Ok, round two.
"The pardable of Zacchaeus."
Part 1
Part 2 (interrupted by the Babe)
Part 3
Monday, December 16, 2013
Story Telling
We love stories. Hearing them, reading them, telling them.
Every night, the boys are tucked in their beds nice and tight. We kiss them. Recite a few verses. Turn out the lights and hit the play button on their stereo.
The stories start to play.
Sometimes its AA Milne or CS Lewis or Roald Dahl, lately its been the Jesus Storybook Bible recordings. They are read by a man with an English accent.
The Bear has memorized nearly all the stories and loves reciting them. At times he busts out his English accent, which is quite quite hilarious.
I've never shared a video on here before, usually videos end up on facebook. But since this is a 3 part story, I thought I'd upload the story telling here.
Enjoy......
the pardable of the prodigate son :)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Happy Birthday Meme
An excerpt from something I posted back in January, in honor of my great grandmother's birthday today. Boy do I miss her!
------------------------------------------------------------------
January 2013....
I've decided to learn how to knit and crochet. Why did I choose this? Well, I wanted something to do with my hands while my boys were working at their play doh or legos or lincoln logs. A mindless busy work, but still beautiful and something I can bless others with. And because...I miss my great grandmother.
I was blessed to have her in my life for 18 years. Our birthdays were two days apart and we were known to rock a shared birthday cake at a family party or two.
We did not get along too well the first 16 years since I had an affinity for frogs, dirt, pranks and daredevil schemes. She most assuredly did not like any of the above. Nope. No way. We did not get along. At least, I thought we did not get along….
Now that I am a mother, I look back and realize that while she did like to fuss and cluck at me…she really loved me.
I remember how nice she always looked. Hair like a football helmet. Not a single strand out of place. Nails always polished a nice peachy sheen. Pant suits. Lots and lots of pant suits. Clean, tidy, organized…and not afraid to party. :)
Every once in a while she would surprise me by doing something totally goofy and fun. She agreed to put on a clown costume one year for halloween, suggested by my mom at the last minute. Five minutes before we were to walk out the door and into the neighborhood, she agrees and dons this hideous polyester footie pajama. It came with a metallic wig.
METALLIC.
16 years of that sort of thing. Super organized, predictable day to day order and then...the unexpected element that would put the great in "great grandma!"
She suffered a stroke and was blind the last two years of her life. I used to jokingly say to her that she liked me better when she couldn’t see how untidy and messy I was. Because we were quite suddenly, inexplicably closer than ever. A light turned on in the darkness.
During junior year of high school I would drive an extra thirty minutes out of my way after school to the nursing home just so I could hold her hand and listen to her talk.
I learned so much about her that last year. She told me a few stories she had never shared with anyone else. I don’t know why she chose to tell me of all people…but I am glad she did.
Yeah, she loved me a lot.
I loved her too.
Have I mentioned yet that she was the craftiest person ever?
She knew how to sew and knit and crochet. She would make such beautiful things. I used to love to watch her work. She made a pair of little snowmen once for my mom for Christmas. I used to hold them every year when we took them out of storage and run my fingers over the loops and hooks.
After she died I would run my finger over those loops and feel a bit closer to her.
So in her honor, I am picking up that heavy crochet needle and learning this new art. If I can make three things before the year is out, I’ll consider it a success.
Hand in hand with this learning of a new code and a new rhythm, I want to tell my boys all the stories I know about Meme.
So that when they run their hands over each loop and hook of my handiwork, they will remember her. Stories about their blue eyed great great grandmother, the rigidly organized party animal who would surprise her family with something zany from time to time.
------------------------------------------------------------------
January 2013....
I've decided to learn how to knit and crochet. Why did I choose this? Well, I wanted something to do with my hands while my boys were working at their play doh or legos or lincoln logs. A mindless busy work, but still beautiful and something I can bless others with. And because...I miss my great grandmother.
I was blessed to have her in my life for 18 years. Our birthdays were two days apart and we were known to rock a shared birthday cake at a family party or two.
We did not get along too well the first 16 years since I had an affinity for frogs, dirt, pranks and daredevil schemes. She most assuredly did not like any of the above. Nope. No way. We did not get along. At least, I thought we did not get along….
Now that I am a mother, I look back and realize that while she did like to fuss and cluck at me…she really loved me.
I remember how nice she always looked. Hair like a football helmet. Not a single strand out of place. Nails always polished a nice peachy sheen. Pant suits. Lots and lots of pant suits. Clean, tidy, organized…and not afraid to party. :)
Every once in a while she would surprise me by doing something totally goofy and fun. She agreed to put on a clown costume one year for halloween, suggested by my mom at the last minute. Five minutes before we were to walk out the door and into the neighborhood, she agrees and dons this hideous polyester footie pajama. It came with a metallic wig.
METALLIC.
16 years of that sort of thing. Super organized, predictable day to day order and then...the unexpected element that would put the great in "great grandma!"
She suffered a stroke and was blind the last two years of her life. I used to jokingly say to her that she liked me better when she couldn’t see how untidy and messy I was. Because we were quite suddenly, inexplicably closer than ever. A light turned on in the darkness.
During junior year of high school I would drive an extra thirty minutes out of my way after school to the nursing home just so I could hold her hand and listen to her talk.
I learned so much about her that last year. She told me a few stories she had never shared with anyone else. I don’t know why she chose to tell me of all people…but I am glad she did.
Yeah, she loved me a lot.
I loved her too.
Have I mentioned yet that she was the craftiest person ever?
She knew how to sew and knit and crochet. She would make such beautiful things. I used to love to watch her work. She made a pair of little snowmen once for my mom for Christmas. I used to hold them every year when we took them out of storage and run my fingers over the loops and hooks.
After she died I would run my finger over those loops and feel a bit closer to her.
So in her honor, I am picking up that heavy crochet needle and learning this new art. If I can make three things before the year is out, I’ll consider it a success.
Hand in hand with this learning of a new code and a new rhythm, I want to tell my boys all the stories I know about Meme.
So that when they run their hands over each loop and hook of my handiwork, they will remember her. Stories about their blue eyed great great grandmother, the rigidly organized party animal who would surprise her family with something zany from time to time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The update to this story is that I completed two pieces of work and am 80% of the way through with my third piece.
I loved learning her art. I loved feeling close to her whenever I picked up my crochet needle.
Happy Birthday Meme. I hope to one day rock helmet hair, pant suits, crochet needles and spontaneity just like you.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Safe Marks
The first time I looked at my post-partem body, I was standing before the hospital mirror in a hideously lit bathroom. Time has faded the exact rendering of what I found so shocking, but I know I saw something unexpected. It was alien. I had anticipated familiarity, at least some slight memory recall of what used to be. But my new Mama body was an unknown place, deeply uncomfortable and a visceral disappointment. Compounded by the trauma of that first birth, the experience I had dreamed of literally wrenched away from me, I felt and looked broken.
Its not that I had expected a hot body immediately after birth or that I carried some misbegotten expectation of emerging unmarked by the whole process....
I had simply anticipated the newness to be of a storybook spring quality, like a delicate scene purposefully unfolding the new season. Call me naive, but I wanted the unfurling blossoms, the wobbly kneed lambs, the pale green daffodil shoots, the soft downy chicks, all the warm fuzzies to match the baby's freshly painted room. The fragile and tender unknown land of motherhood would be blissful and satisfying. Awe and wonder. How could it not? My body would not be perfect, but it would reflect that "new spring feeling."
A new undertaking yet in a familiar setting. The territory would not be unchartered, I would know where I was even if I didn't always know what I was doing. I held on to that foolish notion during my pregnancy like a life line, convinced that familiarity would leave me with the sense of control I believed I so desperately needed.
A new undertaking yet in a familiar setting. The territory would not be unchartered, I would know where I was even if I didn't always know what I was doing. I held on to that foolish notion during my pregnancy like a life line, convinced that familiarity would leave me with the sense of control I believed I so desperately needed.
Yet there I stood, weak-kneed, broken, exhausted, truly terrified and crying hysterically as I tried changing back into my clothes while my mother and husband ran various last minute errands before the big homecoming. The shock over what had transpired and the disappointment over what had not, it all fell heavy and ugly. The ominous cloud of depression on the horizon was moving in with breath taking swiftness to settle over my shoulders.
Oh, yes. And let us not forget that wee bundle of miraculous joy and unnerving responsibility cooing away in the bassinet.
Come on in guilt, we've been waiting for you.
I felt less and less myself with every passing minute. I wanted to focus on my son, but I could not overcome the crises of self I was unexpectedly facing. It dawned at last that the territory was indeed unchartered, a new undertaking in a completely foreign land. I didn't recognize myself, in body or emotion. My 24 year old bones were shaken to the marrow.
Talk about lost.
Oh, yes. And let us not forget that wee bundle of miraculous joy and unnerving responsibility cooing away in the bassinet.
Come on in guilt, we've been waiting for you.
I felt less and less myself with every passing minute. I wanted to focus on my son, but I could not overcome the crises of self I was unexpectedly facing. It dawned at last that the territory was indeed unchartered, a new undertaking in a completely foreign land. I didn't recognize myself, in body or emotion. My 24 year old bones were shaken to the marrow.
Talk about lost.
This morning I stood by the stove fixing breakfast for my brood. Its been four years and three more babies since the storm clouds of depression have lifted. The kitchen was warm with morning stirring to life. The eldest boy walked over and for whatever reason, decided to lift the bottom hem of my shirt up a few inches. He ran his fingers over the familiar marks he knew he would find there. I let him trace the long lines back and forth. He asked the questions over again, the same ones he had asked for months.
"Mom, are your zebra stripes really scars?"
"No."
"Not scars? They look like scars."
"They are marks. Stretch marks. From when my skin stretched as far as it could go to hold you in my belly and keep you safe while you grew there."
"While I grew inside you?"
"Yes."
"That is when God put me together right?"
"Yes."
"And when He made me, your belly stretched and stretched and stretched.... and that is why we call them stretch marks?"
I smile and muss his hair with my free hand.
And then, he asks something entirely new...
"Mom? Your skin stretched that way to keep me safe is what you said. So we could also call them safe marks, right?"
I felt my throat close up a bit.
"Yes, I suppose we could."
"I think your marks are safe marks, because you got them keeping me safe."
It was many years ago and a few babes back that I came to terms with those marks. Between the second and third water births of my sons, I remember standing in front of a different mirror, this time in our bedroom at the bungalow, tracing those ever deepening marks with my fingers. Somewhere along the way I had stopped hating them and lamenting their existence. They were simply familiar now, in a tender and comforting way. They were the new landscape. Maybe they weren't my favorite things in the world, but I wasn't ashamed of them.
Time marches on and now a little boy, dearly loved, wants to call them safe marks.
Hmmm....
I can't think of them as "battle scars" or "honor badges," though I know some Mamas who do see them that way. They are neither ugly nor particularly victorious to me.
I suppose because for me, they can never be about what I have done.
To my mind they can only ever serve as a marker for what He has done.
They are the pile of stones, set up as a reminder of when the Lord gently led me out of that dark valley. When I followed Him into a better and deeper realization of what this life is and what this temporary body is for.
My body is marked for motherhood, for sacrifice, for a call to selfless living, for a diligent teaching I must first live out. Those marks remind me that I am not in control, I never was. They remind me to surrender my children daily.
Alone, I can not accomplish what I have been called to do. But with Him, I can.
Time marches on and now a little boy, dearly loved, wants to call them safe marks.
Hmmm....
I can't think of them as "battle scars" or "honor badges," though I know some Mamas who do see them that way. They are neither ugly nor particularly victorious to me.
I suppose because for me, they can never be about what I have done.
To my mind they can only ever serve as a marker for what He has done.
They are the pile of stones, set up as a reminder of when the Lord gently led me out of that dark valley. When I followed Him into a better and deeper realization of what this life is and what this temporary body is for.
My body is marked for motherhood, for sacrifice, for a call to selfless living, for a diligent teaching I must first live out. Those marks remind me that I am not in control, I never was. They remind me to surrender my children daily.
Alone, I can not accomplish what I have been called to do. But with Him, I can.
Those dark and ragged marks, luminous in the light of His love and gentle leading.
The safe marks.
Known to my children as the lines that held them safe within me, but known to me as the daily promise that the Lord holds them safe.
The safe marks.
Known to my children as the lines that held them safe within me, but known to me as the daily promise that the Lord holds them safe.
From scary marks to safe marks. Only God could transform such heavy lines into miraculous simplicity.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
The Night Before Kindergarten
I've tried several times today to scrawl out a few words in honor of my two boys starting Kindergarten tomorrow.
I have failed each time.
Overwhelmed with emotion and terror and joy, I guess.
Cubs has also raided the supply cabinet and used nearly all the new supplies prematurely. My sister has poisoned him with a love for expensive office supplies and he is tearing through everything. I wanted to have the house shiny and clean for the first day of school tomorrow, but the boys got into the paints and everything is stained now. Really, the house looks like a tornado ripped through it. Oh well. It will STILL be a happy day tomorrow...a messy, happy day.
Anyways, I felt inspired to jot down my own version of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" Casa Iudi style. I hope you enjoy! It sums up our day, the excitement level, the disasters, everything without my having to write an emotionally draining blog about it.
Twas the Night Before Kindergarten
Adapted from: "Twas the Night Before Christmas"
By: This homeschoolin' mama of four boys.
'Twas the night before Kindergarten, when all through the house,
All creatures were stirring, right down to the mouse;
The backpacks were hung by the front door with care,
In hopes that adventure time soon would be there
The children were jumping wildly on their beds
While visions of school supplies danced through their heads,
New jeans stained with ketchup, and the pen with no cap,
The school year not yet begun and I needed a nap!
Suddenly in the hall there arose a great clatter,
I sprang from my macbook to see what was the matter.
A tiny nudist streaked by in a flash,
Followed by small children, covered in trash,
From the lure of white paper like new fallen snow,
To the lustre of unopened paints they could not say no;
Hurry! Quick! They mobilized before I could appear,
Splashes of paint on papers, flooring and one small ear.
The two year old leads, so lively and quick,
I round the corner, forgetting the floor would be slick .
More rapid than eagles the descent of my frame,
Now Dad intercedes, points out the paint, shouts out the dog's name:
"Now Micah, now Sam, now Gabriel, and Frankie,"
"On bathroom!; On carpet! On bedspread and blankie!"
"To the top of the mirror! to the top of the wall!"
"Please wash away! dash away! spray away all!"
As scattered legos before company fly,
A whirlwind of children; rags in hand, they did dry,
Each corner of the house, while Dad sipped his brew,
With faces like angels - the west highland terrier too.
I tried to ignore the sprinkling of paint on the roof
By the pile of crumpled paper the toddler stood aloof.
As I shook my head, and was turning around,
Down the hallway children returned with a bound:
Dressed ready for school, from head to foot,
Twelve hours too early, no sign of growing kaput.
A bundle of books pulled away from the stack,
Crammed quickly through the opening pack:
Those eyes - how they twinkled! Those dimples so merry,
Fingers coated in green paint, one face covered in cherry;
Excitement and energy, strung taut like a bow,
One more night of waiting could only add to their woe.
The new things ahead: reading, writing, loose teeth!
Dreams of adventure circled their heads like a wreath.
My growing boys: lean leg, diminishing belly
Could not wait for the school year start: for pencils and jelly
Paper and scissor, new notebooks on the shelf.
So I laugh'd when I saw them in spite of myself;
This school in our home, the lessons in my head,
Hand in hand with them, I have nothing to dread.
Boyhood filled with adventure, brings joy to the work,
(And help with the house chores so I won't be a jerk).
And so I gave a sweet kiss to the tip of each nose
And promised chocolate chip pancakes when they rose.
Fully clothed in their beds, clean as a whistle,
Away the dreams flew, like the down of a thistle:
One sleepy voice said, as I crept out of sight-
"Happy First Day to all…… how will I ever sleep this night?"
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Trust and Obey
I haven't written in this space for three months.
Three months.
I really hate when so much time lapses without an update. This is our place for recording precious memories and our struggles as parents. We usually soldier through and make the time to update, even in the midst of life's greatest difficulties. But these past three months we've left things silent on here.
I think I needed a bit of time to reconsider how I use this space. I wondered for a few weeks if I should reboot this sucker and go for an all out "Mommy Blog." But that just isn't me and its not what this little corner of the internet is.
No bells, no whistles, just stories.
Our last reason for silence is the overwhelming amount of work I undertook as we prepared to homeschool our kids. Yes, we homeschooled last year. But we were really just dipping our toes in the water. The water was contained in a very, very small pool of water.
Ok, it was a puddle.
Turns out the path to homeschooling is wider than the Pacific. Like most areas of childrearing, any fool with internet access has a thousand and one things to say on the subject. I don't think I've ever researched anything that has left me so emotionally drained. I read around 75 books. Combed through endless homeschooling blogs, listened to recordings of speakers, spoke with other homeschooling families, and cried myself to sleep on at least three occasions. I endured this time of endless research while the testosterone levels in our home reached historic highs. It was a bit of a nightmare for a few weeks there, until I realized my calling and gained my footing.
I am proud of what we are left with...terrified of it too.
Yet I am upheld by the knowledge that God has laid this heavily on my heart. He has called me to serve my children in this way. He has specifically asked us to do this work, not so that we isolate ourselves from the world, but in order to teach our children His word and demonstrate DAILY what it means to live in Him and love others. I had times of crisis when I thought, I am planning to teach them something I do not practice myself. This is HYPOCRISY. They will see right through it. Also, I hate Math. How will this ever work?
I realized that I could not conquer this mountain on my own or expect an end product of perfect young adults sold out for Jesus. There can not be two Captains on this journey. There is only one and I am not it. I am too weak without Him. This is not easy for a control freak like me. So many things could go wrong....
What am I left with?
Obedience.
As my wise BSF teaching leader Babs always says, "We are not responsible for the consequences of our obedience to God."
I will obey. I will ask the Holy Spirit to enable me to live what I teach and to break what must broken so that I can lose myself in Him. I will trust Him with my children. Wherever their roads lead, I will trust in Him. I will commit myself to praying for my boys every day and to train them up the way He has commanded.
The step of faith has been taken. School starts August 5th.
We've picked out the curriculum and acquired more books, which is frightening since 60% of our last move consisted entirely of books. We joined a homeschool co-op and signed up for our last year of Day Class at BSF.
I am looking forward to this sweet time with my children. I will have the best hours of their day all to myself. We can study things that interest us and there will be no limits to how much we can learn. We can study His word freely and practice it daily. Field trips and daily chores. Science projects and toddler tantrums. Endless baskets of laundry. I have no doubt in my mind that my laundry problem will escalate into crisis mode this year.
Math. The bane of my childhood. Math will be back in my life. Maybe this time I will learn it the way I should have years ago. Prayers and numbers for support groups appreciated. This is the valley, the depths of despair.
The highest peak? Do you even need to ask? It is a mountain made of books.
Hours and hours of reading lovely books. Curled up on the couch or nestled in the play tent, flashlights in hand, or under the boughs of trees we know by heart.
Most of it feels idyllic. All of it will be messy.
There is no doubt about it.
My house may never be clean but it will always be filled with learning.
"He who called you is faithful and He will do it."
1 Thessalonians 5:24
Three months.
I really hate when so much time lapses without an update. This is our place for recording precious memories and our struggles as parents. We usually soldier through and make the time to update, even in the midst of life's greatest difficulties. But these past three months we've left things silent on here.
I think I needed a bit of time to reconsider how I use this space. I wondered for a few weeks if I should reboot this sucker and go for an all out "Mommy Blog." But that just isn't me and its not what this little corner of the internet is.
No bells, no whistles, just stories.
Our last reason for silence is the overwhelming amount of work I undertook as we prepared to homeschool our kids. Yes, we homeschooled last year. But we were really just dipping our toes in the water. The water was contained in a very, very small pool of water.
Ok, it was a puddle.
Turns out the path to homeschooling is wider than the Pacific. Like most areas of childrearing, any fool with internet access has a thousand and one things to say on the subject. I don't think I've ever researched anything that has left me so emotionally drained. I read around 75 books. Combed through endless homeschooling blogs, listened to recordings of speakers, spoke with other homeschooling families, and cried myself to sleep on at least three occasions. I endured this time of endless research while the testosterone levels in our home reached historic highs. It was a bit of a nightmare for a few weeks there, until I realized my calling and gained my footing.
I am proud of what we are left with...terrified of it too.
Yet I am upheld by the knowledge that God has laid this heavily on my heart. He has called me to serve my children in this way. He has specifically asked us to do this work, not so that we isolate ourselves from the world, but in order to teach our children His word and demonstrate DAILY what it means to live in Him and love others. I had times of crisis when I thought, I am planning to teach them something I do not practice myself. This is HYPOCRISY. They will see right through it. Also, I hate Math. How will this ever work?
I realized that I could not conquer this mountain on my own or expect an end product of perfect young adults sold out for Jesus. There can not be two Captains on this journey. There is only one and I am not it. I am too weak without Him. This is not easy for a control freak like me. So many things could go wrong....
What am I left with?
Obedience.
As my wise BSF teaching leader Babs always says, "We are not responsible for the consequences of our obedience to God."
I will obey. I will ask the Holy Spirit to enable me to live what I teach and to break what must broken so that I can lose myself in Him. I will trust Him with my children. Wherever their roads lead, I will trust in Him. I will commit myself to praying for my boys every day and to train them up the way He has commanded.
The step of faith has been taken. School starts August 5th.
We've picked out the curriculum and acquired more books, which is frightening since 60% of our last move consisted entirely of books. We joined a homeschool co-op and signed up for our last year of Day Class at BSF.
I am looking forward to this sweet time with my children. I will have the best hours of their day all to myself. We can study things that interest us and there will be no limits to how much we can learn. We can study His word freely and practice it daily. Field trips and daily chores. Science projects and toddler tantrums. Endless baskets of laundry. I have no doubt in my mind that my laundry problem will escalate into crisis mode this year.
Math. The bane of my childhood. Math will be back in my life. Maybe this time I will learn it the way I should have years ago. Prayers and numbers for support groups appreciated. This is the valley, the depths of despair.
The highest peak? Do you even need to ask? It is a mountain made of books.
Hours and hours of reading lovely books. Curled up on the couch or nestled in the play tent, flashlights in hand, or under the boughs of trees we know by heart.
Most of it feels idyllic. All of it will be messy.
There is no doubt about it.
My house may never be clean but it will always be filled with learning.
"He who called you is faithful and He will do it."
1 Thessalonians 5:24
Friday, April 12, 2013
YOU
The Babe is nearing the 2 1/2 year mark.
This is an important landmark for parents.
It means you have survived the first six months of the terrible twos.
No one will hand you an award or pat you on the back over the cleverness of your survival, but you will know, and as you wipe the sweat from your brow and pause from scraping spaghetti off the ceiling, you will give yourself the fortifying pep talk of "Only 6 months left, only 6 months left."
At least, thats what I did with the Bear.....who was an angel until he hit the 3 and half year mark. He was our late attitude bloomer.
Then came Cubby....
who blasted all milestones and usual norms out of the water. Spaghetti on the ceiling? Ha! Mere child's play. Who thinks the camera should go for a swim in the toilet? Who wants to scream bloody murder for an hour for no reason? Who wants to spend every minute of the day finding new ways to die with creative flourish?
Cubby made me want to google the addresses of authors who had written the parenting books on my shelves. I wanted to find out where they lived so I could confront them, parenting manuals in hand, and hit them over the head with it. Plan B was to just ding dong ditch Cubs at the door....but he was too cute to leave behind. His eyes were too blue. His freckles were too....freckly? Ugh. I couldn't get him out of my system. So he stayed and we endured and just as I managed to pick myself up off the ground, shake the dust off, and pull forks out of the electrical sockets, I was pregnant with child numero tres...round 3.
Not to be outdone...our Babe looked at Path A and Path B, shook his head and whipped out a machete and began bushwhacking his own path.
While most 2 1/2 year olds ask for apple juice and a bubble bath and cheerios, our toddler asks for coffee, hot showers and parfaits.
If I lose him at the playground, I don't bother with the usual kiddie areas, I find the most complicated, dangerous area of the equipment, typically found near a sign reading something like "Ages 8+ only" and there I find him. My son. Curly hair, big brown eyes, irresistible chin dimple, bossing around twelve year olds and hanging upside down from the monkey bars without a thought for the 6 feet of open air beneath him.
Babe usually takes home the biggest prizes at the end of the day.
Beach Day Award for Most sand in a body crevice? Babe.
Publix Award for Most wine bottles knocked off the shelf in a single swipe? Babe.
Library Award for Best use of shelving for purposes of escape/possible espionage? Babe.
Parking Lot Award for Most heart stopping moment of the year 2012? Babe.
Party Award for Most downed cups of discarded wine when no one was looking? Babe.
I love you little Babe. You drive me crazy and I don't think I could ever kiss you enough.
You drink a cup of hot milk with a shot of coffee every Saturday morning. You ask for a parfait every day. You OWN your brothers. Does it matter that they are two and three years older than you? Nope, not one bit. Your right hook puts theirs to shame.
The way you pray....is one of the sweetest things I have ever heard.
Your cuddles.
Your cheeky grins.
Don't even get me started on the way you giggle.
Or the devastating perfection of your cute little booty. It is ode worthy my friend. Ode worthy.
As per usual, I can't drink alcohol during the terrible twos because I am nursing someone else younger than you....BUT if I were to raise a toast three weeks from now...
Babe, I could almost 100% honestly say that I am a bit sad these six months are behind us and only six months remain.
I say almost because the small percentage still cleaning the urine off the bathroom MIRROR, replacing toothbrushes, and liberally spritzing the bathroom with bleach would SLAP me silly for wishing those six months back.
Only six months left....only six months left.... who am I kidding?
This is an important landmark for parents.
It means you have survived the first six months of the terrible twos.
No one will hand you an award or pat you on the back over the cleverness of your survival, but you will know, and as you wipe the sweat from your brow and pause from scraping spaghetti off the ceiling, you will give yourself the fortifying pep talk of "Only 6 months left, only 6 months left."
At least, thats what I did with the Bear.....who was an angel until he hit the 3 and half year mark. He was our late attitude bloomer.
Then came Cubby....
who blasted all milestones and usual norms out of the water. Spaghetti on the ceiling? Ha! Mere child's play. Who thinks the camera should go for a swim in the toilet? Who wants to scream bloody murder for an hour for no reason? Who wants to spend every minute of the day finding new ways to die with creative flourish?
Cubby made me want to google the addresses of authors who had written the parenting books on my shelves. I wanted to find out where they lived so I could confront them, parenting manuals in hand, and hit them over the head with it. Plan B was to just ding dong ditch Cubs at the door....but he was too cute to leave behind. His eyes were too blue. His freckles were too....freckly? Ugh. I couldn't get him out of my system. So he stayed and we endured and just as I managed to pick myself up off the ground, shake the dust off, and pull forks out of the electrical sockets, I was pregnant with child numero tres...round 3.
Not to be outdone...our Babe looked at Path A and Path B, shook his head and whipped out a machete and began bushwhacking his own path.
While most 2 1/2 year olds ask for apple juice and a bubble bath and cheerios, our toddler asks for coffee, hot showers and parfaits.
If I lose him at the playground, I don't bother with the usual kiddie areas, I find the most complicated, dangerous area of the equipment, typically found near a sign reading something like "Ages 8+ only" and there I find him. My son. Curly hair, big brown eyes, irresistible chin dimple, bossing around twelve year olds and hanging upside down from the monkey bars without a thought for the 6 feet of open air beneath him.
Babe usually takes home the biggest prizes at the end of the day.
Beach Day Award for Most sand in a body crevice? Babe.
Publix Award for Most wine bottles knocked off the shelf in a single swipe? Babe.
Library Award for Best use of shelving for purposes of escape/possible espionage? Babe.
Parking Lot Award for Most heart stopping moment of the year 2012? Babe.
Party Award for Most downed cups of discarded wine when no one was looking? Babe.
I love you little Babe. You drive me crazy and I don't think I could ever kiss you enough.
You drink a cup of hot milk with a shot of coffee every Saturday morning. You ask for a parfait every day. You OWN your brothers. Does it matter that they are two and three years older than you? Nope, not one bit. Your right hook puts theirs to shame.
The way you pray....is one of the sweetest things I have ever heard.
Your cuddles.
Your cheeky grins.
Don't even get me started on the way you giggle.
Or the devastating perfection of your cute little booty. It is ode worthy my friend. Ode worthy.
As per usual, I can't drink alcohol during the terrible twos because I am nursing someone else younger than you....BUT if I were to raise a toast three weeks from now...
Babe, I could almost 100% honestly say that I am a bit sad these six months are behind us and only six months remain.
I say almost because the small percentage still cleaning the urine off the bathroom MIRROR, replacing toothbrushes, and liberally spritzing the bathroom with bleach would SLAP me silly for wishing those six months back.
Only six months left....only six months left.... who am I kidding?
Broken
I've been wanting to sit down and write for a while. I have so many things to share. Everything is stockpiled onto shelves in my brain and they are begging to come down and play on the page for awhile.
But with this large brood, I have had no time for writing. I am busy cuddling, laughing, playing, cleaning, cooking, creating memories, and raising boys after God's heart....which reminds me...
Boys, I started this blog a few years ago for you to enjoy years from now. I have left out a lot of the best stories. They were posted on facebook or written in your quote books, but never posted here. This space is where the big stuff landed. And today, I carved out a bit of time to tell you what's been rolling around your Mama's head these past months as we made our second cross country move of the year.
Boys, you are a tsunami. A tidal wave of epic proportions headed towards me with maximum destruction in mind. You have wreaked utter havoc on my life. You have annihilated my peace. You have tossed my career goals out the window. You have brought utter ruin to my waistline. Our bathroom is an unspeakable horror.
I am more than ok with all of the above.
In fact, I thank you for it.
Wholeheartedly.
Thank you, for ruining my life....so that I could have LIFE.
The stuff listed above ...that is just the tip of the iceberg.....want to know what you really broke?
You broke my selfishness in pieces.
You shattered my vanity.
My pride? I don't even know where you left it...but last time I looked at it, pride was gasping for breath.
Self righteousness?
My need to judge others silently in my head?
Greed?
Oh sweet boys, I tucked those in jars years ago and hid them deep in the darkest crevices of my heart. You found them. You brought them out. You smashed them to pieces on the ground. The foul odor of them rushed up to greet me and I could not escape them. You stood there watching me, wondering what I would do with the mess you uncovered.
I never knew the depth of my sin, until I saw it reflected back to me from the blindingly bright mirror of my children.
Wether it was the morning at the museum when Cubs let out an exasperated, "DAMN IT!" or when Babe scolded a toddler at the library in an all too familiar voice with the words, "FOR PETE'S SAKE JUST SIT STILL FOR TWO MINUTES AND DON'T MOVE ANYMORE." Or that time when I sat you boys down to teach you about sharing the gospel with others and not a minute passed before the Bear said, "Do you do that too, Mom? I've never seen you do that to anyone."
No matter how hard I tried to focus on you boys and your hearts and your upbringing, you always turned it around, flashed the mirror in my face, forced me to look at myself.
You forced me to surrender the ugliest parts of myself to Jesus.
Thank you.
When I graduated from college I had a few books in mind.... things I would write...ways I would change the world.
I didn't do any of them.
Instead of bringing change....I am changed.
When I tried to impress God's words on your hearts, you turned around and impressed them on my heart.
When I wanted to parent you from a corner of fear and anxiety, you broke free and taught me to parent you with courage and bravery and trust in God.
You....
and you....
and you....
and you....
being your mother, is one of the greatest honors of my life.
If all I ever do is serve you.
Wash your feet.
Be brave alongside you.
Love Jesus beside you.
Well, thats more than I ever dreamed of.
No matter what my waistline looks like these days, being my ugliest before you has led me to the beautiful freedom of grace and mercy...
and that makes it all truly lovely.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
beautiful
Have I mentioned enough times on this space how much I truly value and appreciate my husband?
He is my Prince Charming. My Silver Knight. My Baby Daddy. :)
I am so grateful for this man who strives to show his sons an authentic Christian faith. How he lives his every day life is the most priceless teaching my boys will ever receive. Which is great...since they are starting to do and say everything the way their Daddy does.
I noticed their little "monkey see monkey do" habit with their Dad a while back. It manifested in different ways for each boy.
For example, the first words out of J's mouth after arriving home from work or school was always, "What can I do to help you?"
The Bear picked up on it and is endlessly asking his Mama, teachers, relatives, random adults, "What can I do to help ya?"
This progressed over the year and now I see all my boys doing their very best to act just like their Dad. His good habits, his bad habits, all of it. They mirror him. All. the. time.
Now when we were dating and engaged and newly married, J would tell me how beautiful he thought I was. I would dismiss it and tell him he was crazy or list whatever physical faults I thought I had and why I hated them.
Why did I do this? I have no idea.
Eventually I stopped. (Ok fine...I did it waaayy less but I could not stop completely since I really did look like the letter "o" for a few of my pregnancies).
When he says it to me now, I smile my biggest smile or toss him a saucy look or give him a kiss. I don't care what anyone else thinks...HE finds me beautiful and that is more than enough. Our children watch our exchanges. They witnessed this whispered, "you are beautiful" receive an immediate pleased reaction from Mama.
The boys picked up on it and put it in to practice.
Lately, the boys will not stop telling me repeatedly, "Mom, you are so beautiful!" Even if I am in sweats with crazy messy hair, dusty from unpacking or sweaty from hauling boxes. Their eyes light up, their smiles grow wide, they jump up and down and proclaim it with open arms. They are down right enthusiastic about it.
It means the world to this tired mama's heart to hear them say it. I always make a big fuss of thanking them, which only makes them say it more. Cubs proclaimed this morning, "Mom, you are my beautiful princess!" He turned pink when he said it. I feigned a swoon and grabbed him in a big bear hug.
I can't help but smile thinking of those four little girls somewhere out there.... who will one day be the recipient of the daily whispered "you are beautiful" from my four sons.
The glow of happiness that will spread in their hearts when they hear such loving praise from their husbands---it makes me grin just thinking about it! I will have to let them know to thank their father in law, the man who made me glow each and every day and taught his sons to do the same.
Thanks J. :)
Friday, January 18, 2013
Buckets
Mommy self esteem is an important thing, you know? Everyone loves to capitalize on a Mama's frail sense of self esteem, especially on the parenting side of things.
Seems like someone is always penning an article on working mothers (WM) vs. stay at home mothers (SAHM). I am still mystified as to why they present it as a "VERSUS" argument--but that is a whole other can of worms for another day. Like all things in life, it gets polarized into one extreme or another.
Option A: The snazzy stay at home Mama who is trendy, gorgeous, has a pottery barn home, an urban farmhouse garden, perfect unvaccinated homeschooled children in flawlessly ironed clothing, surrounded by every pinterest idea you, the SAHM reader, have pinned to a board entitled "What I would do if I had less children and more time."
or
Option B: The frumpy disgusting housewife with a messy house, a dirt plot full of dead vegetable plants, messy unsuccessfully homeschooled children, a daytime soap opera habit, wrinkled clothes, surrounded by a mish mash of projects that you, the SAHM reader, have pinned to a pinterest board entitled "Pinterest FAILS, LOL!"
Those seem to be the options pitched at my head every time I open a parenting magazine. Unattainable perfection or miserable failure. If you don't reach one, you are clearly, the other.
And since being a stay at home mom is tough work, you can imagine what the odds are on which camp you identify most with when the self esteem monsters are chomping away at you.
Even if staying home is where you actively, willingly, CHOOSE to be each and every day...
Those self esteem monsters can still get to you. And if you are surrounded by working mamas who work all day and do the SAHM thing, better than you can, in less than four hours...well... it pricks the parental pride a bit.
I confessed to my sister on the phone just the other day:
"Sometimes 1:30pm hits and I look back on the day so far and think, what have I really done today? I've wiped four butts and made macaroni and cheese.... thats about it."
I assured her that I washed my hands between each of those activities.
She gave me a sympathetic laugh.
"No really" I say, "sometimes I wish I had a 9-5 job that I could rock the socks off the way you do. Especially on those macaroni butt days...."
My sister sighed and said that some days she wished she could stay at home nurturing a passel of sweet babies.
Then she told me about her work day, which involved dealing with a grown up in the midst of a temper tantrum. Lets face it, grown up temper tantrums are worse than toddler tantrums... so I conceded the pity point for the morning. All though I still would not mind a day in her shoes...even with the grown up fit pitching, especially if it meant I could eat a hot meal without getting up once.
I'm sure its normal to wish for a freaky friday swap every now and again. Life is exhausting, no matter what side of the fence you are on.
J and I usually sigh and say "the grass is always greener on the other side" when we encounter friends that have spent the first 6 years of their married lives traveling the world being all artsy fartsy, while we spent the first six years birthing a preschool. They sigh right back and say they wish they had their own brood of goldfish cracker fiends.
I'm not a big fan of that saying, "the grass is always greener on the other side," even though we bandy it about the house from time to time. It just seems to say it best, no? There is a reason its a "saying" after all. Yet I dislike it since its smacks of "I hate where I am at in life and things looks better across the fence line, but I am sure they are ticked off and miserable too so we might as well stay here, discontented with life as it is." Depressing, but we still say it all the time because on some days...it works to soothe the occasional ache.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled across an easier slogan to swallow. Not sure if someone posted it on facebook or if it was some marvelously scrolled chalkboard artwork on pinterest, but the words hit home loud and true:
"The grass is always greener where you water it."
It was a quaint cheesy remedy that I wanted to grab hold of. Or rather, it made me want to grab a bucket and drench the blades around me. Cover my space with the richest, greenest grass that even the emerald hills of Ireland would envy.
This made more sense to me than aiming my bucket at some far away land and using all my mental/spiritual/emotional energy to heave as much water as I could in that direction, hoping a few drops would one day land there, all the while standing on parched earth.
Dumping the water right where you stand seems a no brainer.
But what about dreams?
Childcare is not a glamorous job, no matter how cute the midgets are. Poop, vomit, spaghetti messes, laundry---it ain't pretty.
But the way I see the job and my life...that makes all the difference in the world. It makes it a work of art. Probably some weirdo modern splotch of "who would pay money for that??" kind of art...but ART just the same.
I may not be working my dream job as an editor at a publishing house, but my jobs the past few months have been awesome. Here are just a few...
Dino Wrangler
Pirate Queen
Cowgirl paintball gun fighter
Enchanted Fairy
Oak Tree--- (ok that one sounds boring, but it wasn't. I had lots of cute boys climbing all over me)
T Rex
Astronaut Dentist (VERY tricky work fixing teeth while maintaining the helmet in place so you don't get "space sucked" out into the blackness)
Movie Director
Carpenter & Termite Killer
Iron Chef
Vampire Bat
Princess who needs a Knight
Princess who is secretly a Knight
Ninja Warrior
World's Best Secret Kiss
Wendy Moira Angela Darling
Noah's Wife
A Female Honey Badger
----------------------------------------------------
Suck on that, Random House!
Fighting evil, nurturing goodness, fixing things, being creative--- not bad at all.
You know, my sister also does all those things in her own way (She really is the Dino Wrangler/PirateQueen of the Photography/ Graphic Design World).
Its all about where you water most. :)
No matter how much I secretly wish I could be SAHM option A with the perfect hair and the fabulously run home, I know that its just not me. The Princess Ninja has no time for that, you know? To be honest, I don't want to waste my water buckets on that sort of thing. My cracked, exhausted, mismatched water buckets...they want to invest their water in something else.
I hope when my little men are all grown up they look back on their childhood and remember the messes we made. Those gloriously fun sticky icky messes of playdoh and paint and baking dishes in the sink. I hope they recall that a pile of laundry sat in the same basket for three days because Mommy preferred reading Magic Tree House books under the table fort to folding shirts and underwear.
They can look back and remember the occupational hazzards of those tender growing up days..... even the bad days. The ugly messes that have nothing to do with cute fun or playdoh or innocence.
Oh do I hope they remember the bad days with the ugly messes.
Those awful days when I fail them miserably and beg their forgiveness.
The days they saw me confess to feeling eaten up by those self esteem monsters but chose to stay by their side and love them.
I hope they remember those bad days just as much as they remember the good days.
It will give them a bit of grace to hold onto on those future bad days of their own with my grandchildren.
When they feel like ripping their hair out and crying from sheer sleep deprivation, I hope they remember J and I in the same position... a memory like a hug saying, 'we've all been there son, remember?"
They will recall their Mama, SAHM Secret Option C: a feisty Mom who loved her boys fiercely, played hard, worked hard, never provided matching socks, made a mean bowl of chili, fumbled with her own frail humanity, lived off an IV of grace and never hesitated to apologize to her kids or be vulnerable about her own brokenness.
Maybe if they remember that, they will feel safe enough to surrender their parental pride, pick up the phone, call us and say "WHAT AM I DOING HERE?"
Seems like someone is always penning an article on working mothers (WM) vs. stay at home mothers (SAHM). I am still mystified as to why they present it as a "VERSUS" argument--but that is a whole other can of worms for another day. Like all things in life, it gets polarized into one extreme or another.
Option A: The snazzy stay at home Mama who is trendy, gorgeous, has a pottery barn home, an urban farmhouse garden, perfect unvaccinated homeschooled children in flawlessly ironed clothing, surrounded by every pinterest idea you, the SAHM reader, have pinned to a board entitled "What I would do if I had less children and more time."
or
Option B: The frumpy disgusting housewife with a messy house, a dirt plot full of dead vegetable plants, messy unsuccessfully homeschooled children, a daytime soap opera habit, wrinkled clothes, surrounded by a mish mash of projects that you, the SAHM reader, have pinned to a pinterest board entitled "Pinterest FAILS, LOL!"
Those seem to be the options pitched at my head every time I open a parenting magazine. Unattainable perfection or miserable failure. If you don't reach one, you are clearly, the other.
And since being a stay at home mom is tough work, you can imagine what the odds are on which camp you identify most with when the self esteem monsters are chomping away at you.
Even if staying home is where you actively, willingly, CHOOSE to be each and every day...
Those self esteem monsters can still get to you. And if you are surrounded by working mamas who work all day and do the SAHM thing, better than you can, in less than four hours...well... it pricks the parental pride a bit.
I confessed to my sister on the phone just the other day:
"Sometimes 1:30pm hits and I look back on the day so far and think, what have I really done today? I've wiped four butts and made macaroni and cheese.... thats about it."
I assured her that I washed my hands between each of those activities.
She gave me a sympathetic laugh.
"No really" I say, "sometimes I wish I had a 9-5 job that I could rock the socks off the way you do. Especially on those macaroni butt days...."
My sister sighed and said that some days she wished she could stay at home nurturing a passel of sweet babies.
Then she told me about her work day, which involved dealing with a grown up in the midst of a temper tantrum. Lets face it, grown up temper tantrums are worse than toddler tantrums... so I conceded the pity point for the morning. All though I still would not mind a day in her shoes...even with the grown up fit pitching, especially if it meant I could eat a hot meal without getting up once.
I'm sure its normal to wish for a freaky friday swap every now and again. Life is exhausting, no matter what side of the fence you are on.
J and I usually sigh and say "the grass is always greener on the other side" when we encounter friends that have spent the first 6 years of their married lives traveling the world being all artsy fartsy, while we spent the first six years birthing a preschool. They sigh right back and say they wish they had their own brood of goldfish cracker fiends.
I'm not a big fan of that saying, "the grass is always greener on the other side," even though we bandy it about the house from time to time. It just seems to say it best, no? There is a reason its a "saying" after all. Yet I dislike it since its smacks of "I hate where I am at in life and things looks better across the fence line, but I am sure they are ticked off and miserable too so we might as well stay here, discontented with life as it is." Depressing, but we still say it all the time because on some days...it works to soothe the occasional ache.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled across an easier slogan to swallow. Not sure if someone posted it on facebook or if it was some marvelously scrolled chalkboard artwork on pinterest, but the words hit home loud and true:
"The grass is always greener where you water it."
It was a quaint cheesy remedy that I wanted to grab hold of. Or rather, it made me want to grab a bucket and drench the blades around me. Cover my space with the richest, greenest grass that even the emerald hills of Ireland would envy.
This made more sense to me than aiming my bucket at some far away land and using all my mental/spiritual/emotional energy to heave as much water as I could in that direction, hoping a few drops would one day land there, all the while standing on parched earth.
Dumping the water right where you stand seems a no brainer.
But what about dreams?
Childcare is not a glamorous job, no matter how cute the midgets are. Poop, vomit, spaghetti messes, laundry---it ain't pretty.
But the way I see the job and my life...that makes all the difference in the world. It makes it a work of art. Probably some weirdo modern splotch of "who would pay money for that??" kind of art...but ART just the same.
I may not be working my dream job as an editor at a publishing house, but my jobs the past few months have been awesome. Here are just a few...
Dino Wrangler
Pirate Queen
Cowgirl paintball gun fighter
Enchanted Fairy
Oak Tree--- (ok that one sounds boring, but it wasn't. I had lots of cute boys climbing all over me)
T Rex
Astronaut Dentist (VERY tricky work fixing teeth while maintaining the helmet in place so you don't get "space sucked" out into the blackness)
Movie Director
Carpenter & Termite Killer
Iron Chef
Vampire Bat
Princess who needs a Knight
Princess who is secretly a Knight
Ninja Warrior
World's Best Secret Kiss
Wendy Moira Angela Darling
Noah's Wife
A Female Honey Badger
----------------------------------------------------
Suck on that, Random House!
Fighting evil, nurturing goodness, fixing things, being creative--- not bad at all.
You know, my sister also does all those things in her own way (She really is the Dino Wrangler/PirateQueen of the Photography/ Graphic Design World).
Its all about where you water most. :)
No matter how much I secretly wish I could be SAHM option A with the perfect hair and the fabulously run home, I know that its just not me. The Princess Ninja has no time for that, you know? To be honest, I don't want to waste my water buckets on that sort of thing. My cracked, exhausted, mismatched water buckets...they want to invest their water in something else.
I hope when my little men are all grown up they look back on their childhood and remember the messes we made. Those gloriously fun sticky icky messes of playdoh and paint and baking dishes in the sink. I hope they recall that a pile of laundry sat in the same basket for three days because Mommy preferred reading Magic Tree House books under the table fort to folding shirts and underwear.
They can look back and remember the occupational hazzards of those tender growing up days..... even the bad days. The ugly messes that have nothing to do with cute fun or playdoh or innocence.
Oh do I hope they remember the bad days with the ugly messes.
Those awful days when I fail them miserably and beg their forgiveness.
The days they saw me confess to feeling eaten up by those self esteem monsters but chose to stay by their side and love them.
I hope they remember those bad days just as much as they remember the good days.
It will give them a bit of grace to hold onto on those future bad days of their own with my grandchildren.
When they feel like ripping their hair out and crying from sheer sleep deprivation, I hope they remember J and I in the same position... a memory like a hug saying, 'we've all been there son, remember?"
They will recall their Mama, SAHM Secret Option C: a feisty Mom who loved her boys fiercely, played hard, worked hard, never provided matching socks, made a mean bowl of chili, fumbled with her own frail humanity, lived off an IV of grace and never hesitated to apologize to her kids or be vulnerable about her own brokenness.
Maybe if they remember that, they will feel safe enough to surrender their parental pride, pick up the phone, call us and say "WHAT AM I DOING HERE?"
Maybe it will help them slay their own self esteem monsters a bit more easily and they can just focus on being the King of Camelot or a Shark Hunter instead.
That is a well invested bucket of water indeed.
A patched up rickety bucket with a purpose.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Tumor
Dear Son,
You were only a few days old, the first time I noticed it.
The small round lump in your neck.
Your beautiful, soft, sweet smelling neck.
No bigger than a small grape, I rolled the pad of my thumb over it a few times and wondered why your lymphs would be swollen.
In my postpartum delirium I did not even pause to question myself. I kept on enjoying the wonder of you. Memorizing the sweep of your eyelashes, adoring the fullness of your cheeks and kissing those ten silly toes. Soaking in the newborn freshness of you while you slept on my chest or nuzzled close to my side.
You.
Miraculous, captivating, you.
A few days later I sat nursing you on my bed. Daddy walked in and we spoke in hushed tones about our day. I remember looking down to turn you over and catching sight of something strange. I placed my hand on your neck and gasped out loud. That small lump had grown in a matter of days to span the length of your neck from chin to collarbone.
How can I adequately explain my fear in that moment? It was mind numbing. I was utterly terrified.
Did I question what God was doing?
Yes, I did.
Did I let my mind drift to all the awful things this tumor could signify?
Yes, I did.
You know sweet boy, Daddy was never afraid?
He kept reminding me of that morning all those months ago when he stood in church and heard God speak to his heart about our fourth son. He reminded me that your name was whispered then, as he stood silent in the pews of the church where your Mama was raised. Daddy had no idea you were in my womb at that very moment. I had only just discovered you that morning and the beautiful wondrous secret of you had yet to be shared. Daddy had your name in his heart even as I carried you, freshly knit and unbeknownst to him.
You can bet that Daddy did not let me forget it.
He never doubted. He remained firm and secure. He knew God had a plan in all this, no matter what your diagnosis was. He knew that God would never leave our side or allow you to slip from the palm of His mighty hand.
So Daddy held me in his arms as I held you and we prayed for you. Your Daddy always leads me closer to Jesus, always. Even though I felt afraid, I followed him to the place we needed to be most in the whole world. At the foot of the throne, asking Jesus for His grace and mercy.
Those first days and weeks were frightening at times and encouraging at others.
You looked so small on that hospital bed. They used an ultrasound wand on you that looked like a miniature hockey stick. You were so mad at the cold gel and the nurse who peeled away your little gown, exposing you to the frigid air. "Mad as a hornet, cute as bee" she said.
Finding out you were living in pain was one of the worst days ever. We began working hard with your therapist to bring you comfort. I have to tell you, watching you smile for the first time once the cloud of pain had lifted...oh my boy... that was heavenly.
Do you know what I am thankful for today?
Your tumor.
Your awesome, miraculous, spectacular, gift from heaven tumor.
Thank you Lord, for blessing my son with his tumor.
Even though it brought you pain and discomfort, your tumor saved your life.
That outward sign of something gone terribly wrong allowed us to act quickly and intervene.
Early intervention, they call it.
Intervention to stop the myriad difficulties and challenges that would have snow balled into your life.
Syndromes and lists of potential -isms. A daily dragon to battle all the live long days of your life.
But that awful blessed tumor sounded the alarm.
Some days you love your therapy--- other days it is a struggle. We work hard together, you and I.
Every day that passes I see progress of one kind or another.
Your tumor suddenly dissolved over Christmas. The muscles in your neck are gradually loosening. Your therapists now expects a graduation day later this year.
THIS YEAR.
If this had gone unnoticed for a few months or a year, it would have been a lifetime of struggle. But it was not months or years, it was days. And because it only took days to find, we will celebrate your graduation this year.
Years from now when we sit together on our porch or gather at the kitchen table and you begin pouring your heart out to us, those age long questions about life and God and faith, falling from your lips--- Where is He leading? Where am I going? What should I do? What is God doing?
I'm sure you'll think I'm crazy, but I may not be able to help myself...
Forgive me if I reach out and ever so gently, place my finger on the right side of your neck? I'm just reminding myself, and perhaps you too, of His ever mysterious ways, working for the good of those who love Him.
Love,
Mama
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Traits and Chapter 8
If its one thing I never do…its make a New Years Resolution.
Its not out of any bah-humbug grumpiness or snobby superiority.
To be honest, I am a pretty impulsive person. If I see something that I want to do—I just go for it. A great motivator and a recipe for disaster all rolled into one inherited family trait.
Case in point, a class trip to the Miami SeaAquarium back in my early elementary school days. I raised my hand to volunteer during the big killer whale show. The trainer called on me and brought me up to the side stage next to the tank. I stood on the rubbery mat portion next to this very sun tanned, wet suit wearing trainer. I recall peering down into that blue oh so blue water and watching those whales swim back and forth. I kind of tuned out the conversation until I heard the trainer say something awesome.
“All right now. What I need for you to do today is jump in the tank.”
The audience giggled since clearly, the trainer was joking, expecting me to react with a vigorous negative head shaking or a loud exclamation of “NO WAY!”
But through the giggles came one very loud, very familiar voice….
My mother… the ever present chaperone, a permanent fixture for all school outing from pre-k to senior year of high school. Quite necessary for the preservation of my life and for the sanity of all other adults in charge of me.
She was SCREAMING one word…it had a nice echo in the dome of that amphitheater...
"Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!”
You see, the minute the trainer said the words “jump in the tank,” I was all ready bending my knees to jump in. My mind had activated imagination mode and I was all ready picturing myself in that tank, swimming with shamu and balancing on that black and white nose while riding around the tank.
Mama knows her daughter well. She knew I would literally “JUMP” on this trainer’s offer.
This story has held true for me through the years. I’d like to think that I have matured a bit in this department and have learned to “look before i leap.” Maybe I have learned a bit…but the deciding factor that pulled the reigns in on my out of control spontaneity was the answer to my mother’s prayers…my husband J.
Oh how my mother loves him.
He keeps my feet planted firmly on dry land while encouraging me to accomplish my dreams in a safe, rational, orderly way. I help him loosen up and have crazy fun when he needs it.
What a team I tell ya, what a team!
So back to the New Years Resolutions….
They are just not in keeping with my personality. I am always trying out new things so there aren’t many new things I must resolve to do.
But this year I have decided to make a resolution of sorts. (Though to be fair, its just something I am picking up and it happens to be January).
My two goals for the year:
1) Memorize Romans Chapter 8.
2) Learn to crochet in honor of my great-grandmother Meme.
Right.
The Romans 8 thing stems back to a sermon we heard at church a few years back. Our Pastor asked us, “How many verses would you have hidden in your heart if you suddenly no longer had access to a bible?” I remember blinking in surprise and thinking, “I’d be in trouble!”
How much of the word would I have hidden away to comfort me, guide me, or anchor my soul to Him
during a time of trial?
Thats where Romans 8 comes in. Have you read it?
Its the anchor.
And this year I am going to memorize it and recite what I know so far, each day at lunch. Maybe the kiddos will pick up on it too? I think if the Bear can manage to memorize a bazillion animal species he can remember the verses his Mama repeats at lunch every day.
Then there is the crochet thing.
You know I am just drowning in spare time these days.
ha!
I wanted something to do with my hands while my boys are working at their play doh or legos or lincoln logs. A mindless busy work, but still beautiful and something I can bless others with. And because...I miss my great grandmother.
I was blessed to have her in my life for 18 years. Our birthdays were two days apart and we were known to rock a shared birthday cake at a family party or two.
We did not get along too well the first 16 years since I had an affinity for lizards, dirt, pranks and daredevil schemes (see: shamu above). At least, I thought we did not get along….
Now that I am a mother, I look back and realize that while she did like to fuss and cluck at me…she really loved me.
I remember how nice she always looked. Hair like a football helmet. Not a single strand out of place. Nails always polished a nice peachy sheen. Pant suits. Lots and lots of pant suits. Clean, tidy, organized…and not afraid to party. :)
Every once in a while she would surprise me by doing something totally goofy and fun. She agreed to put on a clown costume one year for halloween, suggested by my mom at the last minute. Five minutes before we were to walk out the door and into the neighborhood, she agrees and dons this hideous polyester footie pajama. It came with a metallic wig.
METALLIC.
16 years of that sort of thing. Super organized, predictable day to day order and then...the unexpected element that would put the great in "great grandma!"
She suffered a stroke and was blind the last two years of her life. I used to jokingly say to her that she liked me better when she couldn’t see how untidy and messy I was. Because we were quite suddenly, inexplicably closer than ever. A light turned on in the darkness.
During junior year of high school I would drive an extra thirty minutes out of my way after school to the nursing home just so I could hold her hand and listen to her talk.
I learned so much about her that last year. She told me a few stories she had never shared with anyone else. I don’t know why she chose to tell me of all people…but I am glad she did.
Yeah, she loved me a lot.
I loved her too.
Have I mentioned yet that she was the craftiest person ever?
She knew how to sew and knit and crochet. She would make such beautiful things. I used to love to watch her work. She made a pair of little snowmen once for my mom for Christmas. I used to hold them every year when we took them out of storage and run my fingers over the loops and hooks.
After she died I would run my finger over those loops and feel a bit closer to her.
So in her honor, I am picking up that heavy crochet needle and learning this new art. If I can make three things before the year is out, I’ll consider it a success.
Hand in hand with this learning of a new code and a new rhythm, I want to tell my boys all the stories I know about Meme.
So that when they run their hands over each loop and hook of my handiwork, they will remember her. Stories about their blue eyed great great grandmother, the rigidly organized party animal who would surprise her family with something zany from time to time.
Hmmm…you could almost call her occasionally spontaneous?? :)
Happy New Year.
Its not out of any bah-humbug grumpiness or snobby superiority.
To be honest, I am a pretty impulsive person. If I see something that I want to do—I just go for it. A great motivator and a recipe for disaster all rolled into one inherited family trait.
Case in point, a class trip to the Miami SeaAquarium back in my early elementary school days. I raised my hand to volunteer during the big killer whale show. The trainer called on me and brought me up to the side stage next to the tank. I stood on the rubbery mat portion next to this very sun tanned, wet suit wearing trainer. I recall peering down into that blue oh so blue water and watching those whales swim back and forth. I kind of tuned out the conversation until I heard the trainer say something awesome.
“All right now. What I need for you to do today is jump in the tank.”
The audience giggled since clearly, the trainer was joking, expecting me to react with a vigorous negative head shaking or a loud exclamation of “NO WAY!”
But through the giggles came one very loud, very familiar voice….
My mother… the ever present chaperone, a permanent fixture for all school outing from pre-k to senior year of high school. Quite necessary for the preservation of my life and for the sanity of all other adults in charge of me.
She was SCREAMING one word…it had a nice echo in the dome of that amphitheater...
"Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!”
You see, the minute the trainer said the words “jump in the tank,” I was all ready bending my knees to jump in. My mind had activated imagination mode and I was all ready picturing myself in that tank, swimming with shamu and balancing on that black and white nose while riding around the tank.
Mama knows her daughter well. She knew I would literally “JUMP” on this trainer’s offer.
This story has held true for me through the years. I’d like to think that I have matured a bit in this department and have learned to “look before i leap.” Maybe I have learned a bit…but the deciding factor that pulled the reigns in on my out of control spontaneity was the answer to my mother’s prayers…my husband J.
Oh how my mother loves him.
He keeps my feet planted firmly on dry land while encouraging me to accomplish my dreams in a safe, rational, orderly way. I help him loosen up and have crazy fun when he needs it.
What a team I tell ya, what a team!
So back to the New Years Resolutions….
They are just not in keeping with my personality. I am always trying out new things so there aren’t many new things I must resolve to do.
But this year I have decided to make a resolution of sorts. (Though to be fair, its just something I am picking up and it happens to be January).
My two goals for the year:
1) Memorize Romans Chapter 8.
2) Learn to crochet in honor of my great-grandmother Meme.
Right.
The Romans 8 thing stems back to a sermon we heard at church a few years back. Our Pastor asked us, “How many verses would you have hidden in your heart if you suddenly no longer had access to a bible?” I remember blinking in surprise and thinking, “I’d be in trouble!”
How much of the word would I have hidden away to comfort me, guide me, or anchor my soul to Him
during a time of trial?
Thats where Romans 8 comes in. Have you read it?
Its the anchor.
And this year I am going to memorize it and recite what I know so far, each day at lunch. Maybe the kiddos will pick up on it too? I think if the Bear can manage to memorize a bazillion animal species he can remember the verses his Mama repeats at lunch every day.
Then there is the crochet thing.
You know I am just drowning in spare time these days.
ha!
I wanted something to do with my hands while my boys are working at their play doh or legos or lincoln logs. A mindless busy work, but still beautiful and something I can bless others with. And because...I miss my great grandmother.
I was blessed to have her in my life for 18 years. Our birthdays were two days apart and we were known to rock a shared birthday cake at a family party or two.
We did not get along too well the first 16 years since I had an affinity for lizards, dirt, pranks and daredevil schemes (see: shamu above). At least, I thought we did not get along….
Now that I am a mother, I look back and realize that while she did like to fuss and cluck at me…she really loved me.
I remember how nice she always looked. Hair like a football helmet. Not a single strand out of place. Nails always polished a nice peachy sheen. Pant suits. Lots and lots of pant suits. Clean, tidy, organized…and not afraid to party. :)
Every once in a while she would surprise me by doing something totally goofy and fun. She agreed to put on a clown costume one year for halloween, suggested by my mom at the last minute. Five minutes before we were to walk out the door and into the neighborhood, she agrees and dons this hideous polyester footie pajama. It came with a metallic wig.
METALLIC.
16 years of that sort of thing. Super organized, predictable day to day order and then...the unexpected element that would put the great in "great grandma!"
She suffered a stroke and was blind the last two years of her life. I used to jokingly say to her that she liked me better when she couldn’t see how untidy and messy I was. Because we were quite suddenly, inexplicably closer than ever. A light turned on in the darkness.
During junior year of high school I would drive an extra thirty minutes out of my way after school to the nursing home just so I could hold her hand and listen to her talk.
I learned so much about her that last year. She told me a few stories she had never shared with anyone else. I don’t know why she chose to tell me of all people…but I am glad she did.
Yeah, she loved me a lot.
I loved her too.
Have I mentioned yet that she was the craftiest person ever?
She knew how to sew and knit and crochet. She would make such beautiful things. I used to love to watch her work. She made a pair of little snowmen once for my mom for Christmas. I used to hold them every year when we took them out of storage and run my fingers over the loops and hooks.
After she died I would run my finger over those loops and feel a bit closer to her.
So in her honor, I am picking up that heavy crochet needle and learning this new art. If I can make three things before the year is out, I’ll consider it a success.
Hand in hand with this learning of a new code and a new rhythm, I want to tell my boys all the stories I know about Meme.
So that when they run their hands over each loop and hook of my handiwork, they will remember her. Stories about their blue eyed great great grandmother, the rigidly organized party animal who would surprise her family with something zany from time to time.
Hmmm…you could almost call her occasionally spontaneous?? :)
Happy New Year.
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