Do you remember Charlie Brown’s best friend, Linus? He was that philosophical kid that dragged his security blanket around wherever he went. I used to think he was weird. Then I had kids – and I learned that it’s actually pretty common for little ones to latch onto something special for comfort. In fact, all three of my girls had something like that.

Taylor chose her own special item when she was almost two: a soft baby doll at a gift shop in Wisconsin Dells. She named her “Baby.” Taylor took Baby everywhere – until one tragic day when she lost her. Taylor was heartbroken. We searched for days, but Baby was nowhere to be found. So I did what any pushover mom would do. I called the gift shop, described the doll and had them send me another. Of course by the time Baby #2 arrived, we had found Baby #1. But when I suggested we pack one baby away to keep as a spare, Taylor wouldn’t hear of it. After all, she now had twins. She was horrified at the thought of packing one away.

And then there was Madison. That girl had stacks of stuffed animals, handmade teddy bears from Build-A-Bear, adorable blankets from Pottery Barn, and a number of cuddly-soft dolls. But none of those meager trinkets appealed to Madison. Instead, she chose to sleep with one of my ragged, old t-shirts. Each night she’d bury her face in that shirt and say, “It smells like you, Mama.” Lovely, I thought. I smell like a ratty, stained t-shirt. Madison affectionately called it “Shirty,” and it meant the world to her.

It seems silly, doesn't it? The things kids latch onto for comfort. But I wonder, am I really so different? What do I turn to for comfort?

When I’m stressed, I want a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup milkshake. When I’m bored, I spend too much time on Facebook. When I’m depressed, I shop for the perfect outfit.

There’s nothing wrong with any of that, but there is something better. God promises us an everlasting comfort that’s worth more than anything this world can offer. 

“As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you …” Isaiah 66:13 

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Psalm 46:1

“You who have made me see many troubles and calamities will revive me again; from the depths of the earth you will bring me up again. You will increase my greatness and comfort me again.” Psalms 71:20-21

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff – they comfort me.” Psalm 23:4

“When the cares of my heart are many, your consolations cheer my soul.” Psalm 94:19

From life’s minor annoyances to our darkest moments, God promises to comfort us. My little ones held on tightly to those treasured items they loved. And do you know what? I want to hold onto God like that. As I go about my days, I want Him right beside me. Through good times and bad, I need the comfort of God. 

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Hi everyone,

Today I'm sharing a post I recently wrote for the Quad City Moms Blog. It's a topic that's near and dear to my heart, because (at one time or another) all three of my girls have struggled with it: a negative body image. 

Click on over and check it out. I'm sharing some personal experiences - as well as offering some tips for raising daughters to have a healthy body image. 

Click here: http://bit.ly/1xKWGpt

Thanks and have a great week!

Sheri

It was just an ordinary spring day in 1952. Like many times before, my grandmother sipped her morning coffee and skimmed through the Reynolds, Illinois grocery store flyer. A frugal farmer’s wife, she prided herself on finding the best deals for her family. 

But on that day, something in the weekly ad got her attention. Two simple words, “Color Contest” jumped into my grandmother’s line of vision. Her eyes glanced to the subtitle, “Free Bicycle.” Grandma read on with interest. 

Color this ad to the best of your ability. To the boy or girl turning in the winning entry, we will give absolutely FREE one FIRESTONE CRUISER BICYCLE. Contest is open to boys and girls 14 years of age and under.  

What a generous offer from a little country store!

In 1952, everyone knew my (then) ten-year-old mom’s preferred mode-of-transportation was her beloved pony, Cricket. But when Grandma showed Mom the tempting offer, Mom eagerly agreed. After all, what kid wouldn’t like to win a brand-new bicycle?

Grandma grabbed her purse and drove to Reynolds Market. She returned with a bag full of groceries, several copies of the store’s ad, and the biggest box of crayons my mom had ever seen.

Mom arranged the coloring sheets across the kitchen table, while Grandma carefully emptied the contents of the brown paper bag. 

One can of grapefruit, one can of tomato juice, one fruit cocktail, a can of peas, one pork-and-beans … 

Grandma had purchased one can of every item shown in the ad!  

“Now match the colors on the labels as best you can,” she instructed my mom. 

Mom spent the next several days laboring over that ad. She experimented with various colors, and attempted to match every item perfectly. She worked hard to stay inside the lines. But each time Mom presented her efforts to Grandma, Grandma shook her head. “I'll bet you can do better than that.” So each time Mom sauntered back to the box of crayons and began once again. 

Finally, when Grandma was satisfied, she placed the coloring sheet on her wooden ironing board. Then, covering the ad with a sheet of wax paper, she carefully pressed it with a warm iron, smoothing it out to make the colors shine.

My mom still remembers the day she learned she was the winner of a brand-new bicycle.  

“I heard the phone ring while I was sick in bed with the flu,” she says. “Grandma thought we should go get the bike right away, but I was in no shape to ride a bike that day.” 

Mom laughs whenever she tells the story of the coloring contest. I smile too, amused at how a simple coloring contest exposed such grit and determination in my typically gracious and mild-mannered grandmother. 

There’s a rugged old barn at my grandparent’s farm filled with seventy years worth of odds and ends. Bits and pieces of leftover remnants from my grandparents’ lifetime together. And every remnant has a story. 

Sometimes I wonder if there’s a firestone bicycle somewhere in that barn. I suppose it doesn't matter. That rusted-out bike isn't worth much today. Anyway, it’s the stories I treasure. 

My daughters know the story of Grandma and the coloring contest held way back in 1952. They've seen the picture of their ten-year-old grandmother standing proudly with her new bike. 

They've cradled the flimsy newspaper ad in their hands and admired Grandma’s skillful handiwork. Though the ad is tattered from nearly sixty years of storage, it’s still a wonderful reminder of a simple story from an ordinary day in my family's history. 

I believe it’s a story worth preserving, because every time I tell it, I am thankful for my determined grandmother, my hard-working mom, and the valuable stories they've passed down to me.

I remember when I found out I was expecting my first child. I spent the following months reading every book I could find on becoming a mom. There were books about "what to expect" during pregnancy and childbirth. Books that explained how to care for a newborn. I even read books that described how my body would change after having the baby. But there’s one thing those books never warned me about: what motherhood would do to my brain.

At first, I thought it was temporary. I'm sleep-deprived, I told myself. Everything will go back to normal once she starts sleeping through the night. That was my hope anyway.

Sixteen years later I now know the truth. Not only did my brain NOT return to “normal,” but it has grown progressively worse. Here’s how I know: 

• I experience panic attacks, anxiety and paranoia. 
  Let’s begin with paranoia, shall we? Here’s an example from earlier years: The girls are happily playing in another room while I work in my office. Suddenly it’s quiet. Too quiet. And that eerie silence can only mean one thing. They’re up to no good. Something bad is about to happen! 
  
  Then there’s anxiety. Anxiety is usually triggered by difficult questions I’d rather not answer. For example, “How does Santa leave us presents when we don’t have a fireplace?” or “How did the baby get into her tummy?” or (while pointing and “whispering” loudly) “Why is that lady so fat?” 
  
  And finally, panic. As a mom, I've had many frightening moments. These moments go way back to the first time Emily slept through the night. I woke up at 5 AM and raced to her bedside, making sure she was still breathing. Today I experience similar feelings of panic when I buckle myself into the passenger seat while my “baby girl” sits behind the wheel. 
  
  
• I suffer from amnesia – both long-term and short-term. 
  I used to pride myself on remembering every detail of my daughters’ births. Now all three events have blurred together. 
  
  “Let’s see,” I’ll say with confidence, “I know that Taylor was born at 8:42 AM.”
  Curt shakes his head. “No, that was Madison.” 
  “Oh. I thought Madison was born at 1:14 PM.” 
  “No, that was Emily.” 
  
  Okay whatever. That’s what baby books are for.
  
  

So, after all these examples you might wonder, what’s her point? Is she suggesting that motherhood causes brain damage?

Absolutely not.

Is she saying that kids can literally drive us crazy?

Heavens no.

But one can’t deny that something happens to the brain after becoming a mom. I’ll let you make your own conclusions because I need to go. Its way too quiet upstairs and I’ve got a roast to put in the crock pot.

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