In December, in that strange space between Christmas and New Years when the only acceptable thing to do is eat carbs and cheese and sugar and wear yoga pants all day, a friend announced she would be buying no new things on Facebook and something about the idea struck me. I liked it, but I thought it was kind of crazy. I have enough up in the air, I don’t need to spend extra time and energy thinking about seriously changing my normal routine.

Except this is something I have always wanted to try and have long suspected a month or 40 days wouldn’t really change my life enough to change my habits.

Except I had been noticing my habit of window shopping on Amazon when I was feeling sad or overwhelmed. I seemed to be operating under the delusion that the right product or system or service would definitely make my life better or easier or…something I am looking for. Comfortable? Probably I am searching for something that would make it better. I don’t even know what it is.

So I commented. I am in. I too will have a No New Year. I hadn’t prepared by assessing what I needed and buying it ahead of time, or even letting my husband know. I just kind of said, hey! me too!

I’ve been at this two months now and planned on giving you a monthly update. Consider this January and you will get a February update mid-march. Then, hopefully I should be back on track.

There were a few things I knew I needed and I put those on the “doesn’t count” list. I needed new underwear, both my kids needed new shoes. I was allowed to buy those. Things like deodorant and toothbrushes did not count. I was wondering what to do about gifts. I am still navigating that.

Here are my rules: Nothing new for me, or the house, or my classroom. I will first try to do without. If I need something (or really want something) I will buy it used. Mostly I just won’t. I just won’t. It turns out I have enough stuff. And the buying of the things has very rarely simplified my life in any significant way. (There are exceptions to that rule, I love my Keurig with a love that is greater than love forever and ever amen.) Instead, mostly it just gives me one more thing to put away, get rid of, or otherwise figure out what to do with.

The first thing I noticed was how many sale flyers I get in my email. The unsubscribe that first week was significant. And also, kind of delightful. I don’t have to see what Old Navy has on super clearance or what the daily deal is on Amazon. I don’t have to decide if today is the day I decide to splurge on something I kind of want and sort of need but also could do without. The answer is no. Going to Target has never taken less time.

No. No. Nopenopenoppitynope. It isn’t that I am not deciding. It is that I have already decided. The answer is no. It turns out that decisions about buying things have taken up a lot of brain space.

Everything was awesome, until my girls were invited to a birthday party. Oh crap! What do I do? Look. As a parent, I am like PLEASE please come to the Birthday party and do not bring a thing. My kids have enough stuff, more stuff than they could ever want. I know in my brain I don’t actually need to bring anything. But my heart says that it is rude to not bring a present. Plus, the girls are not down with showing up to a birthday party empty handed. They want to bring a present.

We were invited to a ridiculous amount of birthday parties in January. Seriously. We had two in one weekend, WHAT? I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I went into the girls room and raided the book shelf. Then, I pulled out a present I was supposed to return and did not. Finally, I raided a used book store and for about 3 dollars per book, I now have a whole stack of children’s birthday presents ready to go.

I think, for now, my plan for adult presents is to make them. If you are expecting a birthday present from me this year, expect salted caramel sauce in a mason jar I already own. It is the probably the best thing I will ever gift you.

But also, I am really learning that people like me even if I show up empty handed. I don’t have to bring a present, and when people say that my presence is enough I need to believe them. I should gifts out of joy, and not out of obligation. I am surprised at what a hard lesson this has been for me.

So far, my no new year is going well, tune in next time for the time my dog ate through her collar, my boot falling apart, and my current obsession with the used clothing website Thred Up.

My time as a teacher in a classroom is quickly dwindling away. I am having big feelings about that. And then. AND THEN the Mudroom went and had Vocation as their February theme. Good, but brutal.

When I was twelve I heard the voice of God. Like, literally. I know. I think it is totally weird too. I was the most awkward almost thirteen year old you could possibly imagine, and I heard the voice of God, behind me and to the left. I was at church camp. God told me God would use my voice.

I know. I too don’t really believe it. But it happened, so what else was I to do?

I came home and told my parents. The even crazier thing is that they believed me. They believed their twelve-year-old daughter and even trusted me to interpret it. I was an almost thirteen-year-old in the Evangelical nineties. What else could it mean? I was going to be the next Rebecca St. James, Jennifer Knapp, Jaci Velasquez. They found the money to get me voice lessons at the local university.

The voice lessons faded out, but the call on my life did not. At fifteen I was at the front of the church sobbing after an altar call for future missionaries. I remember the sweater I was wearing, the name of the boy I was sitting next to during the service. (Thank the good Lord I gained better taste in men.) I remember thinking, okay. This is it. This is how God will use my voice.

Read the rest here.

When it comes to bodies, and what we teach about them, our house has one rule that trumps everything else. Everyone is in charge of their own bodies. The exceptions are few and far between. If someone is making choices that will cause them harm, then we intervene. Otherwise the rule stands.

Everyone is in charge of their own bodies.

This is not always the easiest way to parent. Because everyone is in charge of their own body, I do not always get to choose what my kids wear, even to church. I sometimes cringe when my wild girls in their rain boots and rainbow tights sit next to their perfectly coiffed peers. Would it kill them to want to wear shoes and hair bows that coordinate with tasteful dresses? It has been difficult to explain to long-distance relatives why my girls are not necessarily going to “Come give aunt-Pheobe a HUG!!” But the rule stands. Everyone is in charge of their own body. If my kid doesn’t want to hug you, I am not going to make her. Period.

We have this rule, that everyone is in charge of their own body, because we want to be as clear as possible with our four and five year old girls about their own bodies and what is and is not expected from them.

The unspoken expectations on women’s bodies can be overwhelming and confusing. Look good, not too good. Be assertive, but not bitchy. Don’t be a prude, but never put yourself in a compromising position. Do flirt, but not too much. There is no way to win. This game is set up for my girls to lose.

Read the Rest at Leanne’s place and enter to win a copy of my book, Consent Based Parenting

I, like most people, found out about Beyonce’s new single because everyone on my Twitter timeline was completely losing their minds. So I, like any good millennial (I know I am on the older end, just let me have it) immediately dropped what I was doing to check it out.

Wow. I was as stunned as everyone else. The Southern Gothic imagery alone made me want to teach American Literature. Here were the two things I immediately knew:

1. This video was not for me. It was not made for me. It does not belong to me.
2. I am here for this video. I love it. I think it is awesome. I am very glad she made it and I am very glad that it has been seen by everyone I know. I would recommend it. I am trying to figure out how to teach it. (I think we would probably have to watch it without the words. But the images alone are worth talking about.)

What in the world does that mean, that something is not for me, but that I am here for it? Basically it is exactly like when one of my daughters is present for the other daughter’s birthday party. As a white woman, Beyonce’s video and subsequent Superbowl performance is like my sister having a really amazing party that I get to go too.

Y’all, your sister having a birthday party is a really really good deal. There is cake, there are games, there are snacks. People come to your house, those people bring presents, some of those are toys that you are for sure going to get to play with.

Sister birthdays are really second only to your own birthday. But sometimes my girls don’t see it that way. Sometimes, one of my girls throws a major fit because it isn’t her birthday. She wants it to be in charge of the cake and the theme and the guest list. She wants it to be all about her, and it isn’t her turn. Sometimes, (and this gets shut down REAL QUICK at my house) the other sister just sort of starts acting like it is her birthday, bossing people around and trying to lay claim to the presents.

The Beyonce performances of Formation are not our party. We are there, we get to be at the party. But the party is not for us. So we can’t be blowing out the candles and expecting people to sing to us.

Here is a present that does not belong to me: I got hot sauce in my bag. While I appreciate the sentiment, and have even traveled with people who carry their own hot sauce, I do not in fact identify with that particular swag. I am from the midwest. I don’t understand the love of hot sauce, but there is nothing on this earth that can’t be improved by a side of ranch. It is a personal tragedy to me that ranch must be refrigerated and cannot simply come with me wherever I go. My pants however, are grateful.

Don’t act like it is our party. It isn’t. That cake does not have our name on it. And we didn’t get to pick the flavor. Beyonce picked the flavor, that flavor is Unapologetically Black, and if you don’t like it, then that cake is NOT FOR YOU. (But probably you need to seriously consider the reasons you like Beyonce’s other flavors and not this one.)

And we don’t get to open the presents. I too found the Formation video extremely moving, especially the parts with the children. But that does not mean that I get to unwrap that junk and claim it as mine. I don’t have children who will ever have to face off against the police. My daughter’s hair is not up for public discussion. Ever. I can think those things are awesome, but I do not get to claim them as mine.

For the women who are throwing a gigantic fit because this isn’t our party, your mother needs to come get you and take you to your room for a time out. It doesn’t always get to be our birthday party and Adele JUST threw us one! CHILL OUT! Stop throwing a fit. You look ridiculous.

So it isn’t my birthday party, but that doesn’t mean I don’t benefit from it! Y’all when your sister has a birthday you still get to be there. We still have access to not just the Formation video and the amazing performance by Beyonce, but also ALL the think pieces written by our black sisters about what these things mean to them. The discussion of this particular video is rich, complex, and beautiful. I am learning a lot about the myriad of Black experiences simply because so many women have been gracious enough to share their thoughts with the world. They aren’t our toys, but they are being shared with us! That is a good thing!
It isn’t our party, so we shouldn’t act like it. But we can be here for it, and I for one am having a good time. If I act right, I might get invited next time, and I want in. This cake is delicious.

Today is Fat Tuesday, the last day before Lent. As I currently reside in the south, most people around me refer to this day as Mardi Gras. But not me. As a true daughter of the Midwest, this daughter will forever and always be known as Paczki day.

What are Paczki’s? First of all, it is polish, so nothing sounds like it looks. It is pronounced pawnch-ki, or punch-ki. I think. Who cares how it comes out of your mouth, what is most important is how to get one into it. They are the most delicious donuts you have ever had.

People who were not raised in a town where every third person in your second grade had a last name ending in ski, do not know the deliciousness that is polish heritage. There were multiple Palowoskis in my graduating class and they weren’t even related. Toledo Ohio is not messing around with their Polish heritage, and Fat Tuesday aka Paczki day? They are HERE FOR IT.

Oh yeah, you may think, I saw that weird word on some boxes of donuts in the grocery store. They were filled or something. How could that be special? Well if you would think that, YOU WOULD BE WRONG! Calling a paczki a donut is like calling Beyonce a member of Destiny’s Child. While technically true, you are leaving the most incredible part out. A paczki is not just a donut. It is a glorious creation that never disappoints. Not even once.

The paczki always slays.

It is the richest donut you will ever have in your entire life. Back in the day the lovely polish grandmothers insisted you give up ALL THE THINGS for lent. Sugar, dairy, eggs, fat, it was like a whole 30 but for 40 days. So, the polish grandmothers, not wanting all that great stuff to go to waste, made the richest donut in the whole world with all the things you weren’t supposed to eat anymore. So, God bless these polish grandmothers, made paczkis. They didn’t just stop at the delicious, dense, rich pastry. They stuffed it with all kinds of jams and cremes and then covered the outside in powdered sugar.

Did we already bless these grandmothers? Can we do it again? I love them and their thrifty and delicious ways.

Paczkis are a big deal in Toledo, and lucky for me I drove past the premier paczki bakery on the way to my High school. The ladies in the bakery basic stay up for 48 hours to meet the demand of this day. And you better get up early to get them. If you wait until after school to go get your paczkis you will be left with only the fig ones which, while traditional are kind of disappointing compared to the raspberry jam and custard ones or the lemon curd, or the apricot. I legit just started drooling thinking about them.

But I don’t live in Toledo anymore, or anywhere close to the polish loving midwest. While I am grateful that I often do not even have to wear a coat to work on Fat Tuesday (especially during a year where this day comes SO EARLY. I haven’t even had time to fail at my resolution and need to re-group a la Lent.) but I can’t help but be sad for a paczki-less paczki day.

I don’t write a lot about my marriage. I just…don’t. I think it is because I just feel so inadequte when it comes to marriage. I don’t clean enough, cook enough, spend enough time. Christian and I are happy. Life is stressful but we still love each other, we even still like each other, so that seems even better to me. But how do you know you are good at marriage? What metric is there? I don’t know.

When you pledge, till death do us part there really isn’t a time when you go WOO-HOO we made it! Plus and it is so personal, and ordinary, and different and the sane for everyone, marriage. But this month at She Loves I was challenged to write a love story. So I went for it…..

The girls, perhaps, are too young to understand the romantic gestures of a PhD student and his writer-by-night wife. They understand the big save of a white knight with a sword, but underestimate the power of the words, “You look exhausted, I’ll put the kids to bed tonight.” They don’t understand the sacrifice it takes to answer the follow up, “You sure?” with “Yes. I am sure. Go upstairs and go to bed.”

I have no tales of magic powers.

I only know of the sacrifice it takes to roll over in bed for the fourth or fifth time when one of the kids has woken up again, the sacrifice it takes to say, again, “Go back to sleep. I got it. You have a big day tomorrow.”

You can read the rest here.

I showed up to church on Sunday tired and broken. I haven’t had the nerve to show up in this space that way. I feel like I have been writing about how tired I am, how hard this season is, since about September. How could anyone still want to read that? I certainly am sick of it.

So I showed up to church on Sunday tired and broken, Christian was sick and the week had been hard and we are just to the part of the next year decision making process that all the balls are still in the air, but some of them have become real and it looks like they may just all hit us in the face, or dissolve in our hands and leave us with nothing.

Probably neither of these things will happen. Probably. I hope.

I managed to keep it together until a few songs in when they dismissed the kiddos. I sat and patted both their heads and managed to keep them sort of quiet. I remembered the day when I used to hold both of them, one on each hip as I contemplated the paradox of my double blessing, of the visceral feeling of having my hands full. There was so much weight, there was so much joy. There still is. It just is a little harder to hold.

I stood with my eyes closed and my hands raised, between two women who I love and admire who are also carrying so much. Some I know, some I don’t. It seems there is just so much to carry for so many people I know.

We were singing a song about bring things to the altar. Other people were singing. I was crying. What in the world do you want me to bring you God? What else could I possibly hold?

“I just want your brokenness. That is all. I want you, and so I want your brokenness.”

It has been a minute since I felt the Spirit speak so clearly. I cried harder and decided that brokenness it was. I would hand it back. Again. In January I was alerted to the fact that I have been blogging at Accidental Devotional for four years now. I have grown a lot and changed a lot. I have written and grown and written and grown. I have thought and un-thought and learned and taught. I have changed, and I have stayed the same and I am a little embarrassed that I am back in the place of needing this reminder again:

Abby Norman, you are already enough. All God wants is your brokenness. Hand that to God. It is enough. It is just so hard to believe that. Especially when everything is up in the air, especially when everything is so unclear. It is so hard for me to remember that I am enough, that what I do is enough, that God’s love and blessing on my have absolutely nothing to do with how much I do or don’t do. I don’t need to do one more thing, or one more thing better to experience the abundance of Jesus.

I got myself together in time to greet my babies as they came barreling into the sanctuary so we could take communion together. I am ministered to so deeply every time my children are offered a place at this table. While I was attending to my own portion, my child who showed up at the communion table so tentatively at first enthusiastically dunked her entire hand into the cup.

And the cup holder, God bless her, laughed. So I laughed, because what else is there to do, as your child stands next to you dripping purple drops from her hand. She looked me in the eye as I too dipped my portion, but with greater restraint, this is the blood of Jesus, poured out abundantly for you she said. And for a second I thought about dipping my whole hand in too.

I know I have said it all before, but maybe you need to hear it again too?

You are enough. God wants your brokenness. Go ahead. Dip your whole hand in. The table is open. The love is abundant.