The Folly of my Flow

Meal plan for well-balanced healthy options
Buy groceries
Prepare each meal
Organize the children's clothes seasonally and by size...every dang season (so many seasons in Texas)
Keep track of the girls daycare outfits, dirty underwear, "art" and hair ties
Keep track of shower days and bath days for children
Keep track of shower days for myself...real talk, only during maternity leave season, I promise. It's grimy in these streets, ya'll.
Clean
Dust
Mop
Scrub
Organize - Re-organize - Give up
All of the doctor appointments and those ridiculous ASQ's
Pay that bill on time
Call and Text Friends
Connect with my God
Connect with my husband
Connect with my kids, learn them, teach them, read at least three bedtime stories to make up for the fact that I am a working mom who is somehow failing them.
Entertain company
Show up to work - on time
Be present for my students and remember the intricate details of their lives.
Early to bed to establish a schedule with the baby. feed the baby. feed the baby. Early to rise for prayer.
Keep it together, smile and don't complain, yeah right

Always striving for seamless excellence. Everyday.

Even after the longest day at work I INSIST on cooking meals from scratch each night and eating at the table as a family, screaming baby and all. I refuse for any member to be left out so Jesse, my 2 month, old must join us at the table come peaceful or pouting.  Our routine is one of my masterpieces. Your girl got skills. I ring the dinner bell each night waiting for everyone to show up at the table for a hot plate because I have been planning this execution since the wee hours of the morning. That is when my mental stopwatch begins; in the morning, 12 am. Tick, Tock. Each day is a well-synchronized mash-up of precisely-timed activities. I "git er duuuun" as it were and congratulate myself when 7:15p.m. comes and the children are off to bed. I time myself for each task including cat-naps. I am the master of my domain. I am adept in the economy of my abode. In short, I do a lot and I need everyone on board. I laid this out for my supervisor once and he said, "That sounds like an exhausting way to live". It energizes me and I don't know how people don't function like me. Chop chop!

One night I made a new menu item. It was simple and involved pasta so I assumed that everyone would enjoy it. Rookie-move. Toddlers never enjoy dinner even when they do. It's a secret law for them or something. Myka hated it. She cried her way through every bite until the meal capitulated with her vomiting all over the kitchen floor. The nerve.  I was done. My response was, admittedly, over the top and insensitive. I hurried her to her room and huffed, "I HATE DINNERTIME!" Sweet Madeline parroted my avowal which snapped me out of my tantrum. I apologized and thought of all the "things" I do striving for efficiency.  In this moment, having hurt my Myka's feelings it all was so pointless. I was sweating, sweeping and scrubbing the floor. It was 7:30p.m. The day won.

Having a third child has disrupted my flow of predictability (sounds like a blast, eh?)). I love everything about him but I am still figuring out how he fits. He absolutely belongs but I do not know how he fits. I cannot imagine life with my little red-headed wonder but he broke my stopwatch.  I have to molt my old skin and this is uncomfortable. My vulnerabilities and inadequacies are exposed. Life calls for flexibility these days. Stretch. Give more. But I don't want to. It's unfair.  I often resent the stretching so I resist it and deny the blessing it offers me. The lingering question behind the internal tick tock and external cries of, "Mommy, please!" is "Why do I have to do everything?", "Why is my life the only one enduring such a dramatic shift?" This obvious hyperbole but is my reality. Mom's really do carry a whole heck of a lot. It just seems to be the nature of the beast.

The tug and tension of this new season of life requires me to stretch in ways that I feel ill-equipped. I need control. Rigidity relaxes me. What I think is a call for more structure is really God-given space for flexibility and flow. Not just at dinner time but with my finances, my marriage, my relationship with my children, my work, myself. God is patiently prying my tiny fingers open, loosening my grip before I slowly squeeze the life out of my life hating every part of it. This journey cannot sustain my grip.  I know that I can honor God with my strategic time-management but not for the sake of abandoning Spiritual, fruitful living. I think of Psalm 46:10, "Cease striving (or Be Still) and KNOW that I am God". Clearly, I am not facing war or being pursued by my enemy but I am stressing out and in need of some stillness. Striving is not the proper way though it is a drug for this control-fiend. KNOWING is my new road. Maternity leave is listening to sermons all day while rocking my baby and reading scripture on my phone during our 2 am feeding. Finding God anew. Getting to know Him.

Biblical knowing is not in the head but the heart. It means intimacy, relationship, trust, depth, free-falling into a space where God holds it all together and my world consists in Christ alone. His yoke is easy and His burden is light. In this reality, I ask my husband for help and receive it guilt-free. We rally together. We budget with flair and do not fret. We are oddly comfortable in what we lack waiting for God to do above and beyond. We stretch together, offering stability when life's pull is too overwhelming. In KNOWING God, life is slow. It is a new wonder to experience. I exhale each day with my family tracing the footprint of the day rather than creating it. I am a friend who has faults. I am an employee who is not responsible for every poor decision of my students. I am a mom who is present and patient. I am free.

The Thing that Broke Me

As the story goes, in September this September-baby had a baby (the third time in 4 years). I didn't post anything on social media because of my fear that good news would quickly turn bad. I did not tell many people I interact with daily until the 10th month.  I'll try to confess while resisting the urge to begin the next sentence with, I love my children and would do it alllllll over again buuuut - Honestly, I am no fan of pregnancy, labor or delivery. My uterus is geriatric (an actual term), my feet swell and crack, nothing fits, everything hurts and my bounce-back usually falls flat. I spend 10 months annoyed awaiting the end.  I am not that mom who's all dewy and fashionable. And another thing - I always have my babies on the weekend. Though the timing satiates my thirst for order it is just anti-climactic. Even though my pregnancy journeys lack the display of weekly bump photos I secretly hoped for a dramatic public finale.

Picture this: On a regular Tuesday I'm presenting before an 8am class of droopy-eyed college freshmen when I am halted by a surge of contractions. My water breaks as I hug my belly with my right hand and grip the desk with my left. My students jump to action and the whole thing replays for a week on the five o'clock news. That is not how it goes down for me. All three times have been the same. Water breaks in the privacy of my home. I finish packing my bag. James drives me to the hospital and I'm not even panting. No contractions. Induction by way pitocin (booooo). Pain. Pain. A lot of pain. Too much pain, too late for drugs. Push. Push. Puuuuuush. Baby.

The first act is always the same - so much so that each delivery is one four year long blur.

However, there is variety in the second act of this harrowing experience. I call it Mo's Mental Break or The Aftermath. I remember each distinctly.

Madeline - deep, irrational, exhaustion-fueled rage.
Myka  - suffocating anxiety that I wore like a shroud
Jesse - two full days of tears as I relived the horror of the afterbirth (placenta and such) delivery.

Unlike my unremarkable start to labor the second act is lonely, unpredictable and, this time, had the dramatic flair I never hoped for.

My doctor (the on-call OBGyn) had man-hands and not simply because he is a man. He used every muscle and tendon in his giant paws to mash my abdomen seconds after I delivered my son. I wondered if he was angry with me for moving to much during suture placement or maybe for interrupting his lunch or something. The experience seemed suddenly archaic . I could not keep my feet in the stirrups because the pain was too intense. The room was eerily quiet as the female nurses and my helpless husband looked on sympathetically.  And I know this part was for my benefit. And I know he was doing his job and probably knows so much more than I do but man did this hurt. So, for the first time in eight hours of labor and pushing I writhed uncontrollably and screamed out loud but it was like no one heard me because this moment would not end or so it seemed.
That caused the fracture.

A quirk about me is that I do not ask for ask help because that means that admittance of incompetence and I personally don't do incompetence. Although, nothing drives one out of their comfort zone like trying to feed a newborn at 2a.m. I tried to pump some milk for my hungry baby and it hurt like knives slicing across flesh. That's what caused the break.

 I texted my dear friend, a woman, a mom of a newborn, a doula, my ally. I knew she was probably up battling another sleepless night of nursing.  She soon responded giving me space to complain about breast-feeding and permission to give my baby formula in a bottle.  However, the pain of pumping had already opened the door to postpartum PTSD.  Memories of Dr. Man-Hands overcame me and I cried so hard on the edge of my bed that I couldn't catch my breath. I laid my baby in his bassinet, muzzled my mouth with cupped hand as not to wake anyone, and moved to the bathroom. I broke again. I moved to the couch and sat there for three hours paralyzed by the thought of it all. The next day my friend, my rescuer, came over. She had truly heard me; heard my heart cry and my body lament. She answered with a five minute visit to my home and a supply of lactation snacks, nipple cream and hug. She gave me the gift of validation and solidarity. I felt loved.

Pregnancy is supposed to be awkwardly fun. Labor 'n delivery is supposed to be painful but hopeful.  It all has become so overly normalized. Commonplace. There is always an unfair positive spin that silences naysayers like me.  Three children means three times I have felt the need to rush through the second act thinking no one would believe how bad it truly hurt or how sad I really was, so why bother. I mean, I have a beautiful blessing of a baby, after all, so it couldn't be that bad - how are we to respond to that, people?

As the story goes, I had a baby on Sept 23rd and, like so many women, ran into deep sadness a week later. I traversed this familiar dark place a few times with friends, wonderful women, who reject my cheery filtered answers. They see the doleful expression behind my smile. The doula, some social workers, ministers, licensed counselors, educators - they are all highly educated women who are trained to speak truth while helping people find freedom. They are masterful in their work. They are also instruments of grace. They are God's gifts to me.  I do not deserve such friendship and I know that God was thinking of me when He made them. They are how I got through the past four years. They have not made the road any less tortuous, pregnancy is what it is and that is ok, but they usher in the presence of God, His love, His peace - until the ride is over. 

(To those women -you know who you are- I LOVE you and I am so grateful for you)

Craft-Room Confessional

Mornings in the Hoskins' house have a rhythm and litany. I suppose every household has one that you can hear in-between the early morning groans, crack of eggs and jingle of car keys. Everyday is relatively the same these days which is fine with me because life with toddlers is nothing if not spontaneous. James wakes me. I wake the girls. James is on kitchen duty while I choose outfits and receive disapproving pouts from two ladies who are not impressed with my braiding skills. My favorite part is after the bedroom salon shuts down and the girls gather with their dad at the table for breakfast.  I eavesdrop while I get ready in our bedroom. James might turn on Stir it Up by Bob Marley while the girls mix honey in their oatmeal.  Then they all serenade me with Hall & Oates Man Eater as I enter the kitchen for my meal - Thank you, James *side-eye*.

Our soundtrack is real random and real old school. Our litany is an ebb and flow of sweet rousing, rushed frustration,  reminders of God's presence and a call to be respectful and obedient. We rush out the door and I transform from personal stylist to HotDyssey DJ for a 15 minute ride to school. When I drop the girls off we pray at the door of their classrooms and l remind them, again, to be kind, respectful and to choose obedience. Every.  Morning. If the girls decide to choose disobedience the consequence is a tete-a-tete with their dad. James begins with bass in his voice and ends it with a tickle and round of shuggies (Not even mad). I expect moments of disobedience from Team Tiny because, well, they are toddlers and humans. The "talk" with dad is how we establish accountability. Then we celebrate when they try again the next day. My sweet Madeline is no stranger to these post-school meetings with her father. Myka, however, is a typical baby sibling. She knows how to avoid trouble and usually comes home with a clean report. This mama here is no fool. As the baby of three I too once mastered the art of flying under the radar.

Myka must have been completely guilt-ridden the day she turned her dad's leather-working station into a confessional. None of her teachers mentioned any ill-behavior during pick-up. As far as I knew she had an A+ day an was well on her way to watching a movie on Friday.

"Daddy, I was disobedient today."
"What happened Myks?"
"Ms. Harris told me to put my shoes on when we were playing outside and I didn't."
"Why did you do that, Myks?"
*shrugs and drops her head* "I don't know"
"Well, maybe you can try again tomorrow."

That was that.  James moved on to more crafting with his sweet girl. Her little burden had been lifted. Confession. A call to repentance. Invitation to intimacy. What a heavy load my lil shortie had been carrying all day. She knew where to unload.

"Let us approach the throne of grace with boldness so that we may receive mercy and find grace in time of need." Hebrews 4:16

I am grateful for much. My husband is a gentle daddy who is more mush than machismo. My girls (and I) find compassion, patience and laughter with him when we are at our worst. Myka knew that mercy and forgiveness awaited her and she came boldly to receive it. To know Jesus is to live life with a conscience cleared of sin. It can't haunt us or berate us because in Him it is forgiven and forgotten. There is nothing euphemistic about it. That is just the mystical truth of the covenant that God established with us through the death of His Son.

This should be my litany after a day filled with missed marks.  I often skip over the part where God invites me to climb into His lap and unload the burden of my sin.  The part where He reminds me that I belong to Him. The part where I find understanding, mercy and a clean slate. The part where He, even still, invites me to sit  with Him and join Him in His work. And that's the best part.

15,000 gallons

I need at least 6 months to plan birthday parties and other familial gatherings.  I consider every possible pitfall. I stay 10 steps ahead of Murphy and his wicked laws. I book the numbers, as my dad would say, so that we barely notice a hit to our budget. My aim is Pinterest-perfection with a dash of fun because we all know the children just want cake and an empty box to play with. The actual party is to satisfy the berating voice in this mom's head and fill up the photo album. In November 2017 my girls requested a Minnie Mouse, Pizza - MacnCheese, Pool-Party extravaganza  and the show is on in t-minus 12 hours.   The one pitfall that tripped us up - the mysterious loss of 15,000 gallons of pool water. Dang you Murphy! (*Raises fist of righteous indignation).

For anyone dying to own a home with a pool let me give you a quick peek at the wizard behind the curtain who keeps the pool running. Spoiler alert: He's my husband and he alone keeps Ryobi in business. We are talking hundreds of dollars in pool chemicals, $300 for a new pump after a pipe-busting winter, un-snakable, right-angled pipes that seasoned plumbers won't dare touch. Picture this - my patient and enterprising husband digging up the yard like a gopher in his work clothes in the heat of the day, several days in a row to find THE clog that has eluded him for several weeks...all so that two precious girls can wade and fearlessly dip their chins in the water. The man is a saint,  y'all. The moral of this story? Hoses with sprinkler attachments offer a time honored cheap thrill. Don't sleep on the sweet simplicity.

Once again, James had a week of pool cleaning and prep before him for his "wees" celebration. After filling the pool to the brim he came home from work to find a his oasis turned into a half-empty money pit. On the way home from daycare I broke the news to the girls and explained how much fun the splash pad would be. Just as I finished my pitch, Myka said, "That's ok. Daddy can fix it!" I mean, she has watched him "fix it" all spring and summer. I told her probably not this time and she repeated herself with a big smile on her face.

The girls sat with James...feet dangling above the first exposed step of the shallow end. Water-Schmater, I felt so sad for my man. James battled homeownership and done got beat. He walked into the pool house one last time to solve the mystery. The was no hint of wet grass or a cracked cement. Five minutes passed and I heard him yell, "I did it! It was my fault!" Apparently, after you set the pump to rinse you are supposed to restore it to filter. Essentially, James took the plug out of the drain and forgot.

For anyone dying to know what you do when you lose 15,000 gallons of pool water into the creek behind your house, here is an outline.
1. Laugh. . . scratch your head while frowning and laugh again, from the gut like you mean it
2. Make a giant stack of waffles. No diet food. Full fat and all the sugary syrup
3. Eat your feelings in the form of the aforementioned waffle stack with family while laughing
4. Pray that the water company overlooks your oversight (like for real, pray with us)
5. Calculate the cost of 15,000 gallons of water and then give up because it's confusing and doesn't matter right now.
6. Laugh again because 15,000 is a ridiculous number.
7. Thank God that for the optimism of your child who knew that her "Daddy can fix it!"

Marriage and family life bring about the truth that "It" happens. Whatever it is, it is a lot and ridiculous and inconvenient and costly and maybe it is even your fault but God can fix it. It's not about the problem or the solution. Following Christ is about sure faith in an all-powerful God and the fact that we have a hope that will enter into the inner chamber with Christ interceding for us in the heavenly sanctuary (peep Hebrews 6). My tiny Myka was keeping tabs on her Daddy. She has bold confidence in him. She'd been paying attention to all that He is capable of. She knew his track record would not, could not let her down.  Faith is not meant to be a shaky, impotent, mystical reality it is only logical conclusion for those who choose to believe and pay attention. Thank God for 15,000 more reasons to know that He is good.

With Eager Anticipation

So, sometimes you start again without explanation because there is no other way to begin. Here we are, fingertips becoming reacquainted with keys and mind with heart in the most natural form of expression I know. I have so many words. I know that my daughter earned it honest as each of her stories wildly weaves into another from sun-up to sun-down.  I used to do the same thing. My conversations are long windy roads rather than short thrilling trips. I pick right up where I left of with the ones I love the most and travel a few miles more with them each time we talk. This time I get to pick up with myself. It's like I hung up with Mo, new, exhausted, frenzied mom of 3 years ago (or at least put her on hold) and now I'm all, "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"God, I wear a pull-up. Does you wear a pull-up?" was the question Madeline posed during our time of evening family devotion. She and Myka are learning the discipline of patient expectation in the presence of God. James and I read through a Bible story, have them recite a memory verse and then we ask them to offer up prayer requests, personal or for family and friends at preschool. These times, though, a bit disjointed, are precious to me. My Type-A personality demands perfection and maturity from my children while my less neurotic Type-B side is mindful of the presence of toddlers and open to the chaos of it all. In the span of a 30 minutes of devotion fifteen minutes are spent repeating, "sit here", "say this", "shhhhh, I said, shhhhh" which is why I am in awe of how my children embrace the practice of waiting on God to speak. James said, "Ask God something you don't already know" and Madeline submitted her boxer-or-brief inquiry to God concerning pull-ups. James and I covered our mouths and chuckled and the four of us waited with baited breath for God to reply. Ok, maybe the girls were more expectant than James and I who were very amused and curious.

I watched Madeline, laying on her belly, chin in her hands, big brown eager eyes glancing upwards and around the room. She is confident that He is listening. She is ready to hear Him. The first time we attempted this Madeline whispered to herself, "ooooohhhh, I wonder what He is going to say!" It was like she was waiting for Christmas morning to dawn. "What did He say, baby?", I ask. She whispers, "Shhhhh, He hasn't answered yet, mama. Myka is quiet too, as her sister has requested. We sat there, the four of us, on my bed for 15 minutes listening for God to speak to His tiny servant. We sat in uncoerced silence. Madeline took the reigns out of my hands and was leading us to simply wait without anxiety or assumption. I suppose that Madeline listens because she is aware of His presence in a matter-of-fact way with which I have lost touch. Family devotion is more than a schedule of reading, reciting and praying it is a shared time of BEING with God who is just as tangibly present as the rest of team Hoskins. He IS a part of our family. He IS in the room waiting to be acknowledged and she is willing to yield to Him. Silence was broken when Madeline announced that He does, indeed, wear pull-ups. Who knew?

Beyond pull-ups, I have learned a few things about God because Madeline is willing to wait for Him. I learned that His voice is "power" not powerful but that is power itself, according to my sweet girl. I also learned that when she prays for healing of her sick tummy or stuffy nose He tells her that He is going to give it to her. In my austere spirituality I won't even give God 15 seconds to answer me. A minister once preached that we have two-week (not weak) faith because we only give God two weeks to answer us before we abandon Him. Madeline is teaching me how to strengthen my faith and approach His throne with confidence. She is showing me the miraculous gift of eager wonder. He will come, He is here and He WILL answer.

Mommy Said, "No!"

There is nothing relaxing about getting off work anymore. Not a dang thing. Even winding down for bedtime runs a strict stopwatch. With Madeline now 8 almost 9 months (Yowza!) James and I spend our evening switching off wrangle-duty. It's an unspoken rule. Someone cooks the other rocks the kid. Someone cleans and the other keeps her from fatal injury. Ever. Single. Night. Madeline has no idea what a weekend is so we gets no breaks. But it's fun and funny when we allow it to be. This is chaos that we literally created and we love every wild moment.

In the midst of this chaos my sympathy has grown exponentially for my mom. I stole her time and sanity and Madeline reminds me everyday to call her and apologize. (Sorry Mom, again)

My sympathy has also grown for my G-d.

They say that you never truly know someone until you walk a mile in their shoes. I feel like I just laced up and on this new journey I am experiencing G-d's love and patience for me in ways that make want to just repent and say, "Thank you, Lord."

So Madeline has become quite fond of her dad's new PS4.  Who can blame her? She's like a moth to a flame. Her little hands tease us as we watch her decide if she is going to touch it or move on to a parent-approved toy.

"Madeline Sofia, No...Noooo...Don't touch that...Mommy said, 'No'... Maaaaadeline...make good choices", I say. And sometimes she actually does. She stops what she is doing and moves on. These proud parental, my-kid-is-a-obedient-genius moments are fleeting because she is only 8 months old and for the most part this is probably some kind of game to her as her over the shoulder sly smile would indicate.

There are definitely rules to this game. James and I practice patience giving her time to choose well. We don't yell at her but we are firm and we praise her when she pleases us with obedience. We also don't stand guard over things that tempt her. Our home is baby-proofed for safety. The usual baby-gate and baby-plug covers abound and such but it is still our home and we still have our things out. Our hope is that Madeline will come to understand that though some things may be in her reach it doesn't mean that she can have them.

Our set-up makes for some long exasperating moments but we want our daughter to learn obedience.

So the last time we played this "game" I turned to James and laughed. I said, "we must drive the Lord nuts every time we return to sin." I could hear Him saying, "Monique Danye`, No...Noooo...Don't touch that...Your Lord said, 'No'... Moooooonique...make good choices" Sometimes I do listen but when he catches me eyeing temptation with eager hands I wonder if He feels the same exasperation I feel towards my daughter.

I have struggled and continue to struggle (for years) in some of the same areas of sin. It just seems as if it would be easier if the Lord just removed the temptation altogether. Put it on a different shelf or room. Hide it behind a book. Anything to keep it from taunting me. I suppose the reality is G-d desires for me to grow in  trust and obedience in a world that will not shield me from the fact that it is fallen. My obedience is evidence of my heart for Him. I would hope my time with the Lord is more relaxing than my every night with lil Madeline Sofia.

Bottles and Daily Bread

My daughter has a true Hoskin's appetite. The only thing that gets between her and her bottle is congestion. She eats multiple times during the day plus a time or two at night.  I tell that James that she must have a hollow leg (I usually, accidentally say wooden leg) because I have no idea where it all goes. She didn't get that from her mama, that's for sure.

I know when she is hungry even before she realizes it because I am a pretty awesome and attentive mom. So I have her bottle readied with frothy vittles before she can think to whimper. My downfall as a parent is that I never have a bottle ready a week in advance. Not even a day in advance. Parenting fail - I know. 

When I am late for a feeding (sounds so carnal) the girl lets me know. We do not have one of those soft, sweet-cry babies. She screams. She kicks. She is inconsolable. Do not rock, tickle or sing until you have a bottle in hand. All I think is, "I know how you feel, kid."

James and I have spent the past (only) two years of our marriage riding the waves of Hope and Wait. Sometimes excited but many days just feeling like we are being pulled away from security's shore into really choppy, deep, dark water. Because despite my sweet hubs best attempts and hustle he just could not find a job. Doing anything. He humbled himself and was forced to forget the fact that he has a Master's degree and applied for EVERYTHING that came around...almost 2 years of no returned calls or interviews. So.much.fun. So fun because while we waited my car broke down, we had a baby and celebrated with friends and family who were walking through open doors of financial blessing and opportunity. We asked for provision. We trust(ed) God. We waited to be fed. We wanted to know, for certain, that next week there would be provision or at least a clear sign of easier times. But God gave us our daily bread (which we literally prayed for every morning *plug for the 23rd Psalm).

So that sounds cliche, right? Well, living it felt cliche' and very uncomfortable, at times, until I realized that my daughter never screams for a bottle days in advance. I give her what she needs when it's time and she trusts me without any concept of trust. In fact, I doubt that the hunger of next week ever crosses her mind. I want to be like my daughter. Trusting without talking myself into it or having to attend a revival meeting to be reminded of all that He has done and is doing.

So here is the real. Our Hoskins' trio didn't have a Griswold Christmas in a new house like we planned. Although, "watching" Madeline "open" her gifts was the best. We didn't end 2014 with a family trip to Brazil. We still share one car (thank God for Waco "traffic"). We saved well and then watched our savings dwindle as we paid for daycare, repairs, groceries and hospital bills. And it sucked but that's what savings are for. I occasionally reminded G-d that we were getting down to the end and I just wanted to make sure He had not forgotten. Then I relaxed and got to know Him. Trust grew. My heart led my head to the Lord. 

January was the month to kick the job hunt into high gear and March was the month that we would run out. In January, I paid for Madeline's first month of daycare (a new car would be less expensive). God saw it. He never stops seeing. James tearfully dropped off his sweet lil bean and received a call for his first interview in almost 2 years. 2 years, people! There is never a coincidence in the life of a disciple of Jesus. And hope sprung a leaf or pushed us towards shore or you catch my drift. And more opportunity came. Although, it wasn't in the form of a full-time pastorate position and a parsonage in a diverse community so, naturally, we pouted a bit. Oh man, if only we can just stay mature for longer than an hour in quiet time. 

Just this week James called me with news that he was about to get hired for a job for which he didn't even apply and I did not want provision and blessing to find us pouting in the corner. 

You know, I would be plain miserable if Madeline screamed for food a week in advance. I think I would be hurt if she threw down, in disgust, what I worked hard to provide. 

I know that despite my best efforts, joyful tithe giving and overall Christ-like behavior sorrow will find me. I know when I stand uncomfortable and unsure in need G-d will provide. I know when shore is a memory and I am weary G-d will give me rest. I don't want to scream, kick and pout until G-d shows me His hand because then I miss out on all the good stuff with Him. Just being with Him is really so wonderful. Provision will come when it's time; maybe just next week or year but Hope will carry you. Christ will not fail.

God is in Control

I cried almost everyday this week over something that I have been struggling with for two months. Apparently my body isn't down with the whole breastfeeding jazz. We had the whole first year of Madeline's life planned out.We would raise a wise and kind young woman and save some ducketts along the way. A few well-intentioned strategies for our little trio.

The hospital asks you if you have a birthing plan which is just plain confusing for a first time mom because you have no idea what you want or how to articulate the little you do know. Lights on, lights off, visitors or no, PKU shots or wait. Shaken or stirred...I mean, huh?

Then EVERYONE wants to know how you are going to diaper your child. James and I discovered that this was just dangling bait for a long opinionated convo...We soon started to play dumb...(Uhhh babies need diapers? We'll get right on that)

Even more folks want the lowdown on breastfeeding.

These days I am unnaturally fascinated with my chest and its ability (or lack thereof).
I am consumed with finding the perfect cloth diapering techniques.
I'm making plans left and right and I can't be stopped.

Every plan seems to demand precise execution.
Every decision feels like it has eternal consequences. (Let me tell you the freedom I experienced when I realized that she won't be in diapers or on the nip for the rest of her life...deep relief, ya'll)

Here we are in the (almost) third month of my daughter's life and already some of my plans are faltering, augmenting, disappearing because life is happening and I had not planned on that. I'm back at work and being a working mom is challenging.
I came home early crying to James like their was a death in the family because I can't provide enough breast-milk for my daughter. Despite my very best efforts, good diet, water, "rest", herbs and lactation cookies (yes, that's a thing) this milk cow may have to be put out to pasture. My plan needs some tweaking and its an unexpected blow to my self-worth as a mom.

I can't control my what happens on my block or kitchen or nursery or marriage or in my own body, apparently.

But I am encouraged and blown away by a G-d who can and does. Ok, that is an understatement. I am more than encouraged My hope is renewed and my faith is under inspection because I serve the one true G-d who sets things in motion and sees them to fulfillment just the way He's planned it. No power on earth or in hell can shake it. My personal inability, lack of faith in His sovereignty nor my disobedience can stop the Lord's plans. What a great and awesome G-d I serve. How does He do it?! What might and wisdom! What dominion and control He has. The best part is that He calls me his own and has written the course of my life in His great narrative of love. I am learning to abide with Him daily-to say, "I've decide to follow Jesus. No turning back" because I need His grace when my plans fall through.

I feel like I have been skyrocketed to a whole 'nutha level of knowing my God. My head exploded from the realization of His greatness and brought me down to a moment with Him to contemplate the simplest of truths...Chaos my feel constant but GOD IS FEARLESSLY IN CONTROL. This mom understands that in a brand new way now. I guess that was His plan all along.

I Birthed a Bloodhound

The first 19 hours of Madeline's life ex-utero were deceivingly quiet. She greeted visitors with curious attentive eyes. She faced heel pricks with barely an whimper and never seemed phased by strange beeps, noises or laughter. "She's sooooo peaceful and quiet," was the common refrain. Then everyone left and it was just Madeline, her mom and her dad. And she cried and she snorted. Yes, snorted and it was the cutest thing we'd ever heard. She did it more and more when we got home.  I'd come running when she started snorting. She even lifted her head up and looked around while doing it. So then we praised, "What a strong little girl she is!".

I looked forward to hearing her snort until I realized that this was actually the sound of the dinner bell going off every 2 hours, sun up and sun down.

My child was sniffing me out with perfect precision like a bloodhound. Hunger and instinct are a deadly combo. They move my daughter to migrate her way through sleep and darkness to the source of her food...me. After 2 weeks, that little snort isn't quite as cute.  I fold my arms to cover my chest so she won't catch my scent when I check in on her. If the fan is on in the room I avoid sitting downwind. I feel like I have committed a crime and K9 is out to get me...and I'm guaranteed to get got.

No one told me that her sense of smell was THAT strong.
or that you don't get to mentally recover/take a deep breath/just one last moment of peace after giving birth.
or that I would miss being pregnant (especially when she hiccups).
or that my front tooth would fall out for no reason...3 days after giving birth...because life isn't hard enough.
or that I would feel like I am about to break at least twice a day.
or that I would be so consumed with the color, amount and consistency of another person's poop.
or that each day would bleed into the next and the next day would be another never-ending cycle of shift-changes where you always have the next shift (but seriously, what day is it?).
or that I would so easily stop saying, "Good Morning" to my husband (sorry James) because I am sleep deprived and feeding again.
or that I would never eat a warm meal again.
or that I would now have to meticulously place things like my phone, drink or snack on my left or right  depending on what side I am holding her.
or that I would pace the house if she isn't in my arms like a dog does when someone else is holding her puppies (and that I might actually growl a little).
or that I could fall so deeply in love with a little human who sharts in her diaper while I hold her as I eat my dinner that took entirely to long to microwave because she insists on being held...she smiled at me after she pooped (not even mad).

So she snorts...and I am the only one she is searching for. When she sniffs me out her needs will be met as she finds her way to my heart and warmth, all that she has known for the past 9 months.  I gotta wrap things up because she is napping therefore I should be doing the same...With every sniff, grunt and snort I reminded how much I need to seek God out with this intense amount of trust, determination and assurance. He will never run from me when I need Him. He is my all and all.

During a nap together

All I do is open my arms and she sniffs and scoots her way over...eyes closed the whole time. 

This face in the wee hours of the morning. She is just sweet perfection. 

Nesting and Resting

"I am a bit concerned with your lack of urgency in preparing your nursery."~Mattie Criddell, my mama. This was my mom's calm diplomatic approach in communicating her frustration to me. At month 6 of my pregnancy James and I had yet to even empty out the nursery which was serving as our guest room/office-type-area. I just chuckled when she said this and replied,  "Calm down, Mattie B. I promise we will start working on it soon." Can I say how proud I am of my mom for quieting the Nana-zilla that resides within - cuz I am. I could tell that she was (and continues) to do her best to not take over. For a mother of 3 and grandmother of 4 who is all about glue sticks and DIY I know how difficult this can be. So much to do. So few people on board to get it done.

James and I had planned it out. It's just that, well, I am plumb tired and in no rush to come home from a ten hour work day to prepare a place for my little one. I mean all she really needs is breastmilk and a bassinet. Mom-of-the-year award, here I come. But it was time to start nesting.

Nesting: preparing your nursery/home/life/mind for the arrival of the bun in the oven. ~Think a bird and twigs and you got the concept. (cute, sweet little concept) Really it's a euphemism for an activity that is completely overwhelming and challenging. Every conversation we have, every decision  James and I make become less and less us-centered and more and more baby-centered. Don't get me wrong - it's wonderful and we love this time but the transition is gradual and sneaky...because everything transitions. Just like we when we first got married and grasped for straws trying to maintain a sense of self and personal past and future tradition it happens all over again but this time it's much more important. Its the stuff no one tells you. It's the part of the picture in the Mama Monthly Magazine that is cropped out.  Simply moving furniture around is not just an exercise in efficient feng shui. It's really the talk of diminishing spaces, family visits, budgeting and changing dynamics. The bird and her twigs are cute but I am sure that Mama Tweet is freaking out a little making sure that those eggs are safe and sound.

I am proud to say that as of a month ago we started gathering twigs. I visited thrift stores, Walmart, JoAnn's and the like. I made a mental checklist of three sweet "wittle" projects that I wanted to start/finish over the weekend - wall art, a bookshelf turned armoire and re-purposing James' childhood dresser into a changing table. Check me out...

 Pow!

 Zazzle!!!

BOOM...This baby just got nested!

Are you happy now, mom?

The dresser took a long time and I discovered that I am not the sanding, painting, refinishing type. Sanders are heavy, BTW. But I was so very proud at the finished product. A lovely dresser that I am sure will eventually travel with my daughter off to college some day. A sweet hand-me-down from her selfless dada. 

I sat on the kitchen floor with paint in my hair and on belly (of course), sweating, sore and uncomfortable and so anxious. I want little Madeline to enjoy this nest, every corner. I want her to love this dresser because I loved preparing it for her because she is my babygirl. I can't wait to see her eyes exploring her space and watch her tiny hands dirty up her nest. I sat back and rested and thought of nothing but her....and this verse

"By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work." Genesis 2:2

I never understood why a God who never tires would need rest but I imagine that maybe this was what it was like. A sweet rest of simple delight...I wonder. God didn't need a nap maybe he just wanted to stop, sit back  and admire all that He made that was good and perfect and for us? Did He imagine our eyes discovering and our tiny hands exploring? I mean He loves us like a hen with her chicks. Was the Father nesting? Perhaps. 

Baby Madeline your nest is coming together and I must say...it's so good. I hope you enjoy it. Until you get here I am just going to rest a little longer. I ain't the Lord. I need a long nap.

Saturday Morning Pearls

The logic most parents of toddlers use is this: if it is valuable, dangerous or both keep it high and out of reach. Not my mom.  She kept the valuables low and and enticing. What small person can resist the siren call of all things shiny? Every now and then when my mom stops in to visit she quizzically admires the few pieces that I have "borrowed"...and I have been borrowing for a long time. She can't blame me because she decided to live on the edge and keep her brilliant collection down low. Right in my reach. She failed to yell at me when I adorned myself in our ancient family jewels.

Both sides of my family boast of educated, cultured, bougie women who wore the finest imported furs (no offense to my PETA friends), ate choice vittles and wore the most unique, authentic jewelry that you will ever see this side of the Atlantic. We are talking real diamonds, time-approved gold and genuine stones that I am still too simple to pronounce. And pearls, real heavy pearls. A strand of white and a strand of grey, in fact, in its own navy blue velvet case.

I began every Saturday morning the same, catching up on the latest toons so that I could contribute to the playground water-cooler convos in the upcoming week. Then I made my way into my parents room where they were likely having breakfast in bed before the family fun took off. Good morning kisses and hugs were freely given and received and then I plopped down  in front of THE jewelry drawer. A small chest of drawers with a petite french double door guarding it. I never asked for permission. I just dove in. Bracelet on top of bracelet slid up my inadequate arms. My diminutive neck sank under the weight of every necklace mom owned and whatever pieces I couldn't figure out just ended up in my hair or on my shirt. I strut my toddler tail at the end of the bed and told made up stories...for...hours. And they just laughed and listening sometimes they joined in and asked questions. When I was done I carefully put every pretty piece back in its place. This was my favorite toy box. 

Thanks to James, the collection continues. A week ago I found myself quietly wondering how I was supposed to celebrate Mother's Day. Feeling every bit a mother but with nothing to show for besides an awkward belly I consigned myself to waiting until it was "real". Until my baby was really here. I guessed that was appropriate. But when Mother's Day finally arrived I didn't want to be left out. I am a mom to a child who is very dependent on me, who has changed my body and my heart and mind already and darn-it I wanted some recognition. Cue sweet James who knows me so well. He remembered stories of my Saturday mornings playing in my favorite toy box. Stories I cannot recall telling him. He gave me my own pearl bracelet for me and for my little girl. I wear my pearl bracelet all the time now because it is just such a perfect lovely gift. When I take it off I know just where I will put. In a drawer, down low of course. Just in her reach. I can't wait to see her tiny wrists glisten and I can't wait to her what stories she has to tell. 

44

They have never called each other out of each other's name in anger. Not once.
They hold hands while shopping, hanging out or worshipping at church.
They flirt and giggle together like teenagers.
They get through painful times by telling jokes and laughing.
They really like hanging out together. Dancing, singing, shopping, traveling...
He still calls her "fine" and "gorgeous" before she even has time to ask how she looks.
She still swoons over him when he puts on a suit.
They match on accident most every time they get dressed.
Their children and grandchildren would rather chill with them than with friends because they are that cool.

They are my parents and they have been married for 44 years as of 12.21.2013. There are no words I could write that would do their love story justice so I'll just let them tell it. Enjoy a chuckle and some wise chitchat from my parents Michael & Mattie Criddell.

*Disclaimer: This video contains contagious amounts of love and adorable-ness.

 

Sometimes There Will Be Beer

James had to go to an AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meeting FOR A CLASS ASSIGNMENT one day. No one knew who he was. He was not a teaching pastor or a seminary student. He was just there to be with them and learn from them. This was a room full of gruff looking men who came to be rid of their ugly addiction. Some now chain smoked just to keep from drinking. Many of these men would come to a meeting everyday if they had to. They thrive on transparency and community. They need constant covering and accountability. James came home that day and smelled of cigarette smoke for the rest of the afternoon. And he thought nothing of it because these were G-d's people who are doing the best they can muster up to make it. As a minister these were his people.

I chuckle and tense up and pause as I write how the meeting ended...As James tells it - The person who was leading the group said, "And we know there is only one person who can get us out of our (you fill in the colorful expletive) situation. And that's who?"

And the rest of the room replied, "the Father" in unison, followed by the Lord's Prayer.

I tense up because some adjectives should not ever be used in the same paragraph as G-d. I chuckle because I know that G-d is not nearly as tense as I am because sometimes there will be cuss words. Sometimes unfiltered prayers will rise from unchurched lips through a cloud of cigarette smoke to the ears of the Father.

I saw this video. It's pretty amazing.

I love these lyrics which strengthen my own faith but I also love this random group of people worshiping G-d publicly in a non-church setting. One attentive youtube viewer caught a glimpse of a bottle...a beer bottle perhaps...maybe A&W Root Beer. No one knows but this particular viewer wanted an explanation of it's cameo during a time of worship.  I read their response and thought..."Oh, you missed it." You missed how G-d was moving in that place just like He moves in AA meetings and at Groups Homes for rebellious, disrespectful youth. If you aren't careful you'll miss the work of the Holy Spirit on the heart of the drug dealer, the abuser, criminal, the ex-stripper, your brother, or mom, niece or neighbor...because all you see are "beer bottles" all you hear are cuss words and all you smell is cigarette smoke.

Don't get me wrong. I believe in holy and righteous behavior before a holy and righteous G-d. But some us have been on "Sin Patrol" for far too long. Because sometimes in the midst of addiction and vulgarity you, if you are looking for it, you can see the sanctifying work of G-d flooding lives with mercy and grace and that is something you do not want to miss.

But the Music Never Stops

I sang in the school choir from the 6th to 10 grade. Bass, Treble, half notes, quarter notes, mezzo forte, uhh decrescendo and ...Do a deer, a female deer. Yup that's about all I got. I have not sung formal pieces of music since the 10th grade so the technicality of these works are, for the most part, lost on me. I don't mind either. That is not an excuse to revel in ignorance.  I just mean that I still love these complex, transcendent pieces of wonder because they are simply complex and transcendent. What I love most about the symphony is its pure emotive nature with no words sung at all. So when pianist, Christian Zacharias stopped the music because of a cell phone interruption I just could not blame him.

When interviewed he stated that

"Music lives on something completely different than being disturbed." 

and

"We prepare all this and this is the least you can do to honor it in listening"

English syntax is bruised a bit because of his German accent but I took him real seriously because Germans don't play...around...because clearly he plays the piano...I digress.

How awkward for the the poor guy in seat 53A. You, alone, were responsible for bringing the piece de resistance to a crashing halt while ushering in the fullest most humiliating silence, ever. No wonder you couldn't slide your hand down and quiet the electronic symphony in your pocket; Sir Zacharias' glare was set to stun-mode. All because you weren't paying full attention. 

There is complex transcendent wonder all around us. The sweetest symphony you will ever hear.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge." 

Psalm 19:1-2

And we often do not honor it by at least listening or watching. We disturb this masterful work with busyness and our noisy requests requiring G-d to vie for our attention. But G-d is G-d and he has nothing to prove. He won't roll over and sit. He won't give signs and wonders just for ooo's and ahhh's  and He won't ever stop being G-d. He can't. 

The music won't stop even when you are distracted.
Because we are a part of the song.
You are not a disturbance to the work of G-d but you are his sweet instrument and he is ready to use you.

Silence distraction and pay attention.

And He will keep on playing. Showing you his beauty and wonder as he waits on you to join.

We're Just Warming Up~Personal Repost

There is this captivating moment just before a symphony begins where we wait with baited breath and intrigue. Murmurs and coughs settle in your ear and the wait is tangible. The silence is full like someone blowing up a balloon almost too full before it bursts. The audience palpable is comprised of people who have perused the program to the point of empty memorization. No one really knows what those Italian and German songs are.

 In all honesty most of the audience can only hold an intelligible conversation on the top Olympic Dream Team composers…you know them already...” Bach, Beethoven and Mozart ok and maybe Chopin…At best we are wannabe-connoisseurs of musical wine-tasting. We swirl the glass, sniff and examine the legs but we have no idea what rare libation we are drinking. But we read with intensity and hopeful recognition that we may be fully engaged with this temporary community. We hope that everyone with take the experience seriously. No one would dare take part and talk or laugh at an inappropriate time. This is just as much to feed the Mozart within us as it is to share love and be immersed in something pure and existential with a stranger. 

Music is a soothing dose of perfection. It is science, emotion, creativity, creation, physics, community, mathematics and language in a beautiful dance. It is a drip of what heaven stamped eternity must feel like. So, that moment before such an experience is hope-fully exhilarating. The imbecile and the guru both become servants of the inexplicable. The complexity of music teases all of our senses. If you aren’t fully consumed by it then your soul cannot be freed to sing. As we stand on the music precipice of melody that moment before the dive is quietly wondrous and necessary. It whets the appetite…but the warm-up can be confusing. Instruments and notes alike bicker in a cacophony of fine tuning. Violins, then saxophones, the obo wants in on the action and won’t wait its turn…even the gentle triangle rings out of time…every part is being perfected to play its role in this great symphony but what a battering it does to the ears. The audience knows, however, that the tune will change…Oh, they’ve read the program and even in their rudimentary understanding music they know that this is not the song…not yet. Just…wait for it. In fact this hodge-podge of senseless reverberation is a part of the entire experience because the coming together is nothing short of a miracle.

Shhhhh….here he comes…the conductor. When he steps to the platform we fear not for he will tame this noise and bring….harmony yes…sweet harmony. Before it sounds you know it’s there in the fullness of the wait. Can you see it? Look close. Harmony appears at the tip of the baton and demands attention…ahhhh yes, there you are. “Tap, tap tap” That valiant stick is raised in the face of wayward echoes and when it comes down the concord flies. You didn’t get dressed up abandoning the comforts of home for no reason. This occasion is worthy of your time. The confusion, the noise…that’s not the headline for this concert…we’re just warming up.

Deep Trust

I dated a guy once because I didn't have any other options or any good reason not to. My heart wasn't really in it.

Puzzled, a close male friend of mine asked me why I dated him and my response was,

"Well, because he asked." 

There was no glimmer in my eye at the thought of him. My stomach was butterfly-free. I never even knew his middle name. 

Pretty crappy and pointless and kinda mean; I am well aware. I was going through some thangs. And I would never tell him that. I'm sure that would have really hurt him. Because I never really chose him. Fate and good timing were just on his side. Not exactly a best-selling romance novel.

In the midst of being good stewards: working, planning, tithing and saving James and I were (I was) slightly-majorly annoyed by some disappointing news. I have noticed that when disappointments come one of us is at peace and one of us is not. And we switch places. Rarely are we both swerving and sighing while throwing righteous fists of indignation in the air. Thank God. This time...it was my turn to swerve, sigh and fist pump.

James calmed me, reassuring me of everything that Minister, Reverend, Pastor, MDiv, Chaplain Mo already knows about the God who NEVER forsakes us or looses control. But I was still having a moment so he said to me...

"Well, we just have to trust God. 

That is the place where he has brought us. *chuckling* I mean, what other choice do we have?"

And I appreciate this truthful reminder from my husband, my partner in this crazy adventure but that statement was the chorus of my heart-song for God and it sounded like such a passionless tune. Trusting him because I had nothing else to do?...what a shallow example. what a sad show of faith...what a pitiful reason to trust.

James told me a story once of a family friend who is a master rescue diver. During a training he swam to the bottom of a lake and was supposed to just sit there and wait to be rescued by the trainees. He was down there so long that he took a catnap. (Seriously!) When he surfaced everyone was frantic wondering where he had been. Unbeknownst to him a huge storm blew in right after he went deep. Where he was, there was no storm. The waters were not stirring at. all. 

As much as natural bodies of water terrify me that's right where I want to be.

My husband had already gone to the depths. I could tell by the quiet resolve in his voice. He was choosing God...choosing depths...choosing trust.

When James told me the unfortunate news I could feel the winds shift and cool as the storm rolled in but I also heard God (and I mean, I heard him) say to me, "Come deep, Monique, Come deep." It took work but I turned away from the choppy surface and kicked my legs hard past the current until I got to the place where the water is easy and still so I can sit, chilled out, at the bottom of the lake with James and the Lord. 

Trusting.

Not because I have nothing better to do. Not because I am passively (passive-aggressively) waiting for another, better-feeling option. But because the thought of God gives me butterflies. Because I am in love with Jesus and I KNOW Him to be trustworthy. Because he is stronger than any foe I will ever face. Because he is the potter and I, the clay. Because saying the name of Jesus makes my heart tender. Because I am the apple of his eye. Because there is not a more peaceful place on earth than in the deep with Jesus living out the best love story the world will ever know. Because there is no better choice than to trust Him.

The Proper Balance of Estrogen and Testosterone

I talk to James about everything. If a thought crosses my mind chances are I am going to share it. I process my day with him via texts while I am at work. I call him during lunch for a mid-day vent. And when I get home I wait for my cue..."How was your day, baby?" And he always listens...reluctantly pausing a game of Candy Crush on his I-phone or putting his own conversations with best friends and family on hold.

It is no wonder that over the past few months he has been urging me to hang out with my friends. He reminds me that our home is open to them for as long as I need a good visit.

For the past 7 months after our wedding I went into hiding. I think that most people expect this from newlyweds so none of my friends pestered me when I didn't want to come out and play. They just figured that I was boo-ed up. And while I had somewhat convinced myself that all I needed was my hunnie, really I was mourning the shift my life social life had taken. My closest friends were salted everywhere from Texas to Timbuktu and James' crew is all within a 30 mile radius...Fair...Nope, just life. Pouting in isolation seemed like a reasonable response.

The month of May 2012 was the best month ever, graduation, new career, and a proposal. Then June dumped on me and the remainder my friends began to move away. Life took a break-neck turn.  I was not prepared, at all.  I had just endured one of the most intense seasons of spiritual growth and independence, trusting a special group of people with my fears, tears, mistakes and joys and next thing I know Waco seemed a little wack without my girls.

Who would paint their nails with me and Say Yes to the Dress?

Who would laugh at my inappropriate jokes and applaud my public body roll routines?

Who would call me out for having a stank attitude?...this is dangerous territory for James Hoskins and he is not even about to paint paint his nails. Our love has its limits.
However, James does love me enough to kick me out of the house for a playdate. He knows how much the women in my life mean to me. How much I NEED them. I think he has known it even more than me.

For the past year and a half I have refused to make any new friends. I just knew that I could will my old ones to return to this crazy town of Waco, TX....the NYC of the south as it is more widely known. And  for this introvert, making new friends is exhausting...but I don't have to-my old ones rock. The friendship train rolled into Waco 3 weeks ago by way of me actually rolling up my bottom lip and picking up the phone. I will be riding it at least until November. This is my thank you...

DibbyDum~thanks for sitting in my bubble with me as we "watched" our favorite Friday shows and laughed at how broke we are.
Niesha~thanks for being a safe place to share "marriage life" and for inviting me to watch my niece be blessed at church and Tracy thank you for soul-clapping to some good ole black gospel music with me.
Christina~Thank you embracing your inner public spectacle and helping me make the world feel awkward.
Morgan~Thank you for allowing me to be fully self-centered for the entire month of September AND giving me 3 cakes!!!
Melissa~You are just ridiculous and wonderful and we still make an awesome team.
Callie~I will always be your chaplain but I am so glad that we are friends and future sewing buddies!
Angie~Thank you for finding time on your way to work or during a lunch break just to chat with me for a few minutes at least once a week.
Christine~my Lil Bit thank you for guilt-tripping me whenever you are in town and just saying that you are coming over.
Monica~Thank you for your hilarious transparency and strength. You are a hero of mine.
Katelyn~Thank you for laughing at my conceited selfie texts annnnnd for having Kari and I over next month for ThanksWeen 2013...be excited. (oh and for my Foster parents).
Cara~Thank you for making a point to come see lil ole me on your way to see your family.

James~Thank you for all the ways you LOVE, ESTEEM and ACCEPT my friends whom I adore and miss dearly. Your love for them makes me feel loved because they are a reflection of who I am.

I am so grateful for these women and so many others who are with me in this amazing, different, challenging and so-fun season of life. Thank you for reminding me who I am, all the facets of me, as I explore who I am becoming as a wife and minister.

I think this SONG pretty much sums up how I feel about you all. It was the first song that popped in my head and I'm not ashamed at all. Don't judge me. I worked at BU for 3 years.

Pregnant Elephants and Thank-you cards

One year.

I read somewhere that it is socially acceptable to mail out wedding "thank-you" cards within one year of the wedding...

12 months.

I'm sorry but that is ridiculous and I am more than positive that a lazy man with a proclivity for tardiness came up with this brilliant idea. He spouted it around his unmarried friends with great confidence while serving them fried foods and alcohol. In their happy, drunken state they were easily convinced so they told their friends. This idea then started circulating around the wedding blogosphere and within a few months this ludicrous practice became "socially acceptable".

Things that take too long to happen...
           -Vanilla extract to ferment (is that the right term?) = 2 months
                -Manatees to fully gestate = 13 months and elephants  for, a faint-inducing, 22 months

                       -James David "yes I used his middle name on purpose" Hoskins to partially complete 35 pre-organized "thank you" postcards = 6 months

                  

The plan I devised was simple..."I write to my folks and you write to yours. Finish at least one each day and we can get this done in a truly socially acceptable time-frame...friends feel appreciated and the wedding event is officially a wrap." 

Kinks in my plan: It was my plan and not our plan (like that really matters)

         To-do lists and phrases including the word "wedding" are forbidden immediately upon return from the honeymoon. Utterances of either turns you into the Charlie Brown school teacher.

I sent out all of my people's thank-you's on time avoiding embarrassment and shame.  James' pile was sad from neglect and gray with dust.  My plan was disintegrating after 4 months. I had to regroup and pull out the big guns.

Guilt-trip...it never fails. I called mom and pre-vented to release what could be toxic steam. She chuckled at me, knowingly and said, "Uh yeah, let me know how that goes." 

James would return from a very long day at work to find me surrounded by his cards. It didn't end there. I wouldn't frown or fret. No. I had a smile in voice as I asked him about his day. 

When he saw me with those cards his shoulders dropped and he turned toward our room as he mumbled, "I'm sorry, baby...I let you down."

Aha!

Wait...That felt horrible. 

Abort! Abort!

Guilt trips are for mean girls, manipulative lovers, and lazy parents who lack self-confidence, not for us.

Marital tet-a-tet's occur over the most inconspicuous things like budgeting and home decor and making the bed in morning and guacamole (I'll explain in another post)  and thank you cards. This talk lasted two hours...two very necessary calm, loving, guilt-free hours where James, under no duress, agreed to conquer his pile and I agreed to trust him and relax a little.

One week later the pile, still sad and dusty, taunted me and whispered lies to me about my husband.

But I love my husband and I'm discovering that marriage is definitely not 50/50. Teamwork isn't always the answer and he is not the guy who is squealing with glee over the chance to help with thank-you cards...not sure that I would want the squealing type anyways. Sometimes he'll do more than his fair share and most of the time I'll do more (let's be honest)....(love you, baby)

"James, dear, do you want me to finish the pile?...just tell me and I won't be mad..."

He did five. I did thirty...more...of his. And it only took six months.

apparently still acceptable and

We are still doing better than the elephant.

Roses, Rainbows and Recipes

I think I am the only freak of nature who is soooo over new things. 2013 is the "Year of New" and I am ready for the Era of "Been There Done That".

I cannot tell you how many times a lovesick fifteen year old took over my mind and body as I found myself, at 30, doodling my name over and over again...before we got married...

Monique Danye` Hoskins...Monique Danye`Criddell Hoskins...Monique Hoskins...Mr. &Mrs. James Hoskins...Mrs. Monique Criddell Hoskins

and I smiled and roses and rainbows appeared and a robin perched on my windowsill and tweeted a tune.

Yeah, the process of inaugurating the "new" was not that lovely and sweet. 

Ladies, changing your name is 1. annoying and complicated and 2. quite traumatizing. 

The social security lines are just long. 

There is nothing romantic about waiting for your number to appear on a scrolling marquee in a room full of strangers...Which is why I have yet to get a new license. Don't tell James. 

Although, I don't know if I haven't visited the DMV because of inconvenience or because that 2x3 inch piece of plastic is the last shred of my former identity; plus my picture looks great...This made the blog so I am guessing it is probably the latter. I love discovering things as I type. 

I can't help but to feel that changing my name is some sort of betrayal to my family of Criddell's. My poor dad, who adores James, "forgets" my last name each time we talk. 

"Hello, Mrs. Crid errrr uhhhh, Hopps...Husk...Hoskins...yeah that's it, Hoskins."

I have a new name attached to a man other than my father who has loved, supported and cared for me for 31 years. I have a new "home" because wherever James is that is home and it actually feels like it. I have a new job that James knows more about from day to day than my family. I have a new church and new friends. I have an entirely new family...I even have a new mac and cheese casserole recipe...You don't understand just how deep things just got. This may be more crucial than my name.

This dish is more important than Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas ham. 

It is a legendary Criddell recipe.

Angels take pause to sing when the oven opens. 

And yesterday I changed the recipe to something brand new....Don't tell mom. 

 I LITERALLY had to talk myself into it. . I changed my mind a few times.

Sundays are our clean eating days because we until the plate is clean. I'm talking about the most fatty, carb-infused meals I can think to make. It's a Hoskins' House Rule. On Sundays calories don't count unless you count them. So I turned on some gospel music, took out a few sticks of butter and got to cooking. James and I melted into OUR newness. This is what Sundays would smell like for us and our future family...reeeallll buttery and warm. 

As good as the new felt and always feels, at least momentarily, I could hear my old name calling out in desperation. 

She is afraid of  being forgotten.

She is just going to have to learn that she is not being left behind. 

She can come along with all of her old recipes and family traditions.  

The old has been so good to me but I still get butterflies when I write my new name. Roses bloom on Sundays at the Hoskins' house and the robins are warming up. Rainbows appear when we kayak. And I'm pretty sure that the angels gave a celestial, slow-clap standing ovation when I opened the oven to the new mac and cheese...because it.was.good.

Gold Nugget Bride

August, something, 1999, my parents were held up at pen-point by Xavier University of Louisiana. They emptied out their bank account and left me waving them goodbye as I forced and faked wanning confidence. I was now a XULA Gold Nugget (really, why did that name get all the votes?)...and I had no idea, whatsoever, how to be a gold nugget, because, what does that even mean, first of all, and second, all I knew about college was dating (which I had yet to experience), parties (which just was not my scene) and staying up to study (ok I can do that one). Was I just supposed to become a shiny, priceless metal destined for academic success overnight or would I morph overtime somehow melding my identity into that of my new future alma mater? Fear? I didn't even know what to be afraid of. I just knew if I was going to survive I had to become a nugget and quick.

August, something (the 8th I think), 2008 I dumped my savings into first month's rent, deposits, U-haul fees and first installments at Truett Seminary. I moved into a cavernous, snow white apartment furnished by A couch, A TV and A kitchen table...I had no need for the table. I dropped every dime I earned to pick a new identity. I went from being nugget (to a Lumberjack at SFA...you get the rhythm I'm beating out) now to a Baylor Bear. Bears are awesome! Right? I mean, we are both brown so that's a start. No one told me how to be a bear but I spent some time as a nugget and a Lumberjack so I could fake it til I made it. Baylor Bears study a lot while wearing nike shorts and drinking coffee. Since I was too old to fully conform I settled for hot cocoa and Adidas. No one questions a 28 year old black woman with a faux latte.

February 16, 2013 James and I (and our parents) spun around Waco flinging checks in every direction so that James could become a husband and I could become a wife. Ok, at this point I learned my lesson. Having successfully matriculating through adolescence and dizzying individuation I knew that preparation and research were key. So after 6 months of premarital counseling and great accountability from friends we pretty much gathered the gravity of 2 becoming 1. We did the "I do, You do", danced a jig and flew to Denver.

We returned a week later to begin work on one of life's most complicated equations...1+1=1.

I was comfortable with becoming one. And as of tomorrow we have been "becoming" for 6 months.

James is a good person to become one with. He is super loving and other mushy blog stuff you've read.

We have laughed at our collection of inside jokes and kitchen-danced a whole lot.

We have argued well and grown from dissent.

The only problem is I'm still one person. I made a mistake in my days as a Gold LumberBear. Growing each year, I still lost myself a little in the collegiate song and dance.

However, I haven't lost myself in this marriage. I don't think I am supposed to, either.  I just don't know what the heck to do with myself.

So this is one of the things that I have learned (I could have done six but that is uber predictable).

I am still me, one, and that is O.K.

James and I are two, different people who compliment each other like crazy and can't get enough of each other but God still calls us by name...Our own names...Not some odd Hollywood nickname mashup like JaNique or Momes (our names clearly do not mash well). God still calls me Monique. He is still transforming Monique to be a good woman not just a good wife. He still has work for his daughter to do on her own even though James and I may partner up from time to time. We don't have to always hike together, eat at a great restaurant together or shop together. That's not what gives the marital math problem weight and meaning...we aren't disconnected and doomed for divorce if we pray separately or pour ourselves into different ministries. These TWO become ONE because these ones are becoming like Christ. That is the strange math and He is the ONE we become even while we remain TWO and I'm so glad we have a lifetime to solve this equation.