Nicole K. Twedt

Being Brave When Life Is Hard

Happy Mother’s Day (a Few Months Late)

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You know the saying, A Day Late and a Dollar Short? Well, how about Over Two Months Late and Flat Broke?  I’m not really broke. But I just got back from Target, so there’s that.  I guess my claim is semi-honorable, emphasis on semi.

We were mosly there because the Tiniest Tiny had birthday bucks that were burning a hole in her pocket.  The big kids were with Nana and Grandpa Dave at Wild Waves.  To quote my British gentleman friend, otherwise known as Siri, “It looks like Wild Waves Theme & Water Park is about 43 miles away as the crow flies, Knee-cole.”  Thanks for that, Siri.  Anyway, if you met me in real life you’d know that I’m not one to rock the boat.  But I’m not shy about my feelings about water parks or bathing suits in general.

Back to Target.  It was just the two of us, a rarity now that Lauren is older and in school.  What do you suppose my six-year-old chose to spend her money on?  Well, the Tiniest Tiny hand-selected four Barbie outfits, a marbled-blue bouncy ball and a purple travel toothbrush.  I have complicated feelings toward Barbie, but Lauren’s love for her is true and runs deep.

I came home with two cases of La Cruix, and a faux watercolor print of three feathers to hang above my oak writing desk.  The feathers, and really all things bird-related, reminds me of the three Twedtlings, as well as Psalm 91, which is a significant part of our family’s faith story.   I also bought two different types of dry shampoo.  The struggle is real to find the perfect dry shampoo.  We’ll see how it goes.  I solemnly swear never to write a future post about the chronicles of dry shampoo.

As I type, the Tiniest Tiny is happily treating Barbie and Ken to a day at the hair salon at the kitchen counter bar.  They’re getting the whole nine yards, well except for the haircut part of the salon experience because no, just no.   What Barbie and Ken lack in the full salon experience, Lauren is making it up to them in dry shampoo hair treatments followed by a deep conditioning of Young Living’s Thieves Hand Purifier.  “Mama, it’s the best day ever!” At least they smell delightful. Hopefully their hair won’t fall out anytime soon.

I suppose it’s very privileged and first-worldly of me to claim that I’m broke.  But there’s truth to the other part of my claim: I’m more than a few months late.  And when I say I’m late, I don’t mean I’m late in that way.  Oh no, my friend, I’m alluding to Mother’s Day and the entire month of May.   It seems that I convieniently skipped a month of writing.

I remember May being the end of volleyball season for Emily, and we were nearing the end of the autism evaluation process with Steven, which you can read about here and here.  No wonder I was too busy to write.

But Mother’s Day is on my mind this Thursday afternoon because I found myself scrolling through our family’s digital photos while Lauren’s Barbies enjoyed their day at the spa.

I landed on several pictures of me with the Twedlings on Mother’s Day.  The pictures are just terrible.  I never posted them here or even on Facebook or Instagram because, frankly, they made me angry.  Here are the photos  in all of their glory, each one more terrible than the one before.  And not because of lack of skill of the photographer, not at all.  Let’s just say it was a challenging moment I’d rather not be reminded of.  Plus, my normally round face is extra puffy.  You can tell how tired I am.  It’s not even 10 a.m.

Come to think of it, the morning of Mother’s Day began wonderfully, with a flourish of gifts and breakfast in bed, a promising start.   The day quickly went downhill from there.  It had everything to do with Steven-in-the-middle, though the details are unimportant in retrospect.

After meltdown after meltdown, we made our way to my favorite bakery in Redmond for Mother’s Day treats.  The Flying Apron was actually my third choice for how I envisioned spending Mother’s Day with Greg and the Twedtlings.  We bailed on favorite spots number one and two due to, you guessed it, more meltdowns, and a little rain.  We’re near Seattle, after all.

This post isn’t a rant about Steven.  Like every child, my boy has his share of naughty moments and poor choices but he’s my favorite guy under forty-seven.  You can guess the name of my other favorite, the one about to turn forty-seven.  Please understand, there’s usually a darn good reason for his meltdowns and misbehavior, often leading us to seek out and implement Plan B.

I don’t know why I’m writing about Mother’s Day in July.  I guess I’m writing because, looking back on these pictures from the month of May, I find myself laughing, really, really laughing as I’m reminded once again that time doesn’t erase tension but has a funny way of erasing some of the pain and frustration, or at least it kinda sorta helps me place matters into perspective.  I’m reminded that the unexpected, the unplanned, in it’s own wonky and wayward way, and when I’m not fighting against it, well, it’s also good and sometimes even wonderful.

Lauren would say the best thing about today is that I allowed her to go to town with her Barbie dolls and her business of all things beauty (except haircuts).  My favorite thing, besides watching Lauren’s delight in dry shampooing the heck out of Barbie and Ken: those hilarious Mother’s Day digital photos.

When Friday Share Day Happens on a Saturday

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It’s 9:40 on this cool Saturday morning.  I’ve ditched my Starbucks tumbler in favor of the mug with the turquoise mama bird and her nest that found me at Central Market earlier this year in the dead of winter.  It matches B’s mug perfectly, and I think of my sweet friend whenever I use it.  This has nothing to do with anything.

The dog is next to me, as always.   She’s fast asleep on top of the armrest of the ugly rust couch.  I’m just as surprised as the next person that someone so anti-canine would come to delight in such a creature, and a little dog to boot. If it strikes your fancy, you could read about my change of heart regarding all things furry, here.

Friday Share Day is going to have to morph into Saturday Roundup.  I should be kind to myself and call it a Weekend Roundup.  No matter what I call this showcase of writing, it’s time once again to share the work of fellow Hope*Writers.  Even if I’m a day late.  I’m supposed to have a sweet little plug-in or widget (whatever it’s called) somewhere on my blog identifying me as a Hope*Writer, but it’s one of many techie-tech parts of being an online writer that I haven’t yet figured out.  Someday I’ll get my act together, or I’ll have someone else figure it out for me, and I’ll be linked to my group of writers, at least officially.

This is only the third time I’ve decided to feature the work of other writers, but I notice a theme.  I keep pulling from the work of the same people.  I think I’ve found my tribe.

Anyway, the dog is off following Greg around the yard, so now’s the perfect time to go to the computer and share my findings.

My Kids Are Jerks.  Everything you need to know about this essay is in its title.  Well, not really.  But check out Robin Chapman’s essay on Kindred Mom.  It’s a good one.

Jill’s essay.  I suppose I should sign up to follow Jill E. McCormick’s blog because I’ve linked to her work every time I’ve had a Share Day, except I’ve only really had three.  Back to the Jill’s piece: While I believe God certainly tells us when to head left or to the right, at times it’s less certain.  Sometimes we really don’t know which way to go, which brings me back to why you should read this essay.

This.   I get to be part of two distinct (though overlapping) writing groups.  For some reason I thought Karen V. Rutledge was a fellow Hope*Writer and a Glory Writer.  She should be, but my mistake.  I get people and groups of people mixed up in the flurry that is Facebookland.  Anyway, please read Karen’s haunting reflection of a recent Friday she spent at a homeless shelter.  I appreciate the way Karen doesn’t end her essay with a tidy Christian bow but allows for the opportunity for us to sit with her in the grief of it all.

Faith Gibson’s guest post, Come As You Are Hospitality is a recent essay featured on Voice of Courage.  Authentic hospitality, not Martha Stewart hospitality, is something that is always on my mind.  The struggle is real for this introvert and recovering perfectionist who really wants to open her home but doesn’t all the same.

Kathleen Cope wrote a splendid essay that was featured on For Every Mom exploring why being a mom is more than enough.  She’s not saying that women are defined by motherhood alone, nor does she try to convince us that our role as mother is the only job a woman can do.  But being a mama is a worthy endeavor, and a warrior can often be found with a tiny babe in her arms, chasing down a toddler or chauffeuring children to and from their activities in the Honda Odyssey.

Although running is not my jam, I easily related to Dorina Lazo Gilmore’s essay Running Therapy: How Grief Crashes Like Ocean Waves.  Dorina’s words helped me make sense of the way I (inwardly) reacted the way I did when someone I know lost a parent.  You can read my essay, A Time to Mourn here.

And finally, I chose Because, No. We Are Not There Yet since “Are we there yet?” has been the anthem of our summer walks with Chloe.  But seriously, I love how Leigh explores why we should bring our questions to the one who can can handle them.  And by the “one,” I mean God.

Happy reading everyone.  Peace out.  I never say “peace out.” Not sure where that came from.  Anyway, in typical Nicole-fashion, have a lovely weekend.

N.

Undoing, Rebuilding

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This summer is clearly not the time for me to devote myself to writing.  And that’s okay, except when it isn’t.  What I lack in writing time is made up for under under the Seattle summer sky with the Twedtlings.  Summer vacation has also been a time to work on Chloe’s Behavior Modification Plan For Anxiety.  That’s right, my little dog has a Behavior Modification Plan For Anxiety.  I won’t bore you with the details of why we even need a Behavior Modification Plan For Anxiety in the first place.  You’re welcome.

Actually, it’s a comfort to known that our dog, who hasn’t a care in the world other than wondering if she’ll be fed sometime around  7 a.m. and again at 5, struggles with anxiety.  So do I.  It’s freeing to say it out loud, and for certain, that Chloe’s anxiety is hardly an issue of not trusting God with life’s worries.  Not enough faith is hardly the point when you’re covered in fur, or silky hair if you are of the Havanese-variety like Chloe.

In the end, all it took was a stroll or two around our neighborhood with Chloe and a snack-size Ziplock baggie of carrot pieces, allotted every few houses or whenever we encountered a walker, biker, car or animal.  It’s a scary world out there, but our little dog is overcoming.  Greg rolls his eyes every time I turn to Chloe and say, “Chloe, you are a brave, brave doggie.”  But it’s enough to somewhat bring her through her funk.  There’s hope for us all.

I’m enjoying my time outside with the dog.  The Twedtlings are not.  Almost everyday during the school year we walked to and from our neighborhood elementary school, about a half-mile distance one way, with minimal complaining.  Or is it a quarter-mile?  I’m really not sure.  Distance has never been one of my strong points.  Yet our brief walks around the neighborhood are torture to them now. With our grey-blue rambler still in sight, you can hear from our little band of walkers: “Are we there yet?  Do we really have to do this?  It’s too hot?  Mom, is this what you’d call a scorcher?”  Spoken like true Seattleites.  We don’t know what to do with ourselves when outside temps finally hit the seventy-five degree mark.  No matter the weather or distance, Steven’s rants revolve around the iPhone I won’t let him have.  “Can I get a phone?  Why can’t I have a phone?  Everyone has a phone.  How about when I’m ten? thirteen?” This is the typical soundtrack of our kinda-sorta daily to twice-daily walks.

Chloe’s carrot-on-a-stick comes in a baggie, but the kids’ promised carrot is a stop at the Little Free Library two streets away and perfectly timed near the end of our walks to cheer them on and keep them going.  I’d walk for books, free or not, and so will they.

I’m not sure what’s up with walking, but something about it removes the fog in my mind and leads to reflection, stirring something deep within me. The splendid concoction of exercise and fresh air?  Probably.  Usually my deepest of deep thoughts are born out of a session of writing.  I’m sure you’ve picked up on the theme of my life: I write to discover what I’m thinking, feeling, learning. Yada yada.  I’m learning that walking, being outside, even playing the piano, all these activities, well, they also quiet my soul and help me make sense of God, myself and the world around me.  This summer has been lacking in writing time, but the thinking, the deep pondering, it’s happening anyway, especially during summer walks with the kids and Chloe.

I didn’t realize I was making a point but it’s clear to me now that God cannot be limited in how he chooses to speak to his children, even if he has worked a certain way in the past.  He has a knack for showing up whenever and wherever.  This revelation shouldn’t come as a surprise to me.  He’s God, after all.

This summer has also been the Summer of Reading, even book launches. You’ll hear more about these yet-to-be released-titles and how God is using them to speak to me when it’s time for me to write more about them.

Speaking of books, back in late May or early June, I met Lindsey in Bellevue.  Over chips and salsa and frozen fruity drinks, she told me about Sara Hagartey’s Every Bitter Thing is Sweet.  I don’t remember if I had the self-control to wait until the next morning to reserve Sara’s book from our local library, or if the book-junky side of me won out and put a hold on the book right then and there via Sno-Isle’s online library system.  I’d like to think I’m socially aware enough to wait, but once a book nerd, always a book nerd.  Either way, after a few day’s time, a text banner flashed across my iPhone screen announcing that Lindsey’s book recommendation was waiting for me on the hold shelf at the Mill Creek branch of our local library.

But I couldn’t read Every Bitter Thing is Sweet.  In fact, I waited the duration of three renew cycles before I picked it up, knowing deep down that something hidden in the words of the little blue book with the vintage bottle of honey on the cover would change me.  I’m a change-resister through and through. That or just plain stubborn.

Which brings me to a delicious summer morning in July, just after the Tiniest Tiny’s sixth birthday.  Emily and I were lounging around the family room in our PJs, my big girl on the love seat, I, curled up at the end of the matching burnt red-colored couch that used to be trendy but now is not, kind of like the entire decade of the 90s.  The other two played at the oak farm table in the dining room with their construction paper and Scotch tape creations.  Starbuck’s coffee tumbler of Tony’s French Royale Dark Roast in my right hand, book in my left, cream-colored throw blanket that’s unraveling (compliments of Steven) covered my morning-chilled body, little dog on lap, tears flowing.

You see, God always has something to say, to remind us of his presence, even when his presence seems to come out of nowhere.  Tears cascading down my cheeks, I’m reminded once again in Sara’s book that God is here and has a lot to say about undoing and rebuilding.  Sara writes about her early marriage but my mind makes a connection to another time and another place.

It’s an evening in early spring, not long ago.  I’m at Emily’s house in North Seattle for our Writer’s Connection Group. It’s just past 9 p.m.  I know the time because Kimberlee and Meagan had to leave by nine.  Emily is telling Kate and me about her project, Kindred Mom, and how motherhood is the place where she found herself.  I joke that motherhood has been my undoing. I’m trying my hand at comedic timing, but my statement is a confession all the same. Every day, the parenting struggle is real.  Each day, while mercies are new, so are opportunities fall short of my expectations, to fall on my face.  Like when I lose it in front of my children, especially my child who has special needs.  Parenting is not what I thought it would be.  I’m not who I thought I would be.

Undoing.  Rebuilding.

Random connections in the form of ADHD is a rare gift, and the message my heart is desperate for, as sappy as it sounds, breaks through like a radiant sunrise, the dawning of a new day.  And just like that, God gently or not-so-gently sweeps in and whispers to my soul that what I see as failure, what I view as my undoing, he sees a radical rebuilding.  What appears to be a disaster is simply the ongoing story of rebirth, of being brave when life is hard, a showcase of a life being transformed in real time by his grace and his great, great love.  Once again, his kingdom is an upside down kingdom.

This summer is clearly not a summer devoted to writing.  It’s going to be okay.