Are we there yet?

Toward the end of a twelve-hour car trip, my four and a half year old son asked what is arguably the second-worst road trip question of all time ("Are we there yet?" being the hands-down first, of course). It's a very close second, though: "How much longer?" I assured him we had only about an hour to go. Satisfied, he returned to his reading.

(A small aside here: Charlotte's Web is my new favorite book. Fully four hours of peace and quiet in the car as he read it cover to cover...Thank you, E.B. White!)

Just a few minutes later, he piped up again. "Has it been an hour yet?" Though he can tell time, his sense of how much time has passed is far from fully developed. I told him no. "Has it been half an hour?" Again, no, not quite.

Then, my single favorite moment of the entire drive: "Well, has it been the other half hour?"

If only.

Love is in the Air

Both of my kids love balloons, but my son has always taken a special delight in them. His first word was "boon." A couple of weeks ago, my daughter and I went to Trader Joe's without him, and we came home with one balloon; to say he was disappointed that day is a gross understatement. He had been betrayed. So today, when Daddy and daughter hit Trader Joe's again, they picked up two-- and the kids arrived home, delighted to show me her bright red balloon and his bright green one.

But then, as they exited the car, Daddy, who was juggling groceries, diaper bags, flowers (for our anniversary!), and kids, loosened his grip on the red one...and up it went, quickly aloft in the bright summer blue sky. We all stared, disbelieving, for a moment, and then her face crumpled and she began to sob. Oh, the face of a two year old who has lost her balloon.

Meanwhile, the green balloon bobbed merrily, safely tied around the wrist of big brother. He, though, looked uncomfortably at his balloon, at his sobbing little sister, and then back at his balloon. Then I noticed his hands, working to loosen the string around his wrist. Another wiggle, and a lovely green balloon lifted up into the sky.

Never let go

My son barreled toward me, and I grabbed him at the last minute and was about to tell him to be careful, when he laid his little blond head on my shoulder and hugged me with all his might. And he didn't just stay there for a second, but for nearly a minute. I whispered "I love you" in his ear and I heard "I lo ooo, mama" whispered right back. I only wish I could bottle up the feeling I had in that moment to relive it whenever I have a bad day, or when he manages to knock over a glass of orange juice, or when he's a teenager and it's no longer cool to hug mom.

Clumsy

I am Clumsy. I walk into walls, bang elbows and shoulders into door frames, stub my toes on the furniture that has been in the same place for years; yet remarkably have only had stitches once and no broken bones (only a torn ligament in my hand).

And my poor two-year-old is the latest victim of my general klutziness. I trip over him, knock him over, and usually hurt myself more than him in attempting to correct myself mid-step.

Earlier today I almost knocked him down (poor kid), and he just looked at me with the "mom, could you PLEASE get it together so I can go about my business of playing with these blocks" look. I had to laugh. After I got ice for my toe.

Pawns? Or cherished possessions?

As he looked out the window of the car today, my four and a half year old commented that our world is kind of like a Playmobil world. As I so often do, I wondered where this was going...

So I asked.

"Well, it's kind of like we're all Playmobil people, and these are all Playmobil cars and houses and stuff, and God's the one moving them all around."

Heavy. How do I respond to that? Who hasn't felt "pushed around" by God once in a while? Are we really just pawns in some cosmic playset? I confess that my head sometimes feels chewed on like my son's Playmobil guys' heads are...Only Playmobil families don't have dying little sisters or feuding families or car trouble. They don't have natural disasters, droughts, or floods (okay, the Noah's Ark set should have a flood, but it seems to have only happy pairs of animals instead). And for that matter, if we are just pawns, what is up with all these trials?

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'" (Jeremiah 29:11). Though my son may have dire plans for his Playmobil guys--helicopter crashes and swordfights and frightening hair removal (if your children have ever pulled off their Playmobil guys' hair, you'll know what I mean)--God's plans for us do not hinge upon what sort of disaster He can manufacture for us next. After all, He wasn't pushing Adam and Eve around in the garden. No, we're not pawns lined up for the next disaster, but precious children, cherished possessions, fumbling our way around trying to do it on our own. Maybe we should ask God to push us around more often, come to think of it. Or at least to put us back on our feet when we topple over yet again, to put our little accessories back in our hands when we drop them yet again.

"If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, you will ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you" (John 15:7).

"Come to Me you who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28 ).

"The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake" (Psalm 23:1-3).

Yeah, push me around like that, God. Please. Pick me up again and again and again, give me rest, guide me, restore me.

No, I didn't preach a little sermon in the car. In fact, I didn't have time even to think about it, as my son continued: "Only it's not exactly like Playmobil. 'Cause we can move around all by ourselves and Playmobil guys can't."

Bummer.

It's like butta

For my recent thirtieth birthday, a friend gave me Mediterranean Olive Wheatgerm Honey Body Butter. Luxurious! (My husband asked hopefully what body butter was, but found himself disappointed--it was a gift for ME, after all!).

So today, after a few hours in the chlorine and sun, I decided it was time to break out the butter. So as I sat with my son at the kitchen table, I rubbed the lovely smelling stuff on my arms and legs. You can guess what's coming: what's-that?-what's-it-for?-does-it-smell-good?-will-you-put-some-on-me? After all, he explained, he has lots of hurts on his legs, so they feel kind of rough and he'd like them to feel smoother. How could I say no?

And as I rubbed my precious butter on his little legs and arms, I found myself laughing. At the start of my last decade, could I ever have imagined "wasting" such luxurious stuff on a preschooler's skin? A decade from now, will my son ever believe that he let, much less asked, me to rub body butter on him? Hardly.

Better do it again tomorrow, before I run out of time.

Camel?

As my son rode around the pool on his noodle today, I commented that he looked a bit like he was riding a seahorse. "No, it's a dromedary!" he replied. Right, of course.

As two of his friends joined him, they decided to have dromedary races, so they bobbed across the pool chanting, "Dromedary! Dromedary!" Strange, yes, especially coming from the littlest of them, only two and a half, who seemed to be saying something more like, "Mond-de-dawee," as best I can translate.

But it got better. When a piece of his noodle separated slightly from the rest, the other little boy, also four and a half, changed his chant a bit: "Dromedary lever! Dromedary lever!" Of course. Because if a noodle can be a dromedary, if a dromedary can swim in races, why shouldn't a dromedary have a lever?

Pronouns

"I forgive you, Mommy."

This, from my small son, as I entered his room to give him a good-night kiss. Daddy put him to bed tonight so I could watch the Olympic gymnastic trials on TV. But I promised a good-night kiss when he was all tucked in, and here I was, ready for a quick kiss. And ready to head back to my TV.

"Why do you forgive me?"

"For talking back to me, Mommy."

"For me talking back to you?"

"No, for me talking back to you."

"Oh, you mean you are sorry for talking back to me."

"Yes."

This, because we had begun our day badly. When it was time to put his trains aside and get ready for church, he had been rude, and then disobedient, and then defiant. I had been angry. Too angry, really. We had both been in tears. We moved on, but it was true that we hadn't really resolved the issue to either of our satisfaction. The rest of our interactions of the day had been pleasant, and I was left only with anger at myself, but my sweet small son had not forgotten this unreconciled moment. His words were confused, but his heart was clear as a bell. He was sorry. He needed my forgiveness again. And I, as it turned out, was glad to receive his.

Saving on laundry.....

My kids and I spent most of the week on the farm at my mom's house. Needless to say, they have been pretty dirty most of the week and other than afternoon swimming in the pool, haven't had much of a bath.

Last night Daniel and Kate spent the night with their older cousins, my brother and sil. When Jane tried to get Daniel to change his underwear this morning (which probably really needed to be changed for above reasons), this was his reply," My mommy doesn't let me change underwear everyday. We only change underwear on Sundays for church!"

The sad thing....some weeks this could be close to the truth!!

It's official

I think I've just encountered a mom-of-boy rite of passage.

Mildly frantic call from the top of the stairs: "Mama! It's stuck up my nose!"

It was a potpourri bead. Apparently, it just smelled so good that he couldn't get enough of it. Just your average Friday morning around here.

Gospel-Centered Mom

Are you? Am I? Our pastor taught on being a "Gospel-Centered Man" this past week, and I couldn't help but apply everything he said to me. (I was actually shocked that I didn't think things like "Amen, preach it," you know, thinking about my husband...but I really didn't this time.) I've been pondering this idea all week. How can I as a mom really and truly live the Gospel out in my life? He quoted Acts 6:1-6, and within this passage, Luke describes Stephen as a "man full of faith and the Holy Spirit." Can this be said of me? Am I overflowing to the brim with complete and utter confidence in Christ's work on the cross? Am I living my life in obedience to Jesus Christ, really listening to the Holy Spirit's prodding and conviction?

What describes me? What are my passions? What do I think about? All too often I find my passions being knitting, or photography, or playing the piano, or keeping a clean house, or cooking an amazing meal (of course this happens every night, right?). I know these are fun and enjoyable things, but does it consume me? I want to live and breathe Jesus, to love Him passionately and deeply, and to pour that out on my family, my children. More than anything, I want to be a "mom that loved Jesus more than anything." Don't you? We're in this together, aren't we? That is a great comfort to me.

Full Contact

In college, I spent most of my time hanging around with a bunch of guys. It was kind of a Lost-Boys-and-Wendy type arrangement: I was just one of the guys, playing wiffle ball and video games, sharing late-night pizza, and avoiding schoolwork as much as possible, unless of course a button needed sewing on or someone needed to choose a present for a girlfriend. One of the Lost Boys was a rough-around-the-edges hockey player, whose last name, appropriately enough, was Beiermeister (pronounced BEER-meister, no joke!). He was a hard worker, but it took a lot for him to get through his pre-med science courses, especially "Orgo," that is, organic chemistry. He had a word for such coursework: Full Contact Homework.

I now know what kind of boy Beiermeister must have been. Come to think of it, I now can imagine what kind of boy many of the men I know (including my husband, one of the original Lost Boys) must have been. Everything--and I mean everything--my four-and-a-half year old does is Full Contact. Who knew it was possible? It's not just wrestling and swordfighting and chasing I'm talking about, though he does do his share of that stuff, too. I'm talking about Full Contact Go Fish. Full Contact Coloring. Full Contact Puzzles. Full Contact Reading, for crying out loud. The boy is in motion all the time. How can you get injured helping fold the laundry? Full Contact Laundry, of course. Opening the front door? Yup, Full Contact.

I can only hope organic chemistry--or at least kindergarten--is ready for him.

Thinking? Or just talking?

My four-and-a-half year old was reminding my husband as he bathed him--with me in earshot--about the recent death of a friend of mine. "That makes Mama sad, Dada. Mama! Remember when Bonnie died?"

I think he was particularly traumatized to have discovered me crying one day after reading my email. Not that he hasn't ever seen me cry...but somehow, when he asked why I was crying this time, the explanation really hit home. He seemed mostly amused at my tears--nervous laughter, maybe?--but I see now that it has really stuck with him.

"Yes, I remember, love."

"Mama, it's not good to think about that because it makes you sad. You shouldn't talk about it."

At this point, my husband astutely reminded him that in fact he had brought up the conversation, and that if he didn't think we should think about it, then he probably shouldn't talk about it. "But Dad, I was talking about it; I wasn't thinking about it!"

Ahh, too true. Especially you, my love. I've often wondered when kids acquire those self-editing skills. You know, the ones that eliminate those embarrassing moments in the grocery store when, in a way-too-loud voice, they say things like, "That woman has strange elbows!" about an extremely obese woman or, "I have a booger stuck in my teeth!" (a favorite from one of my son's friends...not that my son couldn't just as easily have had the same problem!). Apparently, it's not until talking about something and thinking about something are done in unison.

For that matter, I wonder when they acquire volume control, too...

On Discipline

Yesterday morning, the bickering was escalating into violence. I had already spoken to each of my two oldest a couple of times about pushing, poking, or hitting. We were in that dangerous holding pattern: only 10 more minutes and we could wake the baby up and head to the park. The van was loaded with their precious bikes and helmets, blue for him and Purple Dora for her. The cooler was packed with most of our lunch, minus the sandwiches Daniele was supplying for us because I realized too late to do anything about it that we were completely out of bread. Their shoes were on, last bathroom trips had been made, and now all that was left to do for me was to finish cleaning up the kitchen...for them to find something to do that did not involve perpetrating violence against a sibling. Another attack occurred. I had to go in again to address a complaint...and I said it. I said, "If you all hit, poke, or grab each other one more time, we will not go to the park today."

As if 4 1/2 years of parenting had not taught me not to make dumb threats that I really, really do not want to carry out.

Because of course, I wanted to go to the park as much as they did. My friends were going to be there, too, after all. And what in the world would I do with two grumpy kids all morning long?

So I went back to my kitchen clean-up, praying that they would somehow manage to cease and desist. Knew that they probably wouldn't. Wondered if there was a way to get out of my threat without losing all the respect of my children. Imagined them becoming rebellious, graffiti-spraying adolescents because their mother didn't discipline them well. Tried to remember which parenting expert says you have to follow through with your threats? And did that guy actually have kids, anyway?

I finished loading the dishwasher and turned it on. Have I mentioned that, 3 years into living at our house, we still love our dishwasher. It's the first one we've had since we've been married (10 years next week!) and it's still a joy to load and even unload it. It's not a good dishwasher. It's loud, and it doesn't actually get the dishes clean, but it's a dishwasher, and we love it. Anyway, the thing is humming loudly along, I'm wiping the counters, and I look up to see two round, cherubic faces, studying me. They stare at me. I wipe, they stare. Slowly, it dawns on me. They're looking at me to see if I saw. They're wondering if I heard. But I didn't hear a thing. Love that dishwasher.

Just a Minute

"Will you stay with me a minute?"

This from Emma Grace, lying abed, thumb in mouth so that her words are simultaneously squeezed and stretched and sounding like something I am incapable of reproducing in print.

"Mommy, will you stay with me a minute?"

This, after I have already helped with the getting-ready-for-bed. After I have read the story (or two) and sung the song. This, when I have hours of work yet ahead of me before I can lie, as she is now doing, in a soft, horizontal space in the near-dark.

I am So Tired.

"Will you stay with me a minute?"

William used to ask the same thing of us-- the Same Exact Thing. Just asking for a minute, not much time. He used to ask that of us when he was four and five. He doesn't ask for that any more.

The other morning I thought I'd clean out my purse. It was a half-hearted effort. There was one drifting receipt. There was my almost-empty water bottle that was Leaking Everywhere. And there were three matchbox cars, all of them souped up and terrifying: a sparkly blue convertible with navy flames on its hood and Fabulously Oversized wheels; a sparkly white number, box-shaped, with fins, that bears some kind of silver engine-like construction on its hood and "Trax Aces 16" in red on its side; and a sparkly purple convertible with orange and yellow flames licking its sides and hood and-- Horrors!-- a skull and bones painted on it besides.

I removed all of these from my purse.

I don't remember why the cars were in there. Well, there is an obvious answer: I put them there for Everett, or he asked me to put them there, when we were going someplace he might want them, somewhere that might require Waiting, and Quiet, and Subdued Behavior.

Matchbox cars can be excellent for this.

But he never used the Matchbox cars on this outing, and I can't say why. Too busy, perhaps. Too much going on. Maybe that day he found something else to do.He doesn't play with Matchbox cars so much these days, anyway.I have carried Matchbox cars in my purse Countless Times. And it is conceivable that I will carry them many more times before I'm done.

But I had the thought, when I cleaned my purse, that this could be the Last Time I remove Everett's Matchbox cars from my purse. It very well could be. Who knows? He is seven and a half, after all.

"Mommy, will you stay with me a minute?"

Yes, by all means yes, I will stay with you a minute. Maybe more. And I might hum to you, or sing you Yet Another Song, and stroke that amazing hair away from your face.

Yes I will. And thank you for asking.

Boys...

Two scraped knees in two days. The magic medicine: hugs from mama and fruit snacks. It's nice that when he's hurt I can fix it - I only wish I could protect him from all of the pain life brings.

Our Family

For those of you who wonder what our family looks like, I thought I'd post this to give you a better idea. Sometimes illustrations are sooo helpful. And it's hard sometimes to relate to people whom you've never seen, so here it is...
Artist: My oldest daughter at age 2 1/2

To sleep perchance to dream

My husband was talking in his sleep last night. He woke us both up telling me that he had decided to call me "H.A.M.: highly attentive mama." No joke.

Yes! He noticed.

At least in his sleep...

(I've decided to take "attentive" to mean "mindful," not "obsessive," by the way. His dream didn't specify the connotation, after all.)

Midnight Tea Party

When did my 5 year old little girl decide that drinking a hot cup of tea is the only thing that will soothe her to sleep on a restless night? Did I unintentionally give her that idea? All I know is that it's true. A night will come when her tearful, overly- sleepy self will just not be consoled unless Mommy whisks her down stairs, sits her on the counter, fires up the kettle, and pulls out the tea and honey.

Really, it's sweet. I'm charmed by this midnight tea party. But often, I'm more annoyed than anything. Often times, the charm doesn't come til after she's back in bed, and I realize what a precious memory we've made together. Why do I feel like I'm entitled to "clocking out" when I put my children to bed? Why is it such a nuisance to me when sleep doesn't come easily to them? Why can't I in that moment transport myself to 20 years from now, and how I'll long for these days again? It's hard. I want to be the mommy that is quick to comfort and soothe, and not easily irritated or bothered that "my time" is being interrupted. She'll probably always remember having short and quaint little tea parties at night with me, but hopefully she'll forget about the harsh tones that sometimes accompany them.

Mostly, I enjoy it. But mostly I'm also convicted by it. These are the days that matter. Childhood is so fleeting, and the memories and attitudes and time I take to deepen those moments with my children are eternal and impacting. One night of no "me time" is like dust. Will I remember the laundry I folded alone at night, or the sweet moments I shared with my little ones sipping tea and snuggling? I know the answer, and I want to remember the answer at the moment I need it. God has blessed me with an amazing job of being a mother, and I want every moment to count.

The best reward.

Me: "Benjamin, if you clean up all your blocks I'll let you Swiffer the kitchen."

Benjamin: Very seriously cleans up all his blocks, closes the container, and runs into the kitchen and commences with joyful Swiffering. Who am I to discourage such love of a cleaning product?

For those of you with boys...

You really should read this fake ad. It is great!

http://wittingshire.blogspot.com/2008/02/e-masql8-cure-for-common-boy.html

"Now I will arise..."

As I sat (OK...plopped) down on my couch with a sigh after only an hour and half of my Thursday morning, I wonder to myself if I am really going to make it through this day. What do I want to do with my day? I want to enjoy my kids. I want to take them to the pool and have fun with them. I want to be able to do my laundry without grimacing in pain. I want to be able to stand up long enough to actually cook dinner for my family. Sounds like pretty normal stuff, except that I am hugely pregnant with enough back pain to have me flat on my couch for much of the day. The physical pain brings enough tears to my eyes, but the emotional pain of not being able to live my life, or enjoy my kids, is really exhausting and overwhelming. So, I was on my couch, praying that God would just take away this pain, and I thought I would read a Psalm. I opened my Bible to Psalm 13. Not because it has some special meaning to me, it was just the next one to read from where I left off a few days (weeks...) before. As I was reading, I was really moved by Psalm 13: 5 which says, "For the oppression of the poor, for the sighing of the needy, Now I will Arise," says the Lord; "I will set him in the safety for which he yearns." Thank you Lord. I went over and over it, knowing what God was trying to tell me. What He is always trying to tell me and I have few moments that I actually listen. "Turn to me Cortney, trust in Me Cortney. I know your need. I hear your sighs. I will set you in to safety. I have already risen. I will rise up for you every moment of every day." Thank you Lord.

What did we do all morning - we went to the pool ( I even put sunscreen on all three of us!)! Am I still in pain - more than before. But I know and trust that God is in this pain. I know and trust that when we got home from the pool He heard my sigh of relief to just sit back down. What am I praying for now? That my kids will rest this afternoon so that I can too! Why do we push ourselves beyond what we think we are capable of? Because God has called us to be moms and He never gives us more than we can handle. Thank you Lord.

All done with all done.

At this point in my mommy life, if I could remove one phrase from the English language it would be "All done."

"All done lunch." Before we even sit down to eat.
"All done banana." If I even think about offering one.
"All done green beans." If he sees the can in the pantry.
"All done cago (chicken)." If I mention that chicken is for dinner.
"All done go upstairs." If I walk toward them.

I'm fairly certain that my toddler believes he could subsist on pasta and fruit snacks alone. But it's not that he won't eat other things that drives me crazy - it's the declaration of "all done" before I even have a chance to put a little of something new on his plate. I keep hearing of kids who love broccoli and abhor french fries. Who are these children? If anyone is ever unsure of what my child says, it is probably "all done" followed by whatever I just suggested. However, if my suggestion involves the museum or the park, we are all done with all done.

Perspective

I've been researching boarding schools for 2 1/2 year olds lately.

Haven't discovered many options, but surely some fine school would like to take my opinionated, passionate, surly, aggressive, defiant toddler and teach her some refined manners and self-control. Surely.

However, today, a concern arose about her health. On the grand scale of things, it's a minor concern, but it will certainly involve a couple of doctor's appointments, probably a camera on a wire going down her nose, and very possibly some surgery.

Suddenly, I notice that her cheeks are incredibly round and kissable. And I notice afresh those curls, bouncing as she runs through the house...and the myriad of sweet and hilarious things she says every day...and the way she likes to vacuum right alongside me...and her quickness to forgive her brother for pushing...and her chubby arms and legs wrapped around me for a giant hug...and those gorgeous green-grey eyes...and the way she sings her Bible songs with such solemn focus.

So I tear up the boarding school applications, ashamed that I even considered the possibility. I savor anew this tiny, mighty gift.

The Mommy Burn

Growing up, we called it the Idiot Burn. As in, "Those crazy tourists. What idiots."

Every year, in the dead of winter, we'd escape the frozen tundra we called home and flee south to visit Nana and Papa...and thaw out. While the true Southerners wore their jackets and jeans (it was only in the 70s, after all!), we bared it all and took to the water (it was SO hot--in the 70s!). Ocean, pool, ocean, pool, with breaks in between to soak in some rays in the backyard, or, better yet, on the driveway (HOT!). We had very little competition for the pool, and the waves were all ours at the beach. And as the locals walked by bundled up and chuckled, "Tourists," we couldn't have cared less; salt water up your nose was ever so much better than the frozen nostrils we'd left at home. Even if it was chilly salt water.

That was back in the day when sitting in the sun was supposed to be good for you. Got rid of the all-winter sniffles. Eliminated that half-dead pale green pallor of a Northerner's skin. Which didn't stop mom from making us use sunscreen, of course. But every year, despite mom's careful application and reapplication of sunscreen, it was inevitable: the Idiot Burn. The shaped-exactly-like-your-bathing-suit burn. The can't-sleep-can't-shower-must-peel burn. The I-can't-tell-if-I'm-hot-or-freezing burn. When you've been living in a frozen cave for months, when you haven't opened the curtains in weeks because the snow is piled too high to see out anyhow, you don't get much sun exposure. That Florida sun, even in winter, was a doozy to cave-dwellers like us. And so we fried...and secretly loved it, I might add.

Fast forward to today, when I renamed the Idiot Burn. How many times already this summer have I slathered my son head to toe with SPF 50? "Mom, did you put on your sunscreen?" he asks every time we head for the pool. Of course not. But did I remember the pool toys, towels, snack, lunch, alternative snack, water bottle, dry clothes? Of course! You can see where this is heading...

After yet another 100+ degree day at the pool, we came home refreshed and exhausted. As I looked at my son, I felt a pang of guilt: his nose was a little pink! Oh no! Why didn't I reapply? Why did I take him out in the middle of the day? Why didn't I make him wear a hat (even in the pool!)? How could I doom him to a life of skin cancer? Guilt: reapply, bad mommy! Reapply!

Then I realized I wasn't quite sure if I was hot or cold. And the shower felt SO hot...the Mommy Burn. Idiot.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

“For he who is least among you all—he is the greatest” Luke 9:48b.

I see the old man often, weekly at least, always at the same intersection, always holding the same sign: an explanation that he is a veteran, lives in the woods, needs money, etc.—I never look long enough to read the whole thing, as I wouldn’t want to seem to be staring and certainly wouldn’t want to look as if I had a handout for him, either—and, on the other side, a smiley face and the Spanish word for “smile”. He hobbles on one crutch, holding a cup and humbly asking the drivers stopped at the light for spare change. Today was no different, except that, owing to the warming temperatures (and much to my chagrin), my windows were open.

The red light seemed to last for an eternity. I knew it was only a matter of a few seconds until my budding three-year-old reader in the backseat, who was waving happily as the man approached our car, asked me to help him read the man’s sign or started asking why he was standing in the median, why he had a crutch, what was in his cup…any number of questions I didn’t want to answer. In fact, I was doing my usual uncomfortable act of a half-nod, half-smile, and quick attempt to look away, be distracted by something else terribly important, all the while wishing the light would hurry up and turn green and wondering if I could close the windows without Luke asking why I was shutting the man out.

I always wish, when I’m in these circumstances, that I knew better what to do. So many “words of wisdom” run around in my head: don’t give him money, or he’ll just spend it on booze; give him a Rescue Mission pamphlet and pray for him; watch out for strange men if you’re a woman traveling alone; pack an extra sandwich and bottle of water to offer…I’ve never known whom to believe. If I thought about it more than just at that moment, if I really had compassion and thought of this old man—or the several other homeless people I see regularly around town—more than just in the uncomfortable moment, I might have known how to help him, how to reach out to him without jeopardizing my safety, Luke’s, or his, how to actually help relieve his burden a bit and touch his soul.

But, of course, I don’t think about him. Usually, as soon as I escape the moment, as soon as the world’s-longest-red-light turns green, I continue on with my comfortable life and forget all about the old man. But not today.

“Hi, buddy. Be good,” the old man said to Luke through the open window.

“He’s a nice man, mama!” said Luke, still waving and smiling. “He’s the greatest man I’ve ever seen.”

Thank goodness Luke was sitting behind me and couldn’t see my face; thank goodness I was wearing sunglasses that hid my eyes. Otherwise, how could I explain to Luke why his words brought tears to my eyes; what would the other drivers at the light think of my crying as I waited for the light to change? “For he who is the least among you all—he is the greatest,” (Luke 9:48b) said Jesus.

I still don’t know what to do for this old man. But I can tell you this: when that light turned green and I drove away, I didn’t forget him this time. Even as Luke, in his three-year-old-with-a-short-attention-span way, proceeded to ask me which way we were turning, what the street sign said, what the speed limit was—himself forgetting the old man even as he waved goodbye—I once again was given a fleeting glimpse of what it means to have the faith of a child, simple yet so profoundly clear, of what it ought to look like if I were to look at people as Jesus does.

My day?

We're getting ready for Father's Day around here. Just had Mother's Day. Apparently, it's all starting to wear on my four-and-a-half year-old: today, after a Father's Day gift-shopping outing, he asked me, "When's Child's Day?"

I had to stifle a laugh.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking if he could possibly be serious.

I had to restrain myself from reaching into the backseat and...

Because, after all, we know every day is Child's Day when you're a mom. Why else would you arrange playdates, cook special favorites, plan museum/park/pool outings, drive back and forth to school over and over, buy special treats, read out loud for hours, wake up before dawn, etc, etc, etc? It's always Child's Day.

And really, when we're honest--when our wits are about us, we're not especially exhausted or overwhelmed, we're not feeling completely unappreciated--really, we wouldn't have it any other way, would we?