Sexy Back

                Last Saturday my husband decided it was time for a date night. I looked forward to going out with him all day.  There are so few moments between a husband and wife with small children that aren’t interrupted by someone needing a drink, or a snack, or needing something wiped that I honestly felt giddy at the prospect of going out…after dark…to a place with no children’s menu.

                It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of the dating scene, but I do remember that getting ready for the evening was a significant part of this ritual.  Perfect hair, fresh make-up, cute outfit, perfectly accented accessories, coordinated bag, and oh-no-you-didn’t shoes.  I began strategically planning in my mind…I was going to do it…I was bringing  sexy back.  Unfortunately, what Mr. Timberlake seems to have left out of his painfully inappropriate lyrics is that bringing sexy back is a lot harder than it used to be…

                You see, what kept me from bringing sexy back was my lack of planning for the very thing that stole my sexy in the first place. In my earlier years, I never had to calculate the time (read life) that three small children suck out of you. I never planned for the witching hour.  (You know, that inevitable meltdown by one if not all of your children at the exact moment you’re burning whatever is on the stove.) Speaking of burning something on the stove, I never had to plan ahead to feed the kids before we left…and write down every number I can think of because if me or my husband or the restaurant or the three emergency contacts or 911 don’t answer, the babysitter can call my college roommate’s ex-boyfriend’s grandma to help in the case of an emergency.  I never had to attempt to get all three kids bathed and in pajamas.  And can one ever  really plan for the child who refuses to wear pajamas after spending an eternity looking for the Ninja Turtle footie pajamas he HAD to wear?  In case you were wondering…he was hot. Or what about the other one who is too busy smiling at herself in the mirror to hear you ask her to PLEASE go get her pajamas for the 852^nd time.  And the baby, do you hear him screaming because he must eat…NOW!  Because when your three months old and you weigh in at the 100^th percentile, milk is clearly a very precious commodity.  My former, sexier self would never have had to plan for all that.

                By the time I finished with the kids, I had about 30 minutes to get ready before the babysitter arrived.  Not a problem. After all, motherhood may have robbed me of a lot of things, but it also taught me the art of primping on a time limit.  My hair wasn’t styled as planned, but a ponytail can be sexy, right?  I knew Jarod would never notice if I just slapped another coat of make-up over the one I’d worn that morning…or maybe it was leftover from the day before, who can keep track?  My cute outfit ended up being jeans that fit somewhere on the spectrum of My Underwear Won’t Peek Out the Top and Full Blown Mom Jeans that somehow ended up with spit up on them. Sexy, right?  I even topped it all off with practical shoes that showed off my perfectly un-manicured toes.  I forgot earrings and I initially grabbed the diaper bag, but thought better of it and grabbed the first purse I could find buried in the back of my closet.

                As we were walking out the door, I felt a little defeated.  I knew when I planned to bring my sexy back that I wouldn’t be able to obtain an exact replica of my former dating glory, but I had hoped it would at least resemble it.  But here I was, looking just like an unsexy mom, the kind of unsexy mom I swore I would never be.  I felt like calling it all off and just asking if we could eat cookie dough in bed and pick out another Netflix movie.  My husband reached over, grabbed my hand, and said, “You look great tonight.  I’m so lucky to have such a sexy wife.” 

                It was in that moment that I realized that even though motherhood has left my body with less perk and a lot of sag, for my husband, my sexy never left.  While I’m sure he wouldn’t complain if my body miraculously appeared as it did when I was 19, my body isn’t what captivated him.  My husband is captivated by me, by my commitment to my relationship with God and our marriage, by my service to our family…and I’d like to think my puke-covered-semi-mom jeans helped too.  So even if I can’t be restored to my former self, maybe I got my sexy back after all…

 

 

Stevie Wonder Identity Crisis

      I was recently faced with the challenge to find a picture of myself before motherhood and then was asked to consider who this girl was.  What were hopes and dreams, her aspirations?  I laughed looking at a picture of this thin, young girl all dressed up, ready for her senior homecoming.  And while that opinionated girl came off as fairly confident and a girl who “had her head on straight”, she only had vague notions of the future; she had no idea who she was or what she wanted from life.

Good ol' church camp...and slightly cropped top...
2004 really did rock, didn't it?

      So here I sit 10 years later still unsure of who this girl is.  I’ll be honest right now in telling you the “Christian” response to this question of my identity really held little weight in my life.  You know, the youth group answer that says, “your identity is found in Christ”.  For as long as I’ve been a Christian, nearly my entire life, I can honestly say I had no grasp on what that truly meant.  Maybe I missed that week in Sunday school or maybe I was too busy attempting to flirt with some cute boy at church camp that day, but somehow I missed it.

So here I sit 10 years later and am once again struggling with who I am…

For as long as I can remember, I have lived up to the label given me.  For instance, my parents said I was a “good girl”, so I strived to be a good girl.  My teacher said I was a “gifted student”, so I did my best to perfect my academics.  For me, these labels were fantastic motivators to always do better and strive to do my best, but they also became what I used to define who I am.  And let me tell you something…I’m exhausted, ya’ll!  (I added the southern accent for emphasis.) 

In the last 10 years, my labels have been changed so frequently and rapidly that I can hardly figure out what standard I’m living by anymore. I’ve gone from cheerleader to high school graduate, undecided to education major, honor student to college graduate, student to teacher…single to girlfriend, engaged to married, wife to mommy of one, no two, whoops…three kids, mom to stay at home mom, Nebraskan to…well, let’s not get carried away here. J  You see what I mean though?  I’m tired.  I can’t keep up…

The problem with my current evaluation system, my current standard of knowing who I am is that my standard is constantly changing.  It’s hard to meet an expectation that’s there one day and gone the next.  What’s more is that I often can’t live up to the standards that I’ve set for myself.  My identity in being a loving wife is abdicated when I snap at my husband for being late or not immediately doing what I’ve asked him to do.  My role as caring mother is terminated when I impatiently respond to a tantrum or am too tired to read that book for the 82^nd time this week.  I fail to live up to my own expectations and then what?

Well then I’m left sitting here contemplating who I really am.  I failed to live up to the standard of loving wife, so I guess I’m not a loving wife.  I’ve failed at being caring mom, so I’m not a caring mom.  I’ve failed to be a loyal friend, talented homemaker, and so on and so on. I’m forced again to face the reality…I don’t know who I am.  So, I read a book or blog or compare myself to the “perfect” woman of the week and resolve to live up to this new set of standards that will surely define me.  It’s an endless cycle…one I’m ready to break.

I had to face the question before me—who am I when all of these things are stripped away?  If all of these things are just pieces and jobs and priorities I’ve held…who am I?

I decided to revisit the old Sunday school standby.  If the Sunday school answer is always Jesus, this time didn’t prove any different.  My identity is found in Christ.  He set the standard I should strive for, the expectations I really need to meet.  Sure, he’s given me the role of wife, mom, friend…but he’s also given me guidelines for those jobs and he also knows these roles will change over time.  Which is why my true identity, who I am at the core of my being cannot be defined by my busyness or my to-do lists or my earthly relationships.  My true identity lies in who he created me to be. 2 Corinthians 1:21 says, “Now it is God who makes both us and you stand firm in Christ.  He anointed us, set his seal of ownership on us, and put his Spirit in our hearts as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come.”  I am established, anointed, and sealed by God.  This verse resonated in my soul (and also had me singing Stevie Wonder’s song Sign, Sealed, Delivered…).  It gave me assurance and hope that God has put his name on me, his seal, his approval.  Everything he intends for me to be is ultimately found in who Christ is.  And because he has given me his Spirit, I am capable of reaching that standard. 

The good news is that even when I fail, or forget who defines me, my failure doesn’t send me into a tail spin.  I recollect myself and set my eyes back on the one standard that will not change.  Furthermore, the “deposit” part of that verse gives me hope and helps me to remember that this life isn’t it…there is glory yet to come!

I am thankful that my identity is in Christ, the one who stays the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow…and I’m also thankful that I don’t suffer from the bi-monthly identity crisis I faced in high school.  Hallelujah, praise God that I no longer have to decide between a crop top and flare jeans or crop top and wide legged jeans…