bend

When my weakness surfaces
it's a Monday morning with opaque sky, early blur,
and I don't summon any gladness to
help us see better,
and I don't find it in myself to bend today
into what it should be.

And we all need me to; it's in the job description.

Parents create, it's what we do,
but today I tore down
yesterday's masterpiece; the last
thing in the world I wanted.

It's wonderful and also a problem
that children are new and fresh
and attended by often-tired people
who, unfortunately, grew up.

You pull me young, and I pull you older, but slowly I hope.

Forgive me, my so-little ones,
my cares are far too many
and I pull too hard.

When my strength at last comes forth
the leaves are falling
steady down with rain,
making piles
of delight and mess,
and I've had some quiet and
some help-prayer,
and I can bend low to
find what is true again.

Parents mend,
it's what we do--

but only the mended can.

scattered

On Tuesday I spent most of the day with a feverish toddler draped over me. We lay on the couch and watched Brave about three times, along with old episodes of Friday Night Lights and several renditions of I Like to Move It on YouTube which, unfortunately, is a frequently requested song around here. He coughed hard enough to throw up several times. Sick days are sweet though, in a way: Silas is not normally so cuddly, and it's nice to lay around and still feel like you're doing something important. In the evening, his temperature spiked up to 104, and the possibility of going to the ED loomed its ugly head. It came down with Tylenol and wet hair and a cold washcloth though, and so we stayed home.

......

I can tell when I'm in need of some quiet, to-myself time, because I start to get angry with my kids for taking my time. It's Wednesday evening, and Ricky took the two little ones out to pick up some dinner, after having quite the long day himself. I'm not finding the right kind of food for my soul, these days; which is another way of saying I can't seem to write or pray. I wish it were truly possible to forget about yourself.

......

I got an email yesterday with a video attached to it. I should have known better but I watched it anyway. If you don't see Merry Christmas in the window, you walk right by the store, a woman sang cheerily, with children's voices accompanying her. I say I should have known better because these types of things send me into a tailspin, reinforcing nagging voices that I'd rather ignore in favor of focusing on love and justice. I get so angry at the Christian subculture that promotes such distracting fluff. Then I want to write an angry sarcastic response, then I want to write a thoughtful response, and then I just sort of shrug my shoulders and decide the best way to worship in the midst of all this is just to try to be kind.

......

I lay down with Silas after lunch, on the big bed, and he played with his stuffed horse while I took an accidental nap. His galloping noises woke me up. I don't think he slept, but he stayed on the bed next to me, and so when I woke up we moved on to the next thing together.

spiritual

I wake up rested and refreshed, and climb out of bed quietly so my sleeping children don't wake up. I make coffee and head outside to enjoy the fresh morning air while I read, think, and pray. I spend time thanking God for all I'm blessed with, I evaluate my heart and motives, I ask for forgiveness and help, I listen. I'm still. I read words that soothe, convict, encourage, inspire, break down, build up. I look up and they're awake. I smile, feeling centered and ready for the day. Off we go.

Yeah, that's my morning fantasy. Here's the reality:

I wake up because Silas is trying to put my glasses on my face. He hands me my phone, saying "lo? lo?" and I smile, blinking and sitting up. I think about coffee immediately. Ricky is leaving for work; kisses me goodbye. I hear the sounds of Superhero Squad coming from the office. I pull back my hair and head for the kitchen, heat up milk for Silas and remind Nicky that we're trying to start off the day with reading, not watching a show. "Well the day always starts with breakfast!", he proclaims, and I assure him that's coming. Penny stands at the back door. I let her out, and retrieve Silas' milk. He settles into a big chair to drink it; I pat him on the head. Nicky sits on the couch with his storybook Bible and starts to read about Joseph. I start some coffee. Silas drinks half of his bottle, throws it on the ground and climbs on top of Nicky, shuffling his pages. More protesting. Time for a diaper change. Nicky's now playing in his room. I sigh, say "Okay, we'll read later when you're less distracted." Silas plays, but when I stand up to go get my coffee and make some breakfast for everyone, he immediately starts crying. I go back. We play Ships--Nicky has built all the controls out of click-blocks. They dance around: toddler squats and robot moves. I smile and think this is so good. I get up again, they follow me. There is whining. I make toast with peanut butter and honey by request, pour orange juice, slice bananas. I stir cream into my waiting coffee, toast a bagel for myself. Silas, meanwhile, has eaten two bites and thrown the rest on the floor. All done! he signs triumphantly. I tell him he is going to sit there for a few minutes, and give him his milk to finish. I sip, and I read this:

Couldn't independence be not the ending point, but an adolescent transition period between childish dependence and mature interdependence? If we succeed in being independent, never needing God's help, couldn't that simply mean that we haven't tried anything very significant or challenging? Could it mean that we've never experienced the miracle of synergy with God, where we find God's strength flowing through us? 

"Book, book", Silas points to the ipad. I put it up high, take another sip of coffee, and let him down. Penny happily eats his leftovers. We have a doctor's appointment in two hours, but for now we're going outside to enjoy the cool morning air, water the flowers and play in the sandbox before it gets too hot for little toes. What's funny, what's God, is that I do feel soothed and convicted, encouraged and inspired, broken down and built up.

There are days, of course, when we wish there could be some other system. We wish there could be a way of developing patience without delay, courage without danger, forgiveness without offense, generosity without need, skill without discipline, endurance without fatigue, persistence without obstacles, strength without resistance, virtue without temptation, and strong love without hard-to-love people. But it turns out there is no other way. 

The Creator has created the right kind of universe to produce these beautiful qualities in us creatures. And among these beautiful qualities is interdependence--the ability to reach out beyond ourselves, to ask for help from others and from God, and to offer help when we are able. The whole shebang is rigged for mutuality, for vital connection.

I will probably yell several times today. I won't feel very spiritual. I will feel like I'm trying to sprint in a sand-dune. I will laugh, sigh, and hide in the bathroom. I'll try to keep a dialogue going with God all the while; that's the goal. Sometimes life feels like practicing, but it's the real thing, all the time.

quotes from Brian McLaren, Naked Spirituality

capable: a letter

Dear Mama,

I don't know what stage of this mothering life you're in. Maybe you hold the dream of mothering in your heart but your hands are empty, for now. Or your body has been taken over by a thumping, kicking, nausea-inducing, skin-stretching little being who will soon rock your world. Or you've finished a mountain of paperwork and had your privacy invaded and you're growing a sweet little one in your heart; gestation length unknown. Maybe you're ravenously eating something while you nurse your newborn, in survival and sweetness all at once, drinking fast gulps of sleep like it's water. Maybe you're like me, in the lukewarm coffee, carpet-of-toys, aching over one baby in school and the other becoming a toddler, oh no this is going by too fast stage. Maybe your kids are now impossibly tall and consuming impossible amounts of food, and I could learn a thing or twelve from your experience. In any case, we're in the thick of it aren't we? This is tricky--it looks so easy from the outside and yet we feel ill-equipped to do this sacred job justice; we keep getting in the way of ourselves.

My kids are little, and I already want to start over. I want to have been as patient with my five year old as I'm able to be with my one year old. It's already too late for perfection; it was too late on day one. I'm a slow learner, but now I know, now I get it--how fast this all goes. The loud toddler protests and the wide hippo-mouthed cries will pass, his brain will change and he'll become reasonable, and this magical non-word language we have right now will be replaced with plain English. And I will be glad for that as well I suppose, but there's no going back. That's just it, isn't it? We don't get everything at once, that's the bittersweet truth.

We shine and we fail. One minute I'm living in the mystery and beauty of it all, drizzling laughter and silliness and generosity over the mundane like chocolate syrup on vanilla, and then what do you know? I'm yelling, frustrated to the max and where the heck did that come from?

Even so, there are some really special God moments to be had. There are help, I don't know how to do this moments, in which I am humbled to the dust, fully aware of just how human and frail I am. There are the times you hear a new steadiness and strength in your voice, feel it in your steps, and you think oh, thank you. I needed this help today. All these things you're doing now, all the sacrificing of time, the biting your tongue--it will matter to them, at some point. Apologize, stay soft, be vulnerable, be steady even if it means going slow, embrace that mama bear strength, wisdom whispers, because no one can mother your children the way you can.

There's really no separation between giving and receiving, I'm starting to realize; just inflow, outflow, inflow, outflow.  And I've come to believe, finally, that they benefit from the real me. Not the future, perfect me (ha) but me, right now. I'm slow to learn, but this is how God is parenting me right now, with this freeing knowledge. This is how he is smoothing over my rough edges. I am more gentle with them when I am gentle with myself. I'm learning to move forward without despising the precious right now. Sit back, take a deep breath and feel God smile over your work, over all you are learning and teaching.

I feel like I learn the same things over and over, every day. Fresh air always helps, laughter always helps, gratitude over the little things will save your sanity, you can't say I love you too much or listen too closely or inhale their scent too many times or choose the mess too many times and no one, no one can mother your children the way you can.

You are capable.

Encouragement for mothers in the trenches? Um, yes please. Learn more about Mother Letters here. You can also read more letters, write your own, and get the e-book. I love this project!

open

There is color everywhere. Speckled eggs on a dish, a new can of slate blue paint for the back door, my toenails, more rose and yellow and pale blue in the laundry pile. We leave the back door open; the kids and the dog meander in and out. This I remember especially to enjoy, because it will be too hot soon enough. Right now it's all open windows and fresh air and potential.

We poke seeds into the ground: spinach and lettuce and wildflowers, and I keep finding so much happiness in little things. Watching an indie film while the floor dries. Folding whites, wiping away dust. Naptime, sadness, the luxury of mindfulness because it means there is space in the day. Scribbling with chalk on warm concrete. Weather that warrants ice cream and trips to the park and skirts and dinner outside. I feel the sort of elation and then calm that comes after you take a leap of faith. When you look around, and it's enough, and it's also okay to dream, and the deepest-rooted thing I know comes back to me:

everything is spiritual; every day is a gift. There is the seen and the unseen. I let all this swirl, lift it back up, say

thank
you

once
again.

busy, noisy, dirt, etc.

The internet provides so many little chuckles. The other day I saw a cute sign or something on Pinterest that said boy: n. a noise with dirt on it. Oh, so true. They pretty much always smell like dirt unless they are fresh out of the bath. I tried to catch a few pics of Silas and me a few days ago but had very few opportune moments, except when he was of course trying to eat my face or pausing for a quick drink. That kid is rarely still (thus the blurriness).

 

 

Yesterday we tried again; he paused long enough to show me where my mouth is. 

Nicky's a little easier to capture on camera, as long as silly faces are involved. Here we are hanging out before his piano lesson (he learned the C major scale). He smelled like little kid + dirt + recess.

 Ah, boys.

Camera embraced.

i needed this.

I stand in front of the wood block board, hulling strawberries and listening to the sounds of five thirty pm. Silas climbs in and out of cabinets, spreading plastic bowls and trays on the floor, dumps out a box of plastic forks. Nicky's playing Monkey Moves, dancing around the living room. I'm enjoying the chance to cook a meal slowly, brushing butter and rosemary onto salmon, drizzling maple syrup over squash. Silas buries his face in my legs and lingers while I pat his back, then takes off again, legs lifting side to side, laughing at brother. He'll be back in two minutes to repeat the process. This is all day, this little dance we do, and some days I sigh at it but today I reveled. Papa comes home; now we're all here.

Today there is no rushing off anywhere, so we take our time eating around the table-Nicky prays thank you God for this food and for the Earth and for my parents and everybody says Amen! and Silas throws food on the floor and looks up at us for a response. Nicky tries asparagus and likes it. More and more adventurous with food, that boy. I remember when he survived on beige food only, when I was putting yellow squash in his quesadillas. Ricky runs the bath while I load the dishwasher and I hear him playing blues to them while they splash and pour. I join them, stretch out on the carpet, then slather lotion and zip up footie pajamas, laugh at Silas, lean my head on Ricky's shoulder. This.

I read out loud from Little House in the Big Woods, stopping every few sentences to explain things like kerosene lamps and lead bullet-making and panthers. Then he cleans teeth and we all say our good-nights and he says I love you to the moon and back and to the moon and back and to the moon and back. That's further than heaven, he tells me, so satisfied and safe.

fishbaby

This kid loves water, so much so that we have to keep the bathroom door closed or he'll gleefully splash in the toilet.

So sometimes if he's fussy or we're bored or just feel like it, we  stop the day and take a bath. It feels like giving him a treat, and I love that. He watches the water fill the tub and bounces with excitement, and lately he throws some cute baby jabbering into the mix.

Spending a lot of time with littles is so rewarding, and so taxing, all at the same time. I feel like I'm still figuring it out. One thing that's been cemented in my mind, however, is that when we get the chance or feel the need to slow down and have a moment to just be, I should take it and enjoy it fully. Notice it all-the sunlight warming and soothing, the lashes, the way his hair curls when it's wet, the way he shouts triumphantly after throwing toy frogs overboard. Seriously, that other stuff can wait.

And take pictures, in case I forget.

He who keeps me will not slumber

I have that song in my head.....just can't seem to get it right today... For some reason I woke up stiff and sore, with the same croaky voice and raw throat I've had for a few days now and it's Ricky's day to play music so he's out the door early. I decide to feel sorry for myself while I feed the littles. I slice bananas, heat up leftover waffles from the other day, sprinkle slivered almonds. I spill my full cup of coffee all over Nicky's paper and crayons. The dog laps up coffee off of the floor.

Lately all I want to do is read. Like for fifteen whole minutes without something being asked of me. Yeah, I'm pretty much in full blown woe is me mode. I'm tired, I guess? My brain is hungry and my body is tired, and days off are not really days off. I made the mistake of staying up too late last night, watching someone on the internet talk about complicated things in a way that made me angry and sad, at who I'm not sure. Also not sure why I did that to myself. I wish I had the option of a nap. I wish I could find Silas' bottle. I wish I could wear all of my hats with grace and confidence.

I think on Sunday mornings it all comes to a halt because it has to, or maybe it's just years of habit-this is when you get vulnerable and slow down, when you examine. I need some soul stillness, some wise old words to soothe, some repentance. I need to be covered under His wings.

In college on the rough Sundays I used to go the mountains by myself. Pack a sandwich, a book and some water and drive away. Sometimes I would hear better there. But this morning it's tripping over toys and a needy little guy pulling on my jeans and smiling his squinty smile, and Nicky with his Mommy? and he waits for me to answer because I've trained him to, with all my just a minutes. Oh, how I want him to not have to hide from me, to not burden him with my heaviness. So I try to get everyone ready, and I fail. It's too late to be anything resembling on time, and so I give it up, put the baby down for a nap, and re-heat my coffee.

It is good to give up sometimes. What is this really all about anyway? He will meet me anywhere, this constant friend. I read Psalm 121-I will lift up my eyes to the hills-From whence comes my help? Grace is lavished once again; help me exhale it.


He is my mountain today, my fresh air.

Mother's Day

We met up with some friends after church for a Mother's Day picnic. 

Nicky and his friend almost had a throw-down with a much older boy. We looked over to see the friend throwing a punch, and Nicky assumed a karate kid position.....Nicky later explained that they were just playing- the older kid was a virus, and Nicky and his friend were the antibodies. Thanks PBS kids, for that. Those boys crack me up. On a side note, I think Sunday afternoon picnics need to be a thing that we do. 

I'm so grateful to be a mother, and to have a mother. There are so many good things to be said about being a mother but here are my top ten:

• they make me laugh about 50 times a day
• they show me my true self-the ugly parts, but also strength I didn't know I had
• they fill the house with noise life
• I get to re-discover childhood with them
• discovering their personalities
• there are always more milestones to look forward to
• they help me refine my own world-view-when I need to teach them something I find out if I really believe it or not.
• they laugh together, and it's just the best thing to hear
• they are SO happy when a parent comes home
• being a parent gives profound understanding about God and how He loves us. What a gift.

on days like these

I cannot seem to get one thing done. As much as I love my little bundle of sweetness, I'm overcome with the urge to clean the floor. Puppy paw-prints and spilled juice and who knows what else....I just want to sit down this afternoon and not see all of that. But Silas is ravenous in this latest growth spurt, so I just nurse and nurse instead, forced to sit still.

I struggle. I want what's just ahead, instead of enjoying the now as much as I could. After all, the puppy prints will be back about five minutes after I mop. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remind myself of all the time I spent dreaming about this little one, and how much I will miss this when he's bigger. My frustration builds in spite of my good intentions. Sometimes all I can do is wave the white flag and whisper help. It's the simple things that are so hard, for some reason.

So many days I feel like this. But, at the end of the day, I realize things have been accomplished. I showered. I loaded the dishwasher. I bribed Nicky to trace some letters; each letter traced = one smartie.

I do love being in control. Good thing I have kids to help me with that issue. I need to just get over it. And enjoy sitting still.

Now he's asleep and I could be mopping the floor, but here I am. I need an outlet like this, to remind myself of what's important and to refuel. Nicky's been fascinated with the South Pole lately and he's watching March of the Penguins in the other room. I think I'll go join him.

morning

Sitting here staring at my sleeping baby....why is it that I can't tear myself away to do something productive when I've been waiting for hours for this moment so I can do something productive? A little school with Nicky, doing a Goodwill purge, um....getting dressed and brushing my teeth perhaps, make the bed....
OK. Standing up now.