It's been your usual week in the Martin house: late nights, early mornings, death threats.

In other words, Vacation Bible School.

Seriously, whoever came up with the words "Vacation Bible School" was not thinking of the teachers. By day three, one glance around the cafeteria told me these adults would love to be in one place: anywhere but here.

And you thought I was kidding about the death threats. Oh no. There were fifth graders standing on tables yelling words that should not be whispered inside of church walls. This shouting was due to the fact that I refused to tell the end of a suspenseful story, but instead dragged it out over a period of four days.

(There were adults taking prescription sleeping pills because my "story time" left them with nightmares; others were googling the story to see if the main character would live through the end of the week.)

So all in all, I think it was a successful week. Children cursed in church and uniformed men laid awake at night.

Now I need a real vacation.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

The Helper

I'm pretty sure when Jesus said He would send a "helper" to always be with me, He wasn't referring to my 9-month-old. And yet--she is always with me. Unfolding. Unloading. Undoing. Helping.

At least her knees make a great dust mop.

Kids aren't convenient. And yet, in the age of birth-control, my mom still had three. (Kids--not condoms.)

And I'm glad about that. I'm glad she spent so many years refolding.
Reloading. Redoing. And while it sounds selfish to say that, it's not so much the work she did--but the fact that she was there.

When I stumbled and fell, she was there.

When I sounded out words, she was there.

When I brought home my first A, she was there.

When I had mind-numbing seizures, she was there.

When I walked down the aisle, she was there.

When I graduated from college, she was there.

When I gave birth to my daughter, she was there.

When I got my first book contract, she was there.

And now, more than ever, I want her to know: I want to be there.
As I watch her struggle with chronic pain and difficult treatments, I feel somewhat like that 9-month-old-- "helping".

What do you say to the strongest woman you know? What can you do for the person who gave birth with no anesthetic and walked through life with even less? She felt my pain so many times, and I would do anything to take hers.

And so, at the risk of breaching her privacy (hey--I wrote about condoms--how much worse can it get?), I do the only thing my childish mind believes will "help". I ask you to pray for my mom.

Because the woman who has helped so many would never ask for that help herself.

The Man I Love

“Can you take her for a few hours?”

2 a.m. Pitch black. I tried to steady my voice, but somehow he still knew…

“You okay?” his gentle hand brushed my shoulder.

I thrust the baby into his arms and began to sob.

“I… just… would… do… anything… if… she… would… stop… crying…”

“It’s okay, Baby… it’s okay…”

Two weeping girls—one very brave man.

How many times he paced the floor during those first four months. How many times I dozed off to the sound of his feet, gentle thuds circling through the kitchen, dining room, living room. How many times I opened one eye to find dad and daughter asleep, he on the couch and she in the only place she could rest—on his chest.

His coworkers told him to quit spoiling me. “Let your wife get on the baby’s schedule,” they said.

They’d never experienced a child with colic.

One who refused to sleep for 12 hours straight and screamed like clockwork for at least 4 of those hours. One who could not be comforted no matter how much bouncing, pacing, swaddling, swinging, shhhhhhshing we tried. One who refused to find solace except in one place—her daddy’s arms.

I knew how the tiny human felt. The first time this man held me, I knew I was home. In an instant everything was going to be okay.

This man, this strong, gentle man, is turning another year older today. What a year it has been. His 28^th year of life, and his 5th year in my life.

For all the ways his arms have opened wide, I am grateful. For all the ways he has run into my arms, I am grateful. This man knows both how to give and to receive—a deep well of love that spills over into our daughter’s life every single day.

In the dark, through the tears, and in the special moments of the past year...

I am grateful. Happy Birthday to the man I love.

In Defense of My Pajamas

Written as a counter-opinion during writers group after someone bashed the wearing of pajamas to Wal-Mart...


It's no secret that I spent most of my teenage years fighting chronic illness. The reason everyone knows this is because I never stop whining about it.  But as anyone who has experienced illness knows, there are some positive things about it, one of which is the fact that... well... I'm sure there's something.

Oh. Prioritizing. That's it.

When you only have enough energy to do say, four things during one day, you realize you have to pick and choose. This is what prompted my brother to come home from school one day, glare at my homeschooling self, and declare to my pajama-clad body, " I see you are wearing your school uniform."

It's been ten years since that day and seven years since I've been mostly healthy. But I still slip into that pajama-clad mindset every now and then. I do find my attire on those days produces judgmental stares from people in Wal-mart (i.e. my mother) who think I'm just slacking, but the truth is, I really do work best in soft cotton pants with monkeys on them.

It took my husband a while to get used to this mentality, but now when he comes home and I'm still in my pajamas, he knows it's been a great day. The house is spotless, the baby is bathed, fed, and diapered (which is more than I can say for myself), and I've written three chapters for the book.

Really... just think what everyone could do if they just saved time and wore their school uniforms.

My Breakup with Sugar: I Triple Dog Dare You

The goal of this blog is to tell the Bare Naked Truth. Whether it’s pretty or not. And today it’s not pretty: I’m breaking up with sugar.

For good.

Source: Microsoft clip art

(Or… for six months. Which is pretty much the same thing, right?)

Some of you are laughing right now. (Like my sister. Stop. I really can do this.)

Consider yourself the Sugar Mafia. You can now harass me via comments and threats of physical harm. (As long as you don’t follow through.)

SO… Why this BRUTAL BREAKUP with one of my favorite things?

I want more than anything to get healthy.

Here is what my white cells are supposed to look like:

Source: Wikipedia

And here is what they currently look like (for the past three months—extremely elevated):

Source: Wikipedia

Symptoms of this eosinophil elevation include fatigue and joint pain. I don’t know that cutting sugar will solve the cell issue, but I’m trusting it will alleviate if not eliminate my symptoms.

SO WHAT ABOUT YOU?

WANT TO LOSE WEIGHT?

WANT MORE ENERGY?

WANT TO MAKE YOUR BODY MORE EFFICIENT?

I dare you. Join me in this sugar-bust. You don’t have to do six months. Pick a number… one month… two weeks… anything over three days counts.

Tell me in the comments what you want to do. I dare you!

The Rules:

• No desserts. Period. Sugary or sugar free.
• Limited sugar substitutions. No more than one or two servings of sugar replacements (i.e.— in your coffee—a day. Most substitutes are filled with crappy chemicals we should all stay away from anyway.)
•  A little sugar in sauces, etc., is allowed if not excessive.
• Carbs are allowed. The main goal is to cut excess sugar like those found in desserts, sodas, etc.

Are you in? I triple-dog-dare you. (Leave a comment!)

Do What You Want!

Since having a child, I have discovered books are multi-purpose:

You can drool on them. You can tear them. You can cry on them when your mom makes you do a photo shoot in the book basket.

I cannot help but think as I edit my beloved manuscript, how abused is this book gonna be? Are my grandkids gonna sit on it? Is the front cover gonna be ripped to shreds?

And ya know, I don't care. It's going to happen. Some people are going to hate this book. They're going to criticize it. They may even have a bonfire because they won't agree with my point-of-view that girls are valuable and should take ownership of their own bodies.

But hey. I'm writing this book for my daughter. And myself. And all the girls out there who crave a positive message about themselves.

And if you wanna cry about it, shred it, burn it, drool on it -- I don't care. Just make sure you buy about 10,000 copies in order to make your statement.

Happy Easter

5x7 Folded Card

View the entire collection of cards.

The post in which I confess I have it all together.

I came into our bedroom the other day to find the Tiny Human in her over-sized purple pants (a.k.a. Mommy Hasn't Done Laundry Outfit) rubbing her daddy's face and squealing.

Apparently she's not used to him shaving it.

I joke when I say we've all been putting off our basic hygienic needs while this writer-mom recovered from whatever-the-crud-is-that-made-her-white-cells-breed-like-bunnies. But I am feeling much better and more caffeinated and like I can take on the world. Or at least the last few pages of the rough draft of The Bare Naked Truth About Waiting.

Then it's off to the nerve-wracking phase of letting my fabulous editing team tear it to pieces before reaching the very capable hands of my editor at Zondervan.

In the meantime, this kid finds ways to entertain herself. No, I didn't do this to her.  I think she was bored.

And no, the outfit is not a result of more laundry issues. Or maybe it is. I'm storing this photo as my desktop background... just in case I'm ever tempted to believe I have it all together.

Secrets

She walked past me last night. I could see it in her eyes. The little girl I used to be.
Secrets. Her eyes held secrets. Things she could admit to no one, least of all herself.
Read the rest at RTF.

Is it a Bird?

"I'm pretty sure you can see the coast of Africa on my shirt."
Thanks to the Tiny Human...