Sometimes husbands know just what to say ... "Of course you're not fat." 

Other times, not so much ... "What's the matter with your hair?"

Saying the right thing can take you far in a marriage. I should know. I still remember something Curt said sixteen years ago. It was just a little comment, but it meant the world to me ...

It was a week before we had our first baby. I had finally checked everything off my “Things to Do Before the Baby Comes” checklist. 

The baby’s room was adorable, and all the little outfits were washed and neatly folded. Check.

I’d read every book I could find on labor and childbirth. Check.

My hospital bag was packed, and we finally agreed on the perfect name. Major check.

Then one night I looked Curt in the eye - and panicked. “I'm not sure I want to have this baby.” 

As if I had a choice. 

Don't get me wrong, I was more than ready to bring this little person into the world. What bothered me was how I must bring this little person into the world!  

When it came to labor, I didn't know what to expect. But I knew one thing. Allowing my husband to see me in such a compromising position made me a little uneasy. I mean, doctors are used to it, but my husband?

This was the guy I had worked so hard to impress while we were dating. This was the guy I swore would never see me without my hair curled. He was my “Mr. Right,” and while I wanted him to be with me and experience the birth of our child, I was nervous about my part of the job.

And that job began at 2 AM. In the excitement of it all, I forgot about my insecurities. My husband was with me every step of the way, and I was glad to have his help and support. 

Finally, after eleven long hours of walking, rocking, pacing and panting; our sweet baby girl made her grand entrance. I held her in my arms, overwhelmed with joy and relief. 

Curt leaned over, kissed my cheek and brought me back to reality. Suddenly I realized what he had just witnessed. The pacing ... the panting … the pushing! 

I looked up at him, suddenly embarrassed. “Well, I guess now you've seen me at my worst.” 

He flashed a big grin and looked down at Emily. “Nope. I just saw you at your best.” 

Definitely the right answer. I always knew he was “Mr. Right.” 

It occurred to me recently I have an anniversary coming up. It’s actually next month. No, it’s not my wedding anniversary. Curt and I were married in May. But I must say, this anniversary was even more life-changing than my wedding day. Before I get ahead of myself, I'll start at the beginning …

As a kid, the subject of God rarely came up in my house. Don’t get me wrong. I had (and still have!) good parents. They worked hard, taught us to respect others and encouraged us to be the best we could be. But they were always busy on the family farm. Church just wasn’t a priority.

I do remember, when I was very young, asking the ever-popular question, “How do I know if I’m going to heaven?” My mom’s response was, “If you believe in God, you’ll go to heaven.” I remember thinking, well that’s no problem; of course I believe in God. (How else did we get here if there’s no God?) So I considered myself a Christian, but believed only in a God who existed somewhere “out there.” I certainly didn’t know Him personally.   

Throughout my teen years I never gave God much thought. I never prayed (unless I had an algebra test I hadn’t studied for), never read the Bible, and never really understood how Jesus fit into the picture.

I felt pretty confident in my ability to keep my life under control. So God wasn’t a topic I cared to hear about. Then I met my future husband, a rebellious preacher’s kid.

To quit - or not to quit. That is the question ... 

Softball. Gymnastics. Piano. Basketball. Swimming lessons. Volleyball. Band. Drama. Choir. There's a billion (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit) ... But there are so many activities our kids can get involved in!

Today on the Quad City Moms Blog I'm writing about how you know if it's time to let your child quit a sport or activity. Check it out!   http://citymomsblog.com/quadcity/2015/03/16/decisions-decisions/

Thanks for stopping by. Have a great week!

Sheri

Most people can appreciate the rustic charm of an old barn. But I think those of us who grew up on a farm view them differently than the casual observer. After all, we've seen them through the eyes of a child. 

I remember racing my older brother, Steve, up the hill to our barn. We pulled open the side door, and the rusty hinges creaked as we stepped inside. 

At one time, the main floor of our barn sheltered mama cows and various other farm animals. But I only remember it as a place to store stuff. I never understood how things mysteriously ended up in the barn. Spare doors and windows. A rusty old bicycle. A bucket without a handle. Odd machinery parts. Years of ordinary junk became useful treasures as we worked them into our play.

We never knew what we might discover. One tiger-striped cat always preferred to deliver her kittens in some secluded area of the haymow. Busy hens left an egg or two nestled among the hay. Occasionally we caught sight of a frightened field mouse as it scurried away.  

In the center of the main floor, a sturdy wooden ladder led up to the haymow. Steve climbed up first. In a flash, he scrambled to the top and stood to his feet. He folded his arms and stared down at me.

“Well, come on,” he hollered from above.  

I carefully positioned my feet on the lowest board. Inch-by-inch I pulled myself up. At the top I paused, trying to work up the courage to let go of the ladder and move to the floor. I stretched my hand toward Steve. He rolled his eyes. Then he pulled me up and plopped me down on the wooden floor.

The scent of hay filled the air and dusty rays of light filtered through the cracks in the walls. Barn swallows darted in and out of the big open window.

“King of the Mountain!” Steve yelled, sprinting toward a towering stack of bales. Once at the top, he grabbed a long braided rope tied to an overhead beam. Then he belted out his best Tarzan yell and dropped into a pile of hay. 

Brittle hay crunched under my feet as I marched toward a wide wooden beam. I clambered to the top. “Look at me!” I shouted, demonstrating my daring balancing act. I stretched out my arms, staggering my way across the massive beam. 

Steve shrugged, clearly unimpressed. He rested on a bale, his hair a mess with bits of hay. 

“Check out my fort,” he said, sticking a long piece of hay between his teeth. I hesitated, remembering the last time I crawled into one of Steve’s custom-built tunnels. Halfway through Steve covered the opening, leaving me in total darkness. He took such pleasure in scaring me.  

But the fun wasn't just limited to inside the barn. Steve and I spent hours in the dusty crawlspace under the barn’s main floor. We'd gather metal Tonka trucks, small garden tools and various kitchen utensils to assist us in our work. Bright yellow dump trucks hauled rocks. Bulldozers constructed roads. Mom's garden hose filled miniature lakes from a nearby water hydrant, Our time under the barn always began with one of Steve’s bright ideas – and ended with the knees of our jeans caked with dirt.     

Even today, that old barn still stands. It no longer holds tunnels and forts, but it does hold my childhood memories. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a rusty old dump truck under that barn. Or likely an ice cream scoop from Mom’s silverware drawer.

I think everyone in our family saw that barn differently. For my parents, it was faithful protection for their long hours of hard work. For me, it was a giant playhouse. 

That’s what I like about barns. They're versatile. That, to me, is the beauty of a barn.

Like my writing? Like me on Facebook!  https://www.facebook.com/SheriZeckWrites

If I’d have had my way, I’d have ended up living in a city rather than the rural community where I was raised. If the Lord had liked my plan, I never would have gone into education; I’d be a clinical psychologist today. If I had known better than Him, I’d have no children. How many of us, as kids, expect our lives to turn out a certain way, and find it’s nothing like what we wanted? It’s far better.

When I was young, I didn't want children. The physical aspects of the ordeal were appalling to me. And, I was terrified about how my offspring would turn out. I had this idea that raising children was like roulette, strictly a game of chance. I viewed parenting as something outside one’s control, where a swipe of a magic wand produces a perfect child. I thought it very likely that I could pull a silly-looking and simple-minded rabbit-out-of-a-hat kind of kid. Even worse, I’d end up with one under an evil spell, who’d give me years of heartache. I’m not a risk-taking sort of person, and it all seemed too uncertain for me.

Fortunately, as I got older I grew out of those thoughts and eager to have children of my own. Over time, I’ve learned that being a mom is much more about muscle than magic. Moms come in a variety of personalities and styles, but the best ones know there’s no getting around the work.

Ambitious moms are eager for their children to get the tough teacher even though they know they’ll spend more hours at the kitchen table as their children survive that year of homework. Conscientious moms recognize that getting “help” from their little guys on housework takes twice as long; they do it anyway to instill in them a work ethic. Tireless moms attend an excruciating number of concerts, sports events, programs and plays as their children explore areas of interest and hobbies. Christian moms pray with and for their children, and they attend worship. They know this gives young people a sense of purpose and faith for a lifetime. 

There’s nothing mystical about parenting. Kids sometimes look silly and often aren’t perfect, but we do have an impact in how they turn out. Blessed be the moms who put in the time, the energy and the prayer!

“Train up a child in the way he should go, And when he is old he will not depart from it” (Proverbs 22:6 NKJV). 

Hally Franz is a former high school counselor, who is now a freelance writer and church secretary. She is a wife and mom of two teens, a faithful band and cheer booster, a 4-H leader, and an enthusiastic book club member. Hally writes about family, faith, relationships, parenting and more at her blog: Bloom, Bond & Build. Visit her there at: http://bloombondbuild.com/