by Ashley Haupt | Jun 16, 2014
I think she is testing me.
It happened first in Braum’s ice cream store. I was standing with Abby, waiting on Tim to finish cleaning up the boys in the bathroom. Abby, standing eye-level with my waist, lifted up the corner of my shirt and touched that roll. All women know the roll I mean–the dreaded muffin top that plagues most of us–the section right around our middle that tends to expand when our weight creeps up.
“What’s this?” she asked, rather slyly. Notice I say “slyly” not “shyly.” I do think she was testing me, and as I have mentioned many times, we don’t get a script or a schedule as to when these parenting moments are coming.
But what I said next shocked both of us.
“That… Is my beautiful body.”
I’m not sure what shocked me more, that those words came out of my mouth, or to discover that I actually meant them. My roll happened to be comprised of an extra 10 pounds, although it could easily have been 20 or 30+, but it’s relative to each woman because let me be clear: I am not happy about those 10 pounds. And yes, chocolate chip cookies have something to do with it.
But in that (unscripted) moment, with my almost seven-year old bearing witness, I verbally affirmed the beauty of my own body, even with the extra weight still to lose.
I know Abby was shocked, too, because she said, “But isn’t it fat? Don’t you want to lose it?” (Did I mention Abby is a champion listener/eavesdropper?)
“Well, yes. But that doesn’t mean my body isn’t beautiful until I do lose it. It’s beautiful now. I do want to lose some weight, and I do need to do some exercise, but I still love my body right now, too. It’s amazing. It allows me to nurse Susanna and take care of you guys and do all the things I want to do.”
She nodded and dropped the subject, but I could tell she took note of my answer. And I suspect she is testing me for weaknesses (like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park) because she brought it up again a few weeks later.
This time it was in front of Tim, and she targeted that spare tire area again.
“What’s that?” she asked. Again, I gave the same answer only with slightly more sass, “That’s my beautiful body!”
“Whoa, you’re kind of fat!” She watched my face carefully.
“No, baby, I am not fat. I do want to lose some weight, and do some more exercise to get stronger, but I am not fat.”
She’s putting me to the test to see if that day at Braum’s was a fluke, if I really meant what I said. But while I take the test, she gets the grade. Because whatever I say about me is a direct correlation to what she thinks about herself. We can teach our daughters good body image, the wonders of how God made us and the miracles of what our bodies can do, but like so much else, they catch more than they learn; they imbibe our confidence or insecurity.
They hear you, Mama, if you talk badly about your body.
They hear you call yourself fat.
They hear you call yourself ugly.
They hear you lament the weight, the aging, the stretch marks.
This sounds like a guilt trip. It’s not.
I can easily imagine your response, Oh ten pounds! That’s nothing. Try saying it’s a beautiful body when you have 40, 50, 60+ pounds to lose.
But it is a beautiful body. God fashioned woman, like an artist, a sculptor, a master designer. The sheer combination of functionality and beauty of a woman’s body is beyond compare. Yes, there is sin, disease, infertility, brokenness, cancer. But we’ve got what we’ve got, ladies. And we might as well start loving it sooner rather than later, so our precious daughters can learn how to do that, too.
Abby will be tall; she loves to eat; she has a birthmark on her cheek, straight hair like me, and beautiful eyes. She didn’t choose any of that; it’s just what she’s got, and I don’t want her to ever be ashamed of who she is, how God made her.
How do I accomplish that? It starts with me not being ashamed of who I am.
The Bible says that kindness of the Lord leads us to repentance (Rom. 2:4). And maybe some kindness towards our bodies would be the first step to the positive changes we want to make. One thing is for sure: shame and guilt aren’t getting us anywhere fast. Grace says, I love you as you are, and when we get that on a deep level, we are more empowered to grow.
Let’s pursue health and confidence and strong bodies, but in the meantime, let’s give our daughters and our bodies some grace and call them what they are: beautiful.
by Ashley Haupt | Jun 9, 2014
We had to force her to go.
It was my brilliant idea to sign Abby up for a one week theater camp. Crafts, songs, dancing, acting – all with a fun mermaid theme. It sounded like something she’d love.
The only thing is, our little introvert does not love trying new things.
She promised to try the first day. But after a hectic drive trying to find the location without being late, and standing in a long line in the rain, her resolve started to melt. I could see it happening as she wilted against me, her courage disappearing faster than the dry patches of sidewalk. Her chin was working strangely, trying to fight the surfacing tears.
The registration guy wore a silly crab-hat to fit the theme. He escorted us down the hallway and showed us a basket containing a lanyard with her name printed on it. We deposited her Tinkerbell lunch box in the basket. Then he shooed us into a gym full of kids. Abby took one look at that situation, and the tears came; she hid her face in my side.
I sank down onto the dirty gym floor beside the other kids. Abby still trying to hide in my shirt while I awkwardly juggled Susanna, my purse, and an orange paper with Haupt printed on it for the pick-up line. “Hey,” I said to the long blonde hair wedged under my elbow, “It’s ok to cry. Just go ahead. I know you feel shy. It’ll be ok. There’s no shame in crying.”
Another mom dragged a crying girl in, angrily telling her to stop.
My mind raced. We’d already paid for the week. But I just wanted to take her home, hold her close, paint pictures together, and forget all about theater camp.
Other kids kept coming into the gym, spotting friends they knew and chatting happily. We didn’t know a single other person there. Abby’s face emerged from my side, tear streaked and peering around. I made a joke and elicited a small, watery smile.
I thought of Brene Brown’s research in Daring Greatly.
“Children with high levels of hopefulness have experience with adversity. They’ve been given the opportunity to struggle and in doing that they learn how to believe in themselves. Raising children who are hopeful and who have the courage to be vulnerable means stepping back and letting them experience disappointment, deal with conflict, learn how to assert themselves, and have the opportunity to fail. If we’re always following our children into the arena, hushing the critics, and assuring their victory, they’ll never learn that they have the ability to dare greatly on their own.”
Or, as the Bible puts it:
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:2-3).
I caught the eye of a sweet young teacher nearby. I untangled myself from Abby and inquired about the teacher of the six-year-olds, hoping it was her. She pointed out a large, curly-head man in the center of the gym who was cavorting around, trying to make kids laugh. Inwardly, I sighed. Abby had always been more shy around men. The young teacher retrieved the man, who came to talk to Abby and invited her over to where the six-year-olds were sitting.
She went with him, and I knew my part of the battle was over. If she had refused to go, I didn’t know what my next move would be. Parenting doesn’t include a script. Or directions.
I watched her sit down. She still wasn’t smiling. I stepped into the hallway, my heart still wringing. I knelt down, deposited Susanna on the floor, and dug around in my purse for paper. No paper. I had a Kohl’s gift card, so I pulled out the card and used the pink cardboard holder. I found a purple marker and wrote, “Abby, you are BRAVE. Love, Mommy”
I carefully put the card in her lunchbox, still sitting in the hallway. She’d get that little piece of encouragement at lunchtime, but she’d still have to make it until four. We’d pray her through. I left the school, and drove to Krispy Kreme and got a blueberry donut.
Later at dinnertime, we went around the table sharing the best part of our day and what we’re proud of for ourselves. When it was Abby’s turn, she said, “My best part of the day was sitting with my new friend at lunch, and I am proud of myself for practicing courage and going to camp today.”
Hallelujah and Amen.
“I can do everything through him who gives me strength” (Phil. 4:13).
by Ashley Haupt | May 22, 2014
No one wants to think about child victimization. As a mother of four kids and a hyper-sensitive person with a vivid imagination, me least of all. But it happens. Consider these sobering statistics:
- According to The Children’s Assessment Center, 500,000 babies will be born in the U.S. this year and abused before they reach the age of 18.
- Females are at a greater risk than males.
- Children are most vulnerable to sexual abuse between the ages of 7-13.
- 73 percent of child victims will not report the abuse for at least a year.
- 70 percent of all reported sexual abuse happens to youth 17 and under.
These facts summon fear in our hearts like a maelstrom. But let us be informed rather than afraid. Let us be proactive rather than frozen. Let us overcome our embarrassment and open the lines of communication with our smallest, most vulnerable family members. I have two suggestions for parents to help guard their children against silent suffering in sexual abuse. First, a tool.
The Swimsuit Lesson, written by a former police officer, detective, and father of six, is a powerful family resource to help parents gently educate their kids about sexual abuse. After prosecuting dozens of cases of child sexual assault cases, Jon Holsten has made it his goal through speaking and writing to help parents protect their children from sexual predators. He wrote this book to give parents a tangible way to talk to their kids.
In the story, two kids are swimming on a summer day, and their mother takes the opportunity to talk about the special parts of their body, covered by their suits. She tells them how no one should touch them there except parents or doctors, and if someone should try, they should always tell Mom and Dad. The story is engaging, not explicit, and light-hearted with lovely water-color pictures. I read it with my kids, and they asked some innocent questions. The atmosphere was light-hearted, but I felt that they understood the message. Their private parts are private, and no one has a right to touch them there, even in jest. We used the real terms for private parts so there was no confusion. You don’t have to buy this book to have this conversation with your child; you can have the conversation today. Make sure they know where they should not be touched (except by you or a doctor for bathing or medical checkups), and that if they are touched there, they tell you. That is crucial.
The second suggestion I have is this: Teach your kids about powerful words. In our family, we are talking about powerful words. The first powerful word I have taught the kids is Stop. If they say Stop to each other, whether in tickling or interrupting or hitting or whatever, we are teaching them it is a powerful word, and the person must stop. That goes for us, too. If we as parents are teasing or tickling them, even in silly ways, and one of our kids says Stop, we stop. We respect the power of the word. (Other powerful words include hate, love, and no.) If your child knows they can say Stop and No and that those words have power, it can also benefit them later in those tumultuous teen years when peer pressure abounds.
As uncomfortable as it is to think and talk about these issues, it ranks right up there with swim lessons and crossing the road safely; it’s something we as parents need to do.
by Ashley Haupt | May 12, 2014
The six of us sit in a rough circle on the living room floor with Isaac sort of more in the middle, because he’s two and he doesn’t get the circle thing. We’re eating Wendy’s cheeseburgers. The kids like their cheeseburgers plain like I do, reminding me how much more is caught than taught. But it makes for less mess. Someday they will figure out Mom likes her cheeseburgers bland and that’ll be a good day, too.
We don’t usually eat in the living room. But it’s been a long Sunday and the best thing about established structure in a home is the fun of abandoning it sometimes. The kids look at me expectantly as I put out the clear glass jar and my grandmother’s aqua blue decorative jar, now filled with glass beads. We call it “The Marble Jar,” which is a bit of a misnomer since we don’t actually use marbles, but I like it anyway. So, we begin.
“I want to give a marble to Benjamin because he said ‘thank you’ to me for the pizza yesterday in the middle of lunch.” Ben grins wide and chooses his favorite color of “marble.” It tinkles into the jar with a pleasant sound.
“I want to give one to Abby because she finished her AWANA book, and that was a lot of hard work.” Abby picks up a frosted stone and comments that these are her least favorite because they remind her of yucky Halls cough drops. She likes the clear blue ones the best. Tinkle, tinkle, the sound of chimes in the wind and positive reinforcement.
“Susanna gets a marble for sitting up on her own!” Abby declares. She puts a marble in the jar for Susanna and we all clap and cheer. Susanna startles at the clapping and looks around wide-eyed and smiling at the faces, drooling happily.
We continue on, giving one another praise and encouragement. The kids volunteer marbles for Tim and me, things we’ve done that matter to them, and I learn more in those moments about how they receive love than any conversations asking the same question.
We leave the marbles and move on to little life lessons, a story from the children’s bible, a few instructions on chores. In the end, we put our hands in the middle of our circle and cheer like a sport’s team, “Team Haupt!”
Later, I put the marbles back up on the shelf, and there’s just a small smattering in the bottom of the jar. We have a long way to go before the jar is full and we’re ready to celebrate the fullness. But we’re building trust, one marble at a time, and this happens over time. Filled too quickly and we don’t learn the precious, time-wrought value of it; too slowly and we get discouraged and lose heart. So we visit the jar daily, because it’s what we do daily that defines us.
Some days, we’ll ask the kids to praise each other, assign marbles to a sibling, and some days, we’ll ask them to praise themselves. Because it matters both how we love ourselves and how we love others. And some days, I will drop a marble in the jar for myself, when I’ve been brave, and tell the kids I am proud of myself. They need to see that, too.
This is the thing about life: it’s hard. There will be rainy days, sibling fights, messy meals, hurt words, accidents, spills, crying. But there will also be marbles in the jar, looking forward to a day of celebration. So it is in our spiritual walk. This is my favorite Bible verse, “…Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” Hebrews 12:1-2
How do we throw off the hindrances? When do we shake off the entanglements of sin? Daily. It’s not one big victorious battle, although sometimes I desperately wish it could be. It’s a daily fight, a daily race, a daily choice to strive after the joy set before us, keeping our eyes fixed on the author (He brought us to life) and perfecter (He’ll bring us to fulfillment) of our faith.
Every day is one marble in the jar closer to our reward. Let’s celebrate this messy, beautiful life and the people in it that we love so much. Let’s cheer them on in their race. One marble at a time.
by Ashley Haupt | Apr 9, 2014
I’m really just trying to stay alive.
Through writing. It’s this one little piece of me that’s free and available and makes me come alive and–
“Mom! This one is a diesel engine and this one is a STEAM engine! See? Mom? Mom?”
So I try to keep writing and thinking and exercising the one muscle that matters most to me for my entire life, my brain, and–
“Mom! Mom! Isaac took that train and I have this one and he was mad but he said it’s ok because he decided to SHARE! Isn’t that cool? Mom? Mom?”
So, writing is how I try to hold on to me and not be completely consumed by motherhood. I owe emails to at least two friends right now, and they are friends I really love and value and want to keep in touch with so–
“Mama I need dis. I need dis! I need dis! Can you get it fo me, Peeeeaaase!”
“Mom, can you pull up those things on the window?? I want to practice my bow and arrow.”
“Dat’s mah bankie, Mommy, dat’s MAH bankie!” two year old pulling fleece blanket off my shoulders. “I need dat thing. It’s MINE.”
A long string of snot is running down Isaac’s nose like a slug, so- “Ben! Go get a tissue, quick. No, not toilet paper, there’s a blue box of Kleenex on the counter. Quick, before Isaac wipes it with his fingers.”
Where was I? Email. Oh no, Susanna spit up on the floor. I better clean that before I forget. No, that’s right, I was going to email and I promised my friend I’d get to it today. Ok, I’ll put my empty coffee cup over the spot so I don’t forget where it was.
“Mommy watch my tain go. Mommy? Mommy? You watch my tain go, see? SEE MOMMY?”
Denuded of the blanket, sipping the last dreg of cold coffee, I survey the enormous octopus-like pile of clean laundry piled on the loveseat, sporting sock arms like tentacles in every direction. Do I have time to email? Yes. Yes, I said that I would.
I pull up my email inbox. A recipe for Lemon Poppyseed Muffins from a food blogger is waiting. Mmmm… muffins. Did I eat breakfast? The kids had scrambled eggs, but there wasn’t enough for me. Let’s see, I had coffee and water, I took my Zyrtec allergy meds… Did I actually eat anything? Maybe I could make this recipe today. Let’s see… nope. Too many ingredients, too many steps. Someday I’ll get back to baking those kind of recipes. Speaking of recipes, I never did make my meal plan for this week.
No, email, EMAIL. Isaac enters the room with an offensive smelling diaper and another slug of snot and I close the computer. Check the coffee pot. Empty.
Because sometimes mothering just feels like smothering. It would be all too easy to let the precious ones in my life snuff me out completely, until my identity is all Mommy. Two-year-old Isaac recently learned my name was Ashley. He puzzled over it, practiced the name several times, like it was a foreign language, then just decided to call me Mommy Haupt instead.
Friends remind me who I am; they pull me from all the chores and duties and responsibilities and remind me to dream, think, share, reflect.
I remember the email I promised. But I’m still hungry. I get hungry people something to eat, even if that hungry person is me.
Discarding the last thought of those muffins, I go to the kitchen and find a Tupperware container of cold brown rice in the fridge. I toss in a spoonful of sugar and sprinkle some cinnamon liberally over the brown grains. Microwave for 25 seconds. I grind some beans and make a fresh pot of coffee. Return to the computer with my rice and a hot cup.
I won’t disappear into the role. I love the role, I love my life, I love my kids, but I also love myself, the one God created me to be. And my kids don’t need just a mommy, they need a person who loves herself AND them. Someone who knows how to dream big, believe bigger, and love to the moon and back. I take a bite of rice, and it tastes like memories. My mom used to make me this rice for breakfast when I was the child, the one cared for and cooked for and cherished.
I’m still cherished. I just need reminding. Because sometimes, before I can find the desire to be like the Beloved, who is Christ, I have to BE the beloved. I turn on cartoons for the now-clean, snot-free, blanket wrapped Isaac.
And open my email with a smile.
This post is a part of a series called 12 Days of Spring and the Spirit. Visit here to read more.
