One thing I do when it’s been a minute or a full 18 months since I last wrote anything at all, is reread the previous 6-10 entries from 2022 and before, and cringe until I give myself a heart attack.
And now that that’s out of the way, I can confidently update on life as we know it for my sanity’s sake and for posterity’s sake: It is now 2023 which is (*counts fingers*) 18 years of having this blog, which has morphed from drunk young Florida transplant mom blog to crazy self-righteous Christian Oklahoma mom blog to simply crazy mom blog to I don’t even know what right now. A survival blog? I like to think of myself as the Bear Grylls of the extreme parenting realm.
And life is good. It’s really good. As it turns out, having lots of kids is actually a lot harder in practice than it is in theory so the fact that I’m here in the other side of four 4-and-under plus 3 bigs is a testament to God’s good grace and His sick sense of humor. I only had a few major run ins with Bell’s Palsy where my entire face dropped and my eyes twitched like mad for a couple of the roughest years but I made it. I’m here. I made it.
Here’s some stuff I’ve been doing now that all the kids are in school everyday for at least half the day: walking. It’s the most calm & peaceful thing, and it’s done wonders for my entire soul. I walk for miles and miles every day. My farthest trek was 8 miles; I have dreams of squeezing in an 11-miler before the school year comes to a close.
And that’s it. That’s the scoop, that’s the word. I have successfully joined the ranks of hundreds of thousands of forty-something year old moms and I’ve gotten my membership to the Boring and Proud Club, and I walk now, that’s what I do.
Other possibilities in this new life where I do not wipe bottoms and get juice boxes all day everyday:
Write a book
Paint paintings
Paint murals
Spruce up the house
Tackle some home improvement projects
Get a job as a mail carrier for the USPS
Move to Florida
Become a coastal postal grandma
Master the art of baking pan dulce
Learn stained glass and pottery
Get super fluent in Spanish and Italian
Grow and sell more Microgreens
Anyway. That is all, thank you for reading, I will not be taking questions at this time.
One thing I do when it’s been a minute or a full 18 months since I last wrote anything at all, is reread the previous 6-10 entries from 2022 and before, and cringe until I give myself a heart attack.
And now that that’s out of the way, I can confidently update on life as we know it for my sanity’s sake and for posterity’s sake: It is now 2023 which is (*counts fingers*) 18 years of having this blog, which has morphed from drunk young Florida transplant mom blog to crazy self-righteous Christian Oklahoma mom blog to simply crazy mom blog to I don’t even know what right now. A survival blog? I like to think of myself as the Bear Grylls of the extreme parenting realm.
And life is good. It’s really good. As it turns out, having lots of kids is actually a lot harder in practice than it is in theory so the fact that I’m here in the other side of four 4-and-under plus 3 bigs is a testament to God’s good grace and His sick sense of humor. I only had a few major run ins with Bell’s Palsy where my entire face dropped and my eyes twitched like mad for a couple of the roughest years but I made it. I’m here. I made it.
Here’s some stuff I’ve been doing now that all the kids are in school everyday for at least half the day: walking. It’s the most calm & peaceful thing, and it’s done wonders for my entire soul. I walk for miles and miles every day. My farthest trek was 8 miles; I have dreams of squeezing in an 11-miler before the school year comes to a close.
And that’s it. That’s the scoop, that’s the word. I have successfully joined the ranks of hundreds of thousands of forty-something year old moms and I’ve gotten my membership to the Boring and Proud Club, and I walk now, that’s what I do.
Other possibilities in this new life where I do not wipe bottoms and get juice boxes all day everyday:
Write a book
Paint paintings
Paint murals
Spruce up the house
Tackle some home improvement projects
Get a job as a mail carrier for the USPS
Move to Florida
Become a coastal postal grandma
Master the art of baking pan dulce
Learn stained glass and pottery
Get super fluent in Spanish and Italian
Grow and sell more Microgreens
Anyway. That is all, thank you for reading, I will not be taking questions at this time.
I must hear this 80 times a week: “Oh my gosh you’re such a good mom! You’re super mom! You’re amazing!”
And you would think that at this point a part of me would start to believe it—except for this one little thing: I am horrible at this.
I’m horrible at being patient, being organized, attentive, selfless, responsive vs reactionary, intentional vs sporadic. Mindful vs oblivious. Diligent vs lazy.
I love these kids but I don’t always like being a mom. I absolutely do not always like it, in fact, I’m really struggling with how isolated and overwhelmed I feel almost every day. The mental load is taking a huge toll on me in every way. I’m cracking—crumbling a little even—under the pressure.
I feel like there are very few people in my circle who can come close to understanding. Who among my friends has six kids at home? Who among my friends is scrambling to keep up with high school mood swings and sports schedules and the elementary school machine and two preschool-aged Wreck It Ralphs all at once? Who among them has a child at a level 3 on the ASD scale? I feel so disconnected lately, as if I live on another planet, a planet none of my friends could even pretend to understand.
Honestly guys let me just get this out. I didn’t know this before but I know it now: children with autism are a whole different ballgame. I can say without a doubt that I would be killing it had Duncan been a neurotypical child—KILLING IT, I tell you—six kids and all. Cake walk. Moms everywhere, hear me: you got this. You really do.
But autism. Man, it is testing me. It is pushing me and pulling me and dragging me and beating me down and lifting me back up and building me and challenging me and growing me in ways that I would never have experienced without it.
I’m gonna be real open—yes, Duncan is beyond precious and he’s making progress left and right. He has so many strengths and interests, and he is smart.
But the sleep issues; the meltdowns (somedays they are nonstop, others only one or two small ones.), the self-injurious behaviors like whamming his head into the concrete floor over and over, the compulsion to bolt, the obsession with water and the complete disregard for personal safety. The running. The constant tugging on me instead of using words to ask for things.
The screaming, the screaming, the screaming. It’s more than I can bear.
There’s so many things I’m learning we can’t do: ball games (especially with bleachers or fields near roads or parking lots) are 10,000% out of the question. Crowds. Chaotic or overstimulating places or activities. Church sometimes even. Public restrooms (he flips out over echoing loud noises). Places where he’s expected to be quiet or still. Friends’ houses. Traveling for very long.
I am tapped out. Tapped out of everything for anyone outside this home. I have nothing left for friends or acquaintances; I can’t even muster a smile for grocery store cashiers anymore.
The screaming. My heart rate skyrockets and my head pounds. My mouth goes dry and I feel like throwing up. I can’t hear. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I want to run away, or punch a hole through a wall. The thought of teaching other peoples’ kids in Sunday school or babysitting sends me smooth into a panic attack. The thought of another whole day of screaming followed by the next day and then next day and the days after that…it’s…there are no words for it.
Somedays are really good. When he wakes up not screaming, I know we at least have a shot. Today we had a shot. I made it to 12:30 before I broke down sobbing.
A part of me is a little bitter. “God, it was supposed to be easier by now. The hard newborn stage is over and even the toddler stage is over. What is this?” I ask, I ask it all the time. 26+ years in parenting littles got me worn down but it’s this one, this particular year, that’s going to do me in.
A part of me is mad jealous of the people who have their family close by to help with their children. I wish wish wish so much that my kids could have their grandparents and aunts and uncles to fill in where mom is failing. This is worst, most hardest year in the 18 years we’ve lived in Oklahoma that I’ve battled homesickness this intense. I am so lonely for my parents and sisters I could die.
I’ve whittled down the activities I’m involved in and the projects I take on down to nothing. I have stopped volunteering, painting, writing, running, walking. I have nothing going on except the all encompassing job of whatever I am now, which I estimate to be 95% parenting, 3% cooking and cleaning, and 2% wife-ing.
I feel sick to my stomach with worry. Worry about Duncan, worry about neglecting the others while I worry about Duncan; worry about neglecting my marriage while I worry about neglecting the others while I worry about Duncan; worry about myself because there’s just no time for self-care or basic care or any care. There’s just no time.
(*insert humongous breath of air*)
Some of the things, though, that I’ve figured out we CAN do: Hike. This could be a Godsend for us (especially in cooler weather) since we have chosen not to put the littles in organized sports—family hiking trips and maybe one day, bike rides, might take the place of baseball/softball as our family “thing”. Short grocery shopping trips (Duncan loves this.) Visit trusted friends who fully love and accept our entire family, friends who come to our house knowing we can’t always get out. Bike and run and play here at home. Go for little country drives listening to our favorite music. Movie nights. Duncan loves the water, so my next idea is a trip to the lake.
I read somewhere that God gives us opportunities to learn what we’ve asked for. I always thought He would make me brave and strong and Godly and patient and loving and sensitive to the needs of the people around me by way of a mission trip, or nonprofit organization, or a job where I help people outside of my family. Something that felt “bigger” or “more” than myself. It’s safe to assume at this point that God has me exactly where I’m meant to be, and that this is my mission field—this living room actually— and these kids. This boy. The nonstop learning and rolling with punches. The hard parts and the good parts. They’re all being used to by God to make me better.
I would prefer a little less noise though, God, but it’s whatever.
Disclaimers: 1) Zero people need to hear my hot take 2) Literally both sides of the abortion debate hate me; my views are considered extreme even by most pro-life standards. I mean, look at me, for crying out loud—I have seven kids. I consider life to be a win in itself.
I’m worried as hell though. I’ve got some genuine concerns and a thousand questions about the SCOTUS ruling, but none of them necessarily need to be discussed in a public forum.
Let me say that I’ve been struggling to control my anger over this issue throughout the last several years, but especially this past week. I got no real bones to pick with the right-to-choose crowd. I cannot expect most of them to get where I’m coming from, but I can understand their point of view. We can debate another time, but trying to convince them to advocate for the unborn is not for right now.
What concerns me most is the insensitivity and callousness coming from people I used to really look up to. Surely they see this as a personal and political victory but their behavior is anything but a kingdom victory. 90% of these friends will not be fostering/adopting or even babysitting a child in need anytime soon, nor will they in anyway be looking into helping mothers or families in distress. Y’all they don’t even return their shopping carts to the cart corral. These poor ones live and suffer right under our noses and everyone’s too busy to care.
To celebrate the SCOTUS ruling with antagonizing posts, nestled right down on a timeline between photos of a Disney vacation and the adoption of a $2000 puppy—a dream life most mothers in crisis won’t get to see, and a slap in the face to people who can’t afford to buy formula and diapers—is tasteless at best, harmful to our witness at worst.
I’m angry because the pro-life sentiments pretty much stop here. When it comes to immigration, war, reasonable gun control laws, public school funding, the death penalty, education on family planning & birth control, public health, affordable healthcare and medicine—they are staunchly UN-pro-life, despite what they know the Bible says or implies.
It also breaks my heart to know what kind of damage our smug and judgmental attitudes are doing to the reputation of the Church. Do we not remember what Jesus taught us about how to handle our enemies (in most cases here, less “enemies” and more just “anyone with an opposing view”)? The command, which admittedly goes against every fiber of my being usually, is humility; to pray for our enemies; to treat them with grace and kindness; to turn the other cheek; not in order to agree or support what is, to us, clearly sin, but to love, understand, and ultimately reach unbelievers.
When people feel attacked, belittled, or dismissed by us, they become more firm in their views, as if our words and actions are exact proof of what they’ve believed all along. They get even more defensive and angry; the lines of communication become even more closed-off.
We cannot be upset about the division in our society and in our churches, and then continually say & do things that actively create, perpetuate, or worsen that division.
It’s such a shame, because I know good, loving Christian people who work tirelessly to support pregnant women in crisis and need. I know wonderful Christian people who would stop at nothing to help anyone anywhere anytime. I know inspiring, faithful Christian people who are pro-life in every sense of the word, who fully understand that being so has nothing to do what is said and done in Washington DC, and everything to do with what is said and done in their very own homes and communities. They put their money where their mouth is, and often times their mouth is humble and quiet while their hands and feet stay busy.
But let’s imagine that an agreement of sorts can be made when it comes to whether or not to allow abortions ever at all. Who (besides God—and, again—freedom of religion up in these United States) decides where the line is between a medical procedure and the murder of a person? Is it 6 weeks? Is it when a heartbeat can be detected? Is it once a baby can live outside the womb—with intervention? Or without intervention? 23 weeks, 36 weeks? If we’re saying that life begins sometime between conception and birth, what’s the difference between a heartbeat or a certain level of brain activity or viability? What’s the difference between 10 or 15 or 18 or 22 weeks? Who dictates this? Who gets to make this call?
When is a life a life? In secular circles this is a matter of philosophy, but even those within the church can’t agree amongst themselves. Extreme pro-lifers are aware of the hypocrisy in saying “life begins at conception”/when sperm meets egg” while giving standard in-vitro fertilization practices a full send.
For the record, I love both women who have had abortions and women who suffer from infertility and conceive through IVF. Their pain is real and valid; their babies are precious on earth and in Heaven, and their journey is between them and God. MY beef is with system that puts them on two different sides—a system that recognizes the struggle and celebrates the bravery of a woman battling infertility through IVF (a system which happily accepts eight billion dollars a year in the U.S. alone from this industry, almost double what the abortion industry brings in, btw) yet crushes and criminalizes the “selfishness” of a poor woman facing an untold number of hardships. An anti-abortion law, when not coupled with laws and regulations pertaining to other pro-life causes, is nothing short of injustice.
Here’s the other thing: a rich woman who seeks an abortion WILL BE ABLE TO HAVE ONE, PERIOD, even if it means traveling to another state (or country) to get it. The law against abortion will not affect her; her money keeps her freedom of choice safe no matter what the Supreme Court says. And when a law affects only one part of the population, how is it even a law?
When Christianity as the dominant religion falls out of favor in our country (and it will), can laws be made that contradict or attack our beliefs? What things will be imposed on us from whatever other religion that takes over the moral high ground?
What other laws will the lower and middle classes be adversely affected by while the upper class remains unfazed and unaccountable?
In the meantime, left is pitted against right, and while they duke it out under the spotlight, the powers that be will line their pockets and continue do whatever they wish. The real losers will be all us regular folks.
And the babies.
I don’t have a solution except to do all that I can to make those within my reach feel supported and loved and protected. I want anyone in my circle to know that this house is a place of safety and forgiveness no matter what the law says. I am looking up to people like my best friend, who lives with and trains and supports mothers, who fosters and adopts children and who volunteers to advocate for foster children in the court systems. I will remember the example of my parents, who adopted me before they even thought to have their own kids, despite my health issues and whatever else might have cropped up. Or my grandparents, who invited random strangers to our big holiday dinners. I will do what I can to be like the older ladies in the church who look harmless but they’ll cut a dude when it comes to the safety and well-being of the women and children in our community.
Most importantly there’s the example of Jesus, who engaged the lost with tenderness; who radically loved even the most vile sinners; who changed lives with His gentleness and His forgiveness, who performed miracles in hopeless situations, and who welcomed little children into His arms.
Oh man. My kids…in a perfect world, I would not have to explain to you that there are people who kill children for no reason. I wouldn’t have to tell you that evil men with guns sometimes come into schools and shoot anyone they can find, they just shoot ‘em dead. I should be able to tell you that we’re doing everything we can to keep it from happening again and again, that we’re not just shaking our heads and shrugging our shoulders and saying “Welp. What can be done?”
I wish I could tell you it’ll never be your school or your teacher or your friends or you, that the next trending hashtag won’t be our hometown. I shouldn’t have to have this conversation, not with a 7 year old or a 14 year old or any year old.
This is not supposed to be real. This is a movie. And it shouldn’t even be a movie. Why would anyone watch a movie like this? Who is entertained the by cold-blooded murdering of innocent babies?
In a perfect world I wouldn’t have to explain to you what abortion is or why women seek it. I shouldn’t have to go over and over privacy and safety rules for your body because no one in the church should ever think to hurt you or your brothers and sisters.
I should be able to say that all grownups will love you and protect you. Good guys will get the bad guys. Leaders care about their people. The strong look out for those who are smaller and weaker.
I should be able to tell you that it will never happen to you—that you won’t get shot at school, or raped in church. Your house will never get bombed and you won’t get kidnapped from the store.
You should be worried about imaginary monsters under your bed, or volcanos erupting, or aliens invading (legit concern, IMO). You should be thinking about what you’re going to paint or build tomorrow, or how you’re going to be the fastest kid in second grade next year. You should be saying your prayers and thanking God for Jesus and a beautiful world where you roast marshmallows and catch lightning bugs and fall asleep reading a Berenstain Bear book.
But here we are.
We live in a place with mean people and big guns. Voicing concerns about that in Oklahoma virtually equates to social suicide…but damnit, I do have concerns and I’m mad and I’m sick to my stomach.
Parents and children are suffering and people go hungry and schools go underfunded. The rich prey on the poor and the powerful prey on the vulnerable. Things aren’t just unfair; they’re insane and unjust, upside down & inside out, and if it weren’t for sweet children like you, I wouldn’t care to live on this planet.
But you do exist, and I do care, and I can’t bear to sit and do nothing.
So I speak, because to stay silent would be cowardly and sinful.
I vote. Because some things are just plain wrong no matter what the world around you looks like; some things need to change no matter what you were conditioned to think was acceptable.
And I try to build a beautiful life for you, and provide a safe home for you, where you do roast marshmallow and catch lightning bugs, and I try to teach you that, while your world gets uglier and uglier, you must shine brighter and brighter—and that you must do whatever it takes to pass that light on to others.
Be kind. Be forgiving. Be compassionate. Be generous. Be welcoming. Be stupidly, extravagantly, dangerously good to others. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength; and love your neighbor as yourself.
Fight, not with weapons against an enemy you can see with your eyes. Fight with every ounce of your spirit; fight to stay gentle in this harsh place. Fight to stay pure and holy in a world that plays dirty.
Refuse to believe that God doesn’t hear your prayers. Refuse to believe there’s nothing you can do while you wait on the Lord. Refuse to believe that people are inherently evil. Refuse to believe your faith is worthless. Refuse to believe that all is lost because, my babies—my sweet, sweet babies—there is always hope. Always.
Heads up—the children are most likely going to spill the beans to anyone and everyone (much like the time Indie let a hallway full of people know that “Mommy feed me with her breasts!”) that Duncan had an incident this week.
I’d just read an article about autism and elopement the other day, and I kid you not—I breathed a smug sigh of relief and thought “thank God Duncan doesn’t do that.” I might have even thought, somewhere in the back of my head, that elopement is just a fancy made-up word for parents who don’t watch their kids. After all, not one of my seven children have ever done it.
Less than two days later, my three year old slipped under the radar and bolted gleefully across our field, out our gate, and down the street. I should quickly announce here that he is unharmed; but he had made it quite far before I spotted his little head bouncing up and down as he trotted east on our gravel road.
I sprinted as fast as my fat legs would allow, and I am ashamed to admit I only caught him because he stopped to have a complete and utter head-banging meltdown on the rocks. I carried him, kicking and shrieking and hitting, all the way back to the house, not caring how hard he screamed—I could only think about the oil trucks that tear past our house going 50 mph, kicking up gravel dust that would make it impossible to see anything. I could only think about the bridge with a deep drop off to a rushing creek less than a quarter mile from his stopping point—well within Duncan’s ability to get to had he kept running—and his obsession with all things water. The cars and farm trucks and school buses and the little creeks and the barbed wire and electric cattle fences and every little danger and every millisecond that I could see him running and hear him laughing but I could not catch him.
And then, another thought: he’s only going to get faster, and stronger, and more adventurous.
The girls sat obediently on the front porch and waited until I got back. I doled out apple juice and graham crackers for everyone, then I collapsed into a chair and bawled my eyes out for .7 seconds before rounding everyone into the car to pick Merrick up from practice.
It was the worst day. Duncan was completely oblivious to all of it—giggling; in his own world, in his own mind, not even hearing my voice as I scolded him through hot tears.
I am still trying to come down from this, almost a full 24 hours later—easily the most terrifying ten minutes of my life. I felt an immeasurable amount of shame. How could he get away so quickly? How could I not have thought to first check the road, and then the back yard? How terribly out of shape have I allowed myself to get that I can’t even run down a three year old? How could I have let this happen?!
1996-2020 Toni would be mortified, and I’m so ashamed of how confident I was in the parenting style of my past. Heavy on the discipline and routine, consistently harsh when it came to any behavior thought to be remotely out-of-line. I’m so ashamed of how I good I thought I was doing. I thought I had a solid grip on motherhood. I thought I had all the right answers. I had read all the right books, done all the right things.
Ah, young Toni—never in the history of life and literature was there a more self-assured parent. But now, with my mind and body full-out embracing the deterioration brought on by age, pandemic-related stress, and the exhaustion that comes with extreme parenting, all bets are off. I don’t know jack about mothering. I doubt I know jack about anything. I’m just as clueless as I was in 1996 sitting sobbing in a hospital bed alone with a baby in my teenager arms.
Obviously I’m not one for shying away from raw honesty, so please know that I share these initial thoughts in the interest of transparency, for anyone else going through something similar: this new way of parenting (or, more accurately, for me, this new way of life) is breaking me. I have shut off and shut out so much in order to get through any given day. Anyone who knows me even a little can see me crumbling. I struggle with feelings of loneliness, helplessness and inadequacy, and downright depression. I’m battling.
I had so many completely different ideas for what God might have in store for our family this decade—“You want us to move to South America, God? I’m on it. Want me to invest in my friendships? Be there for people who are hurting? Want me to cook meals for random folks in need? Want me to really work on my physical and mental well being by running long distances and doing multiple Bible studies and learning Spanish? Want us to start a nonprofit and do art with children and families and raise money for this group or that group and help mothers and babies and go to hard places? Say the word, God!”
But autism? This does not fit anywhere.
Autism, God?
The helplessness and the lack of control and the constant Def Con 5 level stress and the FOMO as I watch the rest of the world spin on around me the exact same way I used to spin on around parents of autistic children—I cannot remotely keep up anymore. And how do I be a good parent? How do I take care of all of the kids plus my husband plus the house and not look like The Trunchbull?
I can’t
I can’t
But then I think to myself, out of the millions of women on the planet that God could’ve given this precious child to, He chose me. The words of a wise Beth Moore popped into my mind: “God is raising you mighty, and mighty don’t come pretty. Pay the price.”
God says to me “Yes. Autism. This does fit. Trust me.” Because He DID raise me mighty, and He’s raising me to be mightier still. God paired that little wanderer with a seasoned parenting warrior because Duncan is my mighty. And he is no price to be paid, but a privilege given and an adventure to be had.
We are all in a constant state of learning and adjusting. Being intentional about looking on the bright side—scouring the storm clouds for silver linings; counting my blessings, and naming them one by one—is key to survival, with or without autism or any other perceived setback.
Duncan is talking so much more, adding new words and phrases to his vocabulary every week. His head-banging happens less and less often. He even hugs and kisses me and says “I love you”. He loves playing the piano and snuggling the cat. He and Indie are registered for two-day-a-week preschool next semester. I can’t even fathom what my Tuesdays and Thursdays are going to look like not having small children hanging off my legs.
Mia is graduating in a month. Merrick is having so much fun playing baseball. The little girls are at an age where they truly play and have a good time with each other.
I know that God doesn’t waste a hard day or one single tear, so let me close with my silver lining takeaways:
1. I absolutely do need to lose 50 pounds and get my 400 meter dash down from a sluggish 6 minutes to like 10 seconds. I realize in the height of my track days I never ran less than a 1:05 but Duncan is fast, and pimpin don’t take her forties off. I won’t be dieting and exercising for vanity but it will be nice to smoke someone in a street race again. Even if it is a three year old boy.
2. Duncan can really truck it when he wants to. He literally just loves to run for no reason. He has unlimited energy and other-worldly stamina, so my dreams of one day hiking again with my kids might come true after all. My whole life I’ve wanted a running and hiking partner who was relentless, and up for any terrain or weather. I know he’s only 3 but I sense the makings of a true trailblazer.
3. Duncan’s aimless jaunt down the road could’ve ended differently—I am painfully aware. But as my husband pointed out to me, we can learn from it, put more precautions in place, and move on. I let fear and anxiety and self pity and shame kick my ass the other day. But then I remembered that God’s goal for me is mighty…so I got back up.
Her words reached me through the roar of children shrieking and women squawking. Hesitantly and quietly she said it, like she wasn’t even sure she wanted anyone to hear it but I did. “I think I’m depressed…” she trailed off when she realized no one was listening
But I was listening and I told her to go to the doctor and get medicine
And that’s when someone piped up with a “Oh girl that happens to everyone after a baby. You just need to exercise, get those endorphins going.” And another person casually added “Let me tell you about his Bible study on anxiety that I did, it’ll change the way you think.” And more chattering on
Another friend looked uncomfortable and nodded “medicine” and another just looked at the floor and the kids ran all around us at the speed of sound, and we just sipped our coffees and picked the nuts off our banana nut muffins.
She changed the subject and we stood around her farmhouse table and sank into her leather couch. Her beautifully decorated living room, her perfectly organized kitchen—could never be me. Adorable children, successful husband, gated community, brand new jogging stroller tucked inside the trunk of a brand new SUV
And she thought she was depressed
Shame on me because my brain said “how can you know what depressed is” and I stirred my coffee and I listened and watched and noticed
How her eyes were shiny how her head was bowed how her cheeks pinked fiercely
How her house smelled like cleaning products and I wondered how long had her kitchen sat cluttered with dishes or her carpet gone unvacuumed, and I know the mark of a woman who rage-cleaned her house just before company while the new baby wailed in the swing and the toddler clung to her leg
And my heart made me say “tell me more”
And the others said “tell us honey” and we assumed the positions, arms across shoulders, patting hands, brushing back her hair
“We’ll babysit”
“Let’s meet for walks”
“Baby I’m praying for you right now”
“We’ve got you”
“Here are the numbers to three different doctors”
“You’re a good mom”
This precious friend, she held back tears but her heart was sobbing, we all felt it
This dutiful wife and mother, she was hurting
Not because of anything she had done or anything that had been done to her
But it be like that sometimes
And you need God and you need exercise and sleep and sunlight and more water and less caffeine and friends and play dates and you need medicine
It’s okay to say that
It’s okay to say something isn’t right, it’s ok to ask for help
1st child 2nd child 7th child or no child at all, doesn’t matter
Happens to the best of us
Don’t hesitate, don’t drop your voice
And whoever it is we think we’re supposed to be can wait while we take care of ourselves and each other.
Make an appointment, call a friend, read a book, take a nap, eat pray love paint sing shower sleep
Seven years ago, I was a depressed and suicidal recovering alcoholic who had a mother flippin’ valley of bones for a marriage.
There. If you didn’t already know.
People say to me, “Wow, you are so strong. You are Wonder Woman! I want my marriage to be like yours and Caleb’s.” Maybe it’s just logical conclusions on their part. How else would I be able to raise this many children? How else could we still hold hands at 20 years together? How else could I (fill in the blank)?
But I’m not strong. I’ve never been strong. I’m narrow-minded with limited courage on a good day. Things rarely go according to whatever half-baked plan I’ve had in my head that I’ve taken absolutely zero tangible steps toward. Life happens to me, and I simply adjust to semi-comprehend and half-heartedly accommodate. If things turn out good, I keep rolling. If they turn out bad, I get real bitter.
I was bitter in 2015. I hadn’t fallen back into drinking but only because I was breastfeeding Arbor, and she gave me enough colic and hassle when I was stone-cold sober. I was mad postpartum-depressed. I missed Cheyenne, who had moved off to college and dropped off the face of my planet. I missed my parents and sisters. I missed the version of myself that felt energized and lovable. And my husband had become…well, a major dick, and that’s putting it mildly.
I was no picnic, either. I had stopped trying to try. I cried from the time I woke up in the morning to the time I fell asleep at night. Life seemed unbearable, and people seemed even worse. I dreaded everything and everyone, even my own children because because I could not provide the love and caring that only come from a healthy, attentive parent.
I was broken beyond the point of repair. I wanted to die, but my foggy, depressed mind couldn’t even form a suicide plan that wouldn’t result in my poor kids finding my dead body all over the place. I wanted to drink, but it would have given Caleb the justification he was looking for to pack his bags, and I’m nothing if not a petty witch.
I survived against my will, most days minute to minute. I talked to God in the occasional mumbling of the measliest prayers. I mustered the sanity enough to ask my most trusted friend to pray with me and for me. I begged Him for one tiny good thing to open my eyes to in the lowest moments.
We continued to full-force launch our shit at the fan until one day, I got so fed up, during one of my many rants to God, I asked Him to make Caleb throw up, wherever he was—just make him throw up, violently and inexplicably, all over the place. It was a ridiculous ask, I knew. I never got a phone call or a text that said “I’m coming back to the house, I’m sick,” but I was fine. It felt good to admit to God how angry I was and how tired I was of “working through it” and how I just wanted to see him suffer.
That very night, Caleb and I had a little time to ourselves for peace talks out under the stars. I pulled out the lawn chairs and Caleb dragged his feet behind me. But before I could say two words, Caleb put a hand to his mouth and barfed—violently and inexplicably—right at my feet. At my feet! It felt like it went on for hours, and listen to me when I tell you it was the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me to date.
I don’t remember a thing that was said during the conversation that followed because all I could do was think of how scared I was that God not only heard my stupid and selfish request but He granted it—in such a way that I could not deny His hand in the situation.
That moment triggered a season of awe and panic for me as I lived in constant amazement of obvious His presence and power, but trembled at the implications of what that held for every single aspect of my life. If God was with me, I couldn’t very well kill myself; no, in fact, I had to kick my faith and obedience up a notch or 1000–because if God knew my thoughts and heard my prayers and was active in my life, what else could He do? More importantly, what could He do to me?
I had prayed many times for my marriage, but in the days that followed, those prayers hit different and my requests took on more sincerity and specificity. I didn’t get the answers that I wanted, at least not right away. It was almost as if, when I told God I wanted my marriage to be strong and godly, He sighed, cracked His almighty knuckles, and said “You asked for it. Buckle up.”
There was so much grueling work God required, and it all had to be done while life was repeatedly punching me in the face. God allowed our crusty, unstable marriage to be torn down before He rebuilt it from the ground up. It got worse before it got better—but it did get better…much more than I could’ve dreamed.
In a year’s time, we had become completely different people altogether. The evidence of God’s goodness and faithfulness was clear in every part of our lives. Our parenting changed. Our finances changed. Everything changed. God went on to give us not one, not two, but THREE more babies.
Our marriage isn’t perfect and life still isn’t easy. There are still battles to fight but I know we’ve never been alone for even a second; God gives us way more than we can handle and then wow us over and over again with His power and faithfulness in our helpless times.
I didn’t deserve a miracle of that magnitude—I deserve no miracles, and yet what happened to us is far from the only miracle we’ve received. What God did and continues to do for us is extravagant, but purposeful. He is so rich in mercy and love. I will never ever, ever be able to doubt His presence, and it is my most beautiful calling and privilege to pass along the faith He gave me.
Now, you all know the story of how I exposed my naked backside to an entire Mediterranean island, but I know what you’re thinking—at what point in time did the mouthy, ramen-hating, lice-ridden Toni become the monster she is today?
I’d like to take a minute, and get a little real: the year was 1992, and I was attending 7th grade at Naples American High School. I’ve mentioned the fabled building where I spent my formative years before, but for the sake of fun storytelling, let’s rehash: this place was bonkers. A horseshoe-shaped, non-air conditioned 4-stories of architectural absurdity and questionable structural integrity; jam-packed with teen spirit; nestled in barbed-wire; a Mussolini-era office building retrofitted with green lockers, overlooking a sulphur pit in the middle of the bustling, polluted city of Naples, Italy. (Should I talk about the perpetual garbage strike? I don’t think perhaps I will talk about the perpetual garbage strike.)
I was taking the usual classes—math, science, P.E., English, Italian, geography—and reading. Reading was taught by a one Ms. Darlena Day* (names have been changed due to the horrific nature of the criminal action I shall soon confess to), a scourge on humanity itself according to older NAHS students, to be feared by the seventh-graders more than any other faculty member for 80 reasons and 80 reasons only.
Ms. Darlena Day had wiry orange-gray hair that she wore in a feathered bob. Her skin was withered and yellowed; her eyes the same, and shielded by inch-think coke-bottle lenses encased in mauve plastic rectangular frames. I’d like to say her teeth were yellowed and withered with age but truth be told I gazed upon them only once, when she smiled at me, and I had to look away quickly before I turned to stone.
Darlena Day was from Mississippi, or Alabama, or Texas—whatever state you could pronounce with an accent so thickly bumpkin, it made even the most southern southerner cringe. I could NOT with Ms. Day, and neither could any other 12 to 13-year-old child in the general Campania region.
But none of that excuses what I did to her on November day at approximately 10 a.m. Now, over the months since school had started, I had unintentionally moved up in the ranks of favored students—it horrified me to know that I was perhaps the best kid in third period, though I could understand why. Most of the desks were occupied by the world’s most unremarkable children, but there were two delinquents who tormented that reading teacher to no end: wisecracking Thames, a Filipino version of both Beavis AND Butthead, perpetually clothed in shredded Metallica t-shirts and an unceasing sneer; and Bibi, a Turkish girl, whose style and attitude was everything I aspired to be in all my preteen angst. Her hair was 90’s wild, and her skin was unfairly clear and tan in a world of pale and pimply seventh-graders. She said “damn” out loud in class. Hippie skirts and Doc Martens? Why are you so cool, Bibi?!
I had chosen a desk in front of Bibi and across from Thames, but it was a small price to pay to sit diagonally across from God’s gift to seventh-grade girls who dug skinny, red-headed, freckled-faced boys with braces: Watthew Milliams.
How I loved this man with every fiber of my being. Being in close proximity to him was all I lived for, and if he didn’t already know I loved him from the hundreds of ruthless insults I hurled at him on the daily, well then I didn’t know how else to get my message across. He was the one I daydreamed about while listening to Bryan Adams on my Walkman. I would have RISKED IT ALL for Watthew Milliams.
And so there in the crossfires I planted myself, five days a week, however many weeks that year, close to Watt and amongst scheming villains in the classroom at the far south end of the second floor of the horseshoe. Bibi told Ms. Day she didn’t care about getting detention. Bibi listened to her music in class. Thames drummed on his desk and grunt-chuckled “Fire! Fire!” through all our lessons. Together, they tortured Ms. Day with their rude comments and bad behavior until she blew a gasket made every student in their general area stay an extra minute or two after the bell—the kiss of death for kids who had to get to fourth period at the top floor on the other side of the building. Watt and I would often exchange fleeting looks of sympathy and terror for each other (or was it love?) whenever they inevitably started running their mouths and earning every last one of us extra homework.
These two hoodlums took inexplicable pleasure in producing mass quantities of spitballs for the sole purpose of hurling them either to the ceiling or straight at Ms. Day herself. Watt cared a lot more about appearing “cool” than I did, and my heart broke periodically when he suffered a lapse in good judgment and snuck in a throw or two. How could my sweet Watthew—with his straight A’s and his gentle brown eyes—go astray so fast? Sixth-grade Watt would never. I became worried about his moral deficiency and stunning lack of character. I would not let the Watthew I knew to sink so low.
But I could not save him.
This realization hit me hard when one morning, Ms. Day had had enough of Thames and Bibi’s antics and decided to relocate me, the saint, to the back of the classroom. She then plopped herself and her silk hot pink blouse into my old desk right in front of Bibi and across from Thames. This stationed Watt in front of me and diagonally behind Ms. Day.
For only a minute the baddies were inactive, but I knew better than to assume they would remain tame—and I was right. I watched in horror as events unfolded before me: Thames casually stretched his arms back and dropped an object on Watt’s desk; Watt, without hesitation, smoothly passed said object across the aisle to Bibi, right behind Ms. Day’s back, and Bibi? I couldn’t see what she was doing at first, but as soon as Ms. Day stood up and walked to the front of the room, I knew. So did everyone else.
What I did not know was that she was already onto their treachery, and I was about to get involved whether I wanted to be or not.
Ms. Day calmly summoned me—to the front of the whole room, the entire actual room. The three agents of chaos froze in their seats and pleaded silently with their eyes—Watt’s beautiful brown eyes, so full of terror—at me as I walked past them.
Ms. Day peered at me through her coke bottle lenses and smiled warmly. “Now, Toni, I trust you. Is there anything on my back, on my shirt?”
I could have said yes. I could have told her then and there that there were several gigantic black strokes of an extra-thick permanent marker marring the the back of her beautiful hot pink blouse. I could have whirled around with 2 middle fingers waving in the air, saluting Thames, Bibi, and Watt, as I walked back to my desk; I could have done that.
I should have done that.
Instead—in an act so gutless and dastardly that it still haunts my dreams and wakes me up in the middle of the night to this day, and I will stay awake cursing the ground my feet walk upon and asking myself over and over how I could be so cruel—
I simply told her “no”.
That’s also not entirely true. What I really said was “Hmmm, Ms. Day. Let me take a good look. Let me smooth out the back of your shirt—nope, nothing there. How about the other side? Ope! Nothing there either! You’re good—so good! Your shirt looks perfectly fine, there are absolutely ZERO things on your back. Can I do anything else for you? Have a blessed day.”
Lord, have mercy on me, a vile sinner, a liar, and a coward.
Thankfulness radiated from the smile on Watt’s face as I trudged back to my seat, but neither his admiring gaze, or the touch of his hand on my shoulder in a display of his gratitude for saving his life, could alleviate the shame and regret I felt after such spineless deception. Thames and Bibi slapped me high fives after class. “We knew you weren’t a narc!”
I didn’t even know what a narc meant, but I kind of wanted to be one if it meant ridding my weary soul of guilt.
For the rest of the school year, whenever I met Ms. Day’s eyes, she would frown and look away. It was more than my seventh grade good-girl heart could bear.
And I stopped waiting for Watthew Milliams in the halls. I stopped hanging out by his locker and I stopped letting him borrow my pencil or my paper or my textbook. I had risked it all for Watt and was left sorely disappointed—mostly in myself. He was no longer a good guy in my story.
My social status as a friend to rebels solidified with that incident, but I had had it with the bad kids. They were obnoxious and lazy, and I could have taken both in a street fight, so I don’t know why they ever intimidated me in the first place.
I snatched sharpies smooth out of Watt’s hands whenever I saw him with one, and he never fought back or questioned it. He moved back to the states and I found my next crush when the second semester wave of new students transferred in—Cleg endeared himself to me the day he called Thames and Bibi stupid to their faces. I did eventually figure out what middle fingers meant, and I used mine with reckless abandon. Ms. Day retired. And 7th grade ended up being not too shabby for Toni.
Sometimes I go back over stuff on my birthday to see how far a year has taken me. I sadly confess to you that I’ve not made much progress on the “poor in spirit” front, except that I do actually feel crushed most days.
I’m tired. I’m so unfathomably tired. Parenting is absolutely wrecking me and I don’t really know if it’s for the better. This is all-encompassing. Being a full-time mother is so much harder than it has ever been before, and that’s coming from someone who’s been at it for 25 whole-ass years. I know Paul says we gotta pick up our cross and die to self daily but I thought yesterday maybe I could take a day off from dying and enjoy five minutes of peace and quiet as a birthday present to myself.
But with 4 under 6, plus two olders that have physical and emotional needs, dying was not only on the menu, it was the main course–and all the courses before and after (except for the amazing key lime pie we all had for dessert after the little banshees went to bed).
But seriously–every tantrum, every scream is like a punch in the face. The fighting, the screaming, the crying, the screaming the screaming the screaming, and the screaming…at the end of the day I feel so beaten and shaken. At the end of the day, all I’ve managed to do as a parent is yell until I’m hoarse, and restrain every cell in my body from hauling off and beating these kids.
There are no story-time cuddles, no sprinkles on peanut-butter toast, no bubble baths with Bible songs–only “Congratulations, guys, you made it through the day relatively unharmed, and tomorrow we get to do it all over again.” It’s shameful. I’m a non-fun mom, I’m a mean mom, a tired cranky mom, and a failure.
I can’t do it
I can’t do it
I can’t do it
And these are my prayers: Is this a test, God? Because if you want me to be poor in spirit, if you want me to be broken, I’m there. I’m like, SO POOR IN SPIRIT, AND HUMBLE! I’d tell you this is impossible God, except that you’re God so you know it’s very clearly not impossible. But how, God? How do I do this for the next 2, 3,5, 18, 25 years? I’ll have absolutely nothing left for grandkids. I’ll have nothing left for anybody.
Tell me what to do. Tell me how to do it. Give me patience. Give me strength. Give me energy. Give me magic. …
I always pictured the lived-out version of this quote to involve some sort of Mother Teresa-esque life-trek into the slums of a third-world country, where I would finally learn–and become, all in one moment–a true and obedient servant, finally fully pleasing to God, setting an example of Christlike living to my kids by my extreme dedication to serving Christ in the hard places to doing the hard work.
I’m slowly realizing that God’s plan for my continued spiritual growth looks a lot more like my loud and messy living room on a weekday at 4:00 p.m., or my car on the way home from picking up groceries in the 100 degree heat, blasting obnoxious Bible songs that my kids love.
I wonder if God’s idea for my sanctification looks more like that 3rd request for “a piece of water” 25 minutes past bedtime than it does me praying peacefully in a quiet chapel, or me living that #weouthere #feedingthepoor life somewhere on the other side of the world for all the internet to see.
Everyday Oklahoma stay-at-home-mom life is where God has me for a reason, and not so I could stay in a holding pattern until my “real mission” begins. This life, this life right here, will be the death of Old Toni.
God didn’t give me magic. But He gave me a husband who listens without offering so much as one judgmental word (we won’t discuss the look on his face, but whatever). He gave me a daughter with freckles who gives me coffee and expertly DJ’s our errand-runs. He gave me a son with sea-glass eyes and a million hugs only for me because he knows I need them. He gave me friends who text hilarious memes to me, and conversations with people I love that are so uplifting and energizing.
And God gave me the Bible with practical application for sacrificial living, which is what this job takes–absolutely nothing less than my whole life. And if Jesus could do it, I surely cannot.
FIGHTING INSANITY 
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