Pant sizes and Acne...

***Warning...if you are easily offended, you might want to spend your time reading something else. Please do not use this to compare, make yourself feel better or worse, etc. This is not really about pant sizes. Really. Read on...***

So the other day I bought some new pants. Size 6. I was surprised. In fact, I took a few different sizes to the dressing room because I was pretty sure I was NOT a size 6. I tried them on, then took the pair that fit.

I don't get it. I remember in high school being a size 12...then I finally lost some weight and I remember writing in my journal that I would be happy to be a size 10 the rest of my life. I was in shape, athletic, feeling good....but not anywhere near a size 6.

***Bear with me...there is a point here other than discussing the size of my waist!***

So, really...15 years later how is it that I've dropped from a 12 to a 6? Something is fishy here. I am no longer exercising every day, 2-a-day volleyball practices are a thing of the past--the distant past, running is far and few between, not to mention the 3 kids and 4 pregnancies that have not been kind to my hips. What gives?

I'll come back to that.

The other day I saw a commercial for a trial acne medication. In order to qualify you have to count, yes count, the exact number of pimples on your face. 25 pimples and 5 "under-gunners" will qualify you for the study. (You all remember the days of "under-gunners", right? Those mountains that would appear under the surface of your skin...unpoppable, and so painful that if the wind blew too hard it felt like something was stabbing your face? Okay, just wanted to make sure we were on the same page. :)
So yes, you have to count your blemishes. So I'm wondering what you do if you qualify, then wake up the morning you are to go in to meet the doctor and suddenly one of your mountains disappears???? Horrors! The doctor looks at your face..."23, 24, 25...good. One, two, three, four...hmmmm. Looks like you only have 4 extremely painful mountains under there...so sorry."

Ha ha. Okay there is a point, really.

Here it is. I am convinced that the clothing industry has changed the standard on us. What used to be a size 12 about 15 years ago is something entirely different today. I don't know exactly what, and I am sure they don't want us to realize it. Somewhat similar to how a fast food small fry is now the size a large used to be...with me? So here I am strutting around in my skinny size 6 pants that really are a size 12, or bigger? Hmmm, what are the industry standards for assigning sizes anyway? And what about the acne? Well, that part is simple. If you don't measure up, you don't qualify. You don't get it. Sorry, out of luck. But you say, "Wait! I thought I had it. I thought I was okay!" And the doctor says, "Sorry, we have a standard here, and you don't qualify. No exceptions."

Hmmmm...can you see the relation here? While I might feel good telling myself I am miraculously a size 6...even though it doesn't really make sense...I am also frustrated that the standard seems to have been swapped out and no one told me. And I don't really know what the standard is!

So picture this. So someone once told you that to get into heaven you have to be a size 6. So you diet like crazy, run 5 miles every morning and every night. Frantically you step on the scale and slowly see your numbers drop. You go buy a pair of pants...size 6, but you can't pull them up past your thighs. You increase your exercise and practically starve yourself and finally one day when you try on those pants, they slip up easily and actually button without sucking in your breath! You did it! You are in for sure. Heaven here you come! Unbelievably one day you are in a car accident and the next thing you know you are standing at Heaven's gates. "Its okay," you think, "I know the standard for getting in. I'm good!" You step up and instead of simply checking the tag on your pants, an angel pulls out a measuring tape and measures around your waist. "Size 10" he says. "I'm so sorry."
"WAIT! I'm size 6! I know I am! Check the tag, I thought I did what was required!"
The angel sadly explains that I should have checked The Standard. It specifically laid out what was required. "There are many false standards out there. Did you check the true standard? It says exactly how many inches a size 6 is." You hang your head in shame and bewilderment. "Uh...I just assumed. I mean, they were all the same in the store...I thought, I thought they were right. I guess I never read The Standard. They tricked me!"

....So of course this is totally made up. But the point is that we can trust NOTHING but The Standard. God's Word. He tells us everything we need to know. And The Standard NEVER CHANGES! Isn't that comforting!?! Isn't that amazing!?! Our God has spelled it out for us, and has promised never to change. His standards, His character, His love...yesterday, today, forever the same. But you have to know WHAT His standard is, WHO He is...its all right there in His Word. Awesome.

And then you trust. Trust what He promises...that even if you change, you sin, you mess up (aka you lose an "under-gunner" or two), He holds you in the palm of His hand and NOTHING can snatch you out. Nothing. Awesome.

You see, none of us measure up. None of us qualify on our own. We need Jesus. We need a Savior. And once you accept Him as your Savior, you will never lose Him. Its like He steps in and says, "Measure my waist instead. I'm the perfect size. I'll take her place."

I am so very thankful for a God who we can trust. Completely. Who doesn't change. No tricks. Just faithfulness. So if you don't know the standard, go read it! Check it out! Ask questions, find the answers. Know the standard, and live.

V-day and little boys...

So here comes Valentine's Day. A beloved holiday for many women...and I will admit--now that I am married and have a permanent Valentine--that I do enjoy the day. It was the day we got engaged. It was also the day I told my beloved that we were pregnant for the first time. There have been some that have passed by barely noticed, and others that are cherished moments in our marriage.

However...this year when my 5-year-old brought home a list of "things to do" in preparation for the big day at school, Valentine's Day started to bring a host of complications to my mind.

I'm not sure how I feel about my little guy making Valentine's for the little girls in his class. Harmless you might say...and probably so...but how much do I really want to bring this up on his radar screen right now? Hmmmm. I know, I know...its really about sweet treats and having a party at school and that is about it. We have to make a Valentine box to send to school so that everyone can deliver little notes and candy to each other. So (((sigh))) I will do everything on that list....but I'm going to make it as boyish and harmless and as far from the whole "boyfriend-girlfriend" epidemic as I possibly can.

So my wheels started turning, I dusted off my paints and paintbrushes, and here is my "very cool" (words from Brady) finished product for his Valentine Mailbox. ****No lace, hearts, or sweet lips here!**** (It was fun...not perfect, but fun. And now my little guy thinks his mom is the coolest....SO worth it!)

Really? Really.

He made me do it. For real.

My angel baby. No, really, he is. Really. Well....read on.

Parenting is humbling.

Today I picked up Luke from preschool. Today it was -15. Today I was bundled up in snow stuff. Today Jolee was bundled up too. Today I had my hands full before I even stepped outside.

I picked up Luke just like any other day. He ran up to me, gave me a hug and a big smile. Inside I thought, "Whew, he is in a good mood."

We gathered his stuff, and he said, "Mom, tell me to guess who is in the car." Uh oh. I knew where he was going with this. Yesterday my car didn't start so Papa drove me to pick up Luke. I had asked him to guess who was in the car. Today my car started. Today Papa was not in the car.

I held my breath for a second and then bit the bullet. I said, "Sorry Luke, Papa isn't in the car."

And then came the crying...and short little screams...and the throwing of himself on the floor. I tried to explain, to reason with him. What was I thinking? Reason with a tired 3-year-old? So I picked him up and tried to settle him. He wanted to be carried...with his backpack, and snow stuff, and Jolee in her car seat...well, lets just say my muscles were not feeling their normal super-momish strength today. (Oh, and by the way, this 3-year-old weighs nearly 40 lbs...60 if there is kicking and flailing involved.) So I picked up Jolee and all the stuff, grabbed his arm and half dragged him out of the classroom. Where he then threw himself on the floor and screamed.

Oh yes he did.

So I said I was going to the car and turned the corner. He followed at a snail pace screaming and yelling all the way. A few more feet to the door...I found myself sweating and thankful for each painfully loud step he took.

And then...

A teacher came down the hall. For half a second I felt a little hope...like maybe, just maybe she would say something to Luke and encourage him out the door. A little help? Please?

And then...

"Hey, kids are trying to learn here!" And she gave me an exasperated look that said loud and clear, "Please get your kid out of here you poor pathetic excuse for a mom." and she kept walking down the hall. I gave her a blank look...its all I could muster...managed to snag Luke's flailing arm and drag him out the first heavy door. Right then he screamed, "You are squeezing my head! Ohhhhhhh, you are squeezing me!" Another lady appeared, and again I thought, "Oh, a little help. Thank you so much for holding the..." Oh. Not only did she not hold the door, but she pushed her way past, looked at Luke, and then at me like, "Child abuser! What are you DOING to the poor sweet kid?!"

Really? Yes really. Sigh.

I guess the lesson I'm supposed to learn today is...parenting is humbling. I can go from a mountaintop high--full of pride for my little guy to the lowest valley--questioning why God would ever, EVER give me children when I am so unqualified. I suppose that is why I'm not supposed to get my self-worth, my self-esteem from how my children behave. I've got to let the bad roll off...pick myself up (hopefully after a nice long, uninterrupted nap) and try again. And pray again. And try again. And renew my confidence in the Lord, not in the performance of my sweet, sinful, angel babies.

After all, if I had wanted my child to throw an outrageous public fit I would have brought my branding iron and poked him all the way down the hall.