I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous – everyone hasn’t met me yet.
- Rodney Dangerfield

I usually feel pretty good about myself when I wake up—for the five minutes I refrain from looking in the mirror. That’s when the voices start: “your thighs have more dimples than a Shirley Temple look-a-like convention!” they say, or “what kind of ’80’s- wannabe haircut is that?”

Then I take my older son to school, and notice that the work-outside-the-home moms look all coiffed and stylish. The voices deride my writer’s wardrobe of jeans and t-shirts.

At the grocery store with my youngest, I stand in front of the baby items and hear the little demons again: “you should be making your own baby food—it’s healthier.” In the household cleaners’ aisle, the stinkers hiss, “When was the last time you dusted?”

By the time I reach my house, I’m already defeated, and it’s only 9:30 a.m.

I don’t know who said it, but I believe it’s true: insecurity is the Devil’s playground. Or maybe the Devil’s battleground is a better word. His weapons attack from every side, and usually leave a wound.

It’s a constant war to not let the “what kind of mother am I?” questions run away with my emotions–and my peace.
Maybe you relate. If my hunch is right, a lack of security is epidemic among moms. Writer Kim Thomas puts it this way: “Insecurity and self-doubt always loom over my shoulder, and in less than five minutes I have moved from gratefulness to whining.”

And, let’s face it: we have plenty to be concerned about. There are our figures, our finances, our future, and our families—just to name a few.

Recently, after making an impulse purchase at the checkout line, I noticed the headline on the women’s magazine I had brought home: “Eat right, get fit, get organized, and relax.”
Who are they kidding?! I barely have time to take a shower each day, let alone have a perfect body or a spotless house. And relax while trying to keep it all together? Ha!

So I’ve decided to go on the offensive in this war on my thoughts and emotions. First, I’m going to stop letting the world’s standards rule my mind. With God’s help, I’ll tune into His word–and turn off the T.V. (And I’ll trash the women’s mags that spell out “25 Ways to Lose 25 Pounds in 25 Minutes”!)

Second, I’m going to quit comparing myself to other women. The truth is, they’re probably as unsure about themselves as I am.

Third, when the Prince of this world sends his darts towards me, I’ll put up my shield of faith and ask myself, just what is the real truth here?

The God-honest truth is: if my husband and I are raising our children by biblical standards, prayerfully doing the best we can, then God is pleased. As for my body, I know he wants me to be healthy and to take care of myself, but he could care less what size my thighs are.

And you know what else? I’m betting that since Jesus was a carpenter, He doesn’t mind a little dust.

Notes from the Coach:

“You will be secure, because there is hope . . . ” Job 11:18a, NIV

“Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will know what God wants you to do, and you will know how good and pleasing and perfect his will really is.” Romans 12:2, NLT

“In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one.” Ephesians 6:16, NIV

“Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on earth.” Colossians 3:2, NASB

“We use our powerful God-tools for smashing warped philosophies, tearing down barriers erected against the truth of God, fitting every loose thought and emotion and impulse into the structure of life shaped by Christ.” 2 Corinthians 10:5, MSG

©2009, Dena Dyer

It was one of those days. I was weepy, hormonal, cranky, and generally out of sorts. I felt like I was going to scream because I’d been cooped up in the house with two kids, I had a work deadline breathing down my neck, AND I could feel a sinus infection coming on.

It had all started pretty well. That morning, seven year-old Jordan, two year-old Jackson, and I were cuddling on the bed and Jordan said, “Jackson is so cute I could die!”

Then it went downhill. Later that day, he and Jax were playing with (washable, of course!) markers. At one point, I looked over and Jordan had scribbled kick me on Jax’s lower back above his diaper. I had to laugh, but I also had to work at getting the marker off with an unscheduled bath.

As for the now-tattooed toddler, his day was spent screaming at the top of his lungs, taking off his diaper at any opportunity (and then laughing hysterically and running away from me as fast as he can), protesting a nap to the fullest extent of his small body, and saying, “poo-poo head!” really loud.

Since waking up, I had said weird, random things, like:

• Your diaper is not a storage facility for raisins.
• Don’t drink the bath water.
• Don’t lick the carpet.
• Your nose is not the place for popcorn.
• Yes, the people on Pluto probably do have lunch plans.

and

• How come you can spell “perpendicular” but you can’t remember to flush?

By two o-clock, I was done in. And I still had a deadline!
When the baby’s naptime FINALLY came, I tried to work, but Satan kept reminding me of a negative writing review I’d received, using it to bug me about not being good enough. I told him to go away! (It helps that I recognize it now–I used to cave in with insecurity and not fight it.)

And then I realized that this was one of those times that I needed to just be still. Turning off the computer, I poured myself a cup of hot Chai tea, sat in my favorite chair and I opened my journal. With a smile, I saw that my life hadn’t changed much in the past few months. One entry read:
Jordan brought me two dead crickets, a fake silver fingernail and (oh yes!) some crumpled rose petals from the bush in the backyard last week. He also recently told his dad, “When I was two and three, I peed in the bath.” When Carey looked at him incredulously and asked why in the world he would do that, Jordan said, “Well, it was too warm to get out when I had to go.” Yikes! And when we were in the drive-through at McDonald’s, I heard him say to his one year-old brother, “You’re supposed to toot when I pull your finger.”

Oh, my. I’m in for a long haul, I’m afraid. It reminds me of what a friend told me recently. Her high schooler (a boy) said, “Mom, you’d better check up on Matt (his younger brother) after he showers.” When my friend asked why, he said, “All through middle school, I never used the soap.”

And I started to chuckle. Hey, I thought, I don’t need sitcoms, or the funny papers. I have two boys!

Continuing in a quiet—and slowly improving–mood, I opened the scriptures.

The book of Isaiah is a particular favorite when I’m feeling insecure, frustrated and unsure. I turned there, as I had so many times before, and read, “You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you.” (Isaiah 26:3, NIV)

Once again, I was comforted and encouraged by the Word, and by being in God’s presence. I didn’t hear any audible voices or bells ringing , but like I told my husband later, “The crazies went away.” I was able to regain my sense of sanity and realize that it’s okay to feel nuts once in a while. God loves me anyway.

Time with God in the midst of mommyhood helps me to realize I’m doing the best I can in the roles I’ve been given, with God’s strength, wisdom and help. And that’s enough!

I need those moments with my Maker to remind me that my boys are not just burdens to be born—they are my biggest blessings! And after I spend some time with God, I remember that more often. In the midst of the chaos that swirls around me, He helps me keep my perspective—and a sense of humor.

He also helps me find GREAT places to hide the markers.

Dena Dyer is a mom of three boys, ages 2, 8, and 35. She loves to scrapbook, read, and write essays and books. She attends MOPS at Lakeside Baptist Church in Granbury, Texas.

©2009, Dena Dyer

We call it Operation Enduring Sleep. My husband and I, the two-member coalition in this war on sleep-deprivation, take our assignment very seriously. The mission: to transfer our sleeping toddler, Jordan, from his car seat to his bed without waking him.

After we deploy ourselves, our first step is to unhook the buckle on his restraining device. Jordan sighs, and we freeze. Our lips purse, our foreheads crease, and we both wonder if we’ll make it.

After unhooking our little soldier, we give silent instructions to one another. Carey mouths, “You get him, I’ll get the door.” I nod in agreement.

Holding my breath, I slip Jordan’s carseat strap over his head. So far, so good. Now the most dangerous part: the hoist. I carefully bring my son’s heavy arms up over my shoulders, wrap one arm around his waist and cover his head—so as not to bump it on the car door and accidentally end the operation.

The whole operation has me thinking—sometimes, I am the toddler who won’t stay asleep in my Father’s arms. God has given me (and you!) so many precious promises, and He has offered His peace to me whenever I feel anxious.

When I say my prayers, and give the Lord my troubles, I go to sleep. But in the next few minutes, I wake up by listening to the lies Satan whispers in my ear, such as God isn’t interested in your little problems or What if the money never comes?

Instead of worrying, I need to remember who’s in charge of my battles, and let Him fight for me. I like what God told Moses in Exodus 33:14–“My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.”

But back to our war story: my brave husband holds the door for me, and I walk past him. Trooper that he is, Carey has already been on a stealth mission in our son’s bedroom. We both know that any miscalculation or stumble on my part would prove fatal to our plan, so Hubby has pulled the bedcovers back, darkened the room and conducted a ground search for stray objects in Jordan’s room.

As I reach the target, Jordan stirs a bit. I hesitate, re-calculate, and start humming a lullaby. Carey follows stealthily behind me, whispering encouragement. “Almost there,” he says.

Then ever so gently, I place Jordan on his bed, take off his shoes and cover his body with a blanket.  I tiptoe away, giving Carey the thumbs-up sign. Mission accomplished.

“Mommy,” I hear. Carey groans quietly. My heart starts to race. No, I think. We’ve come too far to fail now! And I need a nap, too. I decide to walk away slowly, ignore my child and hope he’s not really awake.

“Mommy!” Jordan cries, louder this time. I grimace at Carey. He shrugs, and turn back around. Our son is sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not tired now.”
”You need more rest,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

Jordan hops off his bed, runs to my side and raises his arms. “I want to hold you!” he says.

And so the mission is aborted. Sneaky kid, I think. He knows my weak spots, and he isn’t afraid to exploit them.

As I take Jordan in my arms, I inhale his scent—a strange but comforting mixture of sweat, graham crackers and baby soap. “Oh, well,” I say to Carey. My hubby smiles and puts his arm around me, and we exit the nursery together.

Sometimes, losing the battle isn’t such a bad deal.

©2009, Dena Dyer

Teach us delight in simple things. Rudyard Kipling

As I’ve written before, I’ve battled depression for several years. Mostly, it’s under control because of my medication, exercise, periodic visits to a counselor, family support, and other things I try to make a part of daily life.

One of those “helps” is being grateful for the small miracles that happen every day. Depression can be a black cloud looming over my head, and noticing everyday wonders has helped poke holes in the clouds to let God’s grace shine through.

Case in point: a day last spring, which I recorded in my journal—not because of its hugeness, but because of the little things that made it wonderful.

On that particular day, I ached with tiredness and I had run out of my anti-depressants over the weekend and had to wait to get more. (My depression is always worse when I’m tired.) Jordan, Carey and I were also fighting spring sniffles, which made us all a little testy.

But it was a bright, cloudless afternoon, and Carey decided to mow our backyard, since its height could have concealed a small car. Jordan helped Carey clean up the toys and play tools strewn about in the back yard. He even put on a half-face mask like Carey, who has to be careful with his allergies when he does yard work. I watched from the table and chairs on the patio, journal and Dr. Pepper beside me.

Then sleepy Jordan asked me if he could have his sleeping bag and put it in his clubhouse so he could “west.”

Pretty soon, my four year-old prince was curled up on his blue and yellow bag, arm around his stuffed frog, fast asleep. No doubt he had been lulled by the sun, the hum of the mower and the frequent birdsong.

And instead of aching with tiredness and gloominess, I began to ache with love and joy and thankfulness. In our small corner of the universe, I was suddenly bursting with gratitude for small miracles—and large ones. For sniffly boys who sleep contentedly in clubhouses, for hardworking daddies who care for exhausted mommies, for the red bird that kept circling the yard, for blue skies—and for peace.

In that moment, the sanctity of simple things overwhelmed me. It’s what Arthur Gordon summed up so well in his lovely book, A Touch of Wonder: “In moments of discouragement, defeat, or even despair, there are always certain things to cling to. Little things, usually: remembered laughter, the face of a sleeping child, a tree in the wind—in fact, any reminder of something deeply felt or dearly loved.”

There have been many other days when God has brought me peace with little, but important, treasures during the midst of a dark mood. But I’ve found that it’s up to me to recognize them, and to not let them float away before whispering, “Thanks.” Otherwise, I’ll have turned away a precious gift.

As Gordon says,” No man is so poor as not to have many of these small candles. When they are lighted, darkness goes away . . . and a touch of wonder remains.”

©2009, Dena Dyer

Sometimes I wonder if men and women
really suit each other.
Perhaps they should live next door and just visit
now and then.  
–Katherine Hepburn

Do you ever find yourself burning with questions that have no answers? Such as:

• how can a boy who effortlessly opens restricted e-mail files have trouble closing the toilet lid?
• why do men and boys always “flick” the remote control at the exact moment we women become interested in a program?
• how can men live with dirty socks strewn all over the house, but get upset if there’s one empty ice tray in the freezer?

And, most importantly:

• why in the world are men and women so different?

God did create us different—for a reason. In his book Bringing up Boys, Dr. James Dobson says that men “value change, opportunity, risk, speculation and adventure” while a woman’s temperament “lends itself to nurturance, caring, sensitivity, tenderness, and compassion.”

I think life would be pretty strange, and downright sad, if both sexes were alike. Imagine if your husband were like your best girlfriend, only when he borrowed your clothes they came back all stretched out!

But how do we survive daily living with other human beings (namely, men) who sometimes seem out to get us? As one of my favorite t-shirts says, “This marriage [or family] was made in heaven—but so was thunder and lightning!”

One thing I’ve learned is to look for ways I’m similar to the boys in my life, and build upon those. As I’ve pondered those things that drew my hubby and I together when we were dating (shared talents, values, and a love of enormous amounts of popcorn consumed while viewing old Andy Griffith reruns), I’ve tried to rekindle those “sparks” as often as possible.

And though I don’t enjoy some of things my sons do, I try to stop what I’m doing and enthusiastically partake in their passions when they ask me to. It’s an honor to be asked, and I know it won’t happen forever!

I also firmly believe we should affirm men in their uniqueness. Our high-speed, high-achievement culture puts enormous pressure on their shoulders, and criticism only adds to the load.  A hug or a kiss can be just the ticket to letting them know we appreciate them.
I’m blessed to have a husband who shares my faith and my values. He’s also wonderfully romantic and faithfully supports my own dreams and goals. My sons are affectionate, creative, smart and hilarious. I could go on, but you get the idea. Now, if I can just say these things out loud once in a while, I’ll be on the right track.
 So now I have a few more questions:

• when was the last time you affirmed your husband or son? If your hairstyle was completely different the last time a compliment came out of your mouth, the time is ripe to say—out loud!—the nice things you’ve been thinking.
• how long has it been since you participated in their passions, without complaining about the sweat, dirt, or broken fingernails involved?

And, most importantly:

• do you know a good place to hide the remote control?

©2009, Dena Dyer 

I was utterly exhausted. Our toddler, Jackson, had been waking up in the middle of the night for weeks, and my system was totally out of whack. When we tried to let Jax “cry it out,” even for just two minutes, he got so upset that he actually threw up.

Talk about frustrating! I tried putting music in his room, giving him a teddy bear, even sleeping with him–nothing seemed to work.
Whatever the reasons, he got into the habit of “night-waking.” He wasn’t my first child, but I was at the end of my rope. There wasn’t even a pinhole of light at the end of my tunnel.

I didn’t know what to do.

One day, after very few hours of sleep, I got the two of us ready for a moms’ support group at our church, where there was free childcare (Hallelujah!). During the meeting, I mustered up the nerve to confess the problem I was having. Then another member asked me in a haughty tone, “So what’s the problem? I’d let him throw up. I like my sleep!”

After I got over the shock, I calmly said, “How interesting.” But I was seething. In my mind, I stood up, leaned over Mom-zilla and said, “I don’t want my baby to choke on his puke, woman! And I like my sleep, too. That’s the WHOLE STINKING POINT.”

I’ve gotten over the incident nicely, as you can tell.

Then one night during that period of time, as I was rocking the little guy to sleep, I inserted his name into “Jesus Loves the Little Children” and sang, “Jesus loves the little Jacksons, all the Jacksons of the world…” I had done the same with my now-seven year-old. Like all children, they loved hearing their names.
On this particular night, Jackson began asking me to insert other names into the song, like his cousin Molly’s, or his brother Jordan’s. And then he asked me to put my name in the song. And of course, to him my name is “Mommy.” So, to please him, I sang, “Jesus loves the little mommies, all the mommies of the world…”

And I begin to think, “Yes, that’s right! Jesus loves all the mommies, like me.” I smiled as I remembered that in my fatigue and discouragement, Jesus loved me the same as He always had.
I continued singing, “Every color, every race,” and I thought of all the moms across the world rocking their babies and singing to them at that very moment. I realized once again what a privilege it was to be in the mommy-hood, even when it meant getting up at all hours. (At least I knew there were mommies in other time zones that were awake when I was!)

Looking at my baby, I felt a new kinship with my heavenly Father as He reminded me of Zephaniah 3:17: “The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.”

What an awesome thought! He knows how we love our children and pour ourselves out for them, because He loves us even more—and He poured Himself out for us on the cross.

As I finished the song by singing, “All are covered by His grace,” I prayed, Thank you, Jesus, for loving mommies. Thank you for Your love that surrounds us when we are scared, Your grace that covers us when we make mistakes, and Your strength that sustains us when we are weak.

I put my child to bed (at least for a few hours) as a final thought crossed my mind: just like moms, God is always “on call.”
Now that’s a comforting thought!

©2009, Dena Dyer 

This year, instead of making New Year’s Resolutions, I decided to write my “Mom-i-Festo.” This is the ideal, and I won’t always reach these goals (but NOT having goals means I won’t reach them for sure!). But the following points explain who I’d like to become as a child of God, wife, mom, daughter, sister, and friend.

• I will no longer compare myself to other moms. I have talents, quirks, and special qualities all my own, and I will start to own and (YES!) even celebrate them, beginning today. I will see my weaknesses as God’s opportunity to be my strength.
• On the days when it gets so hard that I want to run out the door screaming and never come back, I will breathe. Slowly. And lock myself in the bathroom until I can gain control.
• I will remember that I’m a good mom. After all, a bad mom doesn’t question whether or not she’s a good mom.
• I will not gossip about other moms. Every mother has her own set of challenges, most of which I know nothing about. I will not demean or demoralize my fellow moms by talking about them behind their backs. And if someone else is gossiping, I will ask them to change the subject.
• I will no longer say “yes” to everything that’s asked of me. I will be thoughtful, prayerful, and deliberate in making decisions. That way, my family won’t suffer when I say “yes” too easily.
• I will no longer do everything for my kids. I want to raise them to be responsible, mature adults who can contribute to the world in amazing ways. This won’t happen if they can’t shop, cook, clean, and take care of themselves.
• I will no longer put my husband on the end of the “to-do” list. I realize that the health of our relationship makes a huge difference in our kids’ well-being, so I choose to make time regularly for intimacy (of all kinds). Date nights, here we come!
• I will ask for help when I need it, seek out other moms for mentoring, friendship and support, and make maintaining my friendships a priority (AND I will ask God to help me choose friends who understand when I’m swamped and can’t be there for them).
• I will take care of myself by exercising and eating right, so that I can be a good steward of the body God’s given me (this one is tough for me, but I’ve seen the results of not taking care of myself and it ain’t pretty!)
• I will make time to be still, even if it’s just for a few minutes a day. During that time, I will listen to God, meditate on His truths, and pray. And when I can, I will take longer stretches of time for Bible study. It’s my lifeline, and the only real source of peace and wisdom in this mixed-up world!
• I will lighten up. I will laugh, and play, and enjoy my kids. I only get them for a short time (although the days are long, the years go by fast!), and they are a blessing, not a burden.
• I will believe that God delights in me, loves me, and accepts me–just as I am. He is with me as I navigate the uncertainties of motherhood, and He will make up for my mistakes. I will lean on Him during the dark days, and serve Him, through serving my family, with a grateful heart.

See if you can adapt this “Mom-i-festo” to your own mothering journey. Who knows, maybe we can start a mothering revolution!
 

©2009, Dena Dyer

Mother is the most beautiful word in the English language, says a survey conducted by the British Council. According to the survey’s results, the ten most beautiful words are:

Mother
Passion
Smile
Love
Eternity
Fantastic
Destiny
Freedom
Liberty
Tranquillity

Lovely words, all of them. But reading that got me to thinking: what are a mother’s favorite words? Hmmmm…..how about sleep? Yep, that would probably be it—especially if the word is preceded by the adjective uninterrupted. Ah, bliss!

A mom’s second most-beloved word or phrase? It just might be, “I’ll change his diaper, honey,” or the acknowledgement (rarely received but always appreciated), “Wow, you sure did a lot today!”
Speaking of doing a lot, since this month makes even the most organized mommy’s head spin, the best present I could receive as a mom would be these words: “Let’s not do Christmas cards this year.” Talk about a gift!

Here are a few other phrases that get a mom’s heart racing (gals, if you’re feeling really brave and sneaky, print this out so you can slip it in your hubby’s sock drawer):

10. Let’s just cuddle tonight.
9.  Are those magic jeans? Your rear looks tiny in them.
8.  I have a floral delivery for you. Will you be home later?
7.  Mom, you watch [insert favorite television show here]. I’ll vacuum.
6.  Do you like your massage gentle or firm?
5.  Your child is so well-adjusted/polite/neat/smart/normal.
4.  Thanks for offering, but all our volunteer positions are suddenly filled.
3.  I’ll take carpool duty today.
2.  Here’s breakfast in bed, sweetie. And no, the kids didn’t make it—I did!

There are also tons of Biblical phrases that I find especially beautiful. Here are a few on my personal top-ten list: “He gives sleep to those He loves”; “He gently leads those who have young” (I need to follow someone other than my oldest, who’s likely to lead me right off the side of a cliff); “Peace I give you” (this one comforts me when my hubby is working late, my toddler won’t quit crying, and my fifth grader won’t stay in bed); and “With God all things are possible” (for when the baby’s been up all night and I have a presentation to give at ten a.m.).

Thinking about those words—written long ago, but oh-so-relevant today—helps me to calm down in the midst of the chaos that is motherhood.

You know what also helps me to calm down? When my husband says the phrase that’s #1 with moms everywhere:

        1.   Let’s go out to eat tonight!

©2008, Dena Dyer

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy —they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. 
—Marcel Proust

Last Christmas, I came across a unique book called Ferris Wheels, Daffodils and Hot Fudge Sundaes by Laura Jensen Walker. This gratitude journal, which was inspired by Walker’s bout with breast cancer, consists of blank pages to write on, quotes and scriptures about thankfulness, and her own lists of the things—both big and little—she’s grateful for.

One afternoon, Jordan noticed the journal and asked if he could write in it. I thought, “Why not?”

Here’s what my 5 ½ year-old recorded (spelling errors and translations included): “I’m thankful for . . . santa, baby jesus, momy and dade, mi house, or (our) bones, mi (my) presents, or hort (our heart), luv fum (from) momy and dady, for God, apol jows (apple juice), and I am gad dit we r nt mosdrs (I am glad that we are not monsters).”

Jordan’s creative list inspired me to write down some of the things I’m thankful for: God’s never-ending patience with me . . . two working vehicles—and one that’s paid for . . . a potty-trained child (I thought he was going to be in the Guinness Book for oldest kid in diapers!) . . . girlfriends . . . the movie Babette’s Feast and musical Les Miserable . . . e-mail . . . gooey chocolate brownies . . . good relationships with my in-laws . . . for a husband who cooks, babysits, and does laundry (don’t hate me, ladies!) . . . and for a mom who made me write thank-you notes after every holiday—before I played with my gifts—and who wrote me affirming letters as I was growing up, listing the things about me she was thankful for.

Come to think of it, my mother was an excellent model of thanksgiving. Even when she went through a lengthy illness, she kept a great attitude. And Jordan’s desire to create his own journal page reminded me that gratitude—like many of the attributes we want (or don’t want!) our children to develop—can be taught by example. What a scary, but thrilling, idea!

“This, surely, is the most valuable legacy we can pass on to the next generation,” wrote Arthur Gordon in A Touch of Wonder. “Not money, houses or heirlooms, but a capacity for wonder and gratitude, a sense of aliveness and joy. Why don’t we work harder at it? Probably, because as Thoreau said, our lives are frittered away by detail. Because there are times when we don’t have the awareness or the selflessness or the energy.”

I’m going to start praying for that selflessness, awareness and energy, so I can plant seeds of gratitude in my children. Wanna join me? Maybe even on tough days we can model a spirit of thankfulness to all those around us. And pretty soon, we might be surprised at the beautiful garden of gratitude that has sprung up around us.

The pursuit of perfection often impedes improvement. —George F. Will

I love autumn, with its crisp leaves, brisk air and changing colors. However, as a recovering perfectionist, I’ve had many autumns in the past that fell short of my “ideal” fall.

Here are my usual expectations, followed by a dose of reality:

1. My husband will lovingly help me pick out just the right pumpkin for our son’s kindergarten craft project.
   Reality: Carey is so swamped with work that I run to Wal-Mart on October 30 and get a leftover shaped like a Hobbit.
2. The Christian child I’m raising will help me shop for Thanksgiving baskets for needy families.
   Reality: Five year-old Jordan stays in the toy aisle during the entire excursion, whining that he needs a “Home for the Holidays” G.I. Joe.
3. I’ll make pumpkin cookie platters for all the neighbors, with an evangelical tract attached.
   Reality: Only when I see the neighbors packing to leave for the Thanksgiving holidays do I begin to bake, and then realize I need to borrow half the ingredients from those same neighbors.
4. The extended family will all be together, healthy and happy, for a quiet, reflective Thanksgiving.
   Reality: Two siblings don’t even show up, the “crazy uncle” shows everybody his newest surgical scar, and my giblet gravy looks more like—well, let’s not even go there.

This year was no different. Since Carey had to work on Halloween, I took Jordan to our church’s Fall Festival. It was a doozy—bounce houses, pony rides, Bible-themed carnival games, costume contests, and an inflatable obstacle course. I expected a fun-filled night, complete with many Kodak moments.

However, only an hour into our evening, Jordan came off the big slide in tears. My first thought was that someone had picked on him. My second thought was finding the little bully and—well, we were in the church parking lot, so I decided against physical violence.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked.

He wouldn’t tell me, but I soon figured out that he had torn his pants. And no amount of cajoling would get him back in the game. So we went home and watched America’s Funniest Home Videos.

I was a little distraught at how our evening had turned out, especially when the doorbell rang. Since we hadn’t planned on being home, I didn’t have enough candy for trick-or-treaters.

“Mom, kids are at the door!” Jordan yelled at me, while I frantically looked for granola bars or fruit.

“I don’t have enough candy,” I lamented, as he kept pointing to the door.

“They can have mine,” Jordan said, reaching into his purple pumpkin, full of prizes from carnival games.

With my mouth agape, I opened the door and watched him gleefully fill the trick-or-treaters’ sacks.

The rest of the evening, my son had a ball passing out his hard-won candy to strangers with painted faces, and I marveled at the child who had reminded me: life may tear your expectations to pieces once in a while, but focusing on others helps you forget your troubles.
And being a perfectionist isn’t near as much fun as it’s made out to be.

©2008, Dena Dyer