solo writing weekend

Before having children, I don’t think I would have ever chosen a weekend away by myself. Girlfriend getaway? Sure. Roadtrip with Stephen? Absolutely. Mother-daughter shopping weekend? Oh yes.

But alone? Who would I talk to? What would I do? Are you even allowed to eat in a restaurant by yourself?

Add it to the long list of how seven years and three kids can make all the difference.

I had my first solo weekend in September of 2014. I was 36 weeks pregnant with my second baby, and Stephen had just graduated with his doctorate after a six-year program. Our families sat around our living room as Stephen opened a few small gifts to celebrate his great accomplishment.  Stephen then turned the attention to me, and with a baller husband-of-the-year move, he began acknowledging the sacrifices I had made in order for him to complete this degree. He thanked me and passed me a large envelope. Inside were the reservation papers for a solo weekend away in Indianapolis.

Oh, that guy.

I spent two night in the Omni Hotel and filled my weekend with reading, writing, shopping, and a prenatal massage. There was a fair amount of sleeping in, an even greater amount of ice cream, and as it turns out, you can in fact eat in a restaurant all by yourself. It was an indulgent weekend away, and I returned home rested, well fed, and with a few new nursing tops

Earlier this month I again went on a solo weekend, but with a different purpose. Years ago I started a writing project that just keeps lingering, and I wanted a weekend away to write, work, and finally start down the homestretch of this project. I made three writing goals for 2019:

1. Launch my new blog. Done!

2. Take a writing course. Done!

3. Go on a weekend writing retreat. Done!

Three out of three and it isn’t even June, yet. Wow. Does this mean I need to make more goals?

There were a few moments leading up to my weekend away that caused brief panic. The time seemed like such a gift, and I didn’t want to mess it up. Looking back, here are my two nuggets of wisdom that really helped make the weekend a success.

Finding the perfect place

I opted for an AirBnB over a hotel because I wanted something cozy and the ability to “cook” my own food. When I say cook, I mean heat up a Trader Joe’s frozen pizza. The idea of a Bed and Breakfast sounded dreamy, but all my google searches led me to lace curtains and night stands with doilies. Not the creative inspiration I was hoping for.

I finally stumbled upon this tiny house in Kentucky, and it was perfect.

I’m fascinated by tiny homes, and have been known to get sucked into the abyss of YouTube when I start watching tiny home tour videos. A spacious work area was a must, and this place had a great counter right in front of the window where I spread out notebooks, PaperMate flair pens, and books. As an added tiny house bonus, the bed folded out of the wall and a giant projector dropped from the ceiling. It was pretty legit.

My tiny house was almost two hours away. Because I was going to be gone two nights, I didn’t mind the commute. Driving in a car by myself has become a luxury, and I filled my time with equal parts silence and podcasts. I do some of my best thinking in the car, and I often need to talk through ideas out loud to myself in the form of pretend conversations; I never get very far with this when I try it in my living room.

Making plans and specific goals

I knew I needed to spend time planning both my big goals and tiny details before the weekend arrived. If I didn’t, the sound of silence would likely provoke shock and rather than writing, I would spend the weekend in bed, binging on Netflix and popcorn. On the other hand, I could also see myself with a list of twenty-five things to accomplish, scattered, overworked, and leaving more exhausted than I came.

In order to avoid either extreme, I made plans, goals, and I wrote them all down.

I posted this sign on the window in front of me to keep me focused. It is easy to think of a dozen other tasks I could be working on, but these four were the weekend goals. They provided me a variety of work from formatting a cookbook to revising old essays to dumping out first drafts from intriguing prompts I’d tucked away. Having this variety kept me from getting burnt out on one task.

But let’s be real. I cannot have a weekend away without plans for doing nothing, so I also packed nail polish, face masks, books, candles, and good food. I went as far as to map out each meal because I wanted to eat well but didn’t want to spend my precious time reading online reviews as I scrambled to find somewhere for dinner. Knowing that I would introvert pretty hard the majority of the weekend, I brought breakfast, dinner, and snacks, but I did venture out for a couple hours on Saturday afternoon to a cafe and bookstore where I dined as the mysterious lone lady scribbling voraciously in a notebook.

I had given myself permission to take an afternoon nap, but as it turned out, I didn’t need it. After 8 hours of sleep and sitting in a chair all morning, my body wasn’t even tired come 2:00. Such a strange phenomenon.

I made solid progress on each of my writing goals, and I came home both energized and rested. At the risk of sounding too hermit-like, I loved spending time with myself. When I’m alone, I remember who I am apart from motherhood, and that my brain still has capacity for creativity beyond unicorn crafts. I can focus on a single task for longer than five minutes, and I still have problem solving skills beyond who gets to sit in the middle stool.

On the two hour drive home, my mind was racing with ideas and next steps. It’s been a few weeks since my retreat, and truth be told, I’ve made little progress toward some of those next steps. I could easily get down on myself for that, but that won’t do me any good.

Instead, I’m still living off the high of all I accomplished and the stillness that allowed me time to think.

Oh, and I’m also planning for another retreat in the fall.

Bonus: My request for a later checkout was granted, and I used every quiet minute of it!

like an arrow

When I was a teenager, the pastor at my church preached a series about families. Each week he focused on the role of a different family member: husbands, wives, parents, children. The week he preached about parenthood I was only half listening. Parenting seemed a million years away when I was seventeen.

We turned our Bibles to Psalms 127, and in his fantastic British accent, the pastor proceeded to read verse 4: “Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth.” I had never heard this verse and the imagery immediately caught my attention. My pastor stepped to the side of the podium and assumed the stance of a warrior. Pretending to lift a bow and arrow, he slowly pulled back his elbow and lowered his head as if lining up his target.

I was fascinated by this picture of parenthood as he went on to preach how a child is entrusted to parents for a limited time. From the beginning, a parent knows this arrow will be released into the world, and it is a parent’s responsibility to teach, train, aim, and ultimately release. As a teenager, this verse was both beautiful and unsettling.

I loved the idea that I was an arrow on the verge of being released and ready to take on the unknown. But I also loved home and was never thrilled with the idea of leaving. I got homesick every year at summer camp, and at age ten I announced I would not be going away to college. Instead, I’d stick near home and attend a local school a few miles down the road: Worsham College of Mortuary Science. It was years later when I found out what mortuary science meant that I changed that plan.  

Twelve years later and this image and verse stuck with me as I became a mom for the first time. In the weeks after Charlotte was born, I traced her tiny hand onto pink cardstock and wrote that verse on her little palm. That handprint is still tucked in the pages of my Bible. I will often refer to my children as my little arrows - a reminder they are not mine for keeps, but my privilege to teach, train, aim, and ultimately release. I have found that as a mom, this verse is still both beautiful and unsettling.

*****

About a year ago, I began making changes to update my blog. Because all things involving the world wide web take me four times longer than the average person, I have been moving at a snail’s pace. With this change, I retired my beloved 44 & Oxford, the original name for this space. But I wanted something more than the letters of my name in the new title; I wanted an arrow - that small reminder of the little arrows in my life.

I know my identity expands beyond the scope of motherhood, and the writing on this blog isn’t limited to the tales of mom life. But once I became a mom, everything else started being filtered through a different lens. Even when I’m not buckling car seats, making quesadillas, and pretending to enjoy dinosaurs, I still carry motherhood in every decision. Those little arrows are watching how I handle life. Marriage, friendships, hobbies, housework - they see it. Probably more than anyone. They are watching what I do in my free time and what passions I make time for.

I’ve talked with lots of moms who feel guilty for pursuing creative passions, and although I have a mountain of material to feel guilty about (insert long list of all the times I’ve completely lost my cool with those darlings), I don’t feel guilty for setting aside time for my own creativity. In fact, it is quite the opposite.

I want those arrows to see me make time for the people and things I love -  for family dinner, for girls’ nights out, and for flying across the country to see college friends. I want them to see me make time for the body of Christ and for the marginalized in our community. I want them to see me make time for Zumba and cooking and reading and dinner guests. And I certainly want them to see me make time to write - to sit, think, and put words to those thoughts - to take a gift God gave me and give it back to Him.

I’ve been writing all my life, but started a blog only three and half years ago. I’m glad I did. Sometimes people will ask me about my writing goals, specifically if I’m going to write a book. I know I’m part of a very goal-oriented generation, so my answer to this question is always met with confusion and pushback. Yes, I make writing goals - for example, in 2019 I wanted to update this blog. Check. I wanted to sign up for a writing workshop. Check. I wanted to get away for a weekend alone for a writing retreat. Half check. (It’s booked for THIS weekend!) But when it comes to long term goals - what’s next? Where do I see myself in five years? Ten years? I have only one, vague but lofty goal:

Keep writing.

In five years, ten years, thirty years - it is my hope that I kept going. I got up early those mornings I wanted to sleep another hour. I turned off that TV show I didn’t really care about. I sat in silence. I thought and wondered. I wrote really crummy first drafts. I learned something, and I made the second draft better. I started with a blank screen and turned it into something worth sharing. I wrote about stuff I didn’t really want to but knew I needed to.

And hopefully, my love for writing tethered to a dose of discipline will serve to aim my arrows toward their own passions. Sometimes the teaching, training, and aiming will need to come through conversations and explanations, but most of the time it will come from watching me.

And I hope they see me keep going.

So welcome to my new little corner of the internet. A place where I can keep writing.

I am forever grateful for those of you who keep reading.

because one day you won't, part 4

Believe it or not, the winter months have been good to us. Life has slowed down and we are loving our rhythm as a family of five. Even as we've been stuck inside for months (and months and months), I have been looking for moments covered in childhood and baby rolls. There has been no shortage of either.

If you are new to my Because One Day You Won't posts, you can check them out here:

Because One Day You Won't Part 1

Because One Day You Won't Part 2

Because One Day You Won't Part 3

---

Because one day you won't all fit together on one sled.

Because one day you won't protect your breakfast from the rain.

Because one day you won't have a Minnie Mouse raincoat, Minnie Mouse umbrella, and Minnie Mouse backpack. And because one day you won't tuck you pants into your socks "so everyone can see the polka dots."

 Because one day you won't let me kiss those cheeks five hundred times a day.

Because one day you won't put on your football player costume and sneak into your sister's room to read her Berenstain Bear books.

Because one day you won't have so many arms rolls.

Because one day you won't fit in the toy baby stroller.

Because one day you won't beg us to sleep together in the same bed.

Because one day you won't decorate the "Christmas tree" outside with random things found around the house.

And because one day you won't bring me this snack when I'm having a rough day.

And yes, that is a mixture of fruit snacks, chocolate chips. Hershey's, and some Now & Laters. With milk.

So today I will notice these moments.

---

the man in aldi saw my boob

I spent Sunday afternoon wandering the aisles of the grocery store with my six-week-old snuggled closely to my chest. It was pure bliss. While the older two darlings stayed around home with dad, I grabbed the opportunity to grocery shop with only one child in tow - the easy child. Strapped onto my chest and sound asleep, my son made roaming the four aisles of Aldi seem like a luxurious getaway. I scanned some new products, read a few labels, and even retraced my steps back to aisle one when I forgot hamburger buns. He slept peacefully the entire time, those chubby cheeks pressed into my chest as strangers oohed and ahhed. 

"I should do this every Sunday," I thought to myself.

Cue foreboding music.

The following week I decided to take him grocery shopping again after Sunday lunch. I grabbed my bags and the baby wrap as I hurried off, eager for another therapeutic getaway disguised as an errand.

That darling boy fell asleep during the five-minute car ride to Aldi. I slowly lifted him from his car seat and positioned him gently into the baby wrap. He let out a few baby grunts as he arched his back, but settled in quickly as the warm breeze hugged his chunky frame; he was asleep again by the time we reached the entrance. 

The air conditioning hit us hard as we entered the store. Maybe it was the transition inside or maybe the Lord just needed to keep my humble, but the moment we entered the store, he awoke with a cry. Before we even passed the nuts and dried fruit, he had worked himself into a wail. 

I knew this feeling. This was my third child, after all, and each one before him has stopped me with the What am I supposed to do? terror. The first time my daughter began wailing in the grocery store, I felt like all eyes were on me, watching and waiting to see my next move. I remember the panic. Do I abandon my full car? Just keep going? How do you hold an infant and push a shopping cart?

But today was different. Instead of paralyzing terror, I felt a calm confidence. I left my cart in the aisle and walked back outside. I strolled down the sidewalk, past Jo-Ann Fabrics and the Asian Market. The movement and warm air lulled him back to sleep, and I reentered Aldi, my abandoned cart waiting where I'd left it. Unfortunately, this same scene repeated itself two more time. 

Wail.

Abandon cart.

Stroll outside.

Fall asleep.

Resume shopping.

Repeat.

I couldn't continue this absurd sequence all afternoon. I weighted my options: go home or plow through with a screaming baby. I didn't like either of those options. I began wishing my children had taken a pacifier, but none of them did. They all preferred the boob. 

The boob. 

That's it. 

Yes.

The boob.

Head on over to Coffee + Crumbs to read the full essay.

P.S. Coffee + Crumbs is my most favorite place for all things motherhood and creativity. 

strong as a mother

About a year ago, I decided I wanted a mom shirt. You know the kind - gray, casual fit with a catchy mom motto, ready to be paired with cut-off jeans and white Converse. I don't know what prompted my desire for a mom shirt. Maybe it's part of my continuing quest to fully embrace my mom role. Maybe it's my way of telling the world to ignore the frazzled look on my face and just read my shirt because I really do love this mom gig.

My dear friend, Lindsay, who was expecting her first baby, flew into town to meet my newest little guy over Mother's Day weekend. I decided this was the perfect excuse to buy that mom shirt - one for her, one for me. Lindsay is definitely the kind of friend who would wear matching mom shirts with me. After hours on Etsy clicking through Mama Bear and #momlife shirts, I opted for one that proudly declared "Strong As A Mother."

I like the sentiment that mothers are strong, and therefore, I am strong - strong enough to handle motherhood.

I am strong.

I am capable.

I am a mother.

I can do hard things.

Except for all the times I can't.

*****

I had a phone call scheduled for 4:00, so I gathered the two older darlings and explained I would need privacy. I told them to play in the basement while I talked on the phone upstairs. Hindsight is 20/20, so now I know turning on Netflix would have been the wiser option. But I didn't. 

At 4:10 I ended my call early, tears burning the back of my eyes, anger consuming my body. My children did not stay in the basement during the call. Instead, they ran around the house screaming. They jumped on my back, chased me upstairs, and completely disregarded my request for privacy. They burst through a closed door and flung toys against a locked door. My death look, hand gestures, and body language were useless. I was livid. 

I don't remember everything I said to them as I stepped into the hallway, but I remember swallowing the screams that were shaking my body. Instead, I spoke slowly and quietly, with harsh statements and glaring eyes. 

"The way you just acted was disappointing and disgusting. I do not want to see you or hear from you until dad comes home. If you dare to come out of your room before he gets home, you will have no dinner, no playtime, no books. You will go to bed, and I will not see you until tomorrow."

These were not empty threats. I was prepared to follow through. I closed the door to their rooms and sat at the top of the stairs.

Strong as a mother? I didn't feel so strong in that moment. 

And then it happened. 

My five-year-old daughter said - no - screamed, "I hate you!" There were a bunch of other words, too. Something about not being fair and wanting to get out of this house. She accused her brother of lying and apparently she wants a new family. Her frustration and anger flooded down the hallway as I sat at the top of the stairs, unsure of my next move.

My mind knew the truth, but my heart squeezed a steady stream of tears down my face. I knew she didn't hate me. I knew she would want to come with me in an hour to run errands. I knew she would cuddle with me that night to read Fancy Nancy, and she would crawl into my bed the next morning at 7:15. I knew she didn't like being sent to her room until dinner and her five-year-old emotions have a limited ability to express frustration. My mind knew, but her words still felt awful. 

Part of being a mom is taking the heat of emotions our children cannot express. They try out words and phrases to release those intense feelings, and we are left to absorb the heavy blow. She was frustrated with the situation, with the consequence, and she didn't know what to say or do. So she started yelling, probably unsure what would come out next. She was going for dramatic, extreme, anything to get my attention. 

Part of being a kid is taking the heat of emotions moms cannot express. We try out words and phrases to release those intense feelings, and our children are left to absorb the heavy blow. I was frustrated with the situation, with dishing out an extreme consequence, and I didn't know what to say or do. So I started talking, unsure what would would come out next. I was going for dramatic, extreme, anything to get her attention. 

This day, these 15 minutes, are engraved in my memory. I can close my eyes and feel the anger and pain, immediately followed by guilt and shame. My words, her words, they cannot be undone. 

Strong as a mother? I didn't feel so strong in that moment. 

*****

I want to be strong; I want to be capable. I want to gracefully handle busy days and crabby children. Mostly, I want to be strong enough to control my emotions, quiet my anger, and give a gentle answer when a harsh one is bubbling. 

But I keep messing up. 

It is so easy to get sucked into a downward spiral when I get angry. A wave of condemnation knocks my over, and before I can even regain my footing, my patience runs out again, and I am hit with more guilt. Recently, I have found myself believing the lie that I cannot change, the lie that anger is just a part of motherhood. 

Never before has the gospel of God's grace been more real to me than in my life as a mom. Sin is constantly surfacing, and I am reminded on a daily basis of my inability to do this job well. I might be able to fake it to the world, but I cannot fake it in front of my children. They see, probably more than anyone, the ugliness of my sin. 

When I think about my weaknesses, I think about 2 Corinthians 12:9 which tells me there is power in my weakness. 

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weakness, so that Christ's power may rest on me."

That is such an ideal response to my feebleness, but also one that prompts me to roll my eyes. It seems a bit too trite when my weakness is spilling out into our entire home, even bringing out the weaknesses of my children. Where is the power in that?

In the next verse, Paul really goes for it and tells me to delight in my weakness. Good grief. 

"That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."

Oh, Paul. You're killing me. 

*****

Apologizing to your children is such a beautiful idea. The image of a mother, coming humbly before her children to admit wrong and seek forgiveness sounds so saintly. But when I'm that mom, the one knocking on a door covered with My Little Pony drawings and entering a room painted Fizzleberry Pink, it doesn't feel beautiful; it feels humiliating. 

"Hey, girl. I really blew it tonight, and I am sorry for my part in that mess. I got angry too quickly. My words and tone were not loving, and I'm sorry."

She forgives me quickly. No drawn-out discussion. No rehashing the ugly.

"It's ok, mom. Sorry I was loud during your phone call."

*****

The world tells me that my children's behavior depends on my behavior, their successes rest on my success, and their failures reflect my failure. Oh, please Jesus, don't let that be true. I am clinging to the hope that this world knows nothing of God's ability to use my weakness and failures to bless my children. I am believing in the absurdity that my God is in the business of turning weakness into blessing. 

In a world that idolizes perfection, maybe one of the best things I can do for my children is to acknowledge my weakness in front of them. When they hear me say that my anger and impatience are wrong - when they hear me apologize and ask for forgiveness - when they hear me pray for the Holy Spirit to change my heart and my words - this is when the Gospel starts to make its way into our home in practical ways. They are pounded with lessons in obedience, constantly taught to do what is right in order to please me, or teachers, babysitters, coaches, and even friends. Yes, I want to raise obedient, self-sufficient children, but not children who are so confident in their own strength and abilities that they can hardly see their need for grace. Allowing my children to see me fail might be a gift, freeing them from the grip of perfection and awakening them to our desperate need for Jesus. 

I often thought 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 was a bit patronizing - a Christian cliche quoted in the midst of troubled times to comfort you with a vague sense of hope. But today, God is showing me how these words can bring real freedom on the messy days of motherhood. 

When you are weak, you stop depending on your own ability. My strength is magnified. 

When you are weak, you readily accept the grace I'm always offering. My strength is magnified. 

When you are weak, you see me be strong. My strength is magnified. 

Strong as a mother?

Nah.

Weak as a mother.

Absolutely. 

That probably wouldn't sell as many shirts.