Necessary Pain

“I hate shots.”  My five-and-three-quarters year old daughter informs me, eyebrows raised, head to the side, all business.

“You know why we get them, right?”  I ask her, reminding her of our prior conversations.

“So I don’t get sick.  But I still hate them.”

“That’s okay,” I reassure her.  I don’t like them either.  We held each other and cried together the last time she got them.  A little silly, I know, unless you know a mommy’s heart and how we seem to feel their pain 10 times over what they themselves are experiencing. 

Would I save her from that pain?  From the briefest pinprick of a needle whose contents could save her life?  No.  No, I must allow that pain.


“It’s not fair!  PLEASE don’t take away my ponies!”  She’s in tears now - real tears, not the wonderful crocodile variety she’s learning to whip up. 

And truth be told, I’m close to tears myself.  I don’t want to take her precious friends away either – if nothing else than for the extra time and pleasure it affords me in seeing her tucked away in the little world of play she so delightfully weaves around herself.

But it’s a consequence of her disobedience.  She loses favorite toys.  She loses favorite activities.  She stands in the corner.  She is punished.  Do I enjoy this?  Nope.  Not. One. Bit.  It pains me.  It pains her.  It would be so much easier to just give in and not inflict this pain.

But I must allow it.


“They just wouldn’t talk to me, and I don’t know why.”  My five-and-three-quarters year old daughter’s genuinely puzzled words bite and sink into my heart like a blade.

It is the phrase I’ve been dreading, almost since finding out my darling little peanut was going to be a girl.

“Well,” I manage, heart racing, words failing, “if someone’s treating you that way, just go find another friend – or make one, make a new friend.”

“But she’s my best friend.”

“No,” I say quickly, “no, when someone is treating you that way, they are not being your friend.  We don’t treat people that way, especially friends.”

See, I not only live in fear that my daughter will be treated badly by other girls, I live in greater fear that my daughter will learn this treatment and then turn and use it on other girls.


Her name was Jenny and I just didn’t like her.  No, it wasn’t that I didn’t like her; I was just ambivalent about her.

“Hi Jessica!”  She’d unfailing greet me in the narrow hallway of our church. 

I’d march right on by.

Finally my mom took me aside.  “When someone says hi to you, Jessica, you need to say hi back.  It’s rude to ignore someone.  It’s unkind.” 

And so I started saying hi back.  Probably not very enthusiastically.  But I did it.  And Jenny was thrilled.  I can’t go on to say we became best friends or anything, but by going through the motions of kindness, I began to learn a valuable life lesson, a lesson that laid the foundation for my understanding of kindness, a foundation that was further built upon through the years when I myself would experience the unkindness of girls.  A sometimes bloodied foundation that would present me with a beautiful gift: empathy.

Of course, I was not perfect.  I have plenty of memories of myself indulging in unkind behavior, even in college.  And I’m sure there were even more times that I don’t recall when I did not exercise kindness towards a fellow girl. 

I have memories of being treated unkindly also.  Those are the memories that surface the most sharply - like ghost pains in a limb that isn’t there anymore. 

I naturally want to spare my daughter pain.  I want to swoop in and rescue her and make all the hurt go away.

But there is blessing in pain.  Growing pains.  Birth pains.  Pain that lets us know when something is not right.  Pain that serves as a reminder; a caution against things that might inflict it - like a vicious cycle.

As a young girl, the best lesson that taught me to be kind to others was when I felt the pain of a friend being unkind to me.  It’s sad, but true. 

Do I really want to “save” my daughter from this lesson?  This pain?

My emotional self pushes to the front screaming yes!  I see my daughter’s sweet little face and her happy expressions; I remember her as the little infant pixie that she was.  I remember the very first time she fell and hit her head and cried and cried.  I remember realizing I couldn’t make that pain go away, no matter how closely I held her and shushed her and cried my own tears.  I remember realizing there would be pain in her life that I couldn’t save her from.  And it cut me to my core.

I want to save my daughter from pain.  But even more do I want her to be able to save others from pain.  I want her to not be an inflictor of pain.  I want her to be a champion of those already in pain.  And my words, my urging alone will not teach her this lesson.  It’s one she has to learn herself.

So I left my little darling today, in a big, big room full of rows of chairs and unknown children.  I ignored that mother’s emotion screaming at me to stay and watch over her and make sure everyone treated her kindly – and make sure she treated everyone kindly.  Her little blue eyes followed my progress out the door; I waved once and blew her a kiss.  And left her to learn the lessons at hand.  And left her to the pain.

To sentence my daughter to a life without pain would mean causing her to become a shallow, selfish, one-dimensional little creature more prone to apathy than to empathy.  It would teach her that all pain is bad.  It would teach her to avoid anything that might cause pain, but it would go even further still – causing her to become afraid or suspicious of anything that may cause even discomfort: a new relationship, a marriage, schooling, a new job, even children of her own.  

To ensure my daughter’s life is completely painless will go very far towards making sure she never becomes the woman she can be.  To keep her from pain will very likely keep her from life.

I must allow it.

"Just Moms" Reading at Frogs & Pollywogs

My very first book reading!  What joy!  I am so blessed and honored to be counted among such lovely ladies and fabulous authors.

The reading was hosted by Frogs & Pollywogs in Albany, Oregon.  Frogs and Pollywogs is a wondrous little specialty toy store that delights both parents and kiddos alike.

I promise you - you will love wandering down the aisles of this sweet store!

Our reading was in "The Lily Pad" which is a loft area upstairs stocked generously with the specialty toys found for sale downstairs, but opened and waiting for kiddos to come play!

And play they did.  

Several of us brought our kidlets with and I imagine they had as good a time as we did!

Two of Jen Rouse's girls, Beth & Lucy

My Sweetheart and one of Cassie's girls, Desiree

One of Melanie's sons perusing the books and Lucy and Siennalee working at the work bench.

Dorcas Smucker kicked things off by reading a her chapter "Wealth Isn't in the Crayons" and then I was next with a summary of mine: "Choose to Be."

 Rebekah was next with hers: "Superhero Jesus" and Jen finished up with a tidbit of her story "Precious in God's Sight" and then a summary of a couple of her favorite chapters.

It was priceless to dialog with these ladies, to hear their takes on their favorite chapters, and to hear - once again - how very important we (and all) mommies are to each other.

We even had groupies there.  :)  Carlie Davis and Cassie Wicks drove up from Junction City just for our reading.  I was quite giddy to have friends there from my home church Christ's Center.  Kristin and Hannah, friends from my Covallis MOPS group (who also hail from Jen and Rebekah's church Grace City - Hannah is the pastor's wife), came as well.
Kristin's the head groupie.  

Word is she even got a "Just Moms" tattoo.  (But you didn't read that on MY blog...)

Top to bottom, clockwise: Carlie, Cassie, Hannah, and Kristin

Our youngest fan - Evie, Jen's youngest

And here are the two ladies who made it all happen: Melanie Springer Mock and Rebekah Schneiter:

And the local writers who attended the reading:

Left to right: Jen Rouse, Melanie Springer Mock, Dorcas Smucker, Rebekah Schneiter, and Jessica Kantola

And just to prove Just Moms isn't just for moms:

My wonderful (and hot) husband Jason also attended the reading.  He drove us up to Albany from Klamath Falls, listened to all of us ladies read and chatter, entertained and wrangled kidlets at large, and then drove us home again.  You're my hero, Love.

What a great day.  Fabulous job, everyone!  Thank you for all being part of such a rich memory.

Bad Lady

That's it.  I've had it.  I clean and reorganize and put away, repeat, and repeat again, and still - every single day following quiet time - the room in its toy entirety has turned into some kind of a mishmash between a crazed Pre-K fire sale and a (toy) Woodstock.

And it doesn't get put back - none of it.  Forget being put back even a little bit similar to the way it was found - no, it doesn't get put back at all.  Not at all.  Okay, if I stand there and become a skirted drill sergeant, then some of the toys might get put away.  Sort of.  But there's always too much yelling.  And too many tears.  And - we're one step closer to the neighbors calling social services.  (Okay, I'm joking about that last part.  Sort of.)

So today I had it.

I picked up the toys myself. 

But instead of putting them carefully back in the closet, in an only-the-way-a-mommy-will organized manner, in a way easiest to be taken out by sweet small hands and happily played with, I wickedly put the toys away in MY room.  (At this time, I won't go into how there really is no room at all in MY room for any kind of extra anything.  Because I've had it.  So into my room they go.  Like a strange assortment of adorable refugees.)

At first, Siennalee is wearing a small, happy smile.  Mommy is cleaning for her!  She won't have to pick up her awful mess after all.  Victory.  Then the awful truth dawns on her - assisted by me pointing out the details to the obvious, of course - the toys are not going to be accessible to her.  Not for a long while.

Her little brow furrows and she continues - painstakingly, infinitesimally - with her own little chore of re-folding (I'm inserting an expressive cough here) and putting away the clothes she has yanked out of her drawers, tried on, and discarded in a messy piles around the room.

"Mommie," she finally says to me, heavily, "you shouldn't take away my toys like this.  It- it feels like you are a bad lady." 

A poignant and mother-daughter-dramatic moment hushes over us both.

Now, the "bad guy" and the "bad lady" really are key players in our little world right now.  Siennalee is beginning to understand that not everyone in the big world around us is loving and kind and keeps the best intentions at heart.  She has been very impacted by the mere idea of the bad guy.  Sometimes she opts out of watching a show that might give too much attention to the bad guy.  But me, Mommie?  A bad lady?  Well, yeah, I guess so.  The villains on her kiddo shows are always doing dastardly deeds like pilfering toys and pocketing fluffy puppies. 

And now, Mommy is doing the same thing.

So when her little brow furrows now, I can tell she's really feeling this, not just saying it as any kind of jab or to get a reaction. 

"A bad lady?" I prod.

"Yes, a bad lady.  And," she adds, now with more feeling, "it's not fair."

I look down at her.  She looks back up at me with the quizzical, contemplative look of a four-year-old really thinking life out.

Not only am I a Bad Lady.  But it's not fair.

I choke back the laugh elbowing its way out of my throat and I lean down to the same level as her little face - "It's not fair?"

"No.  It's not fair."

"Do you think, Sweetheart, that it's fair for a mommy to work very hard all day to take care of her sweetheart, to feed her and play with her sweetheart, then to have to spend the rest of the day again cleaning up all the toys that her sweetheart played with - not the mommy played with - that the sweetheart played with and junked?"

She became thoughtful, "No."  Then she added, "but you still shouldn't take away my toys."

So hello, era of "Not Fair."  I, the Bad Lady, will see your bet - and raise you a pile of unorganized toys.

Update: the toys and some books are still refugees in my room (aka, the Motherland), but they now have hope of returning to the homeland (aka, the Sweetheartland).  Siennalee is slowly "earning" the right to free a toy by doing small "clean-up" tasks through the day.  And just this morning, she cleaned up several puzzles - a daunting task - all by herself and thus earned back two toys to keep her company during today's quiet time.  As I type this, I have yet to again be referred to as a Bad Lady, but Siennalee did find my sketch above to be quite apropos.

Crushing the Serpent's Head

When I found out the squirmy little kicker I was carrying in my belly was a girl, and not the boy I'd (for whatever reason) anticipated, I was shocked. Okay, not so much shocked as unidentifiably anxious. And this was disquieting. I’d very much looked forward to having my first baby, boy or girl. So why this strange anxiety? Was I that disappointed to not have a boy?  


I dealt with the odd feelings quietly, feeling a bit like I was betraying some sacred maternal trust.  Hoping the tiny she-person in my tummy couldn’t feel my conflicting emotions.  Doing my best to make sure nobody sniffed out what felt like a deep, dark secret.

And then things slowly began to lighten, the shadows of unidentified emotions melted away, and I began to understand what was happening inside me.

For the known generations past, the fathers of my father's line have abandoned their children and their wives and gone on to pursue whatever pull was strongest. I guess my own father just expected that was the way it would all eventually go down.  He didn’t put up much of a fight.  My mother knew life could be different.  She knew the power of just making a choice - and she fought her hardest to keep him with us - but in the end, she had to let him go. And thus I gained the dubious notoriety of being one more of the daughters from my father's line who have been left fatherless.

And here I was, the fatherless daughter, having a daughter. 

I had one of those life moments, earlier in life, when my brother Paul and his wife were having their first little girl. I’ll tear up every time I think back to that first moment of understanding; when I realized that Paul, my dear little brother, would be the first to break our family’s fatherless cycle; the first to crush the serpent of destruction and abandonment that so long has stalked our family line.

And the light in my understanding grew brighter: suddenly it was my turn.

Thankfully, not too long before I met Jason, I'd discarded my own romantic choices and with heartfelt honestly asked God to assist me with choosing a husband. Faithfully, God listened and along with other wonderful male friendships, into my life came Jason. Steady, sure, strong Jason who never, ever backs down from the tough slopes of life. And behind him a family dedicated to God and each other. I knew I'd found the father for my yet-to-be children.



So here we are, four-plus years later. My little daughter is growing and blossoming. She will never know the long, painful hours of waiting endlessly and in vain for a daddy to come home - or even just to visit.  She won't ever taste the breaking disappointment of realizing there are things more beloved, more important than her precious little self. She'll only know the secure love and embrace of a family with roots deep in God's all-encompassing love and power of redemption. 

And as each year passes, I feel my heel grind down upon the serpent's head.