When God is an Asshole

A few weeks ago, I posted something on Facebook about the belief in a benevolent God colliding with the reality of a sick and fallen world. I haven't been able to stop thinking about this. Some dear, dear friends are stumbling through the impossibly shitty situation of child abuse within their family-- and it just feels so damn wrong and raw and unjust. These people love Jesus, they have devoted their lives to His service, and "hey, here's your thank you gift-- a giant steaming serving of child abuse!" Freaking CHILD ABUSE.

And you know these people, too. You've met them. Hell, you ARE them:

Maybe it's child abuse.

Maybe it's rape.

Maybe it's infertility.

Maybe it's a natural disaster.

Maybe it's a failed adoption.

Maybe it's a drug addiction.

Maybe it's a car accident that kills your child.

Maybe it's cancer that kills your wife.

Maybe it's infidelity that kills your spirit.


And it's tough, isn't it? When you grow up in a cute little Baptist church, and you kissed dating goodbye, and you saved your pennies for the missionaries on the bulletin board, and wielded your purity ring like a shiny trophy straight from the Lord Jesus Christ directly to your sanctified loins. You have this weird works-based faith, this unspoken rhetoric of "You scratch my back, I'll scratch Yours", this whole twisted idea of repaying God; "You show up for me, I promise I won't go past 2nd base until I am wedded in holy, God-ordained matrimony. And maybe I'll do a puppet show for some orphans in Haiti." God is like your personal life plastic surgeon-- shaving off the parts you don't like and highlighting the parts that you do.

But then your spouse cheats. Your partner dies. Your child is broken by sexual abuse. The baby that you have loved and planned for and was supposed to be yours, is gone. And all of a sudden, it's like the big JC doesn't seem to be holding up His end of the bargain. What happened to our DEAL here, God?!

That's where I am at right now, if I am really honest with you. I see so much brokenness, so much hurt, so much wrongdoing.

Of course I fall back on what I have always been taught: Jesus loves me this I know.

But Jesus...I sorta feel like you're being an asshole right now.

Now hear me- the holiness of God is legit. Scripture admonishes us to fear His name. So I understand why some of you might think I am being too glib here, too casual with the name of the Lord. You're probably right.

But here's the conclusion I have drawn: I think Jesus can take our questions. I think He can take our doubts and our anger and our fear and our accusations and our confusion and our lack of of faith. He's not threatened by our humanity. Our intellect was designed BY HIM, and He is not afraid of it.

I think he sees my rage at this injustice, and I think He gets it. He is far more broken by child abuse and rape and infertility and natural disasters and failed adoptions and drug addiction and car accidents and cancer and infidelity than I am. He weeps for these things. I truly believe He does.

Someone skilled in hermeneutics could argue the theology of this far more clearly and effectively than I ever could. The world is fallen--but it wasn't one single, solitary little stumble that required a band aid and some kisses. The fall is active. The fall is still falling.

And that really, super sucks.

Somewhere along the line, I adopted this precious Western view of the Gospel. Oh, how I love the parts about joy and peace and the ever-present help of God! But I forget that He is not just an ever-present help; He is an ever-present help in trouble. I forget that contrary to what my pretty ideologies attest, Jesus promised that there would be suffering. He promised that we would be HATED because of Him. You'll understand why I would be shocked and offended by this, but it would seem that the purpose of Jesus saving me isn't only to make me beautiful, rich, and comfortable.

Bummer.

The purpose of Jesus saving me is that He would be glorified. And sometimes that glory shines brightest in the fire.

Remember the story from Sunday School about Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego? They refused to bow down to Nebuchadnezzar's idols, even after the threat of death. So Nebuchadnezzar infamously throws them into a fiery furnace, to be burned alive. (The Bible- not all love and rainbows, folks.) Remember what they said? "Our God will save us from this fire, but even if He does not, we will never bow to your idol."

EVEN IF HE DOES NOT.

This is where I have landed for now. I see all this devastation, the cracks and holes in the people I love, the pain in my own life. And oh, God! I wish You'd save us from this. I wish You would intervene. I wish You would send Your angels and make things right and fix this injustice and pull us out of this fire. I know You could.

But even if You do not.

We have seen the affliction.
We have walked in darkness rather than light.
We have been besieged and surrounded with bitterness and hardship.
We have dwelled in darkness.
We have been weighed down with chains.
Our paths have been crooked and barred with stone.
Our hearts have been pierced.
Our soul is downcast within us.

"Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him, to the one who seeks Him. No one is cast off by the Lord forever. Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love. For He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone."

(Lamentations 3)

I'm Yours, God. I believe that You are good. Even if You do not.

May we suffer well, and may our heartache ever drive us into Your arms, and never away from them.

And sorry about that time I called You an asshole. I'm still trying to figure this all out.

Beauty full

Yesterday I bought the cutest waterfall vanity set for my bedroom. I typically get ready in the only bathroom in our little home, but since we have more people getting out the door in the morning these days, I needed to find another space to pluck the rogue chin hairs that keep cropping up since I turned 30. Errr, I mean... do my makeup.

I was excited about this vanity. I love old stuff. I love the nicks and bruises and imperfections, and I love to think about the stories they tell. I can imagine another woman sitting in front of the mirror and setting her pin curls or dabbing the insides of her wrists with the Chanel her husband gifted her for their 15th anniversary. Old stuff has history, and it makes me smile to welcome it into my home.

So you can imagine my disappointment when I sat down at my sweet vanity this morning, and was immediately and utterly disgusted. The bench seat is low, and the mirror is huge-- so it forces my body into the most unflattering position imaginable. AND IT’S ALL REFLECTED. Over my jeans, my muffin top puffed out past my saggy boobs. My thighs spread out like softened butter on a slice of toast and filled the bench and the mirror with their sheer girth.

Come, Lord Jesus.

I was immediately filled with a sense of shame and regret. How have I let myself go so much? Why am I so fat? I am only 32; why do I have wrinkles? Um, hello. Rogue chin hairs.

Let me just be honest here. Usually when I start to have these thoughts, it’s a giant rabbit hole. Pretty soon, I am convinced that not only am I fat and wrinkly, I am also a horrible, impatient mom... a nagging, unsupportive wife, a bad homemaker, a wretched Christian, a self-absorbed, narcisscistic friend. Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, let me go eat some worms.

But something stopped me from falling down that rabbit hole today. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit. Maybe it was the sweet grace of confidence that maturity brings. Maybe it was the coffee in the cute cup on my cute vanity. I don’t really know. But I was immediately convicted of the lies I was entertaining in my morning-haired head.

As women, as moms, we always feel the need to perform, to be beautiful, to be ENOUGH.

But hear me--what if we don’t have to BE enough, what if we just ARE enough?

I’ve decided all the women in the kindergarten drop off lines are actually supermodels. As in, they drop off their kids (Titan, Jeweleona, or Pandora-- these are actual real live kids in the kindergarten class), and then immediately go and strip down to a metallic bikini and pose for Victoria’s Secret. They are tan, toned, trim, and their highlights are impeccable. As if I didn’t already feel fragile about depositing the fruit of my loins into the gaping, ravenous mouth of public education, now I have to stare at your perfect body while I am doing it. Thanks for that.

I also follow this amazingly talented designer on social media. She’s creative, cute, Christian-- the whole package of adorableness. But then she started doing Crossfit. Oh, Crossfit. How quickly you make me hate myself! You guys, this girl is BUFF. She goes to all these Crossfit competitions and can contort her body into odd shapes and do walking handstands across the length of 16 football fields.

Or, you know, something like that.

And I see these images, and I am quickly convinced that I am doing life all wrong. I need to join Crossfit. I need to look like that. I need to do a walking handstand (ha) and compete in Crossfit games (ha ha) and have a six pack like this girl (HA HA HA HA HA!!!).

But what if that’s not the point? What if God makes us all uniquely ON PURPOSE and we aren’t all supposed to do the same things and look the same way and have the same abilities? Who gets to decide that their beauty or their abilities are superior to mine? Who decides what’s valuable in a woman? Society? Well hey, listen. Society is about to elect Donald Trump as the next president of the United States. It’s made shrines to Kim Kardashian’s ass, and it’s murdered 60 million babies in the last 30 years. It once spent like four weeks dedicating media time to a deflated football. It’s not a reputable source. Society is full of shit.

I am reading the book “For the Love” by Jen Hatmaker with my book club. Ok fine, it’s not really a book club. I mean, we bring our books with us. But mostly we just eat ice cream and bitch about our children. We’re working on it. Progressive sanctification, y’all.

One of the things I am taking away from this book is this sweet, glorious freedom to JUST BE WHO GOD MADE ME. “God created an entire package. It all counts. There are no throwaway qualities. You are good at something for a reason. God designed you this way, on purpose. It isn’t fake or a fluke or small. These are the mind and heart and hands and voice you’ve been given, so use them.”

The mind and heart and hands and voice I’VE been given. Not someone else. Trying to fit into someone else’s “entire package” is exhausting, depressing, and completely pointless. There are the crafty, Pinteresty moms, the dedicated PTO moms, the badass working moms, the Crossfit moms, and yes...the hot moms at kindergarten dropoff. None of us is all of these, and none is intrinsically more valuable than the other. We are all cast in different roles in this messy story of redemption, but nobody can follow the plot when we are all stepping over each other's lines. Someone else’s beauty or accomplishments or intelligence does not mitigate my own. We all have a place at the table.

But just so we're clear, I'm gonna eat more at that table than the Crossfit mom. Because OBVIOUSLY.

Can I encourage you today to pursue truth? In general, but specifically in how it applies to how you feel about your body and your worth? Cause here’s the thing, friend. You wouldn’t be really pretty only if you lost 20 pounds. You are really pretty now. You are not worthy because of what you have accomplished, because of how much you weigh, or how you look in a bikini. When your muffin top squeezes past your saggy boobs, when your thighs spread out like butter, and your chin hairs need to be WEED WHACKED, you are beautiful.

You can spend your life comparing, and wishing you had the body/job/husband/abilities of some hipster woman you follow on Instagram, but just so you know-- it’s all filtered. As for me, I will celebrate what other women accomplish and admire their hot bods and be their biggest cheerleaders. But I am not going to waste my life anymore trying to be them. I am making a decision to love MY body/MY job/MY husband/MY abilities.

We are worthy because we are human beings, fearfully and wonderfully made, and TREASURED by our Creator. There is no thigh dimple or fat roll that can make us less worthy. None. These are our nicks and bruises and imperfections that make us interesting stories to read; I will smile as I welcome them into my home. We are not arbitrary. Our abilities are legitimate, and we are valuable. We are full of beauty, of grace, of wonder.

Really. We are.

when drowning looks like swimming

My kids have spent literally 932 hours in their swimming pool this summer. Well, technically, it's a stock tank, not a swimming pool. Like for cows. And maybe goats. It works for tiny humans, too. We're fancy.

Several weeks ago, I was out running some errands and Chris was working beside the pool while the kids played in it. At one point, Cana started jumping up and down excitedly, "Dad! Dad! Look! RUBY RAE KNOWS HOW TO SWIM!!!" Chris stopped what he was doing and scrambled over to grab the gasping and frantic girl from beneath the surface of the water. What Cana had mistaken for an ability to hold her breath and kick her feet, was actually Ruby desperately trying to avoid sinking, after her tiny foot had slipped on the bottom of the pool. "No, Cana," Chris replied. "Ruby Rae was drowning." Later on that week, I saw a report on the news about how it's often difficult to tell if someone is in distress in the water. Sometimes the shrieks and splashes just look like a mighty good time.

And oh my word, isn't that how it works when we are grown-ups, too?

This past year has been bad. Can I use the word shitty even? This past year has been shitty. We've been walking through some non-fun stuff in our marriage, and this past winter, I dealt with pretty debilitating depression. I was unable to function. Unable to get off the couch. Unable to deal with the needs of my children and my home. I tried all sorts of alternative treatments--essential oils and niacin and exercise and blah blah-- and in the end, went to the doctor and got some antidepressants.

Ugh. This is the part where I decide that I am probably just going to write this all out and then delete it. Just like in junior high youth group when you wrote a letter to the people who had wronged you, then nailed it to the cross and let the sweet baby Jesus have all your bitterness. Writing in a somewhat public forum is the social equivalent of me walking into the Starbucks and asking a complete stranger to assess the severity of the cellulite situation on my thighs. Vulnerable and hopeful that maybe people will still like me after they see all my jubbily bits.

I stopped taking the antidepressants about a month ago. They were ok, and took the edge off a little bit. But I gained 20 lbs in 2 months. And for someone who is constantly struggling to keep my weight in check, this is for sure a no-go. I slowly weaned myself off them and felt great! I was all, "See! It was just seasonal depression! I don't need that poison in my body anymore! I just needed sunshine!"

Except that things feel shitty again. I feel like I can't get off the couch or deal with the needs of my children or my home.

I kind of feel like I am drowning. But you wouldn't know it, would you? I have got some fancy moves and some pretty words that make you think that I am doing some kind of impressive backstroke. But the reality is, just like Ruby Rae, I am gasping for air and trying to come up from under the surface. And all of you just think I am a mighty good swimmer.

The funny thing about the pool is that at any point, Ruby Rae could have just put her feet down and stood up. I feel like I should just be able to pull myself up and be OK. I wish someone would just be able to yank my bathing suit straps and say, "Melody, you're being ridiculous. Put your feet down." But it somehow doesn't feel that easy.

I am not sure where to go from here. The thought of going back on medicine and gaining more weight makes me seriously want to cry. I know it's superficial. Shut up.

I am trying to remind myself of truth.

"He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand."

Just like Chris was present to rescue Ruby Rae, I know that Jesus will rescue me. I know this is just a season and that I will know peace and joy and hope and skinny jeans again.

But for now, it just feels sucky.

I don't know why I am writing this. I am not asking for help or advice... maybe I am just trying not to drown so silently. Maybe I am writing it to encourage YOU not to drown so silently. Whatever the crap you're dealing with, whatever the loss, or the betrayal, or the misunderstanding-- don't put a brave face and try to convince the world that you've got it all together.

The filthy rag, the cracked jar of clay-- merely a vessel for redemption.

I will boast in my weaknesses-- what is my strength compared to the strong arm of my Savior?

Jesus only becomes greater when we become less.

I am waiting for new mercies in the morning, and trusting that tomorrow will maybe suck a little less.

someone to watch over me

I remember when I was single, I once got a flat on the highway. I sobbed and I sobbed like the world was ending. Or I would get an unexpected bill and flip out and have heart palpitations and feel like "OHMYGOSHMYLIFESUCKS!!! I might as well DIE right now!!!!" Everything was such a BIG, HORRIFIC, GIANT DEAL.

Once when Chris and I were dating, he drove me to the Philly airport after I had flown up for a visit. We arrived and found out that all the flights were delayed for hours and hours because of some sort of catastrophic computer glitch. I automatically started hyperventilating because, "I HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW!! THIS AIRPORT IS HUGE!!!!!! ALL THESE PEEEEEEOOOOPPPPPLLLLEEEE!!!!!" And Chris very matter-of-factly grabbed his cell phone, called the airline and informed them that they would be rescheduling my flight for tomorrow, but change the airport to Harrisburg instead of Philly thankyouverymuch. (He didn't ASK. He INFORMED. My 20 year old self didn't even know this was a thing.) And then he called my boss (HE CALLED MY BOSS, PEOPLE!) and calmly explained the situation and informed her that I wouldn't be into work the next day. (He didn't ASK. He INFORMED. My 20 year old self didn't know this was a thing.)

I think this was the first time that I knew that I really really loved Chris Strayer. Call me repressed, but it feels pretty stinking good to have someone take care of me. 10 years into this thing, and he's been there when the bills flood our mailbox, and when the ceiling opens up at 1 am and floods our bedroom. He's been there when my mom had cancer, and when we stood peering over the metal sides of our daughter's hospital bed, terrified at what the future would bring. And it wasn't quite so scary, because there was someone else to buffer life before it slammed into me.

Isn't this why the Bible says that marriage is an illustration of Christ and the Church? You're never alone. There is always someone with you to navigate it. Crap still happens, but it's first filtered through the hand of a loving God. And then filtered through the hand of a loving husband, who deals with the brunt of it as he covers his wife with his body, protecting her. We have these shade-cloths over the girls' little pool outside. They are triangular strips of fabric meant to give relief from the sun, but not completely block it. Because of the cloths, the sun is no longer hot and scorching and dangerous to the girls. It is warm and comfortable and fun. Chris is like our family's shade cloth-- he protects us from the worst of the elements, absorbing them onto his own back. He is our covering.

We have been through a lot of crap, Chris and I. Some of it has been my fault, some of it has been his. In fact, sometimes he's been a downright douche bag. But he's been HERE. He's been fielding the calls, and putting out fires before I even knew they had ignited. He faithfully goes out and battles the big world everyday, so that his girls can nestle into our safe little world at home.

Sometimes love looks like roses and champagne and romantic trips. But sometimes? Sometimes love looks an awful lot like someone calling the airline and rescheduling your flight for you. Don't miss it just because it doesn't look the way you expected it to.

An Open Letter to the Woman who Filmed her Abortion on Youtube

Dear Emily,

You don't know me, but after your story popped up several times in my largely-Conservative-Christian Facebook feed, I feel compelled to add another voice of dissension to the mounting outcry.

I am sickened and saddened by what you have done. I grieve not only for your sweet baby, but for the myriad of babies who will die because you posted this on Youtube. You've created an avenue for scared young women to google the abortion procedure, see that you've made it look less painful than a dentist appointment, and choose death for their child instead of considering the other options. I'm glad it wasn't painful for you, Emily. But the same cannot be said for the average 16 week old baby, for whom it has been documented that the vaccuums and curettes and forceps ARE painful, and a much bigger deal than the root canal or mole removal that you make this out to be. You have said that this is a "positive" abortion story, that you feel super great about it. Awesome. But you're only half of the equation, Emily. You're not the only one who matters, you just happen to be the only one who has a voice. You also don't have the benefit of retrospect. You have not had to walk through the consequences of your decision long term; it's unfair and prejudicial for you to say that your abortion was a positive experience, when you don't know how you will feel about it in five years, or ten years, or when you're 90.

But here's the thing, Emily. You and me, we are cut of the same cloth. You see, I murdered my children this morning. All three of them, with little thought of consequence. They were irritating me and disobeying me and crippling me with all their needs and whimpers and stories and "watch me, Mommy!"'s. And just like your abortion doctor wielded his curette, I blindly slashed at my children with the sharpened sword of my words. And I mercilessly slaughtered them all.

"You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgement.' But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgement." (Matthew 5:21-22)

Here's the thing, Emily. I can accuse you of murder, and be right. But you can also accuse me of murder, and you would also be right. Anger, murder-- to-may-to, to-mah-to, according to Jesus. We Christians are supremely good at compartmentalizing sin. But the truth is, we are all on level playing ground. We ALL have sinned, we ALL have fallen short of the glory of God. None of us is good. NOT EVEN ONE.

But that's not what we would have you believe, as we flood your inbox with hate mail and calls for repentance. We will call you a "slutty cunt", as you described in a recent interview. Because oh my word, Emily, if there's something that we Christians are good at, it is boycotts and judgements and throwing rocks. We will get on facebook and link to articles of "filthy baby-killers" like you, but we won't volunteer at the local teen pregnancy shelter. We will express how heartbroken we are about children stolen in Nigeria, but our heartbreak doesn't extend to any concrete actions to prevent future social injustices. We will copy and paste "if you're not ashamed of Jesus, repost!" status updates, but we are too ashamed to evangelize our neighbors. We see the hungry and homeless, and we slam the door in their faces, while smiling and encouraging them to keep warm and well-fed. With great humility, I soberly and whole-heartedly include myself in this group of well-intentioned Pharisees. Heck, I could be their leader.

You murdered your baby, Emily. And now we will turn around and murder you, all in the name of Jesus.

We have missed it.

It sounds almost too glib to post... but Jesus loves you, Emily. He really, desperately loves you. You could have ten more abortions, and Jesus would love you still. There is nothing that you can do that would make Him love you less. He is your creator, and He chose to give you life, in all your frailty and humanity. I am heartbroken by the followers of Christ that would have you believe anything less.

We have different view points on this. But I want you to know that your baby has worth. And Emily, you have worth. You are not defined by the worst of your actions. (This is a huge relief to me; if I was defined by the worst of my actions, I would have been burning in hell long ago.) I fervently hope that you come to realize the sanctity of life, that you come to realize how precious these little ones are to Jesus. He loves your baby, Emily. And though you only saw the "potential for life", I am confident that your baby IS alive, and is being held in the arms of Jesus.

Love,
Melody

Today I effed up

Today I effed up.

The day started out benignly enough, with coffee and my ritual early morning facebook perusal. I fed the kids and folded some laundry while listening to snippets of the Today show in the background (Angelina Jolie is getting a double masectomy?! What?!). I even had a bra on before 8 am. Today was going to be a good day.

But somewhere between my bowl of breakfast quinoa and 10 am, things derailed. Maybe it was the dawdling five year old who just wouldn't finish her fact sheet. Maybe it was the nixie one-year-old, who screamed bloody murder at the market because I wouldn't let her get out of the stroller and walk, while sampling a bite out of each apple in the end-cap display.

But people, I lost my crap.

I yelled at my kids. And not just talking-loudly-yelling. Like mean, scary-lady yelling.

I ignored my daughter's cries when she had legitimately hurt herself, just because I was tired of whining.

I was cranky with my husband, who-- bless his heart-- was sick and worked all day long.

I fed my kids frozen pizza for dinner, and other than the raisins they had with breakfast, I am pretty sure they didn't have any fruits or vegetables all day.

There's still a load of partially washed/partially-crapped-upon diapers in the washing machine that I have yet to deal with.

There are three basketfuls of clean and folded laundry sitting on the treadmill, waiting to be put away. This also means that the treadmill is not being used.

They have been there for a week.

At least.

I stood in front of the open freezer today, spoon in hand, and scooped the "sweet spot" (the part of the ice cream that has an extra swirl of cookie crumbs or other chocolate-y goodness) directly into my mouth while my kids fought and fought and fought in the the other room.

Then asked for snacks.

Then told me they were bored.

Then fought some more.

Then asked for more snacks.

Today I felt dreadfully ill-equipped to walk in the role of Mama/wife/lover of Jesus.

I was unkind to the ones I love the most.

Today I effed up.

But I serve a Savior who doesn't define me by my worst behavior. Actually, who doesn't define me by my best behavior, either.

My best days, my best deeds, my best moments as a mother-- when my kids eat kale at all three meals and read for entertainment and use their imaginations and not their fists with their siblings-- even those are filthy rags. I can't purchase a pardon with good parenting or a positive attitude. I can't absolve myself with a clean house or well-behaved children.

I need Jesus. I desperately, critically need Jesus.

I effed up today, but I will rejoice in this day that reminds me of my dependence on my God. I will boast in my weaknesses, my failures, my shortcomings-- and crave the strength of the Master. I will beg for His help to love these little ones, to turn my heart toward my home with joy, and to serve my family cheerfully.

Today I effed up, but the morning breaks with new mercies.

Kids are gross.

Or at least mine are. I am going to describe three different scenarios in which my point is proven. You vote for which one actually happened. Because they certainly couldn't have ALL happened in my house. Within the span of 24 hours. Ahem.

A) Ruby sometimes wears disposable diapers overnight. Since she sometimes... um... moves her bowels (eek, am I my Grandma? Did I just say that?) first thing in the morning, I had changed her when she woke up and DOUBLE-BAGGED the offending dirty diaper before putting in the trash. So, remember that time she went in the trash, tore the TWO bags open, un-rolled the diaper, and proceeded to smear herself and her clothes with... um... excrement?! And then brought it to me and said, "That's gross, Mom, right? Right, mom?" Uh, yeah, Ruby. For sure.

B) Chris and I went to Sharp Shopper last night, and Ruby and Cana came along, where they wandered the aisles dumping boxes of spaghetti on the ground and trying to smuggle bags of candy in their back pockets. At one point, I notice Ruby is eating something. "Ruby, what are you eating?" My one year old had stealthily snatched someone's discarded Already Been Chewed bubble gum that had been stashed underneath a grocery shelf. And was going to town on it. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

C) I gave the little girls a bath yesterday morning, which is somewhat atypical since they usually have baths right before bed. Because of the aforementioned early morning moving of the bowels, I put a cloth swim diaper on Ruby, justincase. Cana looks over. "Mama, do I need a swim diaper?" I reply, "No, Cana-- you don't poop in the bath, silly girl!" "Well, yeah," she responded. "But I pee in it all the time."

I mean, I'd always had my suspicions, but I didn't need a full confession.

Oy.