10 Reasons Why Moms Should Do ALL The Laundry

A really smart blogger mom-friend of mine once posted on the Facebook, "If you have a kid who is old enough to operate a tablet/video game/smart phone and you are still doing their laundry for them, you're doing this parent thing wrong." 

Humph!  I thought. After 21 years of parenting, I suppose I'll never have this mom-thing figured out.

But, as I was tenderly bleaching my son's socks yesterday, it finally came to me. And you know what, my highly respected mom-diva friend, washing my kid's laundry actually makes me an even more better parent-and wife! 

(And by "more-better," I mean, better than "less-gooder.")


Here's why:

Conquering The Dread Gremlins

Oh, they are real, let me tell you!  If I don't hit that pillow dead-dog-tired and I allow myself one iota of contemplative reflection, those little demons rise up from under my bed and plunge their claws of damnation right into my soul.

It happened again last night. I knew better than to read that article before bed! *Face-palm.* The snarly sadistic voices went into a rage, this time lambasting me for throwing my kids into the lions-den of public schoolery only to have them brainwashed by our government into narcissistic, co-dependent little communist trolls. WHAT HAVE I DONE, what am I doing??!!

Then I caught myself. 

Lisa, BE NICE! Stop talking like that. Wait for the morning, it'll be OK. It took about an hour of convincing myself to step away from the ledge before I fell asleep, concluding yet another episode of what I call the "Night Dreads."

You see, during the day, I'm a pretty optimistic and reasonable person. I usually make informed, prayerful decisions concerning my personal life and family. Though I tend to fly by the seat of my pants, I trust my gut, lean towards logic, follow the golden rule and try not to sweat the small stuff. I think I have pretty great coping skills and I'm generally even-tempered. But at night, when the gremlins creep in, I transform into a confused, irrational, self-loathing crybaby.

When I start to hear their sneering accusations, I become instantly rigid. My gut balls up, a slight sweat breaks out and my heart begins to race. My mind starts flashing scenes from everything I'd screwed up in the last 24 hours. In those moments, anything can be challenged-- my beliefs, my convictions, I become utterly hornswoggled that all my major life decisions were wrong-Wrong-WRONG!

The gremlins stand over my bed tormenting me, whispering that all my kids are going to rebel and reject everything we ever taught them. They predict that one day our house will burn down and that I'll probably get murdered in my sleep. I start believing no one will ever buy or sell another house through me, that ship has sailed, sister!  I need to start applying for a REAL job...but nobody's gonna hire me. And by-the-way, my silly dreams and trifle hobbies are pointless, I'm wasting my life. The gremlins remind me how unorganized, inconsistent, uncultured, uneducated, mediocre, not-enough and emotionally incapable I am of sharing my deepest, truest self with anyone, it's no wonder I have no friends. I don't even have my own 401K and Oh my Gawd, I haven't hugged my middle child in over a week! And guess what else, Lisa, YOU forgot to pay the sewer bill and we're probably not going to have running water in the morning. Not to mention, Armageddon is upon us and we are SO. Unprepared.

"Regret" Is Not A Dirty Word

Word studies. I have been doing a few of  them lately because there is such rampant embracing and regurgitation of  totally ignorant and socially accepted sentiments running a muck in social media. I keep coming across these picture memes and quotables that I imagine were generated by entitled, hormonal, co-dependant teens or college kids who've never encountered a dictionary. What really blows my mind though, is how the social masses lap up these trite little proverbs as "truth."  Seems like everyone is drinking the koolaid so I realize challenging popular word-sentiments could incite an onslaught of hater feedback but this needs to be done, people. Words are powerful and vocabulary sometimes has to be rescued from our abuse and lackadaisical tossing it about. So the first word I'd like to unpack is none other than, REGRET.  

re·gret

  [ri-gret] verb, re·gret·ted, re·gret·ting, noun

verb (used with object)

1.

to feel sorrow or remorse for (an act, fault, disappointment, etc.): He no sooner spoke than he regretted it.

2.

to think of with a sense of loss: to regret one's vanished youth.

noun

3.

a sense of loss, disappointment, dissatisfaction, etc.

4.

  a feeling of sorrow or remorse for a fault, act, loss, disappointment, etc.

Notice, self-hate, self pity, feeling shame, condemnation or a belief I am less-than is not in this definition?!  So, what exactly, is so wrong about feeling sorrow or remorseful for something we've done? Has humanity degenerated so much that it's considered demeaning to feel disappointed in ourselves?  I've heard it said "never regret" because the choices we've made are what "make us into the person we are." Well, aren't sorrow, disappointment, remorse, admitting fault the very convictions that spurn us to do and behave better, to learn and grow from our actions, which in turn "make us who we are"? I thought life lessons were a good thing.

To illustrate my frustration, I've put a few of these picture memes into personal context. (I hope you'll still respect me after I've exposed myself.)

• I'll never regret throwing that puppy down a flight of stairs, over and over again, because at one time it was exactly what I wanted. What 6yo wouldn't think that was hilarious?
• I'll never regret that time I stole swimsuits from a department store after drinking that classy Boones Farm Strawberry Hill, getting strip-searched, handcuffed, arrested and fined because at one time it was exactly what I wanted. I did my time in the slammer, why do you think I'm so hard, durr.

Faith and Angst

and why I need my Crutches.

I've spent the last week flopping around in a torrent of emotion. I know, weird, right?  I think my eyes even got watery at one point last Tuesday.  It's really boiled down to a matter of where my heart and my head have been, colliding. Or maybe it is just hormones as usual, but as I slog through some unfamiliar feelings cluttering my judgement, I hold fast to this, Christ is in me. He is the only thing holy about Lisa Frey. The rest of me is a sanctified mess. Sometimes it's like I'm on the edge of  a cliff and the only thing between me and certain free-fall is this chain of commitment to God and Family tethered around my neck. I'm either gonna hang myself with it or it's going to save my life.

Now, I'm all about introspection and self-improvement but I snarked at author, Donald Miller's, challenge to his subscribers the other day to confess their three biggest faults on Facebook. Being the proud person I am, I'm pretty sure my first thought, Hell no!, was audible.  Although, I have noticed some sketchy things materialize in myself lately that, I suppose, have been dormant for years. The challenge gnawed at me. I tossed and turned all night and decided, why not? You want people to know the authentic Lisa, right? Yeah, okay, well here are four...

Like I said, I'm prideful.

I hate being embarrassed.  My fear of it is physically crippling and I will avoid humiliation at all costs, even if that means missing opportunities or feeling regret over never attempting something.  I mean, I can laugh at myself with the rest of you... right? Is it not entertaining enough that I fall down and spill stuff, daily? I know my absence of rhythm and coordination are hilarious. I've even learned to own my pigeon toes. But what I lack in physical grace, I make up for in self dignity. I think I was born with some blue DNA though, because I crave respect more than a desire to be liked and I've developed this all-sufficient attitude that inhibits me from submitting to anyone or thing.  I'm not going  to burden anybody with my complaints or needs. I keep my walls high and expectations of people low to avoid disappointment.  And sometimes, *gasp* I might only do the right thing because I just don't want to have to apologize later.

I want what I want.

And I'm not even talking about material things. Sometimes I feel more obligated to my commitments than a desire to be committed. There are days I get claustrophobic by my own life-choices despite that I have everything a girl could ask for, I still find myself daydreaming  over what I can't have, even envious over those who seem content with much less. Discontentment. Or is it, restlessness?  I've been 29 years old for a decade now, maybe it's the onset of mid-life crisis... I'm seriously considering a career change or taking up some adrenaline infused hobby... Anyway, I've made my bed, but there are nights I just don't wanna lay in it. Yeah, yeah, Somebody call the whaaambulance.

The Dirty Truth About Youth

In March I posted on confessions, and *whew*, did that feel good! So I thought I'd follow it up with a "part II" and put this shallow topic of vanity to bed. In the next few paragraphs I'll come mostly the rest of the way out of my closet (the one I keep all my skeletons in) and throw you a couple more bones I've been keeping to myself.

They say the "secret" to success is not to blab all your secrets but I just celebrated the 10th anniversary of my 29th birthday and honestly, staying 29 forever is a LOT of work! It takes commitment and almost having to be down right OCD about it. So because some of you have asked about my routines, others have been just plain nosy and because I think everyone should be able to stay 29 if they want to, here's my formula:

Don't Forget To Take Your Happy Pill

I have another confession, while I'm feeling all vulnerable and transparent again...

Some of you might recall my post about Pre-Murder-Syndrome, awhile back?  Well, it was all the rage for about seven minutes.  Anyway, PMS has been a seriously debilitating issue for me these past few years and I wanted to give you a little update on my recovery. 

After trying all sorts of conventional methods to treat  my homicidal condition, I am happy to announce I have finally found a solution that works! Wait for it...

Prozac. 

There. I said it. After much meditation, prayer, exorcisms, exercise, dietetic and homeopathic trials, I have settled on a drug.  Let the shock ruminate a little and continue reading, please. I can justify.

TMI?

"Integrity" was the topic of discussion at small group last night. Someone asked the question, would our spouse describe our character the same as our church friends? Well that's a toughy, because I wear multiple hats.  So the deeper question I had to ask myself was, am I willing to allow my entire sphere to see what I look like in all those hats? How transparent am I, really?

I figure, this blog is as good a place as any to start letting a few bones out of my closet.  But first, I had to build up some nerve.  So I scanned the internet for gritty, unedited honesty...along the lines of cluttered bedrooms, botox reveals, and dinner disasters. Except, all I found were people pinning ideas on how to be amazing, or facebooking how fabulous their lives are.

Accidental Friends

The unfinished story of Lisa and Christina

At our first practice, I didn't recognize the short little plain-looking girl wearing a Disney T-shirt with her hair all slicked back in a pony tail.  I was told her name was Christina and she'd filled the most recent alto position on our church worship team.  I was brought on the team as her alternate. Then I heard her sing, and I understood why.  There was nothing plain or little about her voice. She was jazz meets gospel, a classic tone and vibrato gelled with contemporary R&B style.  And come Sunday morning, she cleaned up very nice! A pretty blouse replaced her Minnie-mouse tee. Unleashed from its pony tail, was a perfectly manicured, shiny, thick, brunette mane permitted to float around her shoulders framing her adorable, freshly powdered face. She was cute as a button. Then she'd proceed blow the roof off the church building with her ginormous voice.

Pity Party

Click here to see more by this artist

I like to joke a lot about being mediocre, but sometimes, being average just gets to me. My self confidence seems to be fair-weathered. I have to nurture it like a tender flower or, before too long, I'll find myself sulking in a pool of self-loathing, in danger of drowning in my own hypothetical tears. 

I will spare you the whoa-is-me details of my latest episode, but seriously! What is this thing with self pity? Why do I get this way sometimes and what can I learn from it? 

It's not depression or even insecurity. It's more of a general sense of not being sparkly-enough. It's mixed feelings of being scrutinized and forgotten, feeling unnecessary yet entitled. At the same time, I don't want to care what the world thinks about who I am, so it drives me nuts when I find myself practically addicted to everybody else's reassurance and approval.  I wish there was a pill to get rid of pride. I would swallow it with a big bite of humble pie and chase it down with a gulp of suck-it-up. I want God to be proud of me, not people.

Jesus Loves Them So Why Do I Have To?

ChristArt

The other day I dove head first into a facebook debate. I knew it was a bad idea but I did it anyway. I just couldn't resist the topic. I deflowered that conversation like a cheap box of chocolates.  I've always fancied a good debate. What sets me apart, however, is my cheeky way of turning a serious argument into a three ring circus. Watching people explode into flaming tirades has always been a source of entertainment for me. Instead of getting mad, I flippantly antagonize. It's a contest. I feel like if I can make the opponent lose their temper and act a fool, I've won.  Sinister, I tell you.