The Haircut

The haircut. 

It came up again tonight at the dinner table. 

Nothing can make my eyes sting and shut down my ability to speak like the thought of it.

Ironic, because I wanted it to be cut so many times before now. 

But not now.

When that hair is cut, I will see the man we are sending off to bootcamp. Our Marine. Off he will go after he graduates high school. Less than two months from now.

The long-haired boy that lives in our home will leave with short hair. He will be a visitor in our home from then on.

I could feign surprise, but I've known it was coming. 

He handed me something when he was 12-years-old. "Here, you're going to need this." 

A Proud-parent-of-a-Marine sticker. I tried to explain all of the other options and he just looked at me with pity. 

He was only 12, but it was already years in the making. If there was an opportunity to dress up, he already knew what he would be wearing. I think he is 9 here...

As his mother, I can only support his decision, and try to soak up the early mornings and late nights -  when he is still of a mind to eat breakfast with his Mom, lay on my lap, and be tickled like the little boy he once was. I have countless pictures of these times, lest I forget...

When he was two-years-old, I came home from work to a little boy who had a haircut by his well-meaning Daddy. Little blond curls off and short hair on. 

I cried. It was a terrible surprise. I still have those locks in a ziplock baggie somewhere. Not sure if that is sentimental or just gross at this point. Probably both.

But I learned something. Surprise haircuts are bad (for me). 

Another haircut is coming and I have to face it head on. Probably need to watch it happen. And cry. 

But whenever it is, I hope not to be surprised. 

It occurs to me that I have never dreaded something for so long. I'm pretty sure that makes me one of the lucky ones. There are a lot worse things than haircuts, of course. 

God bless all who serve, their mothers, their fathers, their barbers, and all who love them. 

To All the Moms With Empty Birdfeeders

It’s Mother’s Day.  This day feels a little like Christmas to me, because it is a celebration of one of my most-prized roles and my greatest contribution to the world - my three sons.

But, as is often the case, when my joy surges, I remember that the same causes for my joy are sources of pain and sadness for others.  And I need to acknowledgement that.

I recently did a “window visit” to a woman in a nursing home, per ongoing COVID-19 visiting restrictions.  She is and has been many things, but is most often identified as a hospice patient and a mother.  As I knelt down by her window A/C unit and her empty bird feeder, we conversed about how we got here, how we didn’t all start out trying to live into the 100’s, how she would gladly give what time she has to someone else, how no one will touch her, and how she has to manage her expectations of her children so she’s not perpetually disappointed, and subsequently heartbroken.

Motherhood.  The source of the greatest joy and greatest pain.

For all mothers whose pain outweighs or comes in equal measure with your joys, this is for you.
 
If Mother’s Day is something to be endured rather than enjoyed, this is for you.
If you always wanted children, but were never able to conceive, this is for you.
If your children lived only long enough to catch a glimpse on an ultrasound, this is for you.
If you carried your child to term, and they went to heaven before you got them home, this is for you.
If your children got a “head start” in the life beyond and left you behind, this is for you.
If your children blame you for everything, this is for you.
If your children struggle with depression or addiction, this is for you.
If you’re a grandmother raising your grandchildren, this is for you.
If you’re waiting for your children to visit and your bird feeder is empty, this is for you.

Mothers are people who make room for others.  Very often within our very own bodies, but very often in other ways, too.  Children can come to us in many ways, and sometimes, it is through the front door.  After all, I am often visiting someone else’s mother while someone else is visiting mine.

Thank you to all of you who have sacrificed your own bodies, preferences, comforts, safety, and living for yourselves, so that others may have life.   Happy Mother’s Day!

Fruit, Death, and Reason

My little neighbor brought me a bowl of fruit yesterday.

A wonderful thing to receive from a 5-year-old, anytime. Only it was completely her idea and inspired by a dream that she gave me a bowl of fruit.  With lemons.

I can’t help but wonder about the timing of the delivery and the dream that inspired it.

Sometimes, children are placed on hospice.  I’ve known this, but I got to know it in a new way last week.  She was 6-years-old and died on the same day my little neighbor dreamed she brought me a bowl of fruit.

I told my neighbor’s Grammy about my emotional week and how a fruit delivery from a little one couldn’t have come at a better time.

I explained that I couldn’t sleep during the wee hours of the previous morning, so I got up and prayed.  I prayed most especially for our newest and youngest patient and learned later it was at that time when “our” earthly angel became a heavenly one.

She thought that was interesting because my little neighbor had the same trouble sleeping and called for her, at the same time.  Grammy mentioned something about us being “connected”.

Are we connected beyond living next door and having a mutual love for one another?  Are we connected in ways that sometimes wake us up or we can sometimes feel, but never see or comprehend?

During that couple of hours of way-too-early, I was searching for God’s presence.  I needed to know He was aware and at work amidst the upside-downness of a child dying.  I needed to know that I wasn’t showing up without Him.

He is used to hearing from me on my way to situations that are too hard for me.  “If You aren’t coming, I ain’t going!”  He hasn’t let me down, yet.

And this is what He gave me that morning when I was looking for Him...

“Who has ever said that the presence of God - in his actions and his words - has to be felt?  Sometimes God grants that sensation.  At other times, he doesn’t.”

This, from Blessed Conchita.   A wife, mother, and laywoman who just happened to be beatified when we were in Mexico this past May.  We sat in folding chairs outside the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the blazing sun, and we watched the man who was healed through her intercession, walk into the Mass of her Beatification.

Attending a Beatification Mass because we were “in the area”, two people not sleeping at the same time, a timely quote from the beatified, the death of a child, a child’s dream and conviction to act, and a bowl of fruit, hand-delivered.

Maybe they are only connected because I put them together in the same sentence.  But, maybe not.  

I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m okay with that.  I am enjoying the possibilities. 

“For they reasoned unsoundly, saying to themselves, 

‘Short and sorrowful is our life, and there is no remedy when a man comes to his end...

Because we were born by mere chance, and hereafter we shall be as though we had never been; because the breath in our nostrils is smoke, and reason is a spark kindled by the beating of our hearts...

The Wisdom of Solomon 2:1-2

Untouchable Superpowers

My little neighbor came over yesterday to pay me a visit.  We pulled up a stool so she could help me peel potatoes, but that was pretty hard and boring.  So, she waited as patiently as she could until we could go outside and jump on the trampoline.  In the meantime, she played the piano, and fed the dog, the fish, and the cat.

She jumped to her heart's content and I mostly chased her per the "You can't catch me!" invitation she offered.  I learned she was going to be Wonder Woman for Halloween.  At one point, I picked up a handful of dead leaves and threw them in the air.  When they landed on her, I told her they would take her super powers away.

As she held one, she looked me in the eye and said, "These kind of leaves can't take my superpowers away.  My superpowers are in my heart, and only green leaves can take my superpowers away!"  Then, she threw the leaf with a look of royal dismissal and promptly took my superpowers away with the flick of a magic strand of trampoline skirt.  Not only that, but she sent my superpowers to land in the branches of a neighboring tree.

Naturally, the next thing she did was give herself flying powers, and left me cross-legged on the trampoline.  Proud, powerless, and highly-entertained.

Her grammy came back for her and my soup needed tending, so we called it a day.  And I've been thinking about my little-superhero-neighbor ever since.  Mostly, I'm amazed at how wise she is to know that her superpowers are in her heart, and that whatever you happen to be holding or might say cannot take them away.

Interesting how little bodies can hold such big truths!  Makes me wonder how different things might be if the truth only grew with us, instead of shrink or disappear altogether, as it seems to do.

Thanks for the reminder, little one.  You should come over more often.

My Trampoline Burn

I got a trampoline burn today.  This is worth noticing because you have to be on a trampoline to get a trampoline burn, and well, it's been quite a long time.  I probably would have declined the invitation to jump, as I have so many times before, but over the last couple of days, I've been wading through old photographs and videos.  Man, the videos!  We were all gathered around our tiny laptop computer in awe of days gone by.  The little bodies, the voices, the quirks, the enthusiasm, the batman masks, and spiderman costumes year round.  The kiddie pool turned gravel pit, the hours playing in the sprinkler with light sabers, cushions on the floor and jumping on the couch. 

We have lived in the same house for most of my sons' lives.  We're all the same people, but we're not.  What is more is we don't really even remember those people.  Something happened to time overnight.  We have lived so many moments up 'til now.  Some that have turned into memories jogged with a picture or video, and many more that won't.  But, they all count because they've brought us here and built what we have, although we could never fully explain or describe exactly how that happened because we've forgotten most of it.

Like this morning.  I woke up, had a cup of coffee, and made "apple biscuits" for breakfast.  The boys were thrilled, since I seldom make them and didn't tell them I was.  I got to enjoy each one coming in, figuring it out for themselves, and being the recipient of their spontaneous hugs of gratitude. 

It's sort of hard to believe I will forget these simple moments of joy, but sort of not.  They are surrounded by so many others just like them.  I read once that "there is no treaure in a pile", but in this case, it is a pile of treasure.  The word "gratitude" seems so paltry. 

Living life forward is such a gift.  It may seem like the only way to live, since it is the only way time seems to travel in real life.  But, as for so many, a time will come when the best part of our lives will be reflecting on, revisiting, and enjoying the memories we're making now. 

One day (hopefully 50 years from now), a hospice social worker is going to come to my home and write a narrative.  In a couple of paragraphs, you will know who I've loved, who I've lost, what is/was important to me in my life, and who is responsible for me now.  The remaining details of my life will be in the hearts of those I've loved, and nowhere else.  Apple biscuits and all the rest...     

So, yes, I will jump on the trampoline with you, while I still can.  And I will treasure the trampoline burn, until we all forget it ever happened. 

My Friend With an Empty Vacuum Cleaner Bag

I got a little time to myself yesterday.  My husband took the boys shooting and no one needed me for hours.  I was already out, so I took myself to lunch and went from store to store, shopping for a rug to go under a particular chair in my house, or anything else I couldn't live without that was less than five dollars.

And this is happening more and more, only subtly, here and there.  The guys all want to see this action movie or that war documentary, and I'm out.  Sitting in the other room, doing whatever girl/Mom activity I choose.

I used to be the generator, facilitator, supervisor, or recipient of every activity my boys dipped their toe in.  Every activity.  And it was exhausting.  I see parents of young children, now, and remember just how exhausting.  I admire them so much.

Overall, my thought about raising kids who are growing up and seemingly need me less and less, is one of great joy.

But, there is the occasional, and always unexpected, lump in my throat.  Like when I was on my way home from Wal-Mart the other day.  I passed the elementary school that my older boys attended and my youngest still attends.  But, only for two more years.  And in that moment, I felt like I was visiting this town from the future, where elementary school and boys who go there, are but a foggy and distant memory.  And I wanted to cry.

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn captures this feeling perfectly in The Cancer Ward, as one of his cancer-stricken characters reflects on his life:  "Sometimes I wonder whether the children were real, whether I didn't just dream them.  Maybe they never existed?"

It's clear, now, that my children are real.  Their bodies are lounging around my living room (including the one who is sharing my couch cushion), Lab Rats is on TV, there are army guys by my coffee cup, a t-shirt on the floor, and dominoes are strewn all over my dining room table.  The evidence of real children is all over the place.

Among our summer sojourns, we've made a friend at the park.  He frequents it five or six times a day, because by his own admission, he doesn't have anything else to do.  He's divorced and his children are grown.  He admits that sometimes, he vacuums, just for something to do.  The bag on his vacuum cleaner stays empty, because his house never gets dirty.

Surely, this will never be us.  Right?!  

But, surely, it will.

Our friend reminds me that I'm living the American dream.  To be happily married, with young children, and time to enjoy all of it...

I'm afraid to admit it, but I need the reminder.  It is easy to miss the treasure of the dailiness - between basketball practices, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, and repeating, while never, ever asking myself, "Did I really need to sweep or vacuum?!"

So, in case you don't have a wise friend at the park with an empty vacuum cleaner bag and time to enjoy your kids, I'll loan you mine.

The Fish, The Calendar, and The Hood - Happy Mother's Day!

Mother's Day is upon us and I have to admit I always feel a little giddy when it rolls around.  I know it's going to be a good day, for sure.  Because, along with my birthday, it is one of two days out of the year I don't cook and I don't feel guilty about not cooking.  Cards?  Probably.  Gifts?  Probably not. Not cooking?  Definitely.  Every time.  Happy Mother's Day to me...

Today, motherhood looked like this.

I caught this catfish.  It bit my bait on my line on my fishing pole and I reeled it in until it was completely out of the water and laying on the sidewalk.  My son told me to text the picture to my husband and tell him he caught it.  I texted the picture, but didn't write anything.  My  husband assumed my son caught it.  I was going to let that ride.  At least until we got home.

But, then.  Then my son, who prides himself on being a fisherman, told a fellow fisherman that he technically caught it, because he saw it first.  Oh, no.  Nope.  This was the biggest fish I've ever caught in my life. So, today, motherhood was a little private conversation in hushed tones about not taking credit for things you don't earn and giving credit where credit was due, and "You're not the only person who can catch a fish around here."

Yet another picture perfect example of feeling like a great parent and a jerk all at the same time.  Say cheese.

Not long ago, there was another conversation.  This one was about basketball and the place it holds in a person's life.  This "game" was soiling attitudes, self-image, brotherhood, motherhood, and annihilating character like no game ever should.  So, this mother painted a pretty good picture of a basketball-less life and closed the conversation with a fiery ceremony burning all of the negativity written down (as an I'll-be-waiting-for-you-to-show-it-to-me-when-you're-finished-assignment), up.  Burned it up.  For real.

Haven't heard one negative comment since.

I heard once, that convincing your kids that you're crazy, can encourage obedience and good behavior.  They don't know what that one thing is, that is going to make you crack.  I think it's working.

Also working, is this...

This is the fruit of my silent retreat this year.  Intentionality.  Each day of the week, every week of the year, one of my guy's names is written down.  That is my cue to make an effort to engage with them for at least 15 minutes, in a way that makes them happy.  

This was going along beautifully, and unannounced, for about a month.  Then, one of the boys saw my calendar.  Hey!  Why is each of our names written down on your calendar?  I explained.  

Word traveled fast.  It's been several months now, and talk about accountability.  Sheesh!  "Mom, whose special day is it today?"  It's 9:00pm.  "Umm, it's yours, but since it's so late, let's do it tomorrow and I'll double your time."  Say cheese.

It's eye-opening to see who always gets their time, on time, and who often gets overlooked.  Gotta be careful about those "easy" ones!  They just don't demand much, and can slip through without a lot of fuss.  Yikes.  Accountability might be just the thing. 

But, kids and husbands aren't the only ones who get overlooked.  I just realized (and we're a couple of months in, here) that my name is not on my calendar.  What was I thinking?!  There's nothing like celebrating Mother's Day to encourage a little self-care.  Next year, for sure.  It's not like anyone else has a calendar with my name on it.  Next year.  Hold me to it, will you?

If you know me, you know I love quotes.  I only have one quote about motherhood, but it is definitely my favorite.  And not just because it was my son who said it.  Or because I know what it means. Even after trying to get him to explain, I'm still not sure.   

Rough, with walls filled with drawings done when no one was looking and difficult to escape?  

If so, I think he nailed it.

"Motherhood is like any other kind of hood."  

Happy Mother's Day from the Hood!

(whatever that means...)

Christmas Beggar

Am I the only one that clings more and more tightly to my identity as a child the older I get?  And maybe (certainly) it has nothing to do with my getting older, and everything to do with my parents getting older.  Trips back home to Kansas and big meals together have always felt like they would last forever.  Until now.  It has finally dawned on me that there is far less time ahead than behind. 

We usually only make it home twice a year, so we typically exchange Christmas gifts while we're there for Thanksgiving.  Only this year, there was no exchange because I brought nothing to exchange.  I thought working was my excuse, but my sister and sister-in-law both have three kids and work full-time and had beautifully wrapped presents for all.  Excuse B?  Ugh.  Empty-handed, again.  "Hey!  Can these school pictures of the boys be everyone's Christmas gift?  I can write their age and grade on the back."  Lame.

In discussing my empty-handedness with my parents, the "burden" of time and money that Christmas often carries came up.  If everybody buys for everybody, we're up to twenty-two on one side alone!  We talked about misplaced materialism (if there's ever a good place for it), and how it overshadows the celebration of Christ's birth.  Meanwhile, our desire for simplicity remains frustrated. 

Before I had children, this effort to maintain simplicity played out as gifts for grandchildren, but nada for their parents.  They were grown, after all.  The only problem was it didn't go over very well.  I wanted to passionately condemn the selfish grown-up kid-now-parent, but I couldn't.  Honesty prevailed.

I'm a grown woman with my own children, and I'm embarrassed to say it, but "I don't want to be left out."  Not by my parents.  Siblings?  Fine.  Friends?  No problem.  Boys?  To be expected.  Husband?  Different story, but not the point here...

There are only three people who know me as a daughter (I am very blessed to have a step-mom, who has been a mother to me in every way).  Four people know me as sister and some as friend, but the rest of the world knows me as a wife and mother.  Most of the time, my identity is as a member of my family.  Most of the time, I'm okay with that.  Thrilled about it even.  But, while I have parents living on this earth, I want to be remembered as their daughter...That person who existed before she married and bore children.  That girl who sat on laps, napped in the closet, pooped by the apricot tree, and loved Smurfs. 

As a mother, I pray that I will always have the desire to recognize and remember my sons as individual gifts from God, particularly on their birthday and at Christmastime.  Whether they become priests, husbands and fathers, businessmen or bums, part of their identity will be as a child of mine.  I want to honor that.

I'm not saying I need lavish gifts or great gestures.  I don't.  But, seeing a gift tag with my name on it, in their handwriting, means everything to me.  The gift tag could be on a pack of lifesavers or a diamond necklace.  Whatever it is doesn't matter.  It symbolizes their thought of love for me - plucked from a particular moment in time and placed gently in the hands of many moments.  Exactly the number of moments that exist while I gaze upon, eat, wear, use, or remember it.

I recognize my hypocrisy and feel embarrassed needing this from my parents.  My gifts are often crappy and always late.  I don't have money, very little time, and every created object seems a mockery of the depth of my love for them.  Besides that, they don't seem to need anything from me.  I don't understand their selflessness.  Until I consider my own children, that is.  I don't need anything from them, either.  I don't need their gifts to understand their love.  Their Dad and I gave it to them in the first place.

So, how does the mother-in-me achieve simplicity, while not depriving the little-girl-in-me of her desire to be loved and remembered?

I think she starts by being honest in admitting her need, which she has done.  From here, I 'll probably bring everybody in on the conversation (if only they'd read my blog!), and see how it goes.  As for Christmas within my four walls, I got an awesome bit of advice from a co-worker today.  She said some families keep Christmas simple by ascribing to the following criteria for gifts.  Each person can ask for four things:

   1.  Something you want

   2.  Something you need

3.  Something to wear

4.  Something to read

 

(Yes, it rhymes!)  

 

"Boys, Santa is scaling back this year!" 

 

Until then, it feels good to name my desire for simplicity and love (especially from my parents at Christmastime) .  On one hand, it is humbling because life is more comfortable when you can meet all of your own needs.  But, on the other hand, it seems like God's perfect design that we are not what we wish to be - sufficient unto ourselves.  As our parents model God's love for us, we are right in knowing that we can never outgrow it.    

 

 

Dear Heavenly Father of my parents and me,

 

Thank you for days to celebrate gratitude, families to share them with, and people willing to do the lion's share of the work to make it possible!  Thank you for my parents, whose love is the closest thing to your love that I know.  Please bless them for their fidelity to You and their generosity with me.  Please forgive my selfishness, and the imperfection of my love, and grant me the grace to improve upon it.  Please comfort and guide all children whose parents have gone ahead of them, and feel orphaned or alone.  Finally, Lord, please show me how to achieve the desire for simplicity You have placed upon my heart, as I remember and await the First Coming of Baby Jesus alongside Mary and Joseph.  Thank you for all.  Amen.

The Saturday Morning Monster

I've been married twelve years today.  I'm so blessed and thrilled to be celebrating a happy marriage with the man who chased the long-lived question, "How will you know when you find the one?" away forever.  I'm so happy about so many things.  I'm so happy I'm not still living that question.  I'm so happy that I'm not the ball of insecurity I was in our early marriage.  I'm so happy that our boys who are eleven and a half months apart are 8 and 9, not 1 and 2 (as cute as they were). 

I'm especially happy to have something to celebrate today, when otherwise I might still be sulking over my monsterhood yesterday morning...I started working at my Church when school started.  So, now the housecleaning that was done incrementally throughout the week, is saved up for one special day.  Saturday.  First thoughts of Saturday bring warm fuzzies with thoughts of sleeping in, breakfast together, and lazing about.  Sleeping in and breakfast together are still going great.  But, after breakfast, things go south.  After the first couple of times it happened, I realized that I had omitted my morning prayer.  Ohhhhhh, that must be the problem.  Attempting to clean the house before prayer is certain disaster. 

So yesterday, I took all the time I needed to pray well before heading down the bumpy-old-stinky-road of cleaning the house.  When I left my prayer spot, I was filled with great resolve to maintain my peace and patience throughout, and promptly made my first error.  I entered my son's room.  The hot zone.  Ground zero.  Utter chaos of dirty clothes, legos, papers, markers, army guys, tanks, cups, shoes, and the like. 

I cleared a spot, called the troops in, and began to give orders, "pick this up", "put those in there", "throw that away".  And then it happens.  Explanations start rolling in of who didn't put what where, things get shoved under the bed, little people start laying in the middle of the floor, and all manner of things happen that cannot defined as the only acceptable response - prompt obedience. 

This now-working mother suddenly values her Saturday mornings a great deal, and when she realizes that she's the only one, she loses it.  Her humanity finds a quiet corner to hide in while her anger and frustration take over, leaving her shaking on the inside and turning to stone on the outside.  I am either barking or silent, but "pissed off" in every form.  My language morphs into that which would befit a mild-tongued sailor.  Apparently, I used the word "crap" quite profusely, a little bit of "damn", and a "pissed off" when I was discussing my frustration with my husband.  Sadly, I got generous feedback on my language later in the day from my son. 

It took hours to recover, and another Saturday morning needs to be redeemed by yours truly.  Happy marriage aside, my husband said he'd rather live in a dirty house than with me on these Saturday mornings.  I don't blame him.  If I could live in a perpetually dirty house, I would too!  But, I can't.  I have a threshold.  A threshold which turns out to be the amount of dirt/clutter/dog hair that accrues in a week's time.  Since prayer wasn't enough to rid me of myself (although, many times it is), we made a new plan.  Until I can handle it in a more sane and ladylike manner, I will tackle everything else, but that room.  He can go in there.

It is humbling that something so simple as a messy room can still reduce me to tears and a potty mouth.  As I continue to tackle the spiritual life and pursue helping others in theirs, I am reminded that I will never be above living an earthly life.  I am a human, and this is where I live.  On earth.  With others.  And their stuff. 

...We are not angels but have bodies, and it is madness for us to want to become angels while we are still on earth...Come what may, the great thing is to embrace the Cross.  The Lord was deprived of all consolation and forsaken in His trials.  Let us not forsake Him; His hand will help us to rise better than our own efforts...                           St. Teresa of Avila     

Dear Heavenly Father of Parents and Children with Messy Rooms,

Thank you for another day to know, love, and serve You.  Thank you for my husband, and every wedding anniversary including today's.  Please forgive me for my selfishness, impatience, and ingratitude.  Thank you for the phone call while writing this post, thanking me for sharing my children, from someone who misses theirs.  Thank you for opportunities to see what I can still be without your grace.  Humbling, though they are. Thank you that Your Hand will help us to rise better than our own efforts.  Please give me, and all parents, the grace to see the gift of our children, including the messes that often surround them.  Finally, thank you for opportunities to redeem lost time.  Please give me the grace to recognize and make the most of them.  Amen.

Four Motherless Children

Disclaimer:  I am not a perfect mother.  I am not even an excellent mother; I know a lot of moms who are better at motherhood than I am.  But, by the grace of God, I love being a Mom (most of the time), and I am either with or available to my boys.  Once disorder sets in, there are a lot of circumstances that cannot be helped.  Addiction and divorce are two of them.  I am not criticizing the mothers below.  I could easily be where they are, if my circumstances were the same.  I simply pray for them, and grieve for their children. 

I spent three and a half hours at the skate park with my two older boys yesterday afternoon.  The skate park is almost always a win-win because they're doing what they want to do, and I get to be outside, sitting.  Two of my favorite things.  But, if you've read some of my other posts, you already know that sometimes I leave with a heavy heart.  Yesterday was one of those days.

The first heartbreak (and joy) was spending the afternoon with my little four-year-old buddy.  He was there before we arrived and stayed until who-knows-when after we left.  His 7th grade brother was also there, and everybody knows them, but the just-turned-four-year-old is still pretty much on his own.  At some point, his older sister showed up to bring him lunch.  A sandwich, chips, and a Capri Sun.  She left right afterwards.  His brother "stole" his chips, and they were ultimately spilled on the ground.  It was the first time I ever saw him cry.  I was getting ready to head home to supplement his lunch when one of the girls hanging around offered to buy him another bag, which was the first act of kindness I've seen there (that part was refreshing).    

I asked the boys if their Mom ever came to watch them.  The little one said, "No".  The older one said, "Sometimes."  While I was thinking about my four-year-old at home napping, and seeing my little friend's  "thousand yard stare", I was struck by such a feeling of helplessness.  After sitting with him the whole afternoon, I had to tell him it was time for us to leave because I had to make dinner.  The helplessness struck again.  He can't cross the street by himself and he can't come home with me... 

His mother is alive, and lives right across the street.  I can't blame her because I don't know her, and justice is not mine to meter out.  But, I know what I see (and have seen many, many times), and that, for whatever reason, is a motherless child.

The second heartbreak was running into an old friend who told me "Things aren't so good at home right now."  I pressed a little, and he told me that his wife (and mother of his only son) is strung out on prescription drugs and alcohol.  She was recently arrested for public intoxication after she lost her son at the store.  She just went through a drug rehab program, and according to him, things look the same as before.  I overheard one of their friends say, "I hate seeing her like that.  She wouldn't even talk to us."  Her son is the same age as mine.  And right now, he is a motherless child.

The third heartbreak was when my friend told me that a mutual friend moved several states away, to live closer to her daughter.  The closer-to-her-daughter part was good, but she had to leave her two boys behind with her husband.  Again, they're about the same age as my guys.  Until they rendezvous for the summer or holidays, it seems to me, they are motherless children.   

I have to admit, my boys don't seem like they need me most of the time.  But, I cannot imagine being separated from them for much more than a week.  Anything less than that, I fantasize about.  But anything more, I cannot fathom.  I can't imagine saying goodbye, or leaving them in my rearview mirror, or not being "there", for whatever. 

I ache for these mothers, for I know their love is no less than mine.  I ache for these children, for I know their love is as boundless as any child's love.  I am powerless to reunite them or swoop in to fix what's been rent.  But, I can pray for them, and love more intensely, because the thought of living in any one of their shoes, unable or unwilling to guide the children God entrusted to me, leaves me numb. 

And to the parents in my community, who lost their 4-year-old son last week when he was accidentally killed in their driveway, please keep loving.  The kids in this world need your love.  We all do.

Dear Jesus,

Thank you for Your Mother, who was present throughout Your Life, and most especially at the foot of the cross, when very few were left.  Thank you for a mother's heart.  Help us to intercede for those children, mothers, and families where something has gone awry.  Please comfort those who need more love than what they receive.  Please help us to take our responsibility as parents seriously, for it is the greatest work on earth, and we will have to give an account of how we've done.  Please be with parents of older children who have to make them live somewhere other than home, to keep them safe.  Please hear the cries of those parents who have lost their children.  The pain of trying to imagine it is unbearable.  There can be no words for the pain of living it.  Please give us the grace to love well while we can, since we do not know how long we get to try.    Amen.

On Being Born and Growing Older

The phone has stopped ringing. The Facebook alerts have stopped coming.  My incredible breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates are snugly filed away for future reference, and I am basking in my post-birthday love hangover.  Today is my first day of being 36-years-old, and it's pretty awesome.  Awesome in an ordinary way.  Ordinary like sleeping in, playing in the sprinkler, working on a puzzle, and going to the library-ordinary. 

I love getting older.  Are you familiar with the "mental age" idea?  I don't remember who I heard it from (Lauren, was that you?), but the idea is that everyone has a mental age.  It's the age you are in your mind, ignoring the actual number of years you've lived, or what your body is screaming at you (like, "You are 112!!!").  Maybe I like getting older because I haven't reached my mental age, yet.  I'm 42 and my husband is 67 (or somewhere around there).  I know some ladies who like to say they're 21 and holding, so I guess they're 21.  Maybe that's why they hate birthdays and find it rude when someone asks their age.  Not me.  No way.

I love that I'm "middle-aged".  Done with the drama and angst of being a highschooler, college student, and new wife and mother.  There's still plenty of excitement to be had in life without riding on a roller coaster.  This week, all week, the excitement came in all sorts of packages.  My sister sent a gift early in the week, which tipped my boys off that it was my birthday.  She is usually sending stuff for them, so they were highly disappointed (and maybe even a little offended) when they found out it was for me.  But, then they went to work like little elves, wrapping up all kinds of stuff that was laying around the house and dragging huge cardboard boxes down the street from a neighbor's front yard, while riding on their skateboards. 

All wrapped in Christmas paper with lots of tape, of course, I got a painted board, a couple of popsicle stick rafts that were made months ago, a Guinness book of world records, and a piece of cardboard.  The most fun, though, was to watch the 3-day-mammoth-effort in the sweltering garage, to build a cardboard house that was made to look just like ours (doors and windows in all the right places) that had two coats of paint and a paper towel roll for the chimney.

However, the best gift of all, was knowing that each one of these gifts was the spontaneous manifestation of their love.  No one made them do it.  They wanted to do it.  To make me happy.  And that is the best gift of all.  That whole "It's the thought that counts" bit is for real.  Especially with your own kids.  Because most of the time, they're thinking about themselves, and it's easy to wonder if they love you, or even like you, or even know you're alive (outside of the times you're getting them something to eat).  

Another thing I love is the way the world recognizes the magnitude of the birth-day.  There is no other day that we celebrate the value of a person more than on the day they were born.  It makes me  wonder about the possibility of choosing whether or not a baby will be born at all.  If someone believes that the choice should exist, they still celebrate birthdays with as much gusto as those who don't.  Why shouldn't they?  Someone they love has been born!  But, on one hand...the day of one's birth is Awesome!  Extraordinary!  Unrepeatable!  Worthy of Recognition and Extra Effort by All!  On the other hand...it's optional.  Holding these ideas together in a pair of hands is confusing to me.  Sort of like trying to put two magnets together that have the same charge. 

Life is a gift.  It's not always easy and it's not always fun, but sometimes it is.  And whether it's good or bad, happy or sad, it is always worth living. 

I have promised Peace but not leisure, heart-rest and comfort, but not pleasure.  I have said "In the world ye shall have tribulation":  so do not feel, when adverse things happen, that you have failed or are not being guided, but I have said "In the world ye shall have tribulation but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world."  God Calling, August 10

In my thirty-sixth year, I am learning to wait on the Lord.  In the meantime, I hope to live with increasing generosity and joy.

2 Corinthians 9:6-8

Brothers and sisters:
Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly,
and whoever sows bountifully will also reap bountifully,
Each must do as already determined,
without sadness or compulsion,
for God loves a cheerful giver.
Moreover, God is able to make every grace
abundant for you,
so that in all things, always having all you need,
you may have an abundance for every good work.

Dear King of Birthdays and Harvests,

Thank you for loving me into existence through my parents, and all of the people that came before them.  Thank you for a week-long love song, as sung by sisters and brothers, little boys, a husband, parents, and friends.  Thank you for days afterward to take it all in.  Please help me to cast off my selfishness and replace it with generosity.  Please give me the grace to sow bountifully and give cheerfully.  You know how generous my friends and family are to me.  Thank you for them, and their example.  Please help me to imitate it.  Thank you for birthdays and every reason you give us to celebrate life.  It is the greatest gift, for without it, we cannot return Your love.  Please grant me the grace to be ready for death at any moment.  Please help me make a good return to You on all that I've been given.  I love you, and I thank you for thirty-six years of life.    Amen.

A Case For Kids

My boys are coming home from my friend's house today.  They have been gone for 4 1/2 days.  I am eager to see them, hug them, and hear all about their adventures, but I also have thoughts like: 

1.  More noise
2.  More chaos.
3.  More mess.

I am ashamed that these thoughts precede all of the other good things about them being home, which are eternally greater in value, and exponentially greater in number:

1.  More love.
2.  More laughter. 
3.  More joy.
4.  Stories at bedtime.
5.  Seeing them sleepy-eyed in the mornings.
6.  Child-led prayer at mealtimes.
7.  Bike rides to the park.
8.  Having people to swim with in the deep end.
9.  Never have to jump on the trampoline alone.
10.  Never bored.
11.  More generosity.  Less selfishness.
12.  Having a reason for driving 45 minutes to the nearest skating rink.
13.  Unbridled enthusiasm over something seen or imagined.
14.  Always having a date for Happy Hour at Sonic.
15.  More humility.  They do not care who I think I am.

List B is the substance of my vocation.  List A are merely the accidental effects of my vocation, and every vocation has some.

This week proved it is possible for a house to be cleaned and stay clean.  I will not be stuck in the hamster wheel of cleaning for the rest of my life.  Good to know!

Where there are no oxen, the manger is empty, but from the strength of an ox comes an abundant harvest.  Proverbs 14:4, NIV Student Bible

Translation for parents:  Where there are no children, the house is clean, but from the lives and love of children come an abundant harvest.

Just as the farmer has to guide the ox for an abundant harvest, we have to guide our children for the same.  How do we do that?!  By asking the perfect question!

My friend, Janet, texted me the other day about something she was reflecting on.  Her text read, "My reflection for this afternoon:  if my love for my children is a reflection of the way God loves us...me...I wonder if I had a day with God in person, would I feel happy if he interacted with me the same way I interact with my kids?"

I told her I was "stealing" this idea (with her permission, of course), because it really is the true test of what we're doing as parents!  If we were on the receiving end of our parenting, as administered by God, how would we fare?  I love how she used the word "happy".  Would I be happy if God engaged me (or not), fed me, played with me, prayed with me, and disciplined me, the way I do these things with mine?

Dear Lord,

Thank you for keeping my children safe while they were away.  Thank you for my friend who kept them.  Thank you for Janet, and her wisdom.  Thank you for canoe trips down the Brazos River, and finding a perfect arrowhead on that sandbar.  Lord, please forgive my negative thoughts about motherhood, and all that it entails.  Thank you for time to reflect on many (but not all) of the irreplaceable gifts that my children bring into my life.  Thank you for the substance of my vocation.  Please help me to keep List B in front of me at all times, and to tuck List A away under the bed to gather dust.  You are an awesome God!  In every piece of tree that has turned into rock, fossils from animals that lived who-knows-when, and clusters of shells from an old ocean floor, I think of Your Majesty, Your Timelessness, and Your Fidelity to Your creatures.  Thank You. 

Cigarette Burns and Pooping in the Bedroom

I'm thinking I'd rather be in bed right now, but I have too many details from other people's lives swirling around in my head (again).  I have a friend who marvels at how the world is big enough to hold all of the stories that it contains.  I'm starting to wonder the same thing.

My boys were eager to get back to the skate park after being out of town for a few days, so we headed up this afternoon with a cooler of drinks in tow.  Bringing food and drinks for the skaters was part of the resolution we made at my last women's meeting, in an effort to "love the sinner, but hate the sin".  It sounds presumptuous and judgmental even to write it.  Of course, skating is not sinful, but there are a lot of other things that often go with the skating lifestyle...Sex, drugs, rock and roll?, rebellion, tattoos/piercings and language that would make a sailor blush. 

They're not worse sinners than me, or people who dress well, or people who keep their lips buttoned.  They're just not so careful about covering it up.  Sort of refreshing in its own way, if you think about it.  The point is that these kids need love like everyone else on the planet.  They're just not (always) the most approachable or easy to love. 

I took my seat at a picnic table, and in 5 minutes, (I think my little guys were inviting them) there were 6 dudes at my table throwing back drinks and talking to me for the first time.  I'd seen several of them before, and one was quick to say "Y'all are the coolest parents that come up here."  And I thought I'd been invisible every time...

Most of them came and went, but two stuck around.  It didn't take long to notice the (nine) cigarette burns running down the right side of the skinny, shirtless one.  As I was talking to him, I kept thinking how he looked like Jesus.  Not just because we're supposed to see Jesus in everybody, but for real.  His hair was dark and almost shoulder length, and his eyes were honest.  I told him he had great hair.  He said "thanks", showed me how he couldn't get his fingers through it, and shared his dreadlock plans with me. 

In short time, I learned he's almost 20.  He lives with a roommate (who has nine cigarette burns down his left side) and his anti-social girlfriend.  Their self-inflicted cigarette burns are a memorial to their friend who died when he was hit by a train.  Apparently, he convinced eighteen friends to burn him with cigarettes, so they each did half in his memory. 

He has one brother and thirteen sisters.  They are mostly "half" sisters, because his mother was a "crack whore", so their dads are all different.  They were all eventually adopted by the same family, but they "never really cared what I did".  He said the best piece of advice he's ever received was, "You only live once, so you better enjoy it the first time around."  I countered with the idea that there are a lot of things that are good for you that don't necessarily feel good.  He acquiesced, but followed with, "But, only if you have to."

His goodness came through when we started talking about the three-year-old boy I've seen up there.  He said he saw somebody give him a cigarette once.  It was the only time he beat somebody up.  "You don't give cigarettes to a three-year-old."  Agreed.  He went back to skating and circled around every time he got thirsty.   

The other guy made me want to cry...
After describing himself as a "roller coaster addict", he painstakingly described a "Haunted Adventure" house experience, and said we should never go.  I very sincerely told him that we wouldn't.  Little by little, the conversation moved from this scary fake experience to his scary real experience.  He jumped around between mission school this, and group home that.  There was something about how he and his sister were left beside a Georgia highway when he was a baby, and his struggles with a learning disability.  Later on, he and his sister were adopted, but only to be sexually and mentally abused.  His adoptive mother locked them in their rooms and wouldn't let them out.  "If I had to go #1 or #2, I had to go in my bedroom because she wouldn't let us out."  He and his sister communicated through an air vent.  They were eventually put in foster care and bounced around the system. 

He pulled up his shirt to show me his rose tattoo in honor of Lady Gaga.  Apparently, he's a big fan, she has something similar, and that is good enough for him. His vulnerability was palpable, and when he showed me that he knew the alphabet in sign language, I could see his hand trembling.  He is 24-years-old.  He is looking for a job and planning to start school in the Fall.  He lives with a lady who ran a group home where he previously lived, and her children.  He affectionately calls her Mom. He attends Church with her dad.  He knows he makes mistakes, he knows God forgives him, and believes "I am a man of God." 

My sons were "in and out" during these conversations, but my 8-year-old caught on that the second guy had suffered a lot and heard me repeat something I heard Mother Angelica say once. "When we are suffering, that is when we are most like Christ.  If we are not like Him at any other time, we are like Him when we are suffering."  To this, my son said, "I guess I've suffered."  I said, "No, you haven't."  He said, "I've suffered a little.  My great-grandmother just died."  I said, "Yes, but you didn't suffer."  And he said, "I guess I wasn't really that sad."  Right.

I vacillate between thinking it is and isn't good for my kids to be at the skate park.  Today, it was good.  It was good because they got to see that these kids are "nice".  Even if they use bad language or have metal in their face.  It was good because my oldest son heard about real suffering, and consequently, realized that he has not really suffered.  Having parents who love you enough to make you go to bed at night, chores here and there, and something other than your favorite food for dinner is not suffering.  In lieu of going to Africa to appreciate what we have, I think we'll be going back to the skate park.  We still have a lot to learn.


Dear God, I don't know how I continue to meet so many people with such painful and incredible stories.  I can only assume that you are "hooking us up", so thank you for the privilege of being on the listening end.  Lord, have mercy on these kids, and on their parents, who will have to give an account for them on the day they meet You face to face.  Please, give me the grace to show them Your Goodness, Truth, Light, and Love.  Thank you for my Regnum Christi sister, Robye, who provided the drinks I brought today, and all of those who spur me on in my faith.  God, bless us all.  Amen. 

Spring Break Revelation

It is humbling to be a parent. 

Generally speaking, everyone in our family gets along well-enough most of the time, that there is no real reason to take a hard look at the family dynamic.  Until we were halfway between Natural Bridge Caverns and Enchanted Rock. 

Something was plaguing my middle son.  I don't know if his black cloud was brought on by the flu he had at the beginning of the week or what.  All I know is that whatever it was, was very ill-timed. 

The day before, we spent the morning walking through the first real cave my boys have been in, and it was magnificent besides.  We spent the afternoon playing in the spring water at a New Braunfels park, had a great dinner, and spent the night at a hotel, which was a major highlight in its own right.  The negativity ebbed and flowed from my middle son, and was checked by us at its peaks.

The negativity started ramping up again the following morning, and came to a head in route to Enchanted Rock, (where after we camped last Spring Break, vowed to spend every Spring Break thereafter).  He was talking about what a boring life he had and I'm pretty sure there was something about wishing he lived with a different family.

My husband pulled the car over and they had a conversation which didn't require any words.  We decided that if he wasn't able to pull his bad attitude out of the gutter between where we were and where we were going, he could stay in the car with me, and the rest of the family would spend the day hiking as planned.  His choice. 

He got it turned around.  But, just as he did, my oldest took cover under that same black cloud.  I would have loved to have seen (and squished) that little black crab, hiding in that black cloud, jumping from one to the other.  Damn thing.  On our ascent of Enchanted Rock (the same rock they climbed and conquered and have been talking about for a year), my oldest decided we were his enemies, and he wasn't going to climb all the way up because his legs were too tired.  Oh, boy. 

I'm thinking, "This is fun!  Now, I'm pretty sure I have some of the most spoiled kids in this park, which makes me one of the worst parents in this park, etc..."

We finished climbing, and once we got to the top, all was well.  It ended up being a great day and the black crab must have hopped families.  Interestingly, I saw a father gripping his son by his arm on top of that same rock, giving him the "attitude" talk.  I'm just saying... 

But, I was not unscathed.  On the way home, all the kiddos were sacked out from a full day of climbing and sun.  I asked my husband, "Do I need to be doing something differently?"  If my kids can be so ungrateful and negative in such great moments, I feel like I must be doing something wrong.  He said something like "Kids only have kid's perspectives.  They can't really appreciate anything because they've never known anything else."  They have everything they need and a lot of what they want.  Don't get me wrong.  Our kids only get gifts for Christmas and birthdays.  Otherwise, they buy what they want with their own money, saved from special occasions or earned from chores.   But, they are "spoiled" because of the lack of balance in their life.

Basically, they have more than they need coming in (free time, attention, pleasures, stuff), and less of what we need going out (gratitude, respect, work, positive attitude).  So, I changed our current protocol to produce different and satisfactory results - Decrease what is coming in, and increase what is going out. 

Feeling very pleased with this assessment, I sat down and made a list of daily jobs for each boy, in conjunction with a handy "three-strikes-and-you're-out" check mark system for all the behaviors and attitudes we don't want to see.  I covered it with the boys over dinner and relished briefly in the feeling of regaining a sense of balance, control, and peace.  But, then I realized... I've done all this before.  There is nothing new here.  Just a re-commitment to doing what I've already committed to do - Raise children who Love.  Appreciate.  Respect.  Serve.   

It is humbling to be a parent.

Dear Heavenly Father, Thank you for the beauty of Your Creation and time to enjoy it.  Thank you for Spring Break as a time to recover from the flu and see something new.  Thank you for the humility demanded in parenthood.  Thank you for new inspirations and moments of clarity.  Please grant us wisdom, as we raise our children in this wealthy country, where we want for nothing.  Lord, help me to be the mother you intended me to be, before you granted me the gift of motherhood.  Help me to talk less and act more. Thank you for the gift of a partner in the difficult journey of raising children.  Please sustain those who have to do it on their own.  Thank you for so many chances to get it right and help us extend Your Mercy to those who live under our own roof.  Please bless our children with hearts like Yours.  Help them to be meek and humble of heart, so that they may enjoy Your Presence for eternity.  Amen. 

It's Hard to be Holy When You're Sleep-Deprived

A blast from the past for a friend who has been sleep-deprived for far longer than anyone I know, and for all who have been there (or are there)...

September 9, 2009

11:10am – Wednesday 

The car is all packed up to go to Lake Bryan.  It’s raining outside and I’m waiting for the baby to wake up.  I’m tired and don’t feel like going, but I think it will help me “chill out” some, and Brett is out there w/ his guys today running the boats.  I feel like I’m being pecked to death by my baby chickens (Brayton and Walker)…fix this knot, my train track is broken, where are my logs?, Brayton pushed me, Walker called me stupid, find me in my fort – no not through that hole, this hole…The baby is still getting up twice a night and it doesn’t seem to have any relationship to hunger, as he sometimes wakes up earlier after he eats a big meal before bed.  I can’t figure it out and it is really starting to affect my patience level during the day. 

I have been reading about being resigned to God’s will for my life.  Is God’s will for my life for me to be sleep deprived?  I vacillate between wanting to wean the baby entirely (not that I could do it quickly – I’ve been trying to get him to take a bottle for months) and giving him God’s best by breastfeeding him – as much and as often as he wants. 

I am beginning to wonder if it would be easier to suffer pain/sickness, as the suffering is coming from within rather than without.  I am always at the mercy of other people.  I am trying to give thanks in all circumstances, as written in Thessalonians.  However, as my sleep deprivation grows and my patience shortens, it becomes more difficult with each interruption/demand.  I thank God for my three healthy, beautiful children.  I thank God my legs work, so I can tend to them.  I thank God I don’t have to work and entrust my kids to someone else’s care (even if it would be better than what I can offer some days).  I thank God I am able to breastfeed (as this was my fervent prayer when pregnant with Wyatt).  I thank God Brett has a good job.  I thank God we can pay our bills without receiving utility disconnect notices or foreclosure notices.  I thank God I have parents who love me.  I thank God He loves me.  I thank God for Jesus – I am believing more and more all the time my own weakness and incapability to do much on my own.  I thank God for the consolations of Wyatt’s smiles, and him reaching out to touch my face, and the boys’ laughter.  I thank God for “Mom, you’re my best.”  I am reading Teresa of Avila’s biography.  I can relate to her about so many things.  It took 40 years for her to develop/recognize her holiness.  I hope it doesn’t take that long for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 13, 2009

Sunday – 1:29pm 

I just wanted to write before I forget how great it feels to be well-rested.  We started to wean Wyatt from his night feedings a few days ago.  The first night he cried for 32 minutes.  The next night about 35.  The following night for about 10 minutes (according to Brett – I was so desperate for sleep and couldn’t bear listening to him cry again for so long, so I slept on the couch with ear plugs in and the fan going).  It was probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had since Wyatt was born.  Last night he only woke up once around 3am and cried for a minute or so, and didn’t wake up until almost 7:30am.  Thanks be to God!  The sleep deprivation was really starting to get to me.  I’ve been extremely crabby and impatient.  You know something needs to change when Brayton says, “Mommy, why are you so crabby all the time?” and Walker says one morning, “Mommy, did you not wake up crabby this morning?” (That was the first morning after I got decent sleep).  I pray I don’t forget what a blessing it is to sleep without interruption.  I want to be at my best for my kids and my husband. 

Note:  Please see my next post for a more objective view of how sleep-deprivation and all other emotionally and physically painful things might fit into a much bigger picture, and the best way to endure. 

Dear Heavenly Father,  Thank you for sleep and for sleep-deprivation, if it drives us closer to You.  Thank you for children who grow up and no longer need us in the middle of the night.  Thank you for notes kept that bring it all right back, when it is helpful for another.  Thank you for You.  Please draw near to all those who are suffering from insomnia, those who tend to others in the middle of the night, and all others who are simply tired from the pressures of daily living.  If it is not outside Your Will, please restore restful sleep to those who are most in need.  Amen. 

 

Chopped Liver and Boy-Packed Lunches

I read something today that explains a lot. 

In New Guinea, "Children were considered babies until they lost their front teeth.  When this happened, the little boys of the tribe left their mothers and went to live with the men in the village.  Fathers then took over the nurturing of their sons and the mothers raised the girls." - A Mother's Touch by Elise Arndt

Ohhhhhhh.  My middle son just lost both of his front teeth and not so coincidentally, I am chopped liver at my house.  No, I am not exaggerating.  Every night the two older boys fight over who gets to sit by Daddy at the dinner table.  The one who loses (who has to sit by me) is usually close to tears.

Just this afternoon, the youngest was down for a nap, the middle one was gone with Daddy, and my oldest was watching a movie.  Before, I sat down with a book and a cup of coffee, I asked him, "Are you happy watching the movie, or would you like to do something with me?"  He asked, "Why?"  I said "because if you don't want to do something together, I'm going to sit down and read."  He said, "You can do whatever you want to do."  So, I happily plopped down with my book, after being dismissed by my second-grader.

Just thought I'd share in case you are also experiencing being "phased out".  It's normal.

On a different note, I visited a friend last week and was able to see her "Kids Contribution" poster hanging up in her kitchen.  A gold mine in plain view for my plundering!  However, after laying my eyes on the "Pack your lunch" item, I had everything I needed.  Thank you, Julia!  Thank you, Amy for suggesting it to her!  Thank you, Elizabeth for pairing them up in your Titus mentor Mom program!  (Have you read Spiritual Mothering by Susan Hunt?  I never finished it, but would love to donate it to your cause, if you should want it.)

So, this last week, my boys started packing their own lunch.  This is coming at the perfect time, because just the week before, my husband was (unusually) home during our get-ready-for-school routine.  He was very unimpressed with my boys lack of respect and appreciation when fielding my questions about what to put in their lunch box.  Problem solved.

Another unforeseen benefit, is that one of my kiddos is a slow mover in the mornings.  In order for him to have time to pack his lunch, he has to keep moving.  If he doesn't, there is a natural consequence waiting for him - he has to eat school lunch.  Hee hee.  I just love natural consequences.

Oh, I almost forgot --in fact, I did forget, and came back to add this in-- Not having to make my sons' lunches returns time to my schedule, which allows me to sit with them at the breakfast table and read The Lives of the Saints.  Major bonus.

Another thing Julia mentioned (and which also came up this weekend in conversation with another), was encouraging our children to ask the question, "Is there anything I can do to help?"  We need to encourage the spirit of service.  This is my next quest.  Thank you, friends.

Dear Heavenly Father,  Thank you for last night's Confession with a new priest and the gift of Yourself in the Eucharist this morning!  Thank you for lessons from New Guinea.  Thank you for the gift of friendship and writing on the wall.  Thank you for loaning my boys to me.  Please "help me to do all I can to prepare them for the day when You will call them home. Thank you for the humility gained in motherhood.  I love You and can palpably feel Your love for me.  Thank you.  Amen.

Zero Desire to Please My Children

I woke up with the same feeling I went to bed with last night - I'm frustrated with my kids.  We were given free tickets for the hayride at Santa's Wonderland (A Christmas light display with "over a million lights").  I've been wanting to go for years and haven't because my husband is vehemently opposed.  So, last night, we went with Grandma and a friend of hers.

The lights were awesome and worth the money we would have paid for the tickets.  No doubt about it.  But, a few things along the way crept in and insidiously stole my joy.

Walking the football field-length gravel parking lot, in the dark, carrying a 3-year-old, and trying to get the older two to STOP throwing rocks and playing tag between all of the pedestrians and parked cars, was #1.  It might not have been so bad, if I didn't have to grab my boys by their coats before they heeded my voice.

The gravel-lined path for the hayride waiting line also proved too much temptation for little boys.  They HAD to pick up the rocks and fill the one hood between them, in between trying to kick them a reasonable distance.  No problem, except the aforementioned line is full of people in close proximity.  Fun.  #2.

After a reasonable wait, we happily climbed aboard the hayride on the second trailer, the farthest away from the diesel fumes.  The moment we've all been waiting for...  We were getting ready to go under the first tunnel of lights, but I had to cajole my 3-year-old to look at it, as he was looking at the ground move underneath the back tire.  He was cold, but refused the jackets I brought, and was that "I'm ready to go home" kid about 1/3 of the way through.  #3.

We completed the light tour with many oohs and awes, some musical chairs on the hayride, lots of "I'm ready to go home, now's", and overwhelming appreciation that the entire light display ended with Jesus rising from the tomb (a resurrection/ascension combo, if you will).  Jesus Christ got the most important "spot" and for this I was uplifted.  At least, The reason for the whole production had been remembered, and honored.  I was happy for Jesus.

To make the night complete, we agreed by consensus, that we would drink some hot chocolate by the blazing bonfire, and listen to some live music.  I volunteered to stand in the hot chocolate line and everyone else settled in by the fire.  15 minutes later, I rejoined the group, looking forward to melting away the remnants of the early accumulation of trivial irritations. 

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Oldest is pouting because he needs a straw (#4), youngest is sad because it's too hot to drink (#5), and I can't really relax because I'm holding two cups of hot chocolate (#6).  As comforting as holding one warm drink is, holding two screams, "You cannot relax because things are not as they should be!"  I was officially in my 3-year-old's camp, "I'm ready to go home, now!"  On the way out, my middle son begged for kettle corn because he was so hungry (#7).  Sorry, I just spent $13.50 on hot chocolate.

~After writing the first paragraph, I recognized the problem.  I have been wanting to go to Santa's Wonderland for years.  My expectations were simply to high, from the get-go.  I wish I could have recognized and released myself from those ugly, little things!  That doesn't mean that my kids shouldn't have been better behaved and more appreciative - these are things parents should expect from their children!  But, the fact that they fell short highlights the areas where I've fallen short.  Maybe that's another reason I wasn't able to let go of all the little stuff, like I supposed I should.

I don't ever remember being ungrateful as a child.  Wait.  Would I remember that?  . 

Anyway, I'm sitting here this morning, with zero desire to please my children.  My efforts yesterday proved that they can't be satisfied.  So today, for now, they're on their own.  Maybe I'll feel differently after I offer my prayer...

Dear Heavenly Father, Thank you for the awesome light display at Santa's Wonderland and for the finale, Your Son, Who lives and reigns, forever and ever.  Lord, I am frustrated with my children's lack of obedience and gratitude.  Every morning, I offer you my life, including my boys and my parenting.  I have already done that today, but I am doing it again, now.  Lord, please guide me.  Help me to practice Your mercy and love.  Please give me the wisdom to know when and how to discipline them, so they may be pleasing to You (and to us).  Please forgive my impatience, ingratitude, and failures in charity.  I love you.  Amen.       

Children Learn What They Live

The other day, I was at the Church bookstore looking for a little something for my goddaughter and came across this beautiful laminated little card entitled, "Children Learn What They Live".  Interestingly, no author was listed to claim the credit for such an excellent summation.  However, as soon as I laid eyes on it, I knew I needed to carry it with me, to remind me of the importance of my role in creating the environment where they "learn what they live".  I wanted to include it in my last post, but it was getting kind of lengthy, so here it is...

 

Children Learn

What They Live

 

If a child lives with criticism,

He learns to condemn.

If a child lives with hostility,

He learns to fight.

If a child lives with ridicule,

He learns to be shy.

If a child lives with shame,

He learns to feel guilty.

If a child lives with tolerance,

He learns to be patient.

If a child lives with encouragement,

He learns confidence.

If a child lives with praise,

He learns to appreciate.

If a child lives with fairness,

He learns justice.

If a child lives with security,

He learns to have faith.

If a child lives with approval,

He learns to like himself.

If a child lives with acceptance &

friendship.  He learns to find

love in the world.