Trophy Mom

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Trophy Mom

I am a Trophy Mom, which is less cool than a Trophy Wife (a title I relinquished long ago mainly because it was never bestowed upon me). Trophy Moms like me are not trophies themselves but rather the ridiculous and indiscriminate distributor of trophies to other people, particularly their children. I realized today that it takes nearly NOTHING to impress me. My kids stepped five inches into their new Parents’ Day Out, and I exclaimed, “I’m so proud of you!” and meant it wholeheartedly. When I was waiting to pick them up, I turned into an actual beam of light because I was so overwhelmed with pride that my babies went to school, a.k.a., did nothing special. I mean, I have been tap dancing ever since I picked them up. I actually think my face is not longer a face but a giant banner that says HOORAY. We came home and ate popcorn and I ceremoniously placed Olympic medals around their necks while singing the National Anthem and sobbing over the pictures they colored of apples.

Can you imagine what will happen if my children end up actually being good at anything?

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Sundays

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Sundays

I recently had the opportunity to attend a Sunday morning service at the church where I grew up, something I haven't been able to do since I was 22, when my husband was an seminary intern there. There was something precious about the familiarity of the drive and the direction of the sunlight, the fact that the childcare worker in Adelaide's room knew exactly who I belonged to, and she shed a tear over the memory of my grandmother, Addie Mae, who taught five-year-old Sunday School at that same church for 55 years. How grateful I am for the welcome reminder of the faithfulness I inherited, for the legacy she spotted in my eyes and in a bouncing three-year-old girl in a twirly blue dress.

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Quiet Schedule

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Here’s a thought that, for me, was revolutionary: Jesus doesn’t want your hustle. He wants your trust.

Cue brain explosions.

I am a person who has always had a loud schedule. I don’t like to say no or disappoint people, and I like to be viewed as reliable, productive, and efficient. I am an expectations-meeter, and my calendar has always been dictated by other people. My insides may whisper, “Say ‘no!’ This is too much!” but my default response is to squelch that little weakling, make her buckle down and get to work. My desire to outrun any possible accusations of “lazy” or “flaky” have led me to the verge of complete panic approximately a zillion times in my life. The pages of the planners I’ve owned have practically hemorrhaged inky scribbles and sticky notes, my colorful attempt to wrangle my life into order, to please everyone, to get everything done. It’s a shrill, neon scream: “THERE IS SO MUCH TO DO.”

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Quiet Beauty

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Quiet Beauty

One of my favorite movie lines is from that old Jim Carrey movie Liar Liar. Carrey’s character Fletcher is talking with his son, who says, “My teacher tells me beauty is on the inside,” and Fletcher replies, “That's just something ugly people say.” 

I’m not proud that I laugh hysterically every time, but I do. In our culture, “inner beauty” does kind of sound like the Tooth Fairy of traits—totally made up but leaves you a dollar’s worth of happiness here and there. Of course a dollar doesn’t buy much.

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