I keep hearing the shattering...the glass hitting the ground and shattering into a thousand fragmented pieces. Pieces that could maybe be put back together under the tedious care of one completely devoted to restoring wholeness. But even then, there would be cracks. I once heard that a pipe is strongest at the spot that once was broken. When welded, it becomes stronger at that spot than all others. Perhaps the cracks are strong like that. But the shattered piece will never be the same.
Sometimes revisiting the past feels like this. With every memory I can hear the shatter, as though the memory goes into slow motion as it replays in my mind. And then as the full force of the reality hits me, I hear the shatter. For some its a diagnosis. For others, the infamous call that they won't ever forget. Still others, its a traumatic experience. But there is always that moment. That moment when your standing on the precipice...that tiny spot that lies between your greatest desire and your greatest dread. For a moment you waver on hope...knowing you could be 2 seconds away from your hearts desire, or being forced to let go. Its a tricky spot, let me tell you...to stand on that small spot that balances these two poles.
But whats worse is that when you are forced to move...when you hear that shatter...and you know your forced to let it go...and you have to do so alone. When you have to walk through something dark and seemingly hopeless. When the rest of the world sees your painted smile and expects the same old things out of you that they always do...and you don't have it to give, but no one knows that...because they can't know why. When the reality hits that seclusion and isolation feels safer than community. When you reach out, and no one takes your hand, or worse yet...pushes you further under.
I am not in that spot any longer. I have moved. But I was. And digging out from the shatter...the fragmented hopes and dreams, is a process, long and elaborate. Sometimes it feels like three steps forward and two backwards. Sometimes being forced to remember the moments of impact set off a chain reaction and all I can hear is the shatter. And I don't want to. I don't want to be reminded. I still haven't decided where to land and pitch my stake on many issues coming forth. I know I am stronger. I know that I have learned a lot. But the lines between self preservation and self sacrifice so easily get blurred.
I am not even sure what point I have to make here. Dreams and hopes and ideals have all been shattered. I am now in the process of rebuilding. For what? I am not certain because nothing in this life holds the promise that it won't be shattered once more. Nothing is completely about us, or for us. I believe it all serves a greater Purpose. But faced with a choice as to if I would rather sit in the rubble or start building, I choose to build. To gather supplies, lay the mortar, and place the bricks. The shatter may come again. In a different form. But I will always build. It is who I am.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
The Question Everybody Seems To Be Asking
I was sitting in church Sunday morning when the pastor asked us to stand up and talk to the people around us. So I turned around and shook hands with the nice man and woman behind me. As we sat down, I could sense the woman craning her body so that she could see the baby in the baby carrier next to my seat. When she caught sight of the blue blanket, I heard her whisper to her husband, " Four boys...I wonder how they ever do that!" This is nothing new for me. People stop in Meijer just to count the boys I have. A woman in Panera once asked me, "Where is the girl?" When I said I didn't have one, but had some awesome boys...she told me to keep trying. As though boys just aren't good enough. Anyway...back to this morning...the woman whispers to her husband as I sit there with my four boys, and then the pastor immediately goes into his announcements, one of which was the daddy/daughter dance coming up. And then he went on to give a fantastic message on CONTENTMENT.
When we told everyone that Everett was a boy, a lot of people said things that were hurtful...but I know they didn't mean it that way. Things like, "Did you do it right this time?" As though, a boy would just be wrong. Some people immediately followed my announcement with, "I am sorry! Maybe it will be a girl next time!" As though, this child didn't count....lets go right on to the next one. There was nothing to be sorry about...I had a healthy gorgeous boy growing in my womb. It was difficult for me. On many levels. Which is largely why we did the gender thing with Silas differently. I didn't want to have to tell people. And I knew that once the baby was here, people would be more gentle with their remarks...because when there is a picture of a real, live, healthy gorgeous newborn baby...you just can't say, "Sorry."
When I was pregnant with Landon I really didn't think I cared if the baby was a boy or girl. I just wanted a healthy baby. But when I found out that he was a boy, I surprised myself by crying. I remember calling my mom from Ohio (where we lived) and telling her I just realized I had no idea what to do with a boy. I had 5 sisters and only one older brother. But very quickly I warmed up to the idea of a boy. And once he was here, I was sold. But Noah was my girl...I just knew it. The pregnancy was different, I had the girl dreams, my intuition was so strong. On the ultrasound day I went into that room just waiting for confirmation of what I already knew. And when she said boy...I was devastated. Please hold your judgement. I had bonded with this baby...as my daughter. Foolishly so, but I had hopes and dreams and felt in my heart that my daughter existed in my womb. And when she didn't...it was as though the daughter I had bonded with disappeared...I was grieving that which never existed. But God spoke a purpose to me for Noah almost audibly. He told me of the joy that Noah would bring to our family. And when the doctor handed me our Noah...she truly handed me Joy...our joy boy. Everett was my faith baby. I prayed and prayed and prayed for a daughter. I prayed from the top of her curly blond hair down to the tips of her painted toes. And God gave us the ray of sunshine that is Everett. The boy who can shine light anywhere he goes. And Silas... as we conceived him, I laid down my desire for a daughter on the alter. Saying simply, my heart is open for whatever is given.
Awhile back I was at Panera (I eat a lot of bagels) with one of my closest girl friends. She had just born her daughter and her two year old son was walking ahead of her. I was traipsing behind her with my (then) three boys in tow. A woman stopped her and looked at her beautiful daughter, and went on and on about how my friend had the perfect family...a boy and a girl. And how great it would be as they grew. And I stood there looking at the ground. I had three kids...and no girl. That woman was simply being kind to my friend. But that is how the world views kids today...like it is some sort of mail order. "I will take two kids...one boy, one girl, no special needs please." But that is not how God created this process. Children are a gift. Something we don't get to choose, or manipulate. People who struggle with infertility...or who live and serve children with special needs on a moment by moment basis...do you think they feel like they fit into the cultural ideal? Do they feel left out and looked over and "out of the club?" Absolutely. With each of these situations you don't grieve what was lost...you grieve what never was, what never will be.
When I had two boys...a ton of my friends had two of the same gender...but on the third, almost all of them had a change in gender. By the fourth child, I only knew four other people with three of the same...and two of them had a gender change on the fourth. I very much felt out of the realm of normalcy, out of the club. And when people make comments about how crazy my life must be or how they would never want my life...it is hurtful, there is no other way of stating it. But wondering why others could have what I so desperately desired was a difficult question. Because if I envied them, it cost me joy over the gifts I had graciously been given. It has to be like I feel when I give my kids a great gift, only to hear them compare and complain about why they couldn't have what their friend got. Ingratitude. Spoiled rotten. Entitlement. And then the guilt comes in.
I didn't want a daughter to dress her up or to paint her nails. It wasn't about the pink. It was about a lifelong desire to share something that I share with my mom and my grandma. It was about so much...such a deep longing that I can't and won't begin to really share the depth of it here on a public blog. It was about redeeming past hurts. It was about the bond. For as many people that said hurtful things, many said comforting things like the fact that I will have 4 great daughter in laws someday. And I have held out for that. But just last week my colleague was telling me about his four sons and how his wife just can't have as close of a relationship with their families as the moms of the daughters have. And it broke my heart.
This is not about me. I am not blogging about this to get nice comments or any sort of condolences. I don't need condolences. I have had people say to me, "I could never do what you do...I don't know what I would do if I had your life...your life must be insane and chaotic!" All of these are very hurtful as though something is inherently wrong with the life I have been given. Let me say this loudly for all to hear: I DO NOT NEED PITY FOR HAVING FOUR HEALTHY BOYS!" Silas is no less loved or wanted than was Landon. He didn't choose to be fourth, and I don't have to choose to love him...I just do, in the exact same ferocious, lion hearted way I love my first born son.
I am writing this blog because people ask me what its like with four boys. If I struggle. And to be honest, yes. I have (or am trying) to release my dream. I have wanted a daughter my entire life...as far back as I can remember. I have had to grieve the loss of a dream that never will be. She doesn't exist. And it comes up every time I leave the house. Last night at Meijer I told a woman I had 4 boys and she asked if I was done having kids, insinuating that I would try 100 times until I got a girl. Since when is my child bearing plans any business of complete strangers?
I am writing this blog to simply say...think. Think before you talk. Before you say something well meaning but hurtful to anyone outside of the "average" and apparently "normal and perfect" American family. Before you say something moronic to the mom of a grown gay child. To the couple who has no kids (by choice or infertility). To the single 50 year old. To the parents of a special needs child. To the parents of a child who has died. And yes, even to the parents who have all of the same gendered children. You don't know the battles people fight on a daily basis, sometimes a moment by moment basis. Learn to be sensitive...and remember that sometimes the best counselors, are those that listen and keep their mouths closed.
Life in and of itself is a gift. In any form. Even special needs. Even 4 boys. Especially 4 boys. I don't need pity or applause. My children are a gift. If I lived 200 years ago I would be called blessed among women. But it is different in our "perfect American tradition" where 1.8 kids, one of each gender is the norm and the desire.
I won't buy prom dresses or wedding dresses. I won't see her play with my barbies or wear my Laura Ingalls dresses. I won't pass her my old ponies or watch her face light up when she talks about the boy, and I won't braid her hair. I won't take pictures with her hand next to mine and my moms and Grams (I have a picture like this on my entertainment center, sans any 4th generation female hand). I won't pass down my Grandma's name. And any sadness I have over that sits right next to the incredible gratitude I have for the awesome boys I have been given. It is an enigma. Something you can only understand if you have lived it. Much like so many other things in life. So again, I say...think before you speak. Encourage with your words...don't tear down. Don't judge. And above all...don't pity. For there is absolutely nothing to be sorry for, and so very much to rejoice over.
This topic is so multi-faceted. And so difficult for someone who would struggle to conceive even one child. Or two. I am fully aware that in even discussing this, I could be causing someone pain. That is not my desire. Please know my heart and the gratitude that lives there for what I have been given. This is something I rarely discuss with anyone and while I have shared experiences in this blog...I have not shared a ton of my personal feelings on many things. If you are someone who feels alone in the way that your family does not fit into the "ideal" and you would like to talk more, feel free to message me. To have someone validate what you feel and how that yearning can sit so very closely to your gratitude. Because I know this well. Very, very well.
So much of life we cannot control. It seems most people get what they desire...the husband, the job, the kids. I can only imagine what it must be like when the cancer diagnosis hits, or infertility dominates, or yet another miscarriage happens, or a parent dies unexpectedly, or a child goes through cancer or dies. These are all things we cannot control...and things that don't feel fair...all things that at some point if we are honest, cause us to question (if only for a moment) God's goodness. Satan loves that. He would love to convince us God is not the Giver of Good Gifts. That God is not good, not in control, not in it or over it. But if we give into those questions, we lose our peace. Just like if we envy, we lose our joy. The gifts God has given me are perfect...for me. And those he has given you...although different than mine...perfect for you. Rejoice today in whatever those gifts are...even if they came at a price. The joy is in the journey...not the destination. So next time I am questioned as to "How I do it with 4 boys," I think I will look the person square in the eye and tell them, "I do it with joy."
When we told everyone that Everett was a boy, a lot of people said things that were hurtful...but I know they didn't mean it that way. Things like, "Did you do it right this time?" As though, a boy would just be wrong. Some people immediately followed my announcement with, "I am sorry! Maybe it will be a girl next time!" As though, this child didn't count....lets go right on to the next one. There was nothing to be sorry about...I had a healthy gorgeous boy growing in my womb. It was difficult for me. On many levels. Which is largely why we did the gender thing with Silas differently. I didn't want to have to tell people. And I knew that once the baby was here, people would be more gentle with their remarks...because when there is a picture of a real, live, healthy gorgeous newborn baby...you just can't say, "Sorry."
When I was pregnant with Landon I really didn't think I cared if the baby was a boy or girl. I just wanted a healthy baby. But when I found out that he was a boy, I surprised myself by crying. I remember calling my mom from Ohio (where we lived) and telling her I just realized I had no idea what to do with a boy. I had 5 sisters and only one older brother. But very quickly I warmed up to the idea of a boy. And once he was here, I was sold. But Noah was my girl...I just knew it. The pregnancy was different, I had the girl dreams, my intuition was so strong. On the ultrasound day I went into that room just waiting for confirmation of what I already knew. And when she said boy...I was devastated. Please hold your judgement. I had bonded with this baby...as my daughter. Foolishly so, but I had hopes and dreams and felt in my heart that my daughter existed in my womb. And when she didn't...it was as though the daughter I had bonded with disappeared...I was grieving that which never existed. But God spoke a purpose to me for Noah almost audibly. He told me of the joy that Noah would bring to our family. And when the doctor handed me our Noah...she truly handed me Joy...our joy boy. Everett was my faith baby. I prayed and prayed and prayed for a daughter. I prayed from the top of her curly blond hair down to the tips of her painted toes. And God gave us the ray of sunshine that is Everett. The boy who can shine light anywhere he goes. And Silas... as we conceived him, I laid down my desire for a daughter on the alter. Saying simply, my heart is open for whatever is given.
Awhile back I was at Panera (I eat a lot of bagels) with one of my closest girl friends. She had just born her daughter and her two year old son was walking ahead of her. I was traipsing behind her with my (then) three boys in tow. A woman stopped her and looked at her beautiful daughter, and went on and on about how my friend had the perfect family...a boy and a girl. And how great it would be as they grew. And I stood there looking at the ground. I had three kids...and no girl. That woman was simply being kind to my friend. But that is how the world views kids today...like it is some sort of mail order. "I will take two kids...one boy, one girl, no special needs please." But that is not how God created this process. Children are a gift. Something we don't get to choose, or manipulate. People who struggle with infertility...or who live and serve children with special needs on a moment by moment basis...do you think they feel like they fit into the cultural ideal? Do they feel left out and looked over and "out of the club?" Absolutely. With each of these situations you don't grieve what was lost...you grieve what never was, what never will be.
When I had two boys...a ton of my friends had two of the same gender...but on the third, almost all of them had a change in gender. By the fourth child, I only knew four other people with three of the same...and two of them had a gender change on the fourth. I very much felt out of the realm of normalcy, out of the club. And when people make comments about how crazy my life must be or how they would never want my life...it is hurtful, there is no other way of stating it. But wondering why others could have what I so desperately desired was a difficult question. Because if I envied them, it cost me joy over the gifts I had graciously been given. It has to be like I feel when I give my kids a great gift, only to hear them compare and complain about why they couldn't have what their friend got. Ingratitude. Spoiled rotten. Entitlement. And then the guilt comes in.
I didn't want a daughter to dress her up or to paint her nails. It wasn't about the pink. It was about a lifelong desire to share something that I share with my mom and my grandma. It was about so much...such a deep longing that I can't and won't begin to really share the depth of it here on a public blog. It was about redeeming past hurts. It was about the bond. For as many people that said hurtful things, many said comforting things like the fact that I will have 4 great daughter in laws someday. And I have held out for that. But just last week my colleague was telling me about his four sons and how his wife just can't have as close of a relationship with their families as the moms of the daughters have. And it broke my heart.
This is not about me. I am not blogging about this to get nice comments or any sort of condolences. I don't need condolences. I have had people say to me, "I could never do what you do...I don't know what I would do if I had your life...your life must be insane and chaotic!" All of these are very hurtful as though something is inherently wrong with the life I have been given. Let me say this loudly for all to hear: I DO NOT NEED PITY FOR HAVING FOUR HEALTHY BOYS!" Silas is no less loved or wanted than was Landon. He didn't choose to be fourth, and I don't have to choose to love him...I just do, in the exact same ferocious, lion hearted way I love my first born son.
I am writing this blog because people ask me what its like with four boys. If I struggle. And to be honest, yes. I have (or am trying) to release my dream. I have wanted a daughter my entire life...as far back as I can remember. I have had to grieve the loss of a dream that never will be. She doesn't exist. And it comes up every time I leave the house. Last night at Meijer I told a woman I had 4 boys and she asked if I was done having kids, insinuating that I would try 100 times until I got a girl. Since when is my child bearing plans any business of complete strangers?
I am writing this blog to simply say...think. Think before you talk. Before you say something well meaning but hurtful to anyone outside of the "average" and apparently "normal and perfect" American family. Before you say something moronic to the mom of a grown gay child. To the couple who has no kids (by choice or infertility). To the single 50 year old. To the parents of a special needs child. To the parents of a child who has died. And yes, even to the parents who have all of the same gendered children. You don't know the battles people fight on a daily basis, sometimes a moment by moment basis. Learn to be sensitive...and remember that sometimes the best counselors, are those that listen and keep their mouths closed.
Life in and of itself is a gift. In any form. Even special needs. Even 4 boys. Especially 4 boys. I don't need pity or applause. My children are a gift. If I lived 200 years ago I would be called blessed among women. But it is different in our "perfect American tradition" where 1.8 kids, one of each gender is the norm and the desire.
I won't buy prom dresses or wedding dresses. I won't see her play with my barbies or wear my Laura Ingalls dresses. I won't pass her my old ponies or watch her face light up when she talks about the boy, and I won't braid her hair. I won't take pictures with her hand next to mine and my moms and Grams (I have a picture like this on my entertainment center, sans any 4th generation female hand). I won't pass down my Grandma's name. And any sadness I have over that sits right next to the incredible gratitude I have for the awesome boys I have been given. It is an enigma. Something you can only understand if you have lived it. Much like so many other things in life. So again, I say...think before you speak. Encourage with your words...don't tear down. Don't judge. And above all...don't pity. For there is absolutely nothing to be sorry for, and so very much to rejoice over.
This topic is so multi-faceted. And so difficult for someone who would struggle to conceive even one child. Or two. I am fully aware that in even discussing this, I could be causing someone pain. That is not my desire. Please know my heart and the gratitude that lives there for what I have been given. This is something I rarely discuss with anyone and while I have shared experiences in this blog...I have not shared a ton of my personal feelings on many things. If you are someone who feels alone in the way that your family does not fit into the "ideal" and you would like to talk more, feel free to message me. To have someone validate what you feel and how that yearning can sit so very closely to your gratitude. Because I know this well. Very, very well.
So much of life we cannot control. It seems most people get what they desire...the husband, the job, the kids. I can only imagine what it must be like when the cancer diagnosis hits, or infertility dominates, or yet another miscarriage happens, or a parent dies unexpectedly, or a child goes through cancer or dies. These are all things we cannot control...and things that don't feel fair...all things that at some point if we are honest, cause us to question (if only for a moment) God's goodness. Satan loves that. He would love to convince us God is not the Giver of Good Gifts. That God is not good, not in control, not in it or over it. But if we give into those questions, we lose our peace. Just like if we envy, we lose our joy. The gifts God has given me are perfect...for me. And those he has given you...although different than mine...perfect for you. Rejoice today in whatever those gifts are...even if they came at a price. The joy is in the journey...not the destination. So next time I am questioned as to "How I do it with 4 boys," I think I will look the person square in the eye and tell them, "I do it with joy."
Monday, December 30, 2013
2014 ~ To Let Live and To Let Go
I switched to this blog one year ago. So many times this season I have sat in front of my tree after the kids have gone to bed and thought about how last year at this same time, I sat in front of a different tree feeling as sick as a dog...with a tiny baby growing in my belly. I knew it...but the world didn't yet. I entitled my first post something along the lines of "Good Riddance 2012." I had very high hopes for 2013. I think it is a good thing that we can look forward with hope, not knowing what lays before us. Last year at this time, I hoped many things. Little did I know that the questions would remain unanswered and most of those hopes that I had would turn into dust that demanded to be let go. I am glad I did not know on January 1, 2013 what I know on December 30, 2013. Because I didn't know and continued to hope, I was able to continuously place one foot in front of the other. And I became stronger. And wiser. In fact, 2013 rendered me two wonderful gifts...Silas Avery, and a strength I didn't know I had.
I remember going through grad school so well...getting good grades, knowing I connected well with people, having a heart for the hurting. But it wasn't until my internship, when I met real people with real pain that it all came together for me. It was during those formative months that turned into years that the questions started to roll in. I will never forget the most poignant one...the one that I replay over and over in my head. It was from a female whom had been raped over 1200 times...every day for a period of years during her childhood. And she crossed her arms and sat back in her chair...looked me square in the eyes and asked me where God was in THAT. It was in those next moments that I very quickly realized that I had to develop a theology of suffering. The nice Christianese answers that placated, didn't so much as put a bandaid on her wounds...in fact, some of them slapped her in the face. Not my own theology of suffering...but an understanding of where God is in the pain, in the chaos, and the uncertainty of this world.
Out of a number of situations like that, God was moving me to get my hands dirty. To stop with the words and start with my talents, my time, and my resources. The things that God has gifted me with...that were always meant to be used for His purposes anyway. So I did. Not for me, but because I had realized how easy it was to say something and how difficult it was to do something. And that the real message of love and care is in the doing, much more so than in the words. But then my safe little world was shattered. And I literally wanted to hole up in my house. Buy security cameras and alarm systems... and to stop caring about anyone and everyone outside of my own. I wanted to hide away from the world here. I gripped tightly to the illusion of control that I had. But it was just that: an illusion of control.
Someone told me this summer to "take control of my life." It wasn't necessarily said nicely nor was it said to spur me on to greatness. It was said in anger and with the additional slap in the face of, "stop playing the victim." If you know me at all, you know that "victim" isn't something I play. I may be many things...passive aggressive, stubborn, you name it...but victim is not a card that I play. However, those two statements, actually changed me for the better. I started to really think about some new ways that I could "take control" of my life. There are many ways that we are often unaware of so I stepped back and took a good hard look at how I could "take control." And I made changes. And I felt better. And more in control.
But it was an illusion. Control is just that. Because try as we might to do and to be, we DON'T have control. When I am really anxious...or when my life feels in disarray...I clean. Why? Because it gives me an illusion of control...its something I CAN control...something I can do with real and immediate results. And it eases my anxiety and feelings of chaos. But the reality still remains. Lets break this down:
I could feed my kids only whole organic foods, not vaccinate, follow car seat safety to the enth degree, refuse to have weapons as toys for my kids, never allow screen time, put plastic forks in all of my outlets, and hide the poison cleaners (or make my own from vinegar). But my kids could still get cancer. Or be hit by a car. Or have a tree limb fall on them.
I could hoard money...hide it under my mattress, or in a bank account. I could work and work and work, spend as little as possible...but the dollar could turn cold and it could all be worth nothing. I could invest in silver, or gold...but the value of these too may diminish...perhaps the strong investment is soy? It could all be gone in an instant...the blink of an eye.
I could live in Michigan where there are not hurricanes, and rarely tornadoes or earthquakes. No volcanoes or tsunamis here. But the lake could take my child. Or the lake effect snow cause me to drive off the road. Controlling natural disasters...try as we might...we cannot. The tornado may come, if not to my part of MI, then when I vacation at Disney. I don't really have control.
I could hover around and over my children and exhaust my energy trying to encompass them in my own private bubble. I could homeschool them to keep them close, and refuse them to partake of sleepovers or birthday parties. But tragedy could still strike. The elusive white van could still drive up my road despite my best efforts to hover around and over my children. Two years ago someone was shot in the field behind my home while my children played outside under the watchful care of adults. So long, safe bubble.
You see, it is all an illusion. I am not saying we should not try...but we must learn to call it what it is. Because when the bad things happen we tend to own it. We think it is our fault. And it isn't. Because we don't have much more control over preventing these things, then we did in making them happen. Sometimes I wonder how things happened as they did...as they have. And I start to own it. I deserved it. I failed. I made it happen. I couldn't stop it. I was stupid. I was nieve. I chose this. But the reality is...there is a little bit of truth and a lot of lies in all of it. Taking control really means...we do our best. We give what we can. We own what is ours (our feelings, successes, losses and failures). But at the end of the day...or the year...it wasn't actually all about us. Our job is to put that control Where is rightfully belongs. Where it always existed in the first place. Not in the promise of ease, or prosperity. But in the security of knowing that no matter what...come triumphant joy or bottomless sorrow...we aren't alone. And He is in it and over it and through it. And in that knowledge we find our strength. Strength to face tomorrow and the new year. Strength to let it go...to release...ourselves. And in the surrendering...the releasing...we find that is our only true measure of control. TRUST. The world will tell you that you are a fool to trust what you cannot see...that it is weak to need that faith...but when we trust, the striving ends and the fear fades. It is here that we find freedom...to succeed and fail. To live and die. To stop the illusions...and to exist in reality. To let live and let go.
I remember going through grad school so well...getting good grades, knowing I connected well with people, having a heart for the hurting. But it wasn't until my internship, when I met real people with real pain that it all came together for me. It was during those formative months that turned into years that the questions started to roll in. I will never forget the most poignant one...the one that I replay over and over in my head. It was from a female whom had been raped over 1200 times...every day for a period of years during her childhood. And she crossed her arms and sat back in her chair...looked me square in the eyes and asked me where God was in THAT. It was in those next moments that I very quickly realized that I had to develop a theology of suffering. The nice Christianese answers that placated, didn't so much as put a bandaid on her wounds...in fact, some of them slapped her in the face. Not my own theology of suffering...but an understanding of where God is in the pain, in the chaos, and the uncertainty of this world.
Out of a number of situations like that, God was moving me to get my hands dirty. To stop with the words and start with my talents, my time, and my resources. The things that God has gifted me with...that were always meant to be used for His purposes anyway. So I did. Not for me, but because I had realized how easy it was to say something and how difficult it was to do something. And that the real message of love and care is in the doing, much more so than in the words. But then my safe little world was shattered. And I literally wanted to hole up in my house. Buy security cameras and alarm systems... and to stop caring about anyone and everyone outside of my own. I wanted to hide away from the world here. I gripped tightly to the illusion of control that I had. But it was just that: an illusion of control.
Someone told me this summer to "take control of my life." It wasn't necessarily said nicely nor was it said to spur me on to greatness. It was said in anger and with the additional slap in the face of, "stop playing the victim." If you know me at all, you know that "victim" isn't something I play. I may be many things...passive aggressive, stubborn, you name it...but victim is not a card that I play. However, those two statements, actually changed me for the better. I started to really think about some new ways that I could "take control" of my life. There are many ways that we are often unaware of so I stepped back and took a good hard look at how I could "take control." And I made changes. And I felt better. And more in control.
But it was an illusion. Control is just that. Because try as we might to do and to be, we DON'T have control. When I am really anxious...or when my life feels in disarray...I clean. Why? Because it gives me an illusion of control...its something I CAN control...something I can do with real and immediate results. And it eases my anxiety and feelings of chaos. But the reality still remains. Lets break this down:
I could feed my kids only whole organic foods, not vaccinate, follow car seat safety to the enth degree, refuse to have weapons as toys for my kids, never allow screen time, put plastic forks in all of my outlets, and hide the poison cleaners (or make my own from vinegar). But my kids could still get cancer. Or be hit by a car. Or have a tree limb fall on them.
I could hoard money...hide it under my mattress, or in a bank account. I could work and work and work, spend as little as possible...but the dollar could turn cold and it could all be worth nothing. I could invest in silver, or gold...but the value of these too may diminish...perhaps the strong investment is soy? It could all be gone in an instant...the blink of an eye.
I could live in Michigan where there are not hurricanes, and rarely tornadoes or earthquakes. No volcanoes or tsunamis here. But the lake could take my child. Or the lake effect snow cause me to drive off the road. Controlling natural disasters...try as we might...we cannot. The tornado may come, if not to my part of MI, then when I vacation at Disney. I don't really have control.
I could hover around and over my children and exhaust my energy trying to encompass them in my own private bubble. I could homeschool them to keep them close, and refuse them to partake of sleepovers or birthday parties. But tragedy could still strike. The elusive white van could still drive up my road despite my best efforts to hover around and over my children. Two years ago someone was shot in the field behind my home while my children played outside under the watchful care of adults. So long, safe bubble.
You see, it is all an illusion. I am not saying we should not try...but we must learn to call it what it is. Because when the bad things happen we tend to own it. We think it is our fault. And it isn't. Because we don't have much more control over preventing these things, then we did in making them happen. Sometimes I wonder how things happened as they did...as they have. And I start to own it. I deserved it. I failed. I made it happen. I couldn't stop it. I was stupid. I was nieve. I chose this. But the reality is...there is a little bit of truth and a lot of lies in all of it. Taking control really means...we do our best. We give what we can. We own what is ours (our feelings, successes, losses and failures). But at the end of the day...or the year...it wasn't actually all about us. Our job is to put that control Where is rightfully belongs. Where it always existed in the first place. Not in the promise of ease, or prosperity. But in the security of knowing that no matter what...come triumphant joy or bottomless sorrow...we aren't alone. And He is in it and over it and through it. And in that knowledge we find our strength. Strength to face tomorrow and the new year. Strength to let it go...to release...ourselves. And in the surrendering...the releasing...we find that is our only true measure of control. TRUST. The world will tell you that you are a fool to trust what you cannot see...that it is weak to need that faith...but when we trust, the striving ends and the fear fades. It is here that we find freedom...to succeed and fail. To live and die. To stop the illusions...and to exist in reality. To let live and let go.
I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart! And the peace I give isn’t fragile like the peace the world gives. So don’t be troubled or afraid. ~ John 14:27
Monday, October 28, 2013
A Decade Of Parenting
When I look back on these ten years it amazes me how fast time has gone. How much life has changed. How much more confident I am in my parenting choices. How much more I am dependent on God's wisdom. Here are just a few things I have learned in ten years:
1) The peanut butter and jelly smell fades. For so long Landon ran around smelling like pbj. Now he smells like a boy. He used to hide in cupboards and place his matchbox cars or Thomas trains in the oddest places that made perfect sense to his little imagination. Now he has traded those trains for bb guns and footballs.
2) Parenting is purposeful. Everything about it is purposeful. From what we feed them to how we let them suffer consequences. We are on a quest to raise kids who buck the current self absorbed, immediate gratification, sex saturated culture that we exist in. To accomplish that, we must be purposeful. All of the time. Like a watchman standing guard.
3) Babies cuddle for a short time. Rocking them will not ruin them. Sleep training is important, but I learned to balance that with cuddling and gazing and rocking. I learned this lesson the hard way with Landon. I was so insecure in my parenting with Landon (and immature and completely clueless) that I really thought that I had to have my baby sleeping through the night by 2 months. Really...I was afraid of failing. So many of my worst parenting moments have been more about me than my child. My own insecurities. My own failing. My own sin. Me putting my issues on them. I am still learning this.
4) It won't always be this difficult. The phases come and go. Some are better than others. But it is ever changing. One day, the child WILL sleep all night. One day, they will eat. One day, not one temper tantrum will be thrown. One day they won't pee their pants or poop directly in front of the toilet but not in it. One day, they will not whine...I promise. One day.
5) Little kids demand a ton of physical energy. Bigger kids demand a ton of emotional energy. When you have both...you have no energy left at the end of the day. None. Whatsoever.
6) My kids will say things and do things at the worst possible times. It is a law of nature. When this happens, I need to address the issues, but remember to keep my PRIDE out of it.
7) Little kids need their mamas. A lot. Sometimes it becomes overwhelming and we just long for a break without them hanging on us, crying for us, totally dependent on us. But every day they gain more independence. And one day you wake up and realize that your child is much less dependent on you. They may not want to hold your hand in public anymore, they may wander further away to explore confidently, without you. This is a sign of success, not failure.
8) All of our little decisions, define our big ones. How do we spend our time? It shows what is important to us. And our kids know this.
9) Parenting demands more faith than I ever knew. Not faith that everything will go perfectly and without incident. But faith that God is good. And Sovereign. And that He has purpose in what seems futile and inexplicable to us.
10) That the love of a parent for her child is far deeper and wider than I ever knew on the other side. I understand God in a much more profound way now than I did ten years ago. I know unconditional love. I understand reproof and correction and the purpose it serves...that it is born out of love not judgment.
I have spent ten years caring for Landon. From birth until this very evening. He has taught me so very much and I love him with a fierce love...a firstborn love. I have cared for him...and as he is getting older he is already giving that back to me. Babies do it when they look into our eyes and flash us that beautiful toothless grin. Toddler do it when they say, "I wuv you Mama." Preschoolers do it when they draw a picture of themselves holding hands with us. Landon did it last spring, when I was upset about something. Deeply upset. And he had no idea why, nor did he ask. I do not cry often, and certainly not for unexplained reasons in front of my kids. But this evening, I couldn't stop the tears. I was, at one point, folding laundry in the hallway, tears silently streaming down my face, when I looked into the kitchen. There was my Landon, wiping the counters, loading the dishwasher. Taking care of me. Loving me in the only way he knew how in that moment. That evening, he was the only person who took care of me. In fact, through that entire difficult situation, he was my biggest supporter. And he never even knew it because I never shared with him what drove those tears. He still doesn't know. He never asked me what was wrong (and I wouldn't have told him if he did ;)). He just took care of me. And the table shifted there for a moment. This child that I had cared for every waking (and in the beginning there was very little sleeping with him) moment for almost ten years, was looking after his mama. Making my world better. Lightening my load. Loving me, tangibly.
Landon has taught me so much. I am so grateful for the surprise of my life. The day I took that pregnancy test, I waited until Jon left. Then I took it, and when it read positive I almost passed out. I called my best friend and told her to come immediately, offering no other explanation. She showed up and I dragged her into the bathroom where the test was and I sat on the toilet and began to cry that I wasn't ready to be a mom. And she just looked me in the eye and kept saying over and over, "Your going to be a mom!" Half of me wanted to punch her bc I was hoping she was going to tell me that my eyes were playing tricks on me and it wasn't really positive, but instead she just kept saying I was going to be mom over and over again. I didn't know it then, but that was the first day of the rest of my life. A future that I had not planned...but God had. Thank you, Jesus, for the gift of my Landon bear. That pregnancy set into motion everything that followed, where we moved, the jobs we got, the other children we have been blessed with. And while the ride has been bumpy, and a bit twisty at times...God continuously reminds me through Landon, that His ways are higher than my own. And that sometimes we must release our tight fisted grip on our own dreams and desires and goals and aspirations, in order to open our hands to far, far greater things that He has in store.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Time
The other day I listed the bouncy seat that I received as a shower gift when I was pregnant with Landon, on an online yard sale site. It sold very quickly. Today, the woman came to pick it up. It wasn't until tonight that I remembered that on the evening I went into labor, I was putting that seat together. We had just moved to Detroit because Jonathan had just been hired there. My doctor was still here in Holland, so I was at my parents that evening after my appointment. I remember talking to Jonathan on the phone trying to decide if I should make the 2 hour drive to Detroit or stay that night at my parents. I opted to stay. The doctor said I had a good week to go, but something told me to stay. That conversation with Jonathan took place around 7 pm, and the whole time I was working on putting that seat together. At 10pm that night, my water broke and thirteen hours later, I was a mama for the first time.
In some small way, letting that seat go feels like a moving on. But it just doesn't seem at all possible to me that was ten years ago. Just like it doesn't feel possible that my newborn isn't a newborn anymore. That I am starting to let go of all the baby gear that I have acquired in this last decade of parenting. Its like a passing vapor...the days feel long, but the time is just passing so very quickly.
The other night I could tell that Noah needed some one on one time. So before bed I suggested we play a game...and he chose his Lite Brite. So we sat there sticking little pegs in holes for twenty minutes, chatting about life, love and superheros. Studies show that boys communicate much better when they are working with their hands, which I have found to be true even at their young ages. It was a fun twenty minutes, after which I tucked him into bed and breathed a sigh of relief that 1 out of 4 was down for the night. The next day when he came home from school, he showed me the picture that he had drawn that day. It was me and him playing Lite Brite in his room, complete in detail all the way down to the color of the clothes I was wearing that evening. This is my boy who rarely pays attention to detail. Landon gets lost in the trees, Noah always sees the forest and misses the trees. But not this time. Those twenty minutes were so precious to his 6 year old heart that he commemorated them the following day on a piece of yellow construction paper. I hung it next to my bed, as a daily reminder that what I think may be insignificant carries great importance in the heart of my children. I am convinced it is moments like those that will define their memories of childhood. I want to see that picture every day so that I can remember that when the days feel long and the energy is waning...I can remember how quickly they grow, and how much they crave time with me today. If I want them to spend time with me when they are older and I am not nearly so cool as I am now...then I have to put it in today...stick colored pegs in black paper, make play doh balls, wipe snotty noses, clean dirty diapers, read stories, go on bike rides, make pumpkin bread...what feels mundane and unimportant, is so important to them that it is worthy of being commemorated on construction paper, and I bet you...if it is on construction paper, it is also written on their little hearts.
TIME. How we spend it shows vividly where our hearts are. And who we spend it with, speaks loudly of our affections.
In some small way, letting that seat go feels like a moving on. But it just doesn't seem at all possible to me that was ten years ago. Just like it doesn't feel possible that my newborn isn't a newborn anymore. That I am starting to let go of all the baby gear that I have acquired in this last decade of parenting. Its like a passing vapor...the days feel long, but the time is just passing so very quickly.
The other night I could tell that Noah needed some one on one time. So before bed I suggested we play a game...and he chose his Lite Brite. So we sat there sticking little pegs in holes for twenty minutes, chatting about life, love and superheros. Studies show that boys communicate much better when they are working with their hands, which I have found to be true even at their young ages. It was a fun twenty minutes, after which I tucked him into bed and breathed a sigh of relief that 1 out of 4 was down for the night. The next day when he came home from school, he showed me the picture that he had drawn that day. It was me and him playing Lite Brite in his room, complete in detail all the way down to the color of the clothes I was wearing that evening. This is my boy who rarely pays attention to detail. Landon gets lost in the trees, Noah always sees the forest and misses the trees. But not this time. Those twenty minutes were so precious to his 6 year old heart that he commemorated them the following day on a piece of yellow construction paper. I hung it next to my bed, as a daily reminder that what I think may be insignificant carries great importance in the heart of my children. I am convinced it is moments like those that will define their memories of childhood. I want to see that picture every day so that I can remember that when the days feel long and the energy is waning...I can remember how quickly they grow, and how much they crave time with me today. If I want them to spend time with me when they are older and I am not nearly so cool as I am now...then I have to put it in today...stick colored pegs in black paper, make play doh balls, wipe snotty noses, clean dirty diapers, read stories, go on bike rides, make pumpkin bread...what feels mundane and unimportant, is so important to them that it is worthy of being commemorated on construction paper, and I bet you...if it is on construction paper, it is also written on their little hearts.
TIME. How we spend it shows vividly where our hearts are. And who we spend it with, speaks loudly of our affections.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Snapshots
Awhile back I blogged about how I see life in snapshots. Sometimes I am playing with the boys and its as if a camera goes off and the image is forever imprinted on my mind. I am thankful for those "snapshot" memories. Thankful that they are mostly all good. But it hit me the other day how judgmental people can be and how so often their judgements and opinions are based upon a moment in time...a snapshot of someone else's life. I guess I have always known this to be true, but it wasn't until I became a parent that it became so personal.
There was the time Landon was 3 years old and I was 7 months pregnant with Noah and my usually well behaved toddler decided to take off running through the children's clothing section of Younkers with his arms out. If you have ever been to Younkers you know that they have clothing from the floor up to adult eye level. So if a toddler were to run with his arms out (like mine did), his hands would hit the clothes at such an angle that they would literally fly up into the air as though the tasmanian devil were whirling under them. Since he ran from the front of the childrens section to the back and I was 7 months pregnant and unable to dodge the clothing racks to catch him quick enough, he literally left a trail of destruction behind him from the front to the back of the store. When I finally caught him at the back of the store I felt an anger I had rarely experienced before. The store clerk was standing smugly behind the desk giving me the dirtiest look. It was as if her eyes said, "You have no control of your child...failure, failure, failure!" And that look and that judgement is what fueled my anger. It wasn't what he did (although it was ridiculously naughty). It was that my insecurity was ripped wide open by the judgement of some woman whom I had never even spoken to. She simply got a snapshot of my life...and made a judgment.
Then there was the time that the UPS man dropped off a package and Everett was in the garage playing. THE GARAGE. When the UPS guy knocked, I didn't come to the door. I was pregnant and...let me just be frank...in the bathroom, unable to come to the door. Well this man decided that it was his civic duty to go discuss with my neighbors how neglectful of a parent I was for letting my child play in the garage unattended. Thankfully, one of those neighbors is one of my best friends and she stood up for me (the other one has wildly different parenting ideas than I do and fully agreed with the UPS man). But this man only saw snapshots. Snippets. He had no idea why I didn't come to the door. Perhaps he assumed I was taking a nap...or eating bon bons. But we all know what we do when we assume...right? (Hint: think about the spelling of the word).
And lastly...and this is the best example...recently, I took the boys to church by myself. Silas was asleep in the carseat, Noah and Landon beside me in the pew. The message was really good and I was very much into it. I have no idea how long I stared at our pastor before looking at the boys. It was a while because every parent knows that if your kids are being good and entertaining themselves, and you look at them...it ruins it every time. And they were being SO quiet...and not fighting...and it was just lovely. Until I looked at Landon. LANDON. My by the book...doesn't break rules or push the envelope kid. My kid who thinks way too much about what people think about him. Yes, I looked at that boy. He had taken a great big Jabba the Hut sticker out of Noah's sticker book and rolled it so that it looked like a joint. Not even a cigarette, but a joint...it was even slightly green (remember, Jabba). AND HE WAS SMOKING IT. In church. I looked at him and he took it out of his mouth (between his fingers like a real smoker) and gave me this awesome look that said, "Want one mom?" My mind raced, my face flushed...I didn't even know what to do. And then I remembered that I had conveniently chosen the seat in front of the 100 year old man who was a patriarch at the church...and he had a perfect view of Landon...of my kid who was pretending to smoke IN CHURCH. Probably one of the most conservative men in the church. Yep...he saw the whole thing, probably before I did. Snapshot.
Next time we are tempted to judge another mother for her parenting, or a kid for their ridiculous behavior, I encourage us to remember that we are seeing a snapshot. And judgements based on snapshots are not usually valid or correct. Contrary to what that store clerk said to me with her eyes...I am not a failure. And while that UPS driver believes I am a neglectful parent, I can assure you that I am not. And while it appears my oldest child has a fetish with smoking...I can pretty much stake my life on the fact that a real cigarette won't ever touch his lips (now Noah is a different story). What I am getting at is that we have to earn the right to speak into other people's lives. My mom can tell me I am doing something wrong in parenting my kids because she watches me and knows me and has earned that right. So have some of my friends. And my sisters. But so help me if that UPS driver were to report me to CPS based on that snapshot. That snippet of my life that he saw. But how many times have I judged? How many times have I written someone off in my mind rather than offered my hand to help? We judge, usually because it makes us feel better about the way we are choosing to do things. But I don't want to be that person. I want to be the person at the grocery store who smiles with knowing eyes at the mom whose child is screaming in the cart. Today at the restaurant my sister and I ate lunch, an older woman came up to our table. I was sure she was going to tell me my toddler was being too loud. He was playing with a toy snake at the table and his boy noises were a bit on the loud side and I kept trying to tell him to play quieter. But that woman...she didn't scold me or him. She told me how beautiful he was and how much she enjoyed watching him. I want to be like that woman. I want to extend grace. I want to leave a snapshot behind that stays with the people I come into contact with...and I want that snapshot to ease their burden and be like a balm to their soul.
Life is like a series of snapshots. What story are our pictures telling?
There was the time Landon was 3 years old and I was 7 months pregnant with Noah and my usually well behaved toddler decided to take off running through the children's clothing section of Younkers with his arms out. If you have ever been to Younkers you know that they have clothing from the floor up to adult eye level. So if a toddler were to run with his arms out (like mine did), his hands would hit the clothes at such an angle that they would literally fly up into the air as though the tasmanian devil were whirling under them. Since he ran from the front of the childrens section to the back and I was 7 months pregnant and unable to dodge the clothing racks to catch him quick enough, he literally left a trail of destruction behind him from the front to the back of the store. When I finally caught him at the back of the store I felt an anger I had rarely experienced before. The store clerk was standing smugly behind the desk giving me the dirtiest look. It was as if her eyes said, "You have no control of your child...failure, failure, failure!" And that look and that judgement is what fueled my anger. It wasn't what he did (although it was ridiculously naughty). It was that my insecurity was ripped wide open by the judgement of some woman whom I had never even spoken to. She simply got a snapshot of my life...and made a judgment.
Then there was the time that the UPS man dropped off a package and Everett was in the garage playing. THE GARAGE. When the UPS guy knocked, I didn't come to the door. I was pregnant and...let me just be frank...in the bathroom, unable to come to the door. Well this man decided that it was his civic duty to go discuss with my neighbors how neglectful of a parent I was for letting my child play in the garage unattended. Thankfully, one of those neighbors is one of my best friends and she stood up for me (the other one has wildly different parenting ideas than I do and fully agreed with the UPS man). But this man only saw snapshots. Snippets. He had no idea why I didn't come to the door. Perhaps he assumed I was taking a nap...or eating bon bons. But we all know what we do when we assume...right? (Hint: think about the spelling of the word).
And lastly...and this is the best example...recently, I took the boys to church by myself. Silas was asleep in the carseat, Noah and Landon beside me in the pew. The message was really good and I was very much into it. I have no idea how long I stared at our pastor before looking at the boys. It was a while because every parent knows that if your kids are being good and entertaining themselves, and you look at them...it ruins it every time. And they were being SO quiet...and not fighting...and it was just lovely. Until I looked at Landon. LANDON. My by the book...doesn't break rules or push the envelope kid. My kid who thinks way too much about what people think about him. Yes, I looked at that boy. He had taken a great big Jabba the Hut sticker out of Noah's sticker book and rolled it so that it looked like a joint. Not even a cigarette, but a joint...it was even slightly green (remember, Jabba). AND HE WAS SMOKING IT. In church. I looked at him and he took it out of his mouth (between his fingers like a real smoker) and gave me this awesome look that said, "Want one mom?" My mind raced, my face flushed...I didn't even know what to do. And then I remembered that I had conveniently chosen the seat in front of the 100 year old man who was a patriarch at the church...and he had a perfect view of Landon...of my kid who was pretending to smoke IN CHURCH. Probably one of the most conservative men in the church. Yep...he saw the whole thing, probably before I did. Snapshot.
Next time we are tempted to judge another mother for her parenting, or a kid for their ridiculous behavior, I encourage us to remember that we are seeing a snapshot. And judgements based on snapshots are not usually valid or correct. Contrary to what that store clerk said to me with her eyes...I am not a failure. And while that UPS driver believes I am a neglectful parent, I can assure you that I am not. And while it appears my oldest child has a fetish with smoking...I can pretty much stake my life on the fact that a real cigarette won't ever touch his lips (now Noah is a different story). What I am getting at is that we have to earn the right to speak into other people's lives. My mom can tell me I am doing something wrong in parenting my kids because she watches me and knows me and has earned that right. So have some of my friends. And my sisters. But so help me if that UPS driver were to report me to CPS based on that snapshot. That snippet of my life that he saw. But how many times have I judged? How many times have I written someone off in my mind rather than offered my hand to help? We judge, usually because it makes us feel better about the way we are choosing to do things. But I don't want to be that person. I want to be the person at the grocery store who smiles with knowing eyes at the mom whose child is screaming in the cart. Today at the restaurant my sister and I ate lunch, an older woman came up to our table. I was sure she was going to tell me my toddler was being too loud. He was playing with a toy snake at the table and his boy noises were a bit on the loud side and I kept trying to tell him to play quieter. But that woman...she didn't scold me or him. She told me how beautiful he was and how much she enjoyed watching him. I want to be like that woman. I want to extend grace. I want to leave a snapshot behind that stays with the people I come into contact with...and I want that snapshot to ease their burden and be like a balm to their soul.
Life is like a series of snapshots. What story are our pictures telling?
Monday, September 16, 2013
Changing Seasons
Isn't it like that with our lives too? I often reference my college years as "the best years of my life." But that was the last season of my life before this ten year parenting era I am currently in. And it represented everything that I don't have now...complete freedom, time and energy to explore and learn and play with my friends all of the time, and a support system next door, and down the hall, and everywhere. My newly married season was so short I don't even remember it (thank you surprise pregnancy). And now I look back at having just one child with a sweet longing. Longing to go back to the simplicity of those days. But I forget how lonely I was back then. Thats the cool thing about the human brain...we tend to remember the good and forget the bad.
I have lived through enough transitional phases that I can feel them coming and going. And I have learned to try to embrace them for whatever they are because I know that whatever the season is...it will change. And most likely, I will long for that time back. One day I will be older and my kids will be on their own...I will browse Target guiltlessly for more than 3.5 minutes and I won't have to drive my shopping cart like a race car. I will go out to eat with my friends and we won't have to meet at Chuck E Cheese. My house will stay clean for more than 1.8 seconds. I won't have to cook every night for 6 people, or cut up fruit every single stinking day. I won't have to start a train of thought only to be interrupted 400 times in 2 seconds and completely forget what I was thinking about, let alone have a real conversation with anyone. My "guest bathroom"(aka the boys bathroom) won't always have a faint smell of urine to it (despite my multiple times a day effort), and sickness and fatigue won't constantly follow me and mine everywhere we go. One day. But on that day, when it comes, I am guessing I will miss, even long for, the days when my kids sat at the kitchen table and threw (I mean played) play doh. The day will come that I will sit on my neatly arranged couch and stare longingly at the floor remembering how each and every day, the couch cushions were strewn on that floor representing some action packed game the boys came up with. I doubt I will ever miss stepping on legos. But I will miss the imaginations that built ships and airplanes.
I am exhausted. I have one more week of maternity leave. I am already teaching my Cedarville class, and between that and life, I literally feel like each day is a marathon. It works until it doesn't. Then I get stressed and irritable and short. Then I feel like a failure. Then I think my kids hate me. Then someone posts a link on vaccines and I second guess and doubt myself and wish I had 2000 more hours to research all of the questions in my head, and I wish I could learn to grow my own food and make my own bread. Then someone else mentions how their 2 year old knows the entire alphabet and can count backwards from 100, and I wonder where I went wrong. Then someone else tells me about their hot yoga classes and the 579 mile marathon they trained for and I wonder how they squeezed that kind of time out of our allotted 24 hours in a day. And just when I am about to go crazy wondering how everyone else does "it," I realize that I do "it" too, and I start to settle back down into my normal...what works for us.
I can see it all changing...the seasons passing. Landon is inching ever so close to his tenth birthday. The conversations I have with that kid blow my mind. And demand so much emotional energy. And Noah is on his heals. I see it. I feel it. He IS a changing season. And Everett needs me to play garbage trucks and get down the play doh and take apart the vacuum for him. And then there is Silas. And I want to bottle him up. Because he is changing before my very eyes. And I get upset sometimes because I can't just sit and soak him up. I try to be purposeful about it and steal as many moments as I can...but the truth is, I want more time. And as much as I want this crazy, exhausting season of my life to ease into something a bit less demanding, I don't. Because one day I will look back with longing and wish for this very season. And it will be gone. Just like college is gone. I will never forget when Landon was 4, he pointed to a picture of himself as a baby and asked me, "Where has that baby gone?" The baby had grown into a preschooler, leaving only a trail of beautiful memories behind.
Every single choice, every day costs something. We choose one thing and let another go. I think that is why so many of us second guess so much. Doubting ourselves and comparing our normal with everyone else's does nothing but add guilt to our already over-filled plates. So the marathon mama...she chooses that at the cost of something else. And the natural mama...she chooses that at the cost of something else. And the mama who has a clean house...it comes at a price. And the mom who is involved in every single area of her kid's life...it too comes at a price. So does working outside of the home...so does being a stay at home mom. At the end of the day, the question we must ask is if we can live with the price of our choices. Many of us criticize people who choose differently because it makes us feel justified in our choices. That is insecurity. Confidence is the courage to do your thing, your way, aware of the price but ok with it. Because the season is fleeting, always fleeting. I had a friend stop and talk to me in a store parking lot this summer for 45 minutes. Her ice cream melted in her car because she chose me. It cost her something. But it earned her something intangible. Little choices, big choices...they make up our lives by flavoring and sometimes determining our seasons. The winds of change are ever blowing. Our normal is the sum of our choices.
When I look back, I want to know that I was there for the big things, and noticed the small ones. That I tried to make happy memories (although many times to be honest the fun things have bittersweet mixed in...arguing children, melt downs, bad attitudes). But at the end of the day, no matter how many times my voice raised too many octaves or my words were poorly chosen, I want my children to know in their hearts that they were loved. And wanted. And cherished. But life is a balance and while I try to make choices that will stamp love on their little hearts, I also know that I cannot be everything to everyone, including my kids. So I cut myself some slack when I just can't do it all or when I fail miserably, and even when I sit in the back bedroom and cry because I never thought having a family would be this difficult. Then I wipe those tears away and go cut up some more fruit or change the 50th blow out diaper of the day...and try again...and again...and again. But at the end of the day, as much as I want to be for my kids, I can't do it all. And I thank God that I can continuously point their little hearts to Him, as the only source of perfect love. I am grateful I can ask for forgiveness and teach them to be humble. Its amazing all that I am learning about my own poor way of dealing with emotions as I am teaching them to properly sort through theirs. The other day I told Landon that if he kept perceiving a certain situation in the way that he was, that it would lead him to feel very sad and he would end up believing a lie. A short while later, he turned that around and said those same things to me...and he was absolutely right.
What am I getting at? The emotions you feel as a mom...the ones we never talk about. Yep...those. Your not alone. I feel them too. But just as summer is fading to fall, this season of our lives too shall pass. Sink into your normal today. As messy as it may be. Its ok to wish some of it away. Lets just be real...we really are not going to miss the pee smells in the bathroom or the legos digging holes into the bottoms of our feet. But get grounded in the beauty that is your season right now, find something and let it be your calm in the midst of the storm. Because they will stop saying those cute words, and they won't always need you, and for heaven's sake...one day they will cut their own fruit. You want to know you were present. Whether your season in life right now is good or bad, its your life, you need to be present. That is what I want to leave you with...be present. That means real...experiencing the highs and lows and all that lies in between. And if that terrifies you for any of a thousand reasons, then know you are not alone. If you can be present on the mountain tops, it will carry you through the valley. And if you are present in the valley, you will find the strength to hope and to travel to the mountain top. If you refuse to be present, you will miss it all. I will miss it all. And that would be a shame.
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