a wonderful lady! Maybe some day I’ll be lucky enough to run into her again. No offense taken Sarah; none at all. 

You're Doing Great Things: A Truth Bomb for all you Parents in the Trenches

I was studying my face in the mirror a couple days ago, carefully inspecting the dark circles under my eyes. The excitement of the last couple weeks has started catching up with me. Two solid weeks of nursing a couple sick kids back to health (not at the same time, thank goodness) is starting to take its toll. I’m tired.

A couple nights ago I was about to go to sleep when my 3-year old started hacking and crying. We’re well into week two of sickness for him: first a cold, then the flu, now pneumonia. After I re-medicated him and calmed him down, I lay down on the floor of his room waiting for his fever and coughing to subside. Finally sleep came for both of us and three hours later, I made it back to my own bed. Almost immediately, he noticed I was gone and began crying again. A couple hours later his coughing and crying returned, quickly followed by two serious bathroom accidents in his bed – all before 6:30 am. By the time I got the kids cleaned up and ready for the day and got a hold of the laundry, I had 5 minutes remaining to organize myself before bringing my little family out the door. I confess that in my frazzled state, I took out some of my stress on Sophie as she was relaying an issue to me that she and Asher were having, giving me an opportunity for to model apology… Ahh… I’m tired.

Later on that day I spoke with a Mama with a five-month old baby boy. Two nights before her attempts at comforting her teething babe lasted an entire sleepless night. By the time her husband awoke to relieve her it wasn’t just the little boy crying. My tiredness has nothing on hers. Man oh man.

This whole ‘full-time-parenting’ thing is not for the faint-of-heart.

In reading through a recent on-line discussion about self-care for Mamas of little people, I realized that much of my attempts at self-care come in the form of chocolate eaten secretly behind the cupboard door. Not the greatest, I realize especially considering I’m lactose intolerant.... Oh Steph.

On a recent visit to my family doctor, she asked if there was anything else I would like to discuss. I had been hesitating to bring up my concern about a mild facial skin-condition for a while because it really didn’t seem like a big deal. But with the discussion of self-care fresh on my mind, I decided I deserved to have it fixed. I showed her some acne-like spots on my face that have been hanging around for the last couple years. After all, age 31 seems like a strange time of life to be experiencing your first bout of acne. I left the appointment with a plan to treat my skin and a slight feeling of triumph at the thought that I had done something to take care of me: a small step towards healthy self-care habits that don’t involve chocolate, but hey, it’s a start.

When most of your time is tied up in child-care and trying to stay on top of taking care of a household, stealing away to enjoy little luxuries like chocolate, or a foot-soak, (or medicated face cream, haha), or, joy of all joys! a mid-day nap, is so important. I need those things, because, let’s be serious, a lot of what I do during the day is not glamorous. This evening I had the choice of dishes, laundry or bathrooms as a post-child- bedtime activity. I opted to do a bit of all three and congratulated myself on throwing in the task of dealing with the kitchen garbage as a bonus. I was about to tackle more laundry when I heard a small voice calling me from upstairs. “Mum! I’m hungry! And thirsty!” ...Asher…

Asher has lost some weight in the last couple weeks as he has shown little interest in food for a few days. It was late and well past his bedtime, and I was feeling so done with parenting, but I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to get some sustenance into my little guy. I carried the pajama clad boy with his stuffed cat tucked under his arm to the table where I put apple-sauce, crackers and apple-juice in front of him. (Not the usual night-time combination, but this kid’s tummy is not happy…). He sang himself a happy song as he drank some juice, ate some applesauce and made towers with his crackers. Eventually he announced he was done and obediently followed me to the bathroom to brush his teeth. As I was plunked the wee fellow on the toilet for his last-chance- pee, he looked at me, his eyes all red-rimmed and sleepy, “Mum, you’re trying to take care of me, right?” This is his way of telling me he needs some reassurance. “That’s right Asher…” I replied, and then, breaking from our usual script I added, “How do you think I’m doing?” And then came the six words I didn’t know I needed, “I fink you’re doing GWEAT fings.” Cue heart squish.

As I tucked my little man in for the 5th time, kissed him goodnight and returned to the kitchen I thought about all the bits and bobs that fill my day: hair brushing, nail clipping, sock-finding, snow-suit dressing, food organizing, argument mediating, story-telling, toy fixing, game-playing, tear-drying, behaviour correcting, adventure leading, late-night comforting etc… all wrapped up in the phrase, ‘stay-at- home-parent’. I thought about how looking at all these activities individually, it does not seem like I’m accomplishing much. A friend recently summed it up well as the parenting “hamster wheel”. But parents of little people, Asher’s words were for you too. We really are doing Great Things.

All of the time you put into caring for your home so you can care for your families, all of the late nights and wee hours of the morning you spend pacing the halls, holding and comforting little bodies, all of the emotional effort you exert solving squabbles, snuggling kids with hurt feelings, all the hours you spend on the floor with little plastic figurines and stories and board games and play-dough etc…  performing all these repetitive and often mundane tasks is a beautiful process of a slow and steady outpouring out of love. By example, you are teaching your children what real love is. You are demonstrating selflessness. You are instilling in them the knowledge that they have great self-worth, that their feelings matter, that they are important. And by taking time for yourself, you are both giving yourself a chance to recharge and gently teaching your kids that they are not the centre of the universe. Those, my friends, are Great Things.

So for goodness sake, go soak your feet in the tub, seek out opportunities to squeeze in a nap, make time to work in those routine doctors appointments, and yes, even treat yourself to some secret chocolate in the cupboard because seriously, you truly are the doer of Great Things, and for goodness sake, you deserve it.

Summertime Super Mama/Pinterest Fail

Yesterday was Sophie’s last day of Junior Kindergarten. Her initial happiness about being finished and excitement about the push-pop she would get to enjoy after school faded into hesitation when it was time to leave, and then melted into overwhelming sadness at the dinner table directed towards her lasagna.

“… Sophie? Are you feeling sad and overwhelmed because it was your last day of school?”

“YES! [cries harder] And I’m going to MISS all my FRIENDS!”

I pulled her on my lap for a snuggle and we talked about the plans we had to have play-dates with her friends and how we were going to do lots of fun crafts and adventures and how it was going to be a wonderful time. Then I suggested that perhaps after dinner, we could plan a craft for the next morning. I reminded her of the Pinterest board we had made together of DIY Kites. Her sadness disappeared and she suggested, “Mum! We could get started on a kite RIGHT NOW!”

“This is great!” I thought to myself. “This is a craft I can get excited about, Sophie clearly loves the idea, and we get to have a quintessentially summery family activity afterwards – flying kites in the park!” I felt pretty proud of myself this morning as I gathered all the supplies we would need to build a pyramid kite.

At first Sophie was excited and interested and helpful, but after 15 minutes, as we were still working on the first half of the frame of Kite #1, she got bored and started messing around with the pile of straws instead.

Asher wandered in and started crying because, “I want a kite TOO!”

“Yes! Asher! I’m making two: one for you and one for Sophie. This one is going to be for YOU buddy!”

“[stops crying]…oh. I want ALL the colours [referring to the straws]”

“Sounds great Asher.”

“I want ALL THE COLOURS”

“No problem buddy, we’ll use all the colours.”

“[Jumping up and down and wailing] I WANT ALL THE COLOURS!!”

“Asher! I said yes! YES! We will use all the colours! No problem! I’ll do it! Please stop yelling at me!”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I WANT ALL THE COLOURS I WANT ALL THE COLOURS!” I managed to stop his attempted dump of all the straws from the table onto the floor.

“Asher, this is not ok. I don’t like when you yell at me. Use an inside voice or you will have to be in your room until you stop yelling.”

“I WANT ALL THE COLOURS! AHHHHHHHHHH!!”

I scooped him up and deposited him in his room. “You may come join us again when you finish yelling.”

By this point, Sophie had lost interest in the craft and left the table. I was determined to finish what I had started and so spent the better part of the next hour tying, cutting, and stapling. Asher’s screams waned for a while but returned, rising to a crescendo. I abandoned my task and whisked Asher into the bath. Peace was momentarily restored.

Fast forward 30 minutes… Asher and Sophie were having an argument in the kitchen.

“HEY GUYS!” (the arguing stops) “Want to get ready to go to the park to test out our kites?”

“YAY!” Let’s go right NOW!”

“You’re KILLING this parenting thing this morning.” I congratulated myself. “Way to go, Woman! You were up at 5:30, managed to stay calm and wait out the storm of the persistent tantruming toddler, made not one, but TWO pyramid kites, and bathed one of the kids. Not bad, not bad!”

My ‘Superstar Mama’ moment was short lived.

The first hint things were not going to go as planned was the pitter-patter of rain on the leaves outside my window. The second was the thick, still humid air. The third should have been the memory of yesterday’s torrential rain…

Shortly thereafter we were in the car on the way to the park, with two very excited kids each clutching a new pyramid kite. Playdoh rolling pins acted as make-shift handles with generous lengths of red and pink yarn wrapped around them.

At first glance, the fields by the empty park were a beautiful, vibrant green. One step on the ground revealed it to be an absolutely sopping giant sponge. Grass growing in dips and hollows in the ground waved like seaweed under pools of rainwater. Asher was upset immediately about his shoes being damp. Sophie, determined to fly her kite, ran down into the muddy-puddled ditch and back up the other side towards the playground. Giggling, Sophie began to run through the squelchy grass, dragging her kite on the ground behind her.

“Sophie! Let me try!”

Cue Asher’s tears, “But MUMMY! I wanted YOU to help ME!”

“Asher, Daddy can help you. He can run really fast. Here Sophie! Hold the handle in one hand, the string in the other, and RUN!” Sophie, still giggling, ran behind me, both of us sending a spray of rain water up the back of our legs, our flip-flops flinging brown mud with each step as the kite trailed behind.

I handed the kite to Sophie and turned around to see if the boys were having better luck. Kyle was running with all his might holding the kite behind him, running away from the play structure. Asher, not understanding that his Daddy was trying to help him to get his kite to lift off, started crying again, suddenly wondering if his Daddy was running away from him WITH his new kite! I ran over to Asher to console him and explain that Kyle was going to come right back when I heard a ‘SPLOOSH!’ and then a wail followed by, “I’m all covered in MUD! I FELL!”

Wonderful. Two kids are crying now.

Sure enough, Sophie had slipped in a particularly sopping patch of grass, her shorts, previously turquoise had been dyed to a mud-puddle brown. Her arms were dripping and splattered with pieces of muddy grass. A joke about Peppa Pig came to mind, but I thought better of it and told her she could wipe herself off on my shorts. Seeing that I wasn’t t sad about the mud, Sophie pulled herself together and started giggling again, lying down in the grass on her stomach and called, “Maybe I can clean myself off THIS way!” She started doing the Breast Stroke in the grass.

At this moment, Asher’s sadness was renewed because a fly had landed on his head,  Kyle had retreated to the car to escape the mosquitoes and Sophie, sopping wet from her involuntary slip in the mud puddle and her intentional swim in the grass decided to embrace the whole muddy/muggy park thing and ran to the swings, giggling and calling for a push.

“Sophie! We’re going to go home and eat lunch. We’ll try a different adventure this afternoon.”

Her sobbing lasted the whole way home.

My Pinterest Fantasy was officially dashed.

However…

Later that afternoon we spent an hour or so at the library, happily squished together on the beanbag chairs reading the library’s ENTIRE collection of Clifford books. This was followed by an ‘adventure’ to the basement of the library to use the water fountain (Sophie for drinking water, Asher for washing his hands and splashing when I was momentarily distracted), and then a mini dance party on the library’s elevator.

When we returned home, Sophie and Asher spent a happy half-hour on the deck giving their lego people baths in bowls of water. When that got old, the two of them excitedly searched the garden in bare feet to look for the cat that Asher had befriended a few days ago. When asked to change out of her wet clothes, Sophie appeared downstairs giggling to herself wearing her super-fuzzy flannel pyjamas made by her Grandma. (It was 25 degrees C. in the house and the middle of the afternoon.)

So… lesson learned. Surprize!: Real moments of joy can’t be manufactured, certainly not by using Pinterest, haha. I’m going to try to shed my idea of what a ‘Superstar Mama’ looks like this summer, ease up on Pinterest a little and try to leave lots of room for unplanned moments of quiet or messy fun. Being susprized by joy seems like a lot more fun anyway.   

Johnny B: Finding the silver lining, five years later

You left in Autumn,

The leaves were turning.

I walked down streets of orange and gold.

I see your sweet smile,

I hear your laughter

You’re still beside me everyday,

‘cause I know you by heart.

-       Dianne Scanlon, Eve Nelson

Today marks Five Years without John. This day five years ago marked the beginning for many of those who loved him, of a walk through a dark, uncharted territory of grief. While addressing the overwhelming crowd who came to sit with us at his funeral, I remember saying, “When someone you love is taken from you at such a young age and so suddenly, there really is no silver lining.”

That is certainly how it felt. I’ve lost grandparents I’ve loved, and though I’ve felt sadness because they are loved and missed, there has also been a sense of celebration for a life well lived. It’s pretty difficult to muster up these same feelings for someone who is just starting to come into his own.

This evening as my two kiddos are tucked into their cozy beds (and sleeping, I hope), I’m reminded of a lyric from a song my sister Sarah and brother-in-law Nat led at John’s funeral, “Whatever may pass and whatever comes before me let me be singing when the evening comes.” (Matt Redman, “10 000 Reasons) Also, I can’t shake the words of Psalm 30:5 “Though the sorrow may last for the night His joy comes with the morning”. Yes. How beautiful this thought is and I have found it to be true. Thank you Jesus.

I now feel compelled to share something extra I’ve struggled with in all of this; something I’ve shared over the years with a select few individuals. Until now, I’ve mostly kept these thoughts to myself because I couldn’t see how my extra layer of pain was going to do anything but add to that of those already grief-stricken. I share now because that struggle has a happy ending, and perhaps my journey to get to this point, will be helpful for those of you struggling with something similar. The night has been long but I’m starting to feel the morning sunshine, and I’m happy to report I’ve learned to be singing when the evening comes. Maybe this share will help someone else sing again too.

Now to lift the bandage off my ugly scar…

A couple hours after the news broke I was on my way home to Blyth with Kyle and my brother Colin when my mind experienced a brief moment of quiet from the swirling thoughts. Then THE Question…

”So…Where is John now?”

At that moment, the implications of my belief in the Bible’s explanation of the two possible locations for us to spend all of eternity became extremely personal.  

Here it is in a nutshell:

Jesus said, “I am the Way the Truth and the Life and no one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6). This sounds pretty exclusive, and it is, I suppose, except that when God in human form sacrificed Himself on the cross, He paid for ALL of our junk: yours, mine, convicted criminals, all of us. This Forgiveness and Salvation has an incredibly high price, and in His love for us, recognizing that no amount of ‘right living’ and sacrifice could ever atone for our messiness, He paid for it himself. It’s a free gift extended to all of us.

But here’s the thing: like an unopened Christmas present, it’s not claimed until we choose to unwrap it. The Bible teaches that those of us who choose to recognize our need of Him and turn to Him will get to enjoy eternity in His presence (aka Heaven), and those of us who resist Him will ultimately get what they’ve been fighting for all along, eternity without Him. (Hell). The Creator wants so desperately for each of us to turn to Him, that the ‘yes’ for you is hanging on his lips already. It is NEVER His desire for any of us to end up apart from Him (2 Peter 3:9), but in His great love for you and me, will never force us to say Yes to Him, He wants us to choose this on our own.  

So there lies the rub… I believe the Bible to be the inspired Word of God, and this is what the it teaches… but if that’s really what I believe, then John’s fate has been decided around 2:00 am on November 15^th 2011. He was gone. I couldn’t even pray for him anymore. His soul was alive, somewhere. But I couldn’t be sure of where that was.  I couldn’t be sure that he was safe with my Savior.

So, Where was John? 

The unanswered question began gnawing at my trust in my Jesus, and ultimately at my belief in the Goodness of God.

Just a little sub-text…

I’m a follower of Jesus; often a lagging, falling behind and scraping both my knees, needing to be turned around and hauled back onto the right-track kind of follower, but a follower none-the-less. Often when I meet people this gets worked into the conversation in a surface-level way. I often walk away from these conversations feeling crumby because they usually focus on denomination, doctrine and the charity work my church family is involved with, and although worthy of discussion, these things are not the focus of my faith. Any conversation about my faith that doesn’t involve my friendship with my Jesus is completely missing the point. 

Here is what I really wish I could share during these conversations…

I have the immense privilege of leading a room-full of believers in worshipping Jesus about three times a month. The incredible feeling of freedom and boldness that comes over me as I raise my arms, close my eyes and lift my voice in worship and enter into His presence is tangible and thick. It’s like feeling the rays of sunshine on your back as the sun suddenly breaks out from behind the clouds. The overwhelming freedom and joy in those moments is incredible. It’s as though Stephanie who struggles with depression and social anxiety is suddenly transformed into Stephanie 2.0, confident, bold, joyful, and more who she is supposed to be. Some people would describe this experience as ‘positive energy’. Call it what you will. I call Him the Holy Spirit.

You can’t convince me He doesn’t exist. I experience His presence daily. Dismiss me as crazy if you must, but He talks to me. Seriously. It’s not as weird as it sounds. I would be so happy to expand on that sometime if you’re curious. He’s my source of strength, wisdom, comfort, and peace. 

My GREATEST desire is for those I love to know His friendship too.

This desire often brings me to my knees. This desire fuels my passion when I lead congregations in singing, “You’re rich in love and you’re slow to anger, your name is great and your heart is kind. For all your goodness I will keep on singing. 10 000 reasons for my heart to find.” How badly I want all of my family members to know His friendship and this incredible Living Hope.

And so I pray.

But then, Nov. 15, 2011. Johnny B was no more. I didn’t know where he was. I didn’t know if he had been given a chance to understand the choice ahead of him and that all of eternity was at stake. And I couldn’t even pray for him anymore. Not only that but my Source of Comfort and Peace knew this was coming, and CHOSE NOT TO STOP IT.

Where was John?

The question left me reeling. My trust in Jesus was seriously damaged.

My prayers were reduced to unintelligible choked out sobs. I pulled myself from the worship team and sat near the back of the auditorium on Sunday mornings at my home church sitting in paralyzed silence during worship time, listening to my church family sing songs about God’s Goodness, and how He rescues us, the whole time my mind racing, “But did you rescue John? Is he safe? Is he with you? I don’t even care about my own salvation right now, DID YOU SAVE JOHN?”

Staying in that mental head space was too intense and eventually I came out of it enough to talk to Jesus again. I started feeling panicked at the thought that another family member could die unexpectedly and I may not be sure he/she was with Jesus. I decided to do a 21 day Daniel fast (consume only fruits/vegetables and water) and spend my usual food-prep time praying for one person I was particularly ripped-up over to know Jesus as a Friend. On day 11 of my fast I was on knees, face-down on the floor praying with such urgency my body was starting to hurt, when I felt Him whisper,

“Stephanie… STEPHANIE! Stop. STOP. I hear you. I’ve got this. Him. I’ve got Him. Go eat something.”

“…Really?”

“Yes. Trust me. Go eat something.”

Conceding defeat, I ate a hunk of pepperoni from the fridge, plunked myself on the couch, my head and heart sore but finally quiet.

Fast forward to just a few weeks ago…

Over tea one evening, my friend Julia graciously shared with me a few stories from her life of being thrown into sudden grief and the comfort she had found while walking through these difficult seasons. A few days later she lent me a small book, saying it fit right in with our conversation from the night before. As it turns out, Ian McCormack’s story was the salve my festering wound needed. 

Here’s the abridged version:

Ian McCormack was stung by five box Jellyfish while diving off the coast of Mauritius. Although one sting can sometimes be enough to kill someone within five minutes, he remained conscious (albeit slowly becoming paralyzed), for a while. He was clinically dead for 15-20 minutes and came to when his body was being prepared for the morgue. His story, “A Glimpse of Eternity”, as told by Jenny Sharkey, recounts his experience with the Divine, Heaven and Hell during that hour.

As I read his story, I was reminded of a few truths about God’s character. His loves us individually, intensely, and will chase after us to save us (Luke 15: 3-6), He can fit a whole lot of conversation/revelation into a small amount of time (2 Peter 3:8), and that ANYONE who just cries out to him will be scooped into His loving arms (Romans 10:13).

I started to feel a new flicker of hope. Those few minutes John was awake before he died would have been enough for Jesus to speak clearly to Him, for John to choose safety, for him to take the hand extended to him. Even the time between consciousness and his passing would have been more than enough for the two of them to work out their stuff. And if this is true, (and I’m convinced it is), that means there’s a good chance I’m going to see Johnny B’s beautiful smile and hear his delicious laugh again someday. Thank you Jesus.

Although I have this reassurance to cling to now, I’m not going to let up on praying for people I love to know my Jesus. The freedom and joy and peace that is a direct result of His friendship is life transforming, and of course I want that for those I love. But my conversations with Him are going to be less panicky now. I can rest in His Goodness once more. For someone who takes medication for anxiety, this is of pretty huge importance, haha.

So yes, five years later I’m happy to report I’ve found my silver lining. It took me a while to see it, but I’m thankful it’s within my sights now. The ugly scar left by grief is finally healed and the long night is over. And you can be sure that today, this girl will have found her song when the evening comes.

I am Living in a Material World and...

A couple weeks ago I watched a video on Facebook of a young teenager begging for help on a frigid New York City morning. His body was shaking from the cold, almost completely unprotected from the cold as he was covered only by a ripped t-shirt and torn jeans. The parade of winter-clothing clad walkers ignoring the young boys pleas continued for two hours (according to the video). Eventually a homeless man knelt beside the boy, shook him awake from inside the garbage bag he had wrapped himself in, unzipped his winter jacket and placed it on the unbelieving youth. The video had thousands of views and thousands of likes, with many comments praising the actions of the homeless man.

I scrolled through the comments, feeling sick to my stomach while my heart screamed, “And that person just FILMED this? For TWO HOURS? And did NOTHING? Why didn’t he put his camera down, give the kid his coat and call someone for help? WHY DID HE WAIT FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO MEET THE NEED??” I was upset and angry with this person for being completely unaware of his own indifference because of his focus on the cruelty of others. I was deeply bothered by this and could not stop thinking about it for days. Then it hit me…

"Stephanie, that kind of describes you sometimes." BAM!

What? Who? Me? I can be so focused on the cruelty of others that I fail to see my own indifference?... sigh…Oh Voice of Truth. You got me again. Once I heard it, I couldn’t un-hear it.

A short while later, Kyle and I were talking about the video, about our possessions, purging, and generosity. Without really thinking them through, these words came out of my mouth,

“You know, I really feel like if I have something I'm not using and someone else could be using it, it's like I'm stealing from them."

Almost as soon as those words left my mouth I regretted them. Really? Do I REALLY think that? Wow. Talk about self-condemning words. If I really believe that, I think I’ve unknowingly been stealing from a ton of people over the years. I mulled over my words in the last few weeks and I think I’ve settled on this… If I’m hanging onto something I no longer need or use, I’m withholding a blessing from someone else. And for goodness sake, I want to be a blessing to others. So with that thought in mind, I’ve begun a room-by-room purge.

I’ve been taking an honest look at our possessions and asking myself, “Do we use this? Do we need this? Could someone else benefit from this?” Parting with stuff I no longer use or need has been more difficult than I would like to admit and more of a clean-out-the-heart process than I would have imagined.

I started thinking about our excess possessions last spring when the leadership of my church announced that we were going to hold a free yard-sale as a part of an event called “The Big Give”. I was so pumped about this and was praying for it to be a huge success and blessing to people in our community when, “Stephanie… if you want this to be a success, you’re going to have to contribute.” Oh Voice of Truth. You got me again. Ahhh…

Matthew 6:19-21 reads, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven…for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Oh how I so badly want that to describe me! But, alas! It doesn’t. Not yet anyway. I’m fighting the natural hoarder in me every step of the way. At the moment, Madonna’s words describe me a little better than the verse in the book of Matthew does, “I am living in a material world and I am a material girl.” Gross.  

So yes, as it turns out, I’m embarrassingly materialistic and attached to things that don’t bring true fulfillment and, I speak the truth my friends…I’m finding that letting go of my stuff is HARD.

I’m working on it. It's a process. Four weeks before “The Big Give” I began my ‘what-can-I-give’ treasure hunt. Almost every time I found something I felt I could part with, an internal struggle would begin and it would take a good two or three days for me to silence the part of my brain that was telling me to keep it for ‘just in case’. In the end we parted with more than 23 boxes of stuff, and honestly, I can’t remember a third of what was in there. And you know what? I don’t miss ANY of it.. Seriously. And in the end, someone who needed it was given it for free, my basement is less cluttered and my life isn’t any less full. Win, Win, Win.

Taped to the cupboard beside my sink for over a year is a cue card that reads,

“Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg will give him a scorpion? If you who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (Luke 11: 11-13).

I try to hang onto this thought whenever I’m tempted to start worrying about finances/stuff. I also try to remember the many times boxes of clothes for the kids and for me (when I was pregnant and needed maternity clothes) have just shown up on my doorstep exactly when I’ve needed them. I try to remember about the friend who filled my freezer with homemade frozen dinners when I was struggling in the early days with Sophie. I remind myself about the kind friends who barely knew us who took us in for three weeks while we were waiting to take possession of our new home in a new town.  

We’ve been provided for beyond what we’ve needed, and the God who has provided for us through friends and strangers before will do it again. So…with these things in mind, I continue my purge of our stuff in the hopes that our excess will meet another family’s need. And eventually, when I’ve managed to separate our excess from what we need, I can start practicing some real generosity. Heck, maybe someday I’ll have the chance to give the coat off my back to a shivering person on the sidewalk. How awesome would that be? 

Someday I hope to know that I know, that my concern about the needs of others outweighs my attachment to my stuff. Someday I’ll honestly be able to say that Madonna’s lyric no longer describes me. And until then, I’ll do my best to live as though my treasure is in Heaven and not on Earth where moth and vermin destroy (Matthew 6:19-21), and hang onto the hope that eventually, my heart will follow suit.

Confessions of a Mellowed-Out Tomboy

I know, I know. My presence doesn’t exactly exude ‘Tomboy’; perhaps ‘Shy and Serious’ more encapsulates who I was as a kid. Heck, maybe that’s who I am now. I’m cool with that. But secretly, when I was growing up it’s what I was aiming for.

Thinking back on this now, I think I was the classic middle-child. I desperately wanted SOME way to stand out from the bunch, and if aspiring to ‘Tomboy’ was going to get me some attention, that is what I was going to do.  (Side note: Kyle and I followed American Idol’s final season, and as I watched one of the finalists, Avalon Young, sing Beiber’s “Love Yourself”, I found myself thinking, ‘THAT is the hero of my 15 year old self!” She’s pretty awesome.)

When I was a kid I was fascinated with a girl called Andrea who was on my baseball team. She could hit the ball, run fast, would slide into the bases, would shine during arm-wrestling contests and some of her best friends were boys. She was loud, sporty and confident. I wanted to be just like her.

For a brief season in grade four, I felt my dreams were coming true. One of the boys in my class saw me throw a football during gym period, and all of a sudden, quiet, serious little Stephanie was the coveted team member for recess football games. My classmates (read: Boys) were noticing me! The ‘popular’ girls were jealous of the attention I was getting… it was exhilarating. I decided to switch out ‘loud’ for ‘tough’ as something to aspire to.

Getting praise for being sporty, being admired for being tough, not caring about getting dirty and receiving attention for injuries became little highs I would seek out. At some point I subconsciously decided that all characteristics typically considered ‘feminine’ were synonymous with ‘weak’ and there was something morally wrong with me allowing myself to align with any of them. I didn’t feel particularly pretty or feminine anyway, and receiving snippets of attention by being the opposite was kind of addictive. I sought out many ‘face your fears’ moments over the years, not to rid myself of them, but rather to garner admiration, or at least some sort of attention from my family members or peers.

The summer I was 13 my dad and his buddies built a floating campfire on the flooded shores of Dorcas Bay under a cold clear sky of stars that looked like a glass of spilled milk. They sat on their semi-submerged lawn chairs with their beers cooling in the frigid water, feet toasting on the ply-wood platform, calling to their wives on the higher ground, joking about how the ‘MEN’ weren’t going to let a little flood get in the way of their annual campfire. Seeing my chance at upping my ‘tough’ factor (or at least at getting a little extra attention) I picked up a lawn-chair and dragged it through the water snake, leopard frog, crawfish filled water to join the increasingly tipsy bunch. I was welcomed with cheers and pirate-worthy ‘Arggg’s’ and made an honorary member of the “Studs of the Bruce” club, offered a third of a cold beer and hung out with my dad and his goofy friends for a few hours, pretending to drink my beer, watching the fire slowly burn through the platform and the embers slipping beneath the water.

Then came grade nine, which was awkward (I’m sure all but a lucky few can relate). I was bright and athletic, but not particularly pretty or confident. I was bullied for being a good student and being liked by my teachers. I wanted to be known for being something other than ‘Stephanie the Brown-Noser’. I upped my game. I cut my hair within 1.5 inches of my scalp, threw myself into cross-country, swim-team and soccer. The latter proved to offer the most opportunities for me to shine in all things ‘tough’.

In grade 10, I faced off with Victor, the Spanish exchange student during a soccer game, plowing my way through him, ending his ‘break-away’ and chance at a goal. I proudly displayed my fat lip, bloody nose and hexagon-bruised thigh to anyone who showed the slightest interest.

This trend continued throughout high school and as a young adult: I didn’t wear make-up, I wore large shapeless t-shirts, I insisted ‘Guinness’ was my alcoholic drink of choice. I taught myself to play guitar and started listening to ‘Dashboard Confessional’ to impress the summer camp boys (side note: this totally worked). On one occasion I enthusiastically volunteered at a summer camp to empty a giant blue recycling bin that had been filled with loose garbage (no gloves were available) to convince others I didn’t get grossed out easily. I was lying to myself. Let’s be serious.  

It took a terrible season of Tree-Planting in Northern Ontario to cure me of some of this. One day, after falling in a swamp for the 15^th time, I stood knee deep in the muck, cold and shivering, covered head to toe in swamp water, dangerous amounts of DEET, and bug bites, I stood for a long moment staring at the trees before announcing to the blackflies, “I do not like to be cold. I do not like to be wet. I do not like to be covered in mud. I’m ok with admitting that.” This was big step for me.

In University I started admitting, at least to myself, that I cared about how I looked. I began wearing jewelry and clothing that fit properly, I bought some perfume, started hanging out with other girls regularly and began dating my future husband. Being this new Stephanie felt strange, but I surprised myself by feeling pretty great about it too.

Seven years later, our beautiful Sophie was born. We wanted her gender to be a surprise; and if I’m being totally honest here, part of that was so we weren’t drowning in pink if our baby was a girl. I was a little militant about being anti-‘pink’  during my pregnancy, which I had kind of forgotten about until Sophie was about six months old. Sophie and I were at a neighbourhood carnival our church was putting on when a sweet Jr. High girl I taught piano lessons to asked me about Sophie’s overalls and blocks.

“I’m sorry Sweetie, I’m not sure what you are talking about …”

“STEPHANIE!! You SAID your kid, boy or girl was going to just wear overalls and play with blocks, not barbies!” 

She looked at Sophie (who was wearing a hand-knitted sweater with pink buttons, faux-denim pants with a pink belt and pink shoes.), then at me and started giggling. I had to laugh at myself as well; this kid very seldom was an overall-wearing block stacking gender-neutral baby.

Like all parents, I had lots of ideas about how I was going to parent my kids and the kind of kids I was going to raise. I’ve had to loosen up over the years. When we couldn’t afford all new clothes for our babies and our generous friends dropped off boxes and boxes of clothing for us to use, I had to lose some of my ‘anti-pink’ attitude.

The summer Sophie was two, she was wading in the Ottawa river with her friend Hope, who flashed her newly painted hot-pink toenails at Sophie. Sophie decided right then that pink was her favourite colour. Whenever she was asked, “Why is that, Sophie?” She would respond, “Because pink is a HAPPY colour.” And you know… she’s right. It is a happy colour.   

That winter Kyle took Sophie shopping for a new snow-suit. A very ecstatic two-year old arrived home a while later calling to me, “Mummy, MUMMY! Come see my new SNOW SUIT!!” “I just want you to know” Kyle told me gently, “This is the LEAST girly one we could find…” Out from around the corner came Sophie, proudly displaying her new hot pink, faux fur hooded, Hello Kitty emblazoned snowsuit. “Mummy!” She yelled, “It’s PINK!!” Yes, yes it was.

Recently a friend was sharing with me about an incident involving her son. “You know,” she told me, “I just really want him to know that there is something wonderful and beautiful about being a boy!” I’ve thought about that a number of times over the past month. I think the flip side of that is what I’ve slowly been convincing myself of since I was a young adult, there is also something really wonderful and beautiful about being a girl.

I admit I still get a weird rush out of doing something somewhat gross or requiring a lot of my strength; when I find myself still standing at the end of it, I’m pretty elated. I still love playing soccer, I love feeling confident and strong and capable, and yes, even ‘tough’ sometimes. There is nothing wrong with all that. But I’ve hit a point where I can embrace the following about myself as well: I really REALLY hate getting my feet or hands in the mud, I like putting effort into my appearance on occasion (make-up is still a somewhat rare occurrence), and wearing clothes that fit properly is important to me. That’s also a part of who I am, and that’s ok.

These days I try to keep 'Joyful Confidence" at the forefront of my mind when I let Sophie choose her clothes and day after day she gravitates towards tutus, or dresses, worn with hot pink dress-up gloves and fairy wands. I’ve started to enjoy that painting our nails together is routine activity. Sophie is dressing as Princess Elsa from ‘Frozen’ for Halloween, which a few years ago, I would not have been ok with. Traditionally Disney Princesses don’t do a whole lot, wait around for their princes to come rescue them and wear pretty clothes. Not cool. However, after watching the movie and realizing that Olaf the snowman’s definition of love was one of the best I’ve heard, I’m beginning to embrace Disney Princesses… I know, right? What is this? My 20 year-old self would not recognize me.

I also try encourage both my kids to jump in muddy puddles, I try not to make a big deal about clothes getting dirty, Kyle is teaching Sophie Gracie Jiu Jitsu (she’s slowly becoming a Ninja), and she wears a blue-jays ball cap in the summer.

In the end, what I want is for Sophie (and for myself too) to be confident and embrace who she is. It’s my job to help discover with her discover how she is wired and grow into those things. It’s not that I want her to reject traditionally ‘girly’ things, but rather I don’t want her to be limited in her interests because she was born a girl.

We’re both growing as we go along. I’m learning to embrace tea-parties and tutus, twirling contests, playing dress-up and ‘getting fancy’ (aka putting on dresses and makeup and jewelry), while introducing her to frog-catching, soccer and the wonderful world of insects.

In the end, I’ve decided to scrap my previous ‘tough not-resembling-anything-girl-ish’ agenda with a focus on ‘Joyful Confidence’. And as I work towards that in my parenting with both my kids, I can feel myself changing a bit too. I’m so thankful Sophie has opened my eyes to the joys of twirling skirts and crowns, dress-up gloves, pretending to be princesses, and yes, even to the fact that pink is a happy colour. Slowly this beautiful gift of a child is helping me to discover new things about myself and to learn that there is something beautiful and wonderful about being a girl after all.