The Jesus Tree

Advent is here! God Bless you and your families this Christmas. I hope you can find a few minutes each day to set aside for Him. You will be blessed! Its also a great way to talk to your children about Jesus. I know a lot of moms feel awkward talking to their kids about God. How to make the little ones understand something and Someone so very big. Well, this is a great time of year to start talking! There are also TONS of Advent resources out there you can use. I thought I’d write a bit this morning about what we do here in our home and share an Advent resource I wrote up for my kids, along with a few other resources we use.

I spend a good part of my time in November preparing for Advent season and I try to make every Christmas season revolve around this special time of learning and celebrating. Teaching my children what it means to participate in worshiping the holiness of Jesus is the single most important thing I can do at Christmas. 

We love using our scripture chains, Advents calendars, Jesse Tree, Advent book, etc. Here is a link to other material we used for Christmas last year and the year before. 

 This season we are using our Jesse Tree lesson in the mornings along with the Names of Jesus and Scripture verse chains and Advent books. I have three kids eager to help so having lots of things for them to take turns with is a plus! There is always an ornament to hang or a small door to open—everyone gets to do something special! 

Believe it or not, I found myself wanting one more Advent lesson for my kids. I know there is an overload of Advent material out there in the pinterest world but I found a few great ideas this past year that I saved. Beginning with the Way of Light wreath made by Caleb Voskamp. His mother is Ann Voskamp, authoress of 1000 gifts and one of my favorite blogs A Holy Experience. We love this wreath. The wood carved figurine of the pregnant Mary riding a donkey, slowly making her way into the spiral of light towards Christmas—beautiful and meaningful to our family. We will be lighting a candle each night before dinner and reflecting aspects of what the coming of Jesus means to us.

The second idea I loved but unfortunately, could not use for our family. 25 Days of Christ was, at first glance, perfect for what I needed. We love our AM advent time with the Jesse Tree but I really wanted to include stories about Jesus for our evening devotionals with Daddy. I wanted to give Jesus his own tree. A Jesus Tree. After a quick pinterest search I stumbled upon this link to 25 days of Christ. Everything all ready written up and an ornament kit available for order. I clicked on the link and found that they were all ready sold out for this season. I decided I could make my own ornaments and just use their devotionals….. until I clicked on the link and discovered that this was a Mormon website (had to google the term “Nephites"). Ahhh, never mind. So while the credit goes to the Mormons for having this great idea…the book of Mormon is occult material and I need to keep this biblical for my kiddos.  

So I went through the gospels and pulled together 25 accounts for a Jesus Tree. I have included them below to share with you. We made our ornaments last month and are so excited to add them to our Jesus Tree. Feel free to use it with your own kids. Swap out your favorite passages, lessons, parables if you want something particular for your kids.  There are no devotional lines included. I like to read straight from the text and ask my kids questions depending on the day. Praying beforehand is also always a must. Not just with the kids, but on my own, before I even gather them to read from the Bible. I truly believe and have learned repeatedly that asking the Holy Spirit to go before me and open my children’s minds to understand what they will hear, blesses our time and makes things go so much more smoothly. He always provides the right questions and words for me to give my kids from His word.

A quick word about ornaments. This doesn’t have to be expensive or complicated. Even just a small square of paper with a drawing on it is enough to illustrate your point. Sew a loop of thread around it and its ready to hang. Done and done! If you are feeling artistic and want the 3D specific ornament—go for it! :) 

This was Cubs idea for the story of the paralytic. We made him a little stretcher :)

And our cross will serve as the Jesus Tree. I put a few tree trimmings behind the cross and we will hang our branches all around the cross.

Here is the write out…ENJOY! 

Jesus Tree

Day 1: Birth of Jesus

Scripture: Luke 2:4-7

Ornament: Bundle of hay

Day 2: Shepherds

Scripture: Luke 2:8-21

Ornament: Sheep

Day 3: Wise Men

Scripture: Matthew 2: 1-12

Ornament: Star

Day 4: Jesus in the Temple

Scripture: Luke 2:41-51

Ornament: Scroll

Day 5:Baptism

Scripture: Luke 3:21-22

Ornament: Dove

Day 6:  Fishers of Men

Scripture: Luke 5: 1-11

 Day 7: Sermon on the Mount

Scripture: Matthew 5: 14-16

Ornament: Candle

Day 8: Calms the Storm

Scripture: Matthew 8:23-27

Ornament: Boat

Day 9: Feeding of the 5000

Scripture: Matthew 14:13-21

Ornament: Basket with fish and loaves

Day 10: Jesus Walks on Water

Scripture: Matthew 14: 22-33

Ornament: Footprint

Day 11: Jesus Heals the Paralyzed Man

Scripture: Luke 5:17-26

Ornament: Man on a stretcher

Day 12: Woman at the Well

Scripture John 4:13-14

Ornament: Bucket of Water

Day 13: Jesus and his friend Lazarus

Scripture: John 11:43-44

Ornament: scrap of muslin

Day 14: The Little Children and Jesus

Scripture: Luke 15:15-17

Ornament: A picture of your children

Day 15: Triumphal Entry

Scripture: Matthew 21:1-11

Ornament: Donkey

Day 16: Washing the Disciple’s Feet

Scripture: John 13:1-17

Ornament: Small sandal or bowl

Day 17:  Body and the Blood

Scripture: Matthew 26:26-29

Ornament: Wine goblet

Day 18: Gethsemane

Scripture: Mark 14:32-36

Ornament: a tree

Day 19:  Betrayal and Denial

Scripture: Luke 22: 54-62

Ornament: Rooster

Day 20: Trial of Jesus

Scripture: John 19: 4-6

Ornament: crown of thorns

Day 21: Crucifixion

Scripture: John 19:16-18

Ornament: Cross

Day 22: Burial

Scripture: Luke 23:50-53

Ornament: Stone

Day 23: Resurrection

Scripture: Matthew 28:1-10

Ornament: Lily

Day 24: Jesus Appears to Thomas

Scripture: John 20:24-29

Ornament: Handprint with nail hole

Day25: Jesus Ascends

Scripture: Luke 24:50-53

Ornament: Cloud

Happy Anniversary

Yesterday in the late afternoon, we took an anniversary stroll through the park with the boys.  Right when the sky soaks in a few pastels and the temperature begins its soft descent, truly the best time for an autumn walk. Our boys alternately zipped around either side of the walkway, held on to their baby brother’s pram or took off onto the leaf covered knolls surrounding us. They wanted to greet each dog along the way, finding out the name and breed, asking to pet them. I pushed the pram along and watched J interact with his sons.


It was one of those moments when your heart feels as though it will burst from sheer abundance of blessing. I should feel this way many times a day, but truthfully, I am usually too busy to feel it as often as I should.


We stopped at the “Tamarin Tree.” A beautiful tree that has brought us hours of comfort and laughter and play these past months. The boys climb her low lying limbs with varying degrees of difficulty depending on their respective heights. They pretend to be cotton top tamarin monkeys, all related in one way or another and with crazy nonsensical names. They love this tree. Last time we saw her, her leaves were a sad green splattered with brown and yellow.  Yesterday the leaves were gone, in their place were fuzzy buds in a pale silver color, almost like pussy willows. They looked a bit like christmas lights actually, though once this comparison was verbalized the boys were quick to shoot it down. Cubs declared them to be “socket eye monkey fruits, hmph!”  I guided the pram over Tamarin tree’s roots to stand under one of her higher branches. I pointed it out to J, “this is the tree I climbed the week before the baby was born.” (Ok, yes I know I should NOT have climbed a tree while 36 weeks pregnant, but I had been in labor for nearly 8 days and was not in my right mind). I remembered sitting up there for a moment of quiet while my mother watched over the boys, the Little One fiercely conducting my contractions every ten minutes. I so desperately wanted answers and results and PEACE. I wanted it right in that moment with a snap of my fingers. Of course, I did not get it. Instead, I got days and days of more uncertainty, of constant labor with no snuggly bundle of joy for a reward. He didn’t arrive for another 7 days.

Little One was born on a cold September night. After two weeks of contractions, he came swiftly and “suddenly,” surprising all the nurses and our doctor. I have soaked in every moment. He is my last son, the last child that will come from my body. He, like all my other sons, is a treasure. His brothers are protective of him and love to watch over him. I am fascinated by him and his all ready serious nature. We are in another season of waiting for answers, submerged in constant questioning of our circumstances. One day we will see what it was all for and it will be worth it. Just like Little One...so very very worth it.

The boys played in the leaves the way northern children from land locked states approach the beach, cautiously and with a bit of skepticism. Its so foreign to them still. Leaves that fall to the ground and decay. The lack of green. The barren branches that remain behind. The fact that this all occurs in the span of two or three weeks. The Bear kept asking about it yesterday, taking note of the fact that this place is nothing like Miami. No palm trees. No green leaves. Only “dead deader spike trees” and “christmassy trees.” He loves to shuffle his feet through the piles of leaves. No jumping yet. He’s not quite ready to give himself over to that. It seems he is content to experience this newness in a detached sort of way. He still asks from time to time whether or not we are done pretending that we live here. I know that next year he will jump into the leaves and play hard. As if he has always done it that way, the hesitation long forgotten. But yesterday he merely shuffled along, Babe shuffled behind him albeit a bit more determination in his step. A younger brother’s "divide, conquer and prove yourself" sort of stomp. J followed closely behind, a light smile touching his lips. His feet were shuffling as well, the remembered ritual kind of shuffle. The three of them shuffling in a row in the dusky air—such a mixture of content pleasure and a bit of sadness. Is that even possible?

We miss our home greatly these days. Not just the sunshine and green. But the family and friends too. Its been a hard adjustment, but we are doing it together. There is great joy to be found, simply in being together, even when hard sacrifices are made or life is churning down the rougher path.

We celebrated our six year wedding anniversary yesterday. We laughed often, as always, about the crazy number of children we have managed to produce in such a short time, and reflected on our time together as we walked through the park. We survived the PhD program. We moved across the country twice. One of us nearly died. Two of our children are in heaven with Jesus. We have lived in five different homes. We have buried some dreams and bred new ones. We have shared sorrow and joy. We have grown closer to the Lord. We love our kids…so much. We are thankful.

Gardenia

Right between the 2nd and 3rd chapters of John, the hurried resting place where moisture soaked right into the pages of my bible as our family traveled hundreds of miles to our new home. The petals have dried and the holy words have gathered up the fragrance and the tears and the hurt and the hope and the goodbyes.

It hurt to see him weeping over my children when we said those painful goodbyes. He had turned away, stumbling up the path towards the refuge of his home when he stopped short. I watched from the car, wondering if heart failure was settling in. He said he would die without us. I suddenly feared this would come true. But he veered to the left and made his way to the gardenia bush.

He paused for several moments, looking them over. Searching for that one goodbye blossom. One pure white, no crinkled edges, no faded brown lines, no small black ants scurrying through its sweet center.
He pulled one off and made his way back to me. The lump in my throat growing larger the closer he got.

He is an ornery old goat. My Abuelo. Critical, pushy, meddlesome, childish, angry, fierce in his love and irreverent in life. I love him even when I want to escape him.

He handed me this gardenia. Pushed it through the window in one spiteful sweep, pressing it roughly into my hands and looking at me with wistful sad eyes. The cold AC in our van diffuses the scent quickly, we watch in silence as he makes his way back to the house. Abuela stays on the porch, tears rolling down her brave smile-for-the-kids-face. He enters the house and closes the door, walks to the picture window and watches us pull out of the driveway. I watch as his shoulders shake through the shadow of the pane that separates us.  The gardenia carries us away back to my parents home. Then I carried it inside and flipped through a few crackling pages of my bible and pressed it between John 2 and 3.

We all have those scents or sensations that send us rushing into a memory of something. There are elements of life that lead me head first into memories of my four grandparents. Everything from sarna to sawdust to the sunset orange pulp of a mango or the creamy center of an avocado. Gardenias….

Gardenias are a romantic flower. Mysterious in the way it unfolds, delicate petals with a moody temper bent on ruination the moment humidity spikes, uncompromising in the strength of its scent. It is a pleasure to touch, purrs in your hand really. A Cuban love song almost isn’t a love song unless this flower’s name is whispered somewhere in those lilting lines.

For me, this flower is not my own love story, but my grandparent's romances.

My mother’s parents dancing together surrounded by a cloud of piccolo notes  and somehow I think “gardenias.” My father’s parents arguing in the kitchen as they make a batch of ajiaco together. Each adding salt when the other’s back is turned. The heat from the stove, the open window, the harsh words, the flashing tempers, the unraveling…and somehow I think, “gardenias.”

Gardenias are the warm bowl of frijoles negros on the table. The freshly baked loaf of cuban bread on the pallet. The sound of mango tree leaves rustling in the wind weeks after the last piece of fruit has been harvested. The soft rapid sounds of spanish radio falling in the kitchen like rain drops. Gardenias are the feel of wrinkled brown hands grasping my own hands. The feel of slipping my newborn son into the arms of someone who will cloak him in love.

Today my bible dropped off the wood table and onto the floor. The pages spreading awkwardly on the floor. Bits of messages and cut outs of handprints scattering and the slight crunch of a once green leaf. And suddenly, the smell of gardenias.

Is it any wonder that tears flooded my eyes the moment I drew breath? A deep ache spreading throughout my body? A not so deeply buried grief for what I have left behind for these Pennsylvania mountains? It was all wrapped in this oh so familiar scent.

I thought of his dearly loved face. My ornery old goat, Abuelo. The other three that stand beside him in the line of my family tree.

I miss them.

And for the rest of my life, I will open the book of John and inhale that sweet scent of memory and love and unfurling petals and remember them.

Last Monday

On Monday we sat gathered around the breakfast table, sunlight gently streaming in through the kitchen window. The iPod is playing a few worship tunes from the Miami Worship Choir CD and the boys are singing out loud. I am going through the motions of serving up breakfast. My belly is low and heavy. The dog is in his cage letting out huge sighs of despair that J is nowhere in sight.

Cracking eggs, slathering bread with butter, pouring the steaming hot tea and going through the comforting motions of ritual. My mind is sluggish, thinking about the day-ins and day-outs of the past eleven years. All the breakfasts made and cups of tea consumed, while fighting and death and evil and politics hovered over our heads.

I don’t keep this day a secret from my sons. We pray out loud for those boys and girls that have lost their Mommies and Daddies overseas. They know that men die defending them. They know that once upon a time airplanes hit towers and tears fell and people were lost in the ashes.

They are not too small to understand compassion for those who have lost something so precious. They are not too small to grasp that boys just like them sit at their own breakfast tables and gaze at an empty chair across from them every day.

They are not too small to desire honor, bravery, courage and compassion.

33

33 weeks and counting.

Cubs asks me every day. “Has your wabor started squeezing your uterus yet, Mom?”

Hearing something like that from a 3 year old boy might horrify some people, I know. And yet, I look back at some of the three year olds in my preschool class and remember the horribly violent films they would watch and the trashy radio songs they knew all the lyrics to and I think to myself, is it really so terrible that my son knows about LIFE? 

I think not.

He has asked to be allowed to cut his brother’s “unbiblical cord” and we have agreed. He won’t be present for the actual birth, but when we call them into the room later his job is to cut the cord.

The Bear has graciously declined this honor. I believe his exact words were “Ew gross! No fanks!” accompanied by the emphatic waving of his hands.

I have been instructed to lay low and take it easy. Not bed rest orders just take it easy orders.

I bet you can all ready guess how well THAT is going.

All my little DIY projects and science experiments are temporarily on hold, no more solo trips to the creek with the kids. In general, avoid places were I am the only adult for miles around. No hiking, no long walks, no exploring, unless another grown up is with me…and even then apply those words—take it easy.


Take it easy is not easy.

You would think being this enormously pregnant, I would want to take it easy but I don’t! Its one thing to unwind at the end of a long day with the food channel and a glass of glorious crunchy ice cubes but its quite another to feel like your loafing around all day while toys and laundry pile up.

The Bear and Cubs are pretty fascinated by Ben Folds right now. “Jackson Cannery” is one of their favorite songs and they seem to take great joy in belting out this particular line:

“The seconds pass slowly, but years go flying by”

I say it to myself several times day now…and I act on it.

Whenever I feel that guilt over inactivity creeping up on me, I take a deep breath, sit on the floor and invite the babe over to read his favorite book for the 90th time that day. I’ll pull the slime out of their safety jars and help Cubs cut it all up into small pieces with his scissors and then watch him count each piece as he drops it back into the jar. I’ll curl up on the Bear’s bed and listen to him recount every single animal fact  he knows about deadwood vultures, viperfish and badgers.

I’ll sit and be still and know.

I let the seconds pass by ever so slowly and we breathe them in together.

33 weeks and counting.

Dads

This pregnancy has brought on all manner of vivid dreaming to my life as of late. Be it day dreams or nightmares or vivid memory recall in the deepest moments of REM.  I can not recall ever experiencing a season of such intense and vivid dreams before (minus those lovely cycles of malaria pills for my trips to Honduras).

Last night Maurice Moss was my doula.

Frightening and awesome all at once...

A few days ago it was a swim with the dolphins, something I have always always wanted to do. It really felt like I was there. In those first moments of waking I reached up to touch my hair, expecting to find it damp and tangled from the sea.

Then last week a dream that was actually a memory from my childhood.

Beginning with the sight of department store carpeting, littered with a few T tags and bits of string. Then a button, small and pearly.

I look at my hand as I reach out to grab this small treasure. And its not a grown up hand that looks just like my Abuelas, but a child’s hand. The faint outline of baby dimples still gracing my knuckles. A scratch from a tree branch just below my thumb. I wear that scar today. But in this dream it fresh and raw and pink. I glance to the right and see a pair of familiar shoes.

They belong to my Dad.

I look up and find his young face looking down at me.

I realize that we are shopping together. Just him and I.

Men’s Department, roaming the dress shirt aisles side by side looking for work shirts. He is talking to me and I am smiling. I can feel the muscles in my face stretching and they are almost sore from the continuous joy of just being with him.

If you know me, you know I am a Daddy’s girl.

It was never a conscious choice you see. I just always have been and always will be….ridiculously proud that he belongs to me and that I belong to him.

It didn’t matter where he was going or what he was doing. I just wanted to be near him and spend time with him.  Driving to the dump to deliver trash? Count me in. Going for a long walk on the beach? Take me with you. Seasoning a freshly butchered pig for Noche Buena? I’ll spend the whole day with you. Fishing for barracudas? Please oh please let me tag along too.

No matter how hard he worked—which was a tremendous amount—he always made time for me.

I never doubted, not for a single minute, that his family was first in his heart.

Which is in all likelihood why this dream was cast in such a warm golden glow.

I have no trouble recalling the way his voice sounded at the age of 29. It springs up automatically. I remember the way his beard looked, the shape of his haircut, the way he would sweep my mom up in his arms and kiss her, his laughter, his habits….the very Dad essence of him.

We head for the tie section, my favorite part. He starts telling me about the case he is working on and the people he will be meeting.

I am the expert on ties, you understand.

No one can pick them like I do.

I always pick the right one.

And his chances of winning a case are always higher when I have selected the tie.

At least that is what he would tell me.

I start rummaging and make my selection.

“Perfect,” he says.

And I am awash in that feeling of pride again. He is my Dad and he loves the tie that I found.

I wake up groggy from this dream. Very pregnant and very tired and very very busy with my boys. Their Dad has all ready left for work, hours before they are awake. They know this, but they still ask repeatedly, “Where is Dad? Is he coming back yet? Is it dinner time yet?”

“He is at river work” I remind them.

“Oh yeah…..(sigh)…Mom, isn’t Dad awesome?”

“Yes he is” I agree.

They munch on their waffles in a silence thick with thought. They are remembering their weekend adventures with Dad. All the glorious time he spent with them. All the wrestling, tickle fights, lego building and book reading. The constant hugs and the constant love.

I know the feel of what they are feeling.

I have worn it like a mantle over my heart for years. Experiencing your father’s love becomes etched into the very core of who you are. I see the indentations marking their hearts every day.

Dad loves me.

Dad is proud of me.

Dad values me.

Dad cares what I think.

Dad protects me.

Dad teaches me.

Dad learns from me.

Dad laughs with me.

Dad likes me.

Dad is here.

I am beginning each day dwelling on something that I am thankful for. One blessing that deeply enriches my life. Something to mull over as I am preparing to birth my fourth son, as I pray for his life and for his walk with the Lord.

This was the first one I thought, automatically coming up from the very core of who I am.

“Thank you Lord for being my heavenly Father, for loving me beyond any love I could possibly fathom. Thank you for giving me to my earthly Father, who rooted me in his love and who never caused me to doubt it. Thank you for joining me to my husband. His deep love for me and my sons a constant reflection of your love.” 

Now the petition comes in. This new prayer of the last four years that is always on my lips...

“Lord, help my sons to walk in your ways. Give them a heart like your own. Help them to reflect your love daily. Enable us in training them to be men of God—strong leaders, husbands and fathers. Fill them with your Spirit."

How very grateful I am that one of the richest blessings in my sons lives is not where they live or how they live or what they get to do….but that they are surrounded by great examples of fatherly love. Their Lord, their father and both of their grandfathers. Thank you Lord for all these Dads.

Home Brew

Cubs and I finished a batch of homemade pita bread yesterday. We watched them puff up in the oven, pulled them out and listened to the beautiful crackle the thinner ones made. We were so giddy!
Later that night I crushed a few of them and set them on a baking pan. Spritzed them with olive oil and sprinkled sea salt and parmesan on them and set them to bake for a while. A little homemade guacamole with those freshly toasted pita chips…Oh man…Friday night, come to Mama!

“I am never buying pita bread at the store EVER again!” was the declaration I tossed over my shoulder at J.

He raised his eyebrows and gave me a half smile.

His usual move whenever I make these sort of statements after having tried something once.

I have been making that statement a lot lately.

I will never buy this at the store ever again.

Truth is…I have had a lot of fun these past few weeks home brewing everything possible. Making your own is a lot of fun. Sure it takes time and effort and blah blah blah, but its just so much darn fun to do it on your own and have that momentary cave man moment of “me make fire. ROAR.”

I’ll toss out my line and J just raises those brows at me and quirks those lips upwards a bit…

Baby #4 is almost here. As in, 6-8 weeks almost here. As in, my stomach has grown to gargantuan proportions and I have to wear a belly harness (no really, I do, its hilarious) and my midwife is amazed at how nearly all my weight is restricted to my belly. Like I swallowed a pilates ball….. but not in the way some lithe extra tall woman carries her big watermelon belly with her long limbs still looking lean and trim. Nope. More like that short squaty farmer’s wife with a dozen kids all ready kinda way. I didn’t just swallow the pilates ball. I AM THE PILATES BALL.

And while I may be preachin’ the home brew giggles right now, I KNOW and he KNOWS that a few months from now, I’ll be stumbling bleary eyed into the bread aisle, searching for a pack of pita bread.

Meanwhile, I will enjoy all this home brew hooplah. It makes me happy. Gets my mind off the harness.

Pilates ball over and out.

Harp beat

He chose the grey funnel shaped piece. The one usually reserved as a “speedy booster” for the building of jets and rockets. A very valuable piece. Fought over often, not easily won. Treasured.

He turned it this way and that, brow furrowed in concentration, lower lip slightly pouted, looking so very much like his father it makes my heart clench a bit. He holds a bit of twine in his other hand. I am still not sure how he managed to find the ball of twine and cut an appropriate length without my help (or knowledge of his doing so). I watch him unite the two pieces. Triumph written on his face.

He brings me his creation.

A fetal doppler.

A piece of equipment we are quite familiar with...

Beginning with his own gestation, when I decided to educate myself and learn about what a birth managed by my own body could mean.

After that redeeming moment when he slid out from me, all blue from the water, those red red lips pursed in a grumpy pout, the greatest victory I have ever felt, that moment always brought vividly to mind when words like “fetal doppler” and “midwife” and “homebirth” are spoken or read.

Now here he stands, holding that home made doppler and gazing at my roundness.

His hands begin searching out his unborn brother, feeling gently around my abdomen. Checking up on his Mama and baby brother. Asking questions. Measuring. Answering my questions.

Since the day we announced our pregnancy, he asks at least four or five times a day, “Is the baby ok in your belly?”

He wants to know what he cannot see.

He wants to be a part of something he knows is special and secret.

He loves a good secret.

I speak those words, “You knit me in my mother’s womb, in the most secret of places.”

He nods, blue eyes growing wider, small hands spreading out over my abdomen. Small lips kissing my stretched skin, fluttering across the deeply etched lines that prove I carried him as well.

He moves his nose closer to my belly button and begins whispering to his brother.

More secrets.

The baby moves the minute he hears that familiar voice. Pushes up hard, turns his body, lands a sharp kick.

Interaction.

Relationship.

Understanding.

Brotherhood.

I close my eyes and think of those that were scraped out of their mother’s wombs. Eviscerated. Mangled. Torn to pieces. Murdered.

What deep deep grief over what we have imagined ourselves sovereign over.

What will my son say on the day he learns that we do such things?

Will he remember these quiet moments? When he pads into my room, footed pajamas brushing the floor with that oh so familiar brush brush brush. The first beams of sunshine streaking in through the glass. Curling into my side, fitting up against me, his hands searching for his brother. Finding that exact spot that his baby brother loves to curl up in, he always seems to know which side the baby favors, he presses his hands deep.

We look at each other and he always says the same thing--

“Mom. I can feel his little harp. Its beating on my hands.”

Will he remember this?

Lord let it be so.

In the meantime, I know one piece of building material the boys will never see again. Once their brother is born that small funnel shaped building block with its tattered twine will be wrapped up and stored in my memory box. A most precious treasure, a memory of when two brothers forged their relationship before they ever set eyes on one another.

Space

Jordan Creek

Now that we have been home for a few weeks, our rhythm is getting into a groove once more. Two of my favorite beats in the flow? As you know by now, the creek owns our hearts. We love spending time there. 

The second charmer….my kitchen. Not because its souped up or fancy or anything…its simply there.

I went for so long without one that I started craving that space for myself. Now I spend as much time as I can, barefoot and pregnant, in the kitchen.

After hours of going through our past grocery bills I made a few more cuts to what we buy each week and replaced it with the homemade variety. 

These are some of yesterday’s efforts, which were also done in an effort to battle the hard water in our townhouse. I’ve never really experienced the joys of hard water before, but now understand what some of you have talked about on your own blogs. A few days ago I cooked up a beeswax lotion that has saved my skin. A few bath bombs, fancy hand soap, manly body wash for J and lastly a few practical Vick’s discs to have on hand the next time we get sick.

bath bombs

Vick’s discs

Now I know the next part is looming over my shoulder. Actually decorating our house. Nesting. That thing I am supposed to feel like doing.

Not really feelin’ it.

Am soooo sooo tired of packing and unpacking and planning that the thought of even deciding where to hang a picture frame makes me want to cry.

Can I just wait a few more weeks? Thanks. I think I will. Fall is a far more inspirational time to fix a space anyways.

But I did hang one or two things a few days ago. Aside from my handy kitchen chalkboards….this rusty bike wheel was positioned in our dining room. J rode his bike every day to what the kids called “Bicycle School” for five long years.  Bicycles have now become synonymous with grad school in my head. Those spokes are a symbol of hard work and determination. When I found this beauty, I decided it should have a place on our wall. I’ve been pinning up all the blessings we see, pouring out from our experience at bicycle school, all given to us by the Lord. I pass by this wheel and I see those blessings everyday and it reminds me in the toughest moments of my day, that the Lord is blessing all our labor. No matter how tedious it feels at the moment or how much easier it would be to just give up.  A beautiful reminder for us all.

Olympics

Its goes down like this…pretty much every time we sit down to watch the Olympics.

The athletes take off doing whatever amazing things they have been training to do.

My boys watch, slack jawed. Eyes round. For about fifteen seconds…..

“Mom?”

“Yes”

“Can you do that?”

“Nope”

They resume playing with trucks around the coffee table, giving the television an occasional glance and providing comments for us to chuckle over every now and then.

The next event comes on and its the question all over again.

“Mom, can you do that?”

Now that we are on the third day of Olympic question and answer, this particular question has changed in tone.

As in: “Mom…can’t you do ANY of these things?”

My answer has changed in tone as well.

From a chuckled out “Nope” ….. to a grind through my teeth “Nope.”

Because having your worth judged by a 4 year old based solely on Olympic potential only to be found lacking is…bruising?

It sounds crazy I know…but who hasn’t had those days when you walk into a room filled with chaos and mess and you think, “maybe I should have gone to that Masters program instead of doing this all day every and day….”

I found myself lost in a daydream of starring in the Nerd Olympics. Taking gold in the speed reading competition or the Jane Austen Trivia bowl, maybe taking silver for world’s best chocolate chip cookie or competing in Fastest Legible Haiku.

I try not to get carried away you see….

“Boys,” I say, “if you work really hard you can do ANY of those things too.”

I encourage as much as I can.

“You have every potential of doing that just as well as they do. Work hard, train hard, and that could be you some day if its your dream.”

I’ve always been a firm believer in encouraging children to reach for the highest dreams in their sights.

This time it backfired on me a bit...

After lunch I sent the boys upstairs to read a book together, as I gathered the last of the laundry into the basket, I heard the first stirrings of giggles. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs to begin my lumbering ascent upwards I heard THE LAUGHTER.

Ya know.

THE LAUGHTER.

Not just innocent frolicking child laughter but spawn of something evil laughter. Horrible terrible idea laughter. Bloody head wound laughter. Permanent ink laughter. I just found something precious and now I will destroy it laughter. MUAHAHAHAHAHA.

That hair raising, goose bump inducing sound that mothers of multiple boys hear in their nightmares (or mothers of just one girl like me—sorry, Mom!).

Well, that is what I heard.

THE LAUGHTER coming out of three small boys I know quite well.

Nothing could have prepared me as I finally made it to the landing for the following words shouted by my typically well behaved, non messy, responsible, rule following, perfection to the point of ulcers, eldest child:

“WADIES AND GENTLEMEN. WELCOME TO THE SHOW CALLED THE SUPER PEE SWORD FIGHTING OLYMPICS SYNCHROTIZED.”

The laundry slipped from my grasp and fell at my feet. The door to the bathroom was ominously closed.

I heard the middle one roar: “ON YOUR MARK GET SET GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

As I later described it on facebook, it was so horrifying it was almost playing out in slow motion.


I waddled up the remaining 12 steps and opened the door just as Cubs let out a warrior cry: “THIS IS AWESOME!”

All three of my angels, pants around their ankles, spraying urine all over the bathroom and each other.

Sword fighting.

Racing.

Urinating.

The baby is soaking wet and I can barely bring myself to look at him.

Walls, cabinets, floor, rug, shower curtain…..liberally spritzed with wee wee from three pee pees.

Silence.

They are all looking at me, their mouths still curled upwards…half grin…half questioning what Mommy will do about this.

I vow to stay cool and calm.

I vow to stay under control.

I vow to remember that I am the adult and they are 4, 3, and 20 months.

I vow to have justice.

“Boys, welcome to THE GREAT CLEAN UP YOUR OWN PEE OLYMPICS”

More silence.

Followed by deafening shrieks and cheers.

“All right!” followed by a tiny fist pump.

They eagerly gather rags from the hall closet and set about mopping up pee and arguing over whose pee has gone where.

I stand in the hall way, eyes closed. Trying to give myself a pep talk to fortify myself for the next 18 years with FOUR boys.

I feel a tug on my shirt.

“Yes?” I look down into a pair of wide blue eyes.

“Um, Mom? Did you watch our pee olympics?”

“I caught the very end of it.”

“Mom, can you do that?”

“Nope.”

He lets out a sigh and walks away.

I write out in my head, as fast as I can:

Twenty years, four boys
Pee wars, bugs, fist fights, bring me
chocolate and tea.

Home

The town may not feel like home quite yet, the streets are still unfamiliar and nothing feels the same.

Yet this small space we call our own has started to feel like home.  There is not a single picture hung on our walls. Cardboard boxes lurking downstairs, the master bedroom a mish mash of disorganized mess.

But there is a tiny crumpled sock bearing testament in the corner of the living room. An empty bowl once filled with goldfish crackers sits on the coffee table. Our laundry is in the basket, waiting to be folded. A large mixing bowl, crusted with oats and honey and vanilla sits in the sink, soaking away the joy of an afternoon hour. The crock pot is ambitiously brewing a batch of greek yogurt. A hammer and a few nails sit out on the counter waiting for a moment of epiphany.  Packets of English Breakfast fill the tea caddy on the sill. Matchbox cars are….well….everywhere.

Somehow, we are home.

The laughter and giggles that float down the stairs whenever boys play upstairs with their Daddy. The deep melancholic sigh rumbling from the west highland terrier snuggled on his new pillow. The morning routine that has all ready established itself. Last weeks newly organized homeschooling closet, all ready feeling the effects of 7 days use.

Those tiny fingerprints smudging the windowsill.

The same ones mar a set of windows back in Miami.

The very ones my grandfather can’t bear to clean in the depth of his sadness.

Yet, I can not help but smile when I look at those dirty smears…they have come to mean that we are home.

Whip It

One of the benefits of starting a new job AND moving across the country AND having your fourth baby in five years is the fresh opportunity to look at finances and household expenses.

I hate math. I hate money. I hate keeping tabs of receipts.

So I forced myself to enroll in Financial Peace University last year.

I am really truly glad that I went through through the course. I learned a lot and am so excited to get a fresh start on everything once we figure out our new budget.

In the meantime, I took a look at our old budget.

cringe


Here is the skinny people. I wanted to make some major budget cuts this year. While we are going from   grad student income to a doctoral income and we are saving lots of money by staying in a family owned town house…. we want to live at an even more frugal rate then we did in grad school.

As I said before…I really am not good with numbers. I needed to keep this as simple as possible.
I sat down while the kids napped, took a look at some old numbers and wrote out the top 15 expenses in our home ( I am talking household things, not gas or electricity or whatever. All though I’ll look at those next month).

Then I started looking for alternatives to those big heavy hitting expenses.

First on my list (surprise surprise) with so many boys and a messy little pup, laundry detergent.

We spent hundreds and hundreds last year on friggin' LAUNDRY detergent. Between the Bear’s eczema and our outdoor laundry facilities, which whenever neglected (more often then not) a washed load would need a second run through. PLUS we had no hot water hook up. This resulted in the need for extra extras just to get stains out of clothing.

Enter pinterest. Evil wonderful pinterest. I found a few DIY recipes for homemade laundry and really took my time reading comments from readers who had taken the time and effort to make it and use it. Eventually, I found a winner for us. Perfect for the Bear’s sensitive skin. A beast at getting out stains. Smells great AND leaves everything soft. What more could you want out of laundry? Best of all, I could make a whopping four gallons of the stuff and it would last me about a year.

Yeah, you read that right.

Oh, and it only costs $40 to make.

‎4lbs baking soda
(3) 14.1 oz zote bars (I used the pink ones but you can use the white ones if you want to leave off the scent and dyes)
3lb Super Washing Soda (arm & hammer)
3 lbs of oxiclean stain remover (optional)
76 oz Borax
(2) 55 oz of Purex Fabric Softner Crystals (I used the lavender scent)

Use a cheese grater to grate the zote bars. Mix well with all the other ingredients. I picked up a 5 gallon bucket with a lid at Lowe’s and mixed all the ingredients a bit at a time in layers into the bucket. Then I sealed the lid and rolled it around for a bit. I saved the two purex crystal bottles, took off the labels and poured some of the detergent into the bottles (I still have 2//3 of the tub full and stored away). The purple cap from the Purex bottle is the perfect measurement amount for the large loads of laundry I do.




Now, this recipe was found off some chick’s blog. I’d love to give her credit for the recipe but her blog entry seems to have been wiped off the face of the universe.  Suffice to say, kudos to her for her adaptation on this recipe (which I have found a few versions of). Those purex crystals smell AWESOME but I must say my new all time favorite scent is a freshly unwrapped Zote bar.

Our laundry looks awesome. Smells awesome. IS AWESOME. My laundry is AWESOME.

Ha! Forgive the enthusiasm but since laundry used to be the bane of my existence you can understand my joy at having kicked it in the knees and scored a victory.

This small change in our home with a HUGE financial and self esteem boost got me looking at everything else around the house.

As you know, I tend to take on 60,000 projects at once when inspiration hits, I get overwhelmed, I leave them all 75% done and poor J has to come behind me with the broom, sweeping up the mess and finishing the last bits.

So before any more adjustments are made we have set a few criteria:

1) EASY and NON stressful (bonus if the kids can help make it)
2) Cheap and economical
3) Something that replaces an item we all ready use
4) NOTHING WEIRD.

Ok I know #4 sounds ambiguous…but if you have ever surfed the household DIY on pinterest you know what I am talking about. Homemade toilet paper? Ah, no thanks.

Whats next on our list?

Homemade body wash, hand sanitizer, dishwashing powder, furniture wax, all purpose cleanser. Checkity check check check.

Homemade kids snacks like yogurt dots, fruit leathers, whole grain animal crackers.

And just for fun and because I have a surplus of lavender flowers in my home (thanks Mom), some post partem bath bombs.

Whippin’ this house into shape! Waddling through one day at a time and ONE project at a time (I promise, babe!)

Off to get the yogurt dots out of the fridge….

O Boy

A few weeks ago the Bear made one of his observations.

“Mom…I fink…you look like the letter ‘O’ a little bit.”

Back then it was a bit more endearing to me and I felt proud (as always) of my little observer.

Today we took the morning off to go grocery shopping. We are now a preschool on wheels. We learn on the way to the store and when we arrive, we try to select a shopping cart in which all three children can sit closely together so that we can talk about everything around us. (Of course this rule is struck down if the shopping cart with the attached race car is available).

We learn about farming, colors, numbers, order, communities, cultures, etc. The boys are always full of questions and answers, which can be directed at me or anyone around us. As you can imagine, we attract some attention.  For example, this morning when the Bear pointed to the sausages on display and shouted, “Excuse me Butcher, are those South African Sea worms or Pig GUTS? I don’t like to eat PIG GUTS. YUCK!” ... we got a lot of laughs.

Today’s trip also included six different women stopping to ask me about my children. What are their ages? How do you do it? Are you having another boy? 

At times we get unasked for advice like have you ever thought of stopping after three children? Did you ever try shopping bulk since you have so many children? 


It takes a long time for us to finish at the store. Between all the talking and learning and strangers stopping us to talk, sometimes we are in the store for close to two hours. Years ago, I would have broken out in hives over that. But these days, a few hours with my kids safely restrained in a cart…ain’t such a bad deal!

And yet today, as we neared the hour and fifteen minute mark, my lower back started aching. The baby was shifting restlessly against my ribcage.  The boys were asking yet again why soy beans are bad for their “gonie knackers” (their name for testicles). Babe was insisting on taking off one of his crocs and sucking on it every time I turned my back. A random lady had stopped us five minutes before to simply state “PREGNANT with THREE boys??? Oh honey, you look exhausted.” Thanks for the pep talk lady.

By the time Cubby starts singing classical music using only the word “chicken,” I decide we have gotten enough off our list. I can grab one or two more things for J and then we can make our exit. There is no way I could last another forty five minutes in the store (which by the way is under construction and complete chaos at the moment) I start heading for the last aisle. There is a slight traffic jam leading into the “ethnic” section. But Cub’s favorite taco night calls and so I wait patiently with our extra long cart, the boys kicking the back of the bench in which they are seated. Three or four other mothers with their children are waiting next to me. We start chatting about the construction and our kids. I start to relax a bit and think to myself, hmm…I could handle a few minutes of peaceful adult conversation.


OF COURSE, the Bear chooses this moment to say, “Mom you are HUGE-MUNGUS right now. You look like a big big big letter ‘O.’ You are the biggest Mom I have ever seen. Is the baby ever going to FINALLY come out of your butt?”

Huge sigh.

Oh man.

Of course, I get teary. Which makes me feel stupid. I am not an emotional person at all and would normally laugh something like that off... and yet, these months of compounded stress and exhaustion are catching up to me and I can feel those tears stinging the backs of my eyes. Plus, I AM huge. I look like I swallowed a watermelon whole. There are no muscles left in my abdomen to hold up a baby all cute and compact. I look like the farmer’s wife that births a baby every spring. This bump is REAL folks and it is no picnic.

The other mommies are looking at me with compassion and pity, except for one who is smothering a giggle behind her hand.

Cubs and the Bear are looking at me with open curiosity.

Cubs asks loudly, “Mom, are you CRYING???”

“Nope. Nope. Nope. Mommy is fine.” I manage to say.

Screw taco night…I am getting out of here!


We back away from the ethnic food section and make tracks for the check out counter.

As always, Cubs eyes are a magnet right towards the busty ladies on the magazine covers.

“Wook Mom, wook at her big boobs! Does she have a baby?”

Another huge sigh.

We make it to the car. I unload all three kids and ten thousand bags of groceries. I put away the cart, get into the drivers seat and let my head thunk onto the steering wheel.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Are you ok?”

“I am ok.”

“Mom….I wuv you.”

“I love you too.”

“I wuv you too, Mom. Don’t forget, I wuv you too.”

“Thanks to you too, honey.”

and then the smallest voice pipes out…

“Me too. Me too. Mommy.”

This big fat exhausted letter ‘O’ loves her nosy, curious, observant babies…very very much.

The Creek

We marked our one month anniversary a few days ago. Since then we have had a solid two weeks of sickness, followed by a solid two weeks of repacking, moving and readjusting. We have also played at the creek about 8 times, which has been an invaluable resource for us.

My boys love the creek. 30 miles long, it curves around certain parts of the countryside, nearly all of it thickly forested and isolated. We have two or three favorite spots for visiting.  The king of those spots is at the preserve which boasts a very wide section of creek, rock beds, bridges, nature trails, biking trails, and the cherry on top…you get to ford the river in your car. Ultimate entertainment.

We enjoyed another great visit yesterday on my Mom’s last day in town. We played with a little crawdad, caught a frog (which Cubs held on to for a good while), watched a cluster of whirligig beetles synchronized swimming, picked flowers, waded through the creek and spent some time playing with rocks patterns and formations to divert the flow of smaller creek streams.

I really love seeing the boys in this spot. Whenever the move starts catching up with me or when they really start to miss home and ask for their great-grandparents or their old room, I can toss them into the car and head down to the creek. Its easier to talk to them there about these big life events. Somehow, in the open space, in the movement of rocks and building of tiny ant bridges and bug forts, we can say deeper things to one another. At times with our words or as with most toddlers, with our play.

The Bear loves having things to manipulate with his hands, even if its just digging a large mud pit of “lava.” He usually devotes his time to building a damn out of rocks and watching the water collect and pool deeper until HE decides to release it all back into the collective flow. This is therapeutic for him, this gives him a measure of control in his life. The creek has become his creative sanctuary where he can mold and make what his mind needs to express. He is always watching and observing, so much like his Daddy. I sometimes wonder if he will bide his time, observing and analyzing everything for an entire year before delivering his thoughts on our move.

Cubs needs the space to stomp around and just be a boy. He can get his crocs extra muddy and play with frogs. He can splash in the water and yell as loudly as he likes. He stands on the rock bed and chooses only the heaviest, largest stones to heave over his head into the water.  He may be effecting the erosion of the shoreline this summer. I am not surprised to see him want to do physical battle with nature. Of all our children, his adjustment has been the most visibly difficult. He lashes out the most. His tears are the most common. He challenges his boundaries and rules every second he gets. He is defiant at every turn. This is more heartbreaking than infuriating at times, because I see the question in his eyes behind every act of disobedience. Do you still love me? Is it still the same? Are we still a family? Are you still in charge? Are you still protecting me? Are you still taking care of me? He sometimes hurls the stones with a growl in his voice as they fly through the air and then before they  land with a heavy sucking gulp into the stream, there is an echo of giggles there to embrace it. More therapy.

Babe seems to be taking everything in at face value. If Mama is ok then he is ok. The creek is without a doubt his favorite past time. As soon as we strap him into the car he is all ready begging for “The Keek! Mo’ Keek!” He has flourished this past month. His vocabulary is astounding and growing by leaps and bounds. I assumed that since our second born took his sweet time in the words departments, that our third born would follow suit. Not so. He is ever determined to catch up with his brothers and has no trouble expressing his wants, needs or feelings. More often than not, I know more of his thoughts than of the three year old’s thoughts. Babe loves to perch on the larger stones, his new green crocs splashing in a few inches of water, his hands fisting smaller stones to toss in alongside his brothers. He loves wading in the stream and watching the water striders dance about the surface.  He giggles at the passing butterflies and always reaches out his small hand to me when its time to move on. “Hold hand?” he’ll ask me, his big brown eyes drinking everything in. He is fearless when he holds my hand. He is instantly four years old and ready to take on the world like his brothers.

 I soak at the creek. Not only my tired feet but my heart and soul. I am a sponge in need of peace and as much rest as three preschool aged boys will allow. I take stock of what has changed around us since our first visit. The poly wogs we chased with nets ten days ago have long since sprouted their front legs and hopped off to greater destinations. The large branches and trees felled by the violent storm a few weeks ago have changed. Their once green leaves now withered and brown and decaying. The trunks beginning to grow small mushrooms alongside the other small forest organisms latching on and taking command.  My own ever growing belly, commandeered by a smaller being, changing.

We drive slowly out of the preserve some 90 minutes later. Looking down at “the whole world” from our mountain perch before spilling out into the valley again. I almost always catch their sigh as we pull out onto the main road, all feeling a bit more able to handle whatever the next day might bring and wondering when we can play at the creek once more.

transition normal

We left a week early.

A hard decision to make, but one that needed to be made. A "Mama Bear call" really. My boys and I were having a hard go of it and we needed to act fast in order to reach our next transition. My mom graciously moved her schedule around and left within 12 hours notice with us for a grueling three day road trip.

I fell in love with Savannah and Baltimore on the way up and have made a mental note to return to each for longer periods of time in the future.

We rolled into A-town with the 18 month old sprouting his two year old molars, a 103.5 degree fever for the 3 years old, one sick Bella and a swollen pregnant mama.

Now begins the new task.  The newest transition in a string of 10 or 12.

I usually push myself to be the best mother I can possibly be to my boys. Not so these past few months...

I simply strive to survive and help them cope.

This phase is no different at the moment. But later this week, I am really and truly hoping to get "back to normal" as much as possible. We have no idea how long we will be living with my in-laws as we wait for our housing to be sorted out. Thankfully, living with them is the best thing for the boys right now because it is a familiar space and one they love being in. It's a good space to stop and breathe in...a good space to just be and figure out how to relate to one another after so many hard months and weeks of life.

Our dear friends are literally staring into the face of a massive wildfire in Colorado and will in all likelihood need to evacuate their home. They've been on my mind constantly. Other friends are facing tough transitions too. New jobs, divorces, relocations, unemployment, single parenting. They've been on my heart too as I "watch" them struggle in the same boat, parenting during those especially hard times.

I"ll never forget the roughest moments of my childhood... which always centered around hurricanes. First Hugo and then Andrew. Each hurricane calling my father away from his family in order to establish his business and make a living to provide for us. He left to South Carolina for three months after Hugo hit. Leaving my mother to care for my sister and I.

Back then all I knew was that Daddy left to help other kids who lost their homes, just like the superhero   I knew him to be, and my mother stayed behind to be our anchor and support.

Now as a mother I look back and think...how in the world did she do it? I don't remember her melting down, I can not recall anger or panic or frustration. No memories of my mother exhausted or overwhelmed with the sudden responsibility of being a single parent after years of co-parenting. Even though I am sure she must have felt all those things at different times.

Instead, I remember laughing. A lot. I remember dinners without Dad, the three of us huddled around the card table talking about how much we loved him and how much he was helping all those kids who had lost their homes. I clearly remember my mother rising to the occasion to make us feel loved and secure.

After Andrew hit,  Dad had to work nonstop...for years. Yet again, I remember those "barely scraping by" moments with a smile. Mom managed to keep it fun for us. Even when all we had for dinner were cheetos and coke and vienna sausages served before that single candle while the late August humidity of Miami engulfed our little home. I remember her being there. It was more than enough.

I am drawing strength from those memories now. There are times when I stop and wonder...will they ever recover from this craziness? All these hard weeks of no schedule and routine and no familiarity?

Of course they will. They are so so young right now. The Bear will be the only one to remember this time.

The majority of my days, I feel frazzled and frustrated and exhausted, but when the sun sets we are still a family, we are still together, no matter what trials we met with that day. No matter how many different ways I failed to keep it together, I am here for them now and that is what matters most.

The second to last transition continues and we are eagerly awaiting the final one in this series. Our new home transition.

But we probably shouldn't get too comfortable, someone is reminding me at the moment by kicking me squarely in the ribs. New Baby transition is just around the corner too!

PA

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we're back.

Its been way way way too long since I've updated but to say that I had zero time to write is an understatement. The months and weeks leading up to J's dissertation defense were crazy. I was stumbling around in my first trimester stupor of exhaustion and was pretty much solo parenting on most days, especially towards the end. Once the dissertation was defended, J needed to make his revisions, submit his defense for publication and finish writing articles for a few journals. So yeah, even busier than before, not sure how that happened....

Then came graduation, the big day we had all been waiting for. It was awesome. I simply can not express my gratitude to the Lord for bringing us to that moment of celebration and accomplishment. We are all extremely proud of J, not only for his scholastic achievements, but also for the tremendous way he lived his life during those five long, stressful years. He is an excellent husband and father and has always kept the Lord first in his life. He draws me closer to Jesus. He is both the head and the anchor of our little family.

A few days after graduation, J and I were cruising around Marco Island with the kids. His phone rings and within minutes we are parked outside a mini golf hut shaking our heads in disbelief, tear in our eyes, thanking the Lord for providing J with a job.

I knew God would provide. I knew he would. I just didn't know when. I was preparing myself for the long haul of unemployment. We know so many people enduring that particular trial right now and I felt myself bracing for it. But the Lord provided right on time. The cherry on top? This job was J's "dream job" out of all the jobs he had looked at or applied for. (I should mention that a job in Fairbanks, Alaska was on the list. This cuban was F-R-E-A-K-I-N-G out about that one).

We were given exactly four weeks to pack up our life and head on up to PA.

I tried not to hit the mental panic button. I really did. I told myself not to...repeatedly.

But ya know what? Aside from being pregnant, having three children, a husband that just went through a grueling five years of grad school and not having slept well in five years...  I am a control freak who hates packing.

So I am sure you can imagine my mental state this past month...actually please don't.

We finished loading the truck yesterday and as I write this J and Frankie are driving up to PA. The boys and I will be hanging out tourist style for the next ten days before heading up.

We'll be updating as much as possible over the next few weeks....lots to share!

Tantrum

I didn’t realize I was having a tantrum. I only saw the three year old having a tantrum.

But I in retrospect I see that I was most definitely having a full blown tantrum in my mind and in my heart.

You see, Cubs and I are the same.

Exactly the same.

Minus our coloring and gender differences, we are the same.

We both love adventure, danger, mud puddles, control, lending a hand, bubble baths, working outside, getting our hands dirty with a good project. We are needy and affectionate. We lose our tempers and are ruled by passion. We are natural born leaders and idea generators. As the older one in the twosome I have had the advantage of twenty five years to learn the best way to reign in my more ballistic personality traits and nurture my useful ones…but poor Cubs has not had this advantage.

He reminds me of the fairies in J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. They are so small they only have room to feel one emotion at a time. Thats my Cubs, he is either all happiness or all anger. So its not uncommon for him to have a tantrum. A full blown, throw your head back and wail like a banshee who just stubbed his toe TANTRUM.

Things start coming apart in my brain when he throws a tantrum. Like those GE kitchen commercials when the appliances start unhinging and breaking apart to reveal every cog and screw within. My brain cabinets open and bits of information start falling out…memories, lessons learned, conversations with God, screaming sessions with my parents, broken hurts that still need mending, everything floats in the air for a moment so that I can get a good 3D introspective gander at it before the pieces all clash to the floor.

Basically, I look at him and then proceed to have a meltdown over my own mistakes and personality flaws.  I want him to progress to where I am. To channel his passion for good, to curb his anger and greed for instant satisfaction. I am ashamed of the condition of his heart and of my own for feeling that way. I am frustrated with myself for losing my temper in favor of the quick behavioral fix rather than a calm wise character building illustration a la’ Marmie from Little Women.

So I am taking this all apart GE style. Looking for the best ways to aid him in gaining the tools and understanding he needs to figure himself out. As my husband so wisely pointed out a few nights ago, our city is filled with boys who never grow up to be men. They get the tattoos, work on body building, buy huge cars and hide behind their hobbies, always escaping the moment that tests their metal, shrugging off the chance to accept responsibility and face it like a man. Hiding behind their own tantrums.

I long for Cubs to be heart strong so that when his moment comes, he can choose to be a man and step up to the task before him. I hope he knows himself well enough to make the right decisions, that his feet will be firmly planted in the truth of God’s word so that he will not waver from it merely to appease what the world sees as correct or true.

In the meantime, I am beginning to get the feeling that this motherhood gift of excruciating self-examination that comes with each milestone in my children’s development is not going to go away anytime soon. Its here for good, isn’t it?  Thank God.

Ann Voskamp wrote on her blog yesterday,

"Mothers never stop being with child. You always make a space for me within you."

It hit me hard. I really needed those 9 months of pregnancy to prepare myself for the task ahead. I could not have had everything ready, all the perfect answers, if pregnancy only last a week. In the same way, I need their whole childhood to be ready for each stage as it comes. I need the step by step development alongside them. They need me to need this. 


So while I would love to look at my son in the midst of a tantrum, cluck my tongue and slap out an awesome life lesson, I know that the greater value for us both is to hold each other's hands and get through our tantrums together, letting him know that he is not alone, Mommy is working on it too.

Oh... and prayers and chocolate. Let’s not forget those….