In Anticipation

(The following is a reflection I wrote for my church's advent devotional.)

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be” (Psalm 139-13:16).

“Listen to me, O house of Jacob, all you who remain of the house of Israel, you whom I have upheld since you were conceived, and have carried since your birth. Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you” (Isaiah 46: 3-4).

I had never thought all that much about Mary. That is, until I was pregnant at Christmastime.

I was twenty-seven years old, not a teenager as Mary no doubt was. I was already a mother of a two-year-old, not a young, virgin, first-time-mom like Mary. I was married, carrying my husband’s child, one we’d planned and hoped for. I had a safe, warm, comfortable home, and had no long travels planned in that all-important last month until I was due. In so many ways unlike Mary.

But still.

I distinctly remember the moment when I thought I might—just might—have understood one bit of what Mary was experiencing. I was in the car, feeling terrible and uncomfortable and miserable at 8 ½ months pregnant, and my two-year-old was whining in the backseat. Whining because he was feeling neglected by Mommy, who had no energy or time or space for him right then. I was hungry and tired and questioning every life choice I’d ever made. And so I stuck a CD in the player, mostly in hopes of quieting the two-year-old whine. Amy Grant.

Lay down your burdens; I will carry you, I will carry you, my child.

Even in the misery of the moment, the parallel was not lost on me. As I was comforting my two-year-old, I was promising I’d carry him, both physically (no doubt, as soon as we got out of the car) and emotionally, as he learned what it would mean to have a new sister. To my unborn baby, whose feet were digging into my ribs and whose gymnastics stealing my sleep at night, I was promising I’d carry her (and I had no idea through how much). And yet I so desperately needed to be carried myself.

I give vision to the blind, I can raise the dead. I've seen the darker side of Hell, and I returned. And I see these sleepless nights, and I count every tear you cry. I know some lessons hurt to learn.

As He saw the tears that rolled down my face in that car that day (and I hoped no one else did), I thought I could imagine Mary on that donkey. Fearful. Confused. Uncertain. Uncomfortable (on a donkey!). Lonely.

I can walk on water and calm a restless sea; I've done a thousand things you've never done. And I'm weary watching while you struggle on your own. Call my name, I'll come.

What did Mary understand of what the future held for her and for her son? Her Son. Certainly less than (I thought) I understood of my unborn daughter’s future. What did she understand of God’s promise to her in Isaiah 46:4? “Even to your old age and gray hairs, I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”

Call my name; I'll come.

He came to Mary. Even as she carried him—in her womb and later in her arms—He carried her. I imagine the compassion He must have felt for his beloved mother as the time of His death approached: “When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home” (John 19:26-27). He made sure His mother was cared for in His physical absence, in the grief she was certainly to feel in the death of her son. She carried Him, and He carried her. And he carries me, and us.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11: 28-29).

Agreeing to Agree

Our dearest couple-friends-who-are-so-much-more-than-just-friends were in town this weekend. As usual, we four ended up in an intense conversation about what we wives need from our husbands. Quotable quote from the other husband: "You've got to admit, we're fathers, not mothers." Indeed.

And then, the following unedited subject line of a spam message appeared in my inbox that very night, reflecting the infinite wisdom of Dumlao Reynolds: "one wife is nott enough."

Nor sometimes one mother, I think we four discuss-ers have come to agree. And at least we agree about something.



Note: If you don't know who Dumlao Reynolds is, don't feel bad. I don't either. To Dumlao, whoever you are: you're fair game if you spam me. So there.

On His 5th Birthday

My little guy turned 5 today. Now I understand why my own mother always waxed poetic on our birthdays, why she remembered the exact times of our births and noted that time each year, why she recounted the events leading up to our births. It is an extraordinary event, bringing a life into the world, and commemorating that event involves both remembering how it all started-- and then marveling at how much has transpired since.

I'm really grateful for our Davis. He is, in my very biased mommy-opinion (and only to add to the list of the characteristics of all of our amazing kids) uncommonly sweet, sensitive, and enthusiastic. He has had some struggles in his young life, and we have seen him move through so much with great perseverance. We have consistently appreciated his kindness, his attentiveness to those around him, his eagerness to please, his delightful laugh, his capacity to love.

And so it was really a joy to sit at the dining room table tonight, our family of 5 and his good buddy, eating the birthday dinner which he had requested: hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, carrots, and fruit. We talked about our days and then Daddy asked each of us to say one thing we liked about Davis. This was Luke's report: "He has lots of smiles. He's gentle, and he's kind." Kudos to Luke for having such a kind spirit himself, for being willing to praise a friend without any return. Praise God that our little boy has such a friend. And praise God, for our sweet Davis, for whom we are so grateful on his fifth birthday.

Honest to Goodness

The piece our ensemble sang in church this past Sunday had one part that I just couldn't quite get right. So I borrowed Luke's toy keyboard and banged it out as best I could over the course of the week. He listened and joined in with me as I practiced each day (and, incidentally, proved he's a much better soprano than I am).

Then Sunday came. We sang our piece and headed back to our seats, greeted by smiles and head-nods and whispered "good job"s. But Luke's enthusiastic reaction beat them all.

"Mom!" he exclaimed--thinking nothing of the hushed church-voices of everyone surrounding him--as he wrapped himself around my knees. "You finally got it right! I'm so proud of you!"

Finally, indeed.

Thankfulness

I got such a laugh as I listened to my 3 year old little girl pray her prayers of thankfulness last night. My 3 year old little girl who is prone to theatrics, dramatic pauses, extreme nonverbal facial expressions, the works. All snug in her bed, with her daddy knelling beside her, here she goes.

"God, I thank you for all the things you give us that are so fun, (dramatic pause and shrug), except sometimes they're not. I thank you for the light, except sometimes it is dark. (A concealed chuckle from my husband). God, I thank you for all the nice people in our lives, except sometimes they are mean." This went on with some nonsensical stuff until my husband could no longer contain his full out laugh and I was laughing with him. It was so sweet and so innocent and yet so right on the money. I find my own mind doing the same thing as I try (sometimes in vain) to pray my thankfulness out to our good God. I will say that I am thankful for something, only to be reminded that the thing I am thankful for is not really all that great after all. My cynical nature takes over. As I was thinking about this I felt really sad that I always have to see the negative in everything. All the good things just seem so fleeting.

So, I pray that for all of us during this season. That we can learn to be thankful. FOR ALL THINGS. For the things that are nice, and not so nice. For the things that are light and the darkness. For the people in our lives that are nice and the people that are mean.

Philippian 4:11 I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. 12I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. 13I can do everything through him who gives me strength.

Consistency, Consistency.

She's not a great eater. She's really not.

Will has always been a great eater, and I don't know if this is because he's just like that, or because we were kind of Nazi-parents there in the early days and nigh-on fanatical about the whole cleanyourplate thing. I honestly don't remember how it developed, but he always cleans his plate-- with the rare exception of some Very Challenging sweet potatoes or butternut squash (I think it's their consistency).

Everett has come along quite nicely in this regard, though I do remember a harrowing evening during which we were trying to implement our Nazi-parenting rules on him, after which he cried unrelentingly and in Absolute Despair for so long that we had to call our pediatrician-friend because we wondered what in the world to do for him. He recovered (I think I haven't), and has gone on to be a really good eater almost all of the time.

But maybe our Nazi-parenting stamina wore out somewhere between children 2 and 3, because Emma just isn't a good eater. What's worse, I am Perfectly Dreadful about attending to this fact and even now will fail to monitor her milk intake for the first half of the meal or her Italian bread ingestion on spaghetti night and so am no help to her Whatsoever. By the time I realize what has happened, she's refilling her milk cup or taking the last bite of bread and her tummy is (surprised?) "so full" and she can't eat another bite. Which results in her not eating her dinner and my (once again) realizing that I Am Not A Very Good Mother.

*sigh*

One of our problems is that she invariably returns home from school "starving." This is a Real Hassle for me, as we don't (Ever) eat dinner as soon as we get home and I am not (Ever) ready to cook something as soon as we get home and she is a child with an Iron Will. "Mommy can I please have a snack?" No. "Mommy, I just want a little something." No. "Can I just have three crackers?" And three crackers doesn't seem like so much and I know it's inconsistent and I am Breaking All the Rules by being inconsistent but Oh Heavens I am so tired.

I've tried wising up in this regard. No Snacks At All of late. I've been firm and she has heard me and we're getting along just fine. Empty belly at the dinner table and the careful monitoring of milk intake. And this consistency is good for her. It's good for me. She learns that I mean what I say, and I remind myself (with practice) that I do, in fact, mean what I say. Not so difficult.

Tonight I cooked up something I've been wanting to make for about two weeks. We still have some sweet potatoes left from our delightful CSA, and I found a recipe in my new cookbook called "Sweet Potato and Lentil Curry." I made this tonight for dinner, along with an accompanying recipe for sauteed red cabbage, and I served it with a whole wheat nan. Yum.

I knew she was hungry. I knew we were all hungry. Yes, vegetarian. Yes, containing the (oh, so odious) sweet potatoes. Yes, delicious and Good For You. I served it with a smile.

She touched it not. She drank her milk. She ate her bread (oh, Inattentive Mother!). And she let the rest of it Grow Cold.

But I was steadfast. That meal was it. The congealing lentil curry, the cooling cabbage-- these things sat on the plate, available to her At Any Time, until she was All Tucked In. Bathed, combed, dressed, having read, having been read to, teeth brushed, lights out, Done.

And then.

Down she comes, peering at me over the stair banister: "Mommy, I'm hungry."

Of course she is. And it's her own fault. I gave her a good dinner and she turned it down. These are the repercussions; here are the consequences. You don't eat? You're hungry. That's how it works.

Still, it pulled at me-- the hungry belly rumbling behind her Little Mermaid pajamas. The blond hair, the pale face, the large blue eyes blinking, unaccumstomed to the living room light. Sweet, dinner-rejecting girl.

In the kitchen, the dishwasher hummed its busy tune: that plate is long since scraped. Dinner time was a Long Time Ago.

So I told her. Yes, I did. I stuck to my guns. I delivered the Truth: "There's nothing more until breakfast."

She went back to bed.

I managed to be Consistent.

But it's no small comfort (not small at all) that tonight she drank her milk and ate her bread. All of it.

Not My Thoughts Exactly

You'll want your speakers on for this one...or maybe not, depending on your taste in music.

The following does not depict my opinion of the day at 7:30 this morning. Fortunately, my opinion doesn't count.

(The spin move is new. Very fancy, if you ask me. Don't know if I can say the same for the fist-flailing. Hmmm.)

Good Night, Gorilla

I love this book. It doesn't have many words, but the pictures are lovely and the story is cute. On the pages without words, I would narrate the story based on the pictures. Today before naptime Benjamin requested "Good Night Gorilla," and for the first time I didn't have to tell the story, but a sweet little 2 1/2 year old voice did. And it is the best story I have ever heard.

Focus

When I had two kids, the prospect of a weekend without Daddy struck panic into my heart. I would do just about any amount of traveling or begging to find a way to have help for the weekend. It seems kind of silly now, but in defense of my silliness, my first two were pretty rotten sleepers and pretty intense little people, not to mention that their mommy is on the intense side. Or so I'm told.

But since the advent of the third, my perspective has changed. I certainly don't relish a weekend without Daddy, and I would never choose one, but I feel confident in my ability to get through the days and even to enjoy the kids along the way. I think perhaps my expectations and the reality of parenting have finally collided. I don't really expect to be rested or that the kids will follow my plan for their napping schedules or that the weather will be perfect or that friends will be available, and so I'm freed to just enter into the weekend, not sure what it will hold.

One thing I do notice about single parenting, though (and man, do I respect single mothers more every time I do it!) is that I can become more stern and joyless as I have sole charge of all the chores and transitions of our days from morning to night. I forget to laugh sometimes because I'm so focused on the preparing food, serving, cleaning it up, dressing, diapering, pottying, tidying, maintaining order.

This afternoon was classic. We were trying to get out the door to go get favors for Davis's upcoming birthday party and then hit Chick-Fil-A for some playland action and dinner. I'm feeling pretty magnanimous for providing such fun, and the kids had been enthusiastic about the plan until some sort of disagreement broke out between the oldest two. Now Davis is sulking and complaining, refusing to put his shoes on, and I'm delivering this classic lecture about how "this whole trip is for you and if you don't have a good attitude about it, we really don't have to go." I mean, cue the Charlie Brown adult voice: "wah, wah, wah, wah, wah wah." I'm even annoying myself.

Then I realize that Zoe, aged 2 1/2, is behind me, also delivering some sort of lecture. I've been tuning her out but as I pay attention to her little voice, here's what she's saying: "Focus, Davis. Focus. Focus, Davis. Focus."

Her lecture not only propelled all of us into hysterical laughter, but it reminded me to chill out a little. As Charlie Brown would say, "Good grief!" Lord willing, Daddy will be home tomorrow. We'll be just fine until then. And if I can remember to laugh, we might even enjoy ourselves until he comes home.

Oh, Daddy...

My daughter looks forward to her Daddy coming home every day because this means lots of chasing, rolling around on the floor, and, her favorite game, "Jump to Daddy", which entails her leaping from a chair into his arms and them falling down to the ground in a giggling heap. Last night, as this evening ritual was taking place and I was enjoying a few moments of independence, my husband looks up at me and says in an incredulous voice, "Elli is going to be three soon!". "Yeah, she is," I replied. "If by soon you mean a year and 2 months." "Oh yeah," says my man. "It just seems like we've had her for longer than that."

What would happen if...

The four of us were at In-N-Out Burger a few weeks ago, enjoying a little dinner out. Benjamin, Noah and I were sitting in our booth while Tim waited for our food. He brought my cup of water to the table, and like all fast food restaurants it came in a small plastic cup which didn't have a corresponding lid. I took a drink and put my cup back on the table, unfortunately within arms reach of my darling, 2 1/2 year old son. [I'm seeing the fault in my actions here. I blame the sleep-deprivation.] Not five seconds later, Benjamin had his hand on my water cup. I thought he might be about to have a drink too, so I started to say "Be careful, it's really full," but before one syllable of that thought escaped my lips I had a cup full of ice water on my lap. Now, in the child's defense, the majority of his experience with cups is that they have lids and that nothing happens when you turn them upside-down. Not so with this one, however. Of course, I was wearing khaki capri pants, which became rather translucent when soaked. There was a large puddle on the floor, which I thankfully did not slip on when we left. The best part of the evening: my son had managed to splash a bit of the water on his shirt, which upset him so much that I removed the article of clothing so he would settle down enough to eat his grilled cheese. Do you have a mental picture yet? Mom with soaking, freezing, somewhat see-through pants, 2 1/2 year old with no shirt, baby asleep in his carseat, and husband soaking up the water on the table with some napkins after getting me a new cup of water and trying not to laugh at the whole situation. Of course, I had to laugh - it's that or cry sometimes, right?

Falling For It

There's a lot people don't tell you about becoming a mom. And for many good reasons. Like childbirth hurts more than you could ever imagine (they don't tell you that one because of that whole selective memory thing, I think; if they didn't forget, how could they ever have more kids?), like nursing is not easy (because who would be so excited to do it if they knew how hard it was? Right, Susie?)..and that's just the first day. It goes on and on.

But why doesn't anyone warn us about daylight savings time?

Remember how dreamy it used to be? An extra hour of sleep! On Sunday morning! The perfect frosting on the cake of yet another gloriously restful weekend. And so much easier to get up on Monday morning.

And then we had kids. They didn't get the memo. Sun's up. Been in bed a whole bunch of hours (if we're lucky). Hungry. Restless. Ready to go.

And the clock says?

This morning, when I was up with almost-three-year-old Eliza at 5:42, I heard five-year-old Luke singing. Singing. Already.

I woke Dad up: "Luke's singing already."
Grunting as he rolled over to look at the clock: "What?!?"
"Daylight savings time, remember?" (Dads have selective memories, too, I guess.)

He sang patiently until about 6:30, then ran out of patience. Dad went in, and apparently (from what I gathered from overheard snippets and Dad's report), the conversation started something like this:

Luke: "Dad, I was wondering what the clock in your room says 'cause I think mine is broken. 'Cause the sun is shining in my window but my clock doesn't even say it's seven o'clock yet."

Smartie pants.

So Dad explained that we had changed his clock while he was sleeping. (I could hear Luke's exasperated exclamation from across the hall: "Why did you do that?!?"). He could not believe that his parents would violate his trust in such a totally awful way. (He also expressed surprise later on that the clock could be changed...hmmm.)

Dad explained some more. And told him he had to stay in bed. But it wasn't too long before I heard his operatic conclusion: "6:59! Just one minute 'til the time I've been wai-ai-ai-aiting for!"

Why didn't anyone tell us this? Why didn't anyone warn us that, for the next who-knows-how-many years, we'll be longing to spring forward while everyone else celebrates falling back?

And seriously, if anyone needs an extra hour of sleep, isn't it us?