O Holy Night

Christmas is almost here.  The days are long but the light is short.  School is almost out.  Presents are partially wrapped, tucked away in boxes in the basement.  Plans to see friends and family are made.  Our sparkle box is filling up with presents for Jesus, acts of kindness and generosity given in his name these past few weeks.  And the songs are everywhere:  on the radio, in the stores, playing on Pandora in the evenings at home.  I was thinking about making a special station just to hear all the different versions of my favorite Christmas song, O Holy Night.  Josh Groban does a beautiful rendition.  Straight No Chaser has a fun one.  Mariah Carey belts it out in true diva fashion.  Children's choirs usually nail it, with their clear, high voices all together, singing those words I hold so dear. 

"O holy night, the stars are brightly shining.  It is the night of our dear savior's birth."

Do you remember that Hallmark commercial from years ago?  When the little boy is anxiously awaiting the arrival of his big brother for the holidays, because they always sing the duet?  But his brother still hasn't come, and he fears he will have to sing all by himself this year.  His voice begins, small and timid.  Suddenly, it is joined by a strong, powerful one...his brother has come home, and just in time!  That's the first time I remember hearing the song, and it enchanted me.  The slow, quiet build.  The hushed reverence for this sacred day.

"Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, til He appeared, and the soul felt its worth.  A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!"

A thrill of hope!  The music crescendos.  The weary world rejoices!  Oh, does the world feel weary this year.  The children.  The medical problems.  The loved ones lost.  The people in the world RIGHT NOW who don't mark this day with celebration, because they are so hopelessly without...without food and water, without a friend to care whether they live or die, without a soul that feels its worth.  I want to save them.  All of them.  I want them to know their worth.  That they matter to me.  But I am just one person.  What can I possibly do?

"Fall on your knees.  O hear the angels' voices."

There it is, right there in my favorite song.  Fall on your knees.  You can't do this alone.  You are not the answer to the weary world's troubles.  Fall on your knees.  This phrase never stood out to me before, but it does right now.  Its not giving up.  Its not admitting defeat.  Fall on your knees, hear the angels' voices.  What are they singing?  Do the angels know something I don't?

"Truly He taught us to love one another.  His law is love, and His gospel is peace.  Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother!  And in His name, all oppression shall cease."

Chains shall He break.  Not me.  I can't free a slave, because by myself, I'm enslaved too.  I'm held captive by anger and greed, by selfishness and hurt.  But in His name, all oppression shall cease.  So that's the name I'm using.  In Jesus' name, we can heal this weary world.  We can start today to LOVE ONE ANOTHER.  Stop being a slave to my own agenda.  Stop insisting that everyone see things exactly as I do. 

"Sweet hymns of joy, in grateful chorus raise we, let all within us praise HIS HOLY NAME!  Christ is the LORD!  O praise His name forever!  His power and glory evermore proclaim!"

At this point, Josh Groban bursts forth with a series of "Noel"s that make me feel as though we have crested the largest wave in the ocean, and it is carrying us back to shore.  The power of the music has taken over and we ride it on home, in seemingly effortless exultations.  Christ is the Lord, and it makes this night divine.  Holy, even.  But it can't be contained in one calendar day.  Fall on your knees, and it becomes a part of life.  Every day.  The law of love, the gospel of peace.  It doesn't stop on December 26th.  Not if we bring it in, carry it in our hearts.  It changes us, and then it changes the world.  And the weary world rejoices.

In the Stillness

At peace in the quiet of a snowy day

Things have gotten crazy once again.  Every day, the activity in our house ramps up until 8pm.  Its a steady beat, like a primordial drum calling the children to be louder, louder, run faster, faster, until we separate them for baths and jammies and stories, and they finally settle down for sleep.  I get caught up in the busyness.  Sometimes I am running with them, dancing and throwing or shouting at them to keep it down, how's a person supposed to think?!  But whenever I need a break, whenever it has become too much, and whenever Chris is there to handle the clamoring hoard, I go look for James.  Because no matter how many kids are here, how much noise is being made, my sweet boy has usually found a quiet corner for himself.  I join him there, in the stillness, and he helps me quiet my raging insides.  It is usually soft, with blankets or sleeping bags or pillows hiding a hard surface, and dark, with shades down and lights off and a nice dark blanket pulled overhead like a cocoon.  There is no music, no chanting monks, no TV or video games or laugh track.  Sometimes he will arrange his body so that he can lay his ear against my stomach.  I think about what he is hearing, the gurgles and splashes of fluids following that downward course we learned about when the Magic School Bus went inside Arnold.  Sometimes he wants me to read to him.  And so we look together at the stories about starfighters and pigeons and Lego cities.  Sometimes, when the mood is just right and the day has been successful and I've quieted enough to really listen, we have a conversation.  A real, honest-to-goodness chat, with the whole back and forth, question and answer thing that other people seem to come by so easily, but for him I know is the hardest thing he will ever do.  They are never long, our voices are always hushed, and an errant child storming in will inevitably bring about its end.  But I cherish our time together in his quiet space.  He finds and protects it with all the tricks in his bag.  And I wonder at this ability he has, to be so still, this meditative silence that I could never achieve even back when there was no one else around and no big answers to find, no matter how hard I tried to shut it all out and just be.

Finding a quiet place at the park to throw stones 

He's always been this way, from the moment he was pulled into this loud, hectic world.  I just never knew why.  Why he would fuss in the house, with the tv on or people over, and when we stepped outside, into the void of a summer night or winter afternoon, he became still and peaceful.  We've always been fortunate enough to live on quiet streets, with a decent distance between our house and the neighbors, so that the only sounds we hear are the birds in the trees or the occasional plane flying overhead.  We've spent so much time sitting on our front stoop, laying on a blanket in the yard.  I slow my breathing, taking deep pulls and filling my lungs, and then slowly exhaling.  Sometimes outside isn't a haven of silence, and I remember so well the Christmas we were at my parents' house, opening gifts and laughing with my sister and her husband, and James, almost three years old, took refuge in the curve of the sectional couch.  He covered himself with a blanket, and when we peeked in at him, saw that he had gathered balled-up wrapping paper to give a sound-proof layer to his hideaway.  It all began to make sense once we learned about sensory processing, overstimulation, why the times when many of us are happiest, surrounded by our friends or loved ones and talking and making quite a big noise send him into a tailspin.  And so this is another aspect of special needs parenting which we have continued to get better at as the years progress: we give our son what he needs.  We attune, we learn, we listen and he tells us how to make these times better, how to get through the holidays or the afternoon or the church service together.  I realize that I've gotten more comfortable in this role, more confident that I can give him what he needs, that we can experience life as a family and not hide out all day.  If it takes noise-muffling headphones or a thick quilt or a walk around the block, I will make it happen.  This is the gift that autism has given us, the opportunity to be still.  Too many times we focus on the difficulties, the challenges, but truly TRULY I feel blessed to have a child who needs and creates this stillness for us all, and I am happy to join him in it, to practice more being and less doing.

Thinking about Autism: In the Wreckage

When my son was diagnosed with autism at the age of 3, I was devastated.  I had only encountered two other people with this condition/disease/disability...I didn't even know what to call it.  The time I spent in denial and feeling defensive didn't help anything.  It didn't push me into action.  It didn't help me understand my son any better.  I felt like a ship at sea, going under in a terrible storm, with every thing, everyone, on board lost.  It took other autism moms to get me to face it all head on and start my journey of autism awareness.  And it took community and the realization that I wasn't alone to accept autism for what it is-- a part of my son that affects him but doesn't define him..  After opening myself to the greater autism community, I found out that most parents are wrecked by this diagnosis.  But I also learned that sometimes life needs a little wrecking.

I drive by houses like that sometimes.  They are falling apart and just look dangerous, and yet there are cars parked out front and lights on inside, and I wonder, Who would live there?  Why would you make improvements or cosmetic changes?  Why would you invest your money in it, or force your family to live in it?  And I think its like the abandoned "plan" for my son.  This is what I thought he was going to be, to do, to become.  But its not, and so instead of inhabiting this crap shack, I needed to just BURN THE MOTHER DOWN.  Raze it.  Instead of asking, Why is this happening?  What made him this way?  Because those questions don't serve a purpose, and might just be the complete wrong questions to ask.  The mental spiral that kills hope and joy?  THROW IT OUT.  Standing on the now empty plot of land, I finally asked the right question: What now?  It was time to take the materials I'd been given, my wonderful and amazing and unique son, and find out what he was.  Maybe he would be a new house, or maybe he'll be a grocery store or post office, or some piece of abstract art that makes everyone who looks at him think something different.  Who knows?  There is no "right" answer, no final destination that he has to arrive at, no timetable that I can impose on him.

When the doctor said that word, the dreaded "A" word, and the teachers and therapists and well-meaning friends confirmed it, the plans and dreams and goals I had laid out for my son imploded.  And thank goodness.  Now he gets to be the author and architect of his future.  Instead of pushing him to be the person I want him to be, I'm watching to see where he shows interest and ability.  I'm still presenting opportunities (come on kid, let's learn French together! It'll be fun!), but I listen when he says NO.  We have left the wreckage and are living in the new creation, the life that happens when we rebuild what was once thought to be lost forever.

This is My Son

We've all heard the phrase, "God is a mystery."  And its true.  There is so much that I don't understand, that I don't get, so much that just completely baffles me about this guy who is the Lord of the Universe.  But sometimes...sometimes the words jump out at me, and they are so true, and so in tune with the language of my heart, that the doubt is pushed aside and I fully worship this God that I love.  God sent us Jesus, His Son, and when Jesus' ministry began, when he was baptized by his cousin and started to live the life he had been sent to live, "A voice from heaven said, 'This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy!'"  Oh God.  I get you so much in that one sentence.  I know how you looked at him, I know how your heart swelled with tenderness and love because He. Was. Your. Son.  I know those feelings, because you blessed me with three sons, and each of them brings me great joy.

James

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  When I look at him, I see bright eyes and a strong body.  I see the child who made me a mom.  I see an amazing big brother.  I see a boy whose brain is wildly, wonderfully different from mine.  And maybe having that difference makes you think that he is a challenge, that my life is harder or less enjoyable because I am his mother.  Maybe you hear the word "autism" and a myriad of behaviors or disabilities cloud your vision.  Maybe you think it makes him less...less of a person, less important, less intelligent.  But you would be wrong, on all counts.  Because I consider it my great privilege to watch and raise this child, to learn from him just as much as he is learning from me.  Because I chose a while back to CELEBRATE my son, to cheer his accomplishments, at whatever rate they happened.  To be his safe haven in a world that doesn't "get" him.  To cherish every hug, every kiss, every cuddle. (to pause blogging and read a book about starfighters with him)  To stop comparing him to other kids, and focus on what makes him uniquely HIM.

James and Winston

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  Because my first child gave me a new sense of purpose, a title and a role that I never thought I would be good at.  So I said, Let's do it again.  And he was worth the uncomfortable pregnancy, the expansion that took place in my body so that it would never return to its previous glory.  He is bright, and open, and full of life.  He is a performer, who will repeat himself over and over and over if he gets applause or even a laugh the first time.  He loves to watch videos of himself, and finds them more entertaining than any DVD in our collection.  He is bossy, and a perfectionist, and can be very emotional.  I consider it to be my great privilege to watch and raise this child, who learns from his big brother every day, who wraps his arms around me and says, "Oh Mommy, I love you!  You are so beautiful!  Hug me tighter!"  Who takes off his clothes at any opportunity, and shows the world what God gave him.

Winston, Michael, and James in a fire truck

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  From the first time I held him in my arms, I wanted him to be mine, and mine alone.  But he has shown me how much room a human heart has, space for two moms and two dads, for two brothers and three sisters, for cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents ad infinitum.  When I look at him, I see her.  I see his first mom, the one who gave him life, who left him with me, who has no idea just how amazing her child is.  And when I look into his blue eyes, the beautiful eyes they share, I pray for her.  I pray that she is safe, that no news is good news, that someday she will come back to him.  So she can see how much he loves trucks and action, but also what a tender nurturer he has become.  So she can see his short little legs pumping and swinging to keep up with his big brothers.  So she can experience his smile, his frequent kisses, his possessive occupation of laps.  I consider it to be my great privilege to watch and raise this child, to soak in all these moments and tendencies, to watch over him in her absence.

These are my dearly loved sons, who bring me GREAT JOY everyday.

A Good Match

I call this one "Baby Faces"

Its nerve-wracking, that whole dating thing.  Isn't it?  Does he like me as much as I like him?  Does he like me a little too much and maybe I'm just not really feeling it?  Will we last?  Does he love me enough?  Is love enough?  Is it even worth jumping in, when you watch your parents or your recently married friends struggle, give up, set TNT around their marriage and just blow the whole thing up?  I don't miss those days.  I don't miss the uncertainty and the sense of how important it was to choose correctly.  And what was supposed to guide me?  Should I listen to the advice of friends?  Should I go with my "gut"?  Is there such thing as a soul mate...and is he The One?  If our relationship is nothing like a movie or CW show, does that mean its wrong? (*to clarify, it actually means you are doing something VERY right...the truth is way better than fiction)  And in the end, and how many of you married folks can say a big Amen to this, the things you were looking at while you were dating end up not being as important after the I do's, and if you are lucky and have made a good match, you will find a depth of love and tenderness and faithfulness that you couldn't even imagine existed before you were husband and wife.  And nine years later, I can look at this man beside me and say YES, we are a good match.  You and me together make a TEAM...we knock out the dishes, we take turns cooking dinner, you bathe the kids and I dress them, and on the rare night that they are all asleep before 9:30, sitting on the couch together and watching a movie is the absolute best thing ever.  He goes out every day and makes the money to pay for the house that I clean, the groceries I buy, the clothes and games and books for the kids that I spend all day with.  We challenge each other and grow together, we share ideas with each other (again, on the rare occasion that we can talk without screaming over four little voices).  He encourages me, tells me I can do it when the self-doubt reaches crippling mode.  I give him the once over before he leaves to make sure clothes are on right-side-out and collars are laid down evenly.  Despite the uncertainty I felt as a newlywed, the intervening years have made me appreciate how well we go together.

Three generations: Linda, Chris, and Winston

So then, when you start adding children to the mix, and you wonder how many?  And what will they be like?  Will we still be a good match?  Will they fit into our family?  When you give birth to a child, these questions are small and easily answered.  Of course he fits here.  He looks just like me.  He laughs like his dad.  He shares his grandpa's interest in moving little figures around in different patterns FOR HOURS.  He is undeniably ours.  But what if you go outside the box (no dirty pun intended) to get your kid?  What if you adopt from Ethiopia, a beautiful chocolate baby who requires homework and training to care for?  What if you become a foster parent and open yourself up to all the issues and problems that mal-treated children bring with them?  Then the doubt comes, and it reminds you so much of high school and dating and crushes, but its so different at the same time because its children who are joining your family and living in your home, and there is no divorce once the judge bangs that gavel and a new birth certificate is printed up.  Will she love me as much as she loved her first mom?  Does he wish we hadn't brought him here, made him one of us?  Is love enough?  And this is what I know, having passed from the hypothetical to the practical, transitioning from the foster mom to the mom (no qualifiers).  Just like I made a list of qualities that my future husband needed to have (not anything crazy, just a few items like having the same religion), a child who comes to our family has to fit within a parameter in order to be a good match.  We got lucky the first time around.  We got Michael, a sweet, angel baby who looks just like us and was our son (and James and Winston's brother) from day one, and I learned that sometimes your soul mate weighs six pounds and wakes up every three hours.  He doesn't know anything other than living with us, nor does he find it strange that he lives with his brothers but only sees his sisters a few times a year.  We rolled the dice a second time, not knowing if this had been a fluke, if it was possible to find, in this system of broken children and hopeful parents, another good match.  But we did.  A little girl has come to stay for awhile (oh, how we love the vagueness of caseworkers, but honestly, there is no way to know what the future, or even next Tuesday, holds for her).  And she runs around with the boys and learns their songs and teaches them to play with guns.  She yells and laughs and jumps on the couch.  She practices karate moves and plays Fight.  She calls me mom, and a few days ago, asked why she isn't in our family photo, the one we took a year ago, long before we met.  And I see, the way I see with Chris, that we are a good match.

Could you say no to that face?

Its not without challenges, don't get me wrong.  But my marriage has plenty of challenges too.  That's what happens when two imperfect people come together and live on top of each other and eat all the Oreos and knock over piles of folded laundry (am I talking about the hubs or the kids?  I can't even tell).  Its why we filled out a profile, we will consider a child with this, we cannot take a child with that.  Right now we can only handle little kids...later, we hope to make room for some older ones.  And our family worker knows us, knows what kind of kid would do well here, and what kids will do better in a different family.  It doesn't mean that it is wrong.  It doesn't mean we made a mistake.  This is why love exists in the first place, to overcome those difficulties.  And love is enough.  Big, perfect, fearless, humble, compassionate love.  It moves mountains.  It changes lives.  It makes strangers into a family.

Moses and Foster Care

When we finally took the leap and started our paperwork to become foster parents, Chris and I realized that we needed to explain what was happening to our kids.  We needed them to understand how our family was going to change, who the new kids would be, why they might leave and never come back.  Because foster care is not just my job or Chris' job...our whole family participates.  And while Chris and I spent 36 hours in training classes just to get licensed, James and Winston spent four weekends playing with their grandparents, oblivious to the upcoming changes.  I thought and thought and researched and researched, trying to find a clear, simple way to tell our four and two year old sons that they were going to become siblings in a non-traditional way.  Finally, one night during our story time, I found what I was looking for.  I turned the page in the Bear Bible to the story of Moses.

 

"Moses was in danger, he was hiding in a stream.

A princess came to take a bath, and heard a baby scream.

She hugged that tiny baby, and carried him back home,

And loved that tiny baby, as if he were her own.

Just like Baby Moses, we are always in God's care.

He will love and keep us, now and always, Tiny Bear."

 

It was perfect: simple, to the point, and Biblical!  It even rhymed.  And I was struck for the first time that Moses was kind of the first recorded foster kid.  He saw his mom, he knew who his siblings were, but he was raised in another home to keep him safe.  That's exactly what we're doing, I told the boys.  There are more baby Moses' out there, and Mommy and Daddy want to help them be safe and grow up big and strong, just like you.

 

Then we got our first placement, and it was a baby boy.  A real, live Baby Moses to complete the explanation.  I held him when he cried.  I gave him medicine to soothe his aching body.  I bathed him and changed him and bought him clothes.  And I came to a wondrous, surprising realization about parenting:  he is not mine.  Of course, it was very literal at first, because every other week, I dropped him off with the social worker to visit with his parents.  But even after they stopped coming to see him and the judge rescinded their rights and we moved to an adoption, I knew that he wasn't mine, any more than the boys I gave birth to.  My children aren't my property.  They aren't an extension of myself or my husband.  They are little people, little versions of the self they will become someday, and I'm given the chance to be their mom, to watch over them and care for them, for a while.  I'm not perfect at what I do, I yell and lose my temper and forget to bring the diaper bag (always when a huge poop is imminent, too).  These boys came from God, and they are always in his care.  And when they no longer need me to wipe their tushies or rock them to sleep, they'll start to pull away and eventually leave my home.  This realization made me cherish our time together.  It made me stop trying to do, do, do, to push them to enjoy the things I enjoy and dislike what I dislike.  I started looking at who they really are, and finding ways to cultivate, rather than dictate that.

 

The story of Moses stuck with me.  It was the lesson in the 2s class I taught the weekend we took custody of Michael.  It was the sermon preached the first Sunday we came to church with our new placement.  Its the story I try to impart to all the foster kids I meet.  He was just like you, I tell them.  He could have been killed as a baby if his sister and mother hadn't made arrangements for him, and his new mom hadn't had compassion on him.  But that's not the end of his story, and its not the end of yours, either.  Because when he became a man, capable of making decisions for himself, Moses came back to his people, and he spoke for them and he cried out to God for them, and he led them out of slavery.  You can do that too.  You can come back to this place of hopelessness and confusion where you live right now, and you can lead other kids to safety.  You can break their chains because you know exactly where they are bound.  Your childhood doesn't determine the rest of your life.  I know this, because its my story too.

Our Adventure

Back so many years ago (okay, like 9 years), as I was preparing to marry my love, I read the John Eldridge book Wild At Heart.  Say what you will, but that man can energize with his words.  I was bouncing up and down, ready to take on the world with Chris.  I remember excitedly talking about the book with him, about our future together, and ready to dream big.  "What is our adventure going to be?" I asked.  Chris gave me the dubious look I have come to know and love and sometimes resent.  He said our adventure for the time being would have to be living on a single income, as he was still looking for real, full-time work after dropping out of college.  Not the answer I was hoping for.  But we got married, he did find a good job to help pay the bills, and life started happening.  Within two years we were expecting our first child, Chris was going back to school, I was thinking about quitting my job to be a stay at home mom.  It seemed like adventure was on its way in the form of midnight feedings and exploding diapers.  We bought a house and settled in, getting used to being parents and a family of three.  Chris kept at the work and school, I tried to figure out what I was doing with my baby.  When the first year passed and we had kept our little guy alive, we started thinking about another baby, and shortly after James turned two, we welcomed Winston.  Chris finally finished school and we were a family of four, just your typical suburban dream.  But still I longed for Adventure.

It started small, a yellow highlighter through the books I was reading, a whisper as I scanned newspaper headlines.  When I look back now, I see a bright ribbon woven through my life from the very beginning, a ribbon that leads to children.  Children who are hurting, children who have been abandoned.  And the voice whispering, "They need good people to help them.  They need parents who will heal them."  And the realization: We are good people.  Chris and I are good parents.  They need us.  Slowly, timidly, we talked about foster care.  Slowly, timidly, we looked into the reality.  Slowly, timidly, we went to a local children's home for the weekend.  And that was when we said the bold YES.  Yes, we will do this.  Yes, we will be the parents who help children heal.  Yes, there are many reasons to hold off and wait, but there is one reason (one way more important reason) to say yes now.  Because they need us.  Now.

We began our training classes in March.  In fact, we spent our sixth wedding anniversary learning about attachment disorders with Miss Jan.  At one point, as we left another totally depressing class, Chris turned to me and said, "I don't think I can do this.  Its too much, the hurt and the brokenness."  I nodded.  He was absolutely right.  Our hearts broke each day as we learned about what happens to kids who are abused, neglected, abandoned.  Then I said, "There are always going to be kids in foster care.  The abuse isn't going to stop.  And knowing what we know now, I can't just go back home and pretend like its not happening.  We have the opportunity to help."  And the doubt was gone.  We were full-steam ahead through all the paperwork and interviews and inspections, and in eight months time, we were licensed foster parents.  They called us to take baby Michael after a month of waiting.  That placement became an adoption and now we are the happy parents of three amazing boys.  So we became open again.  We waited five months for a call, and were so excited on the day one finally came.  But within 15 minutes the circumstances had changed and there was no placement.  We waited some more.  The next week, a call came to provide respite.  This is a short-term placement wherein one foster family watches the foster kids of another family while they are out of town, medically unable to care for the kids, overwhelmed, whatever.  Only one thing gave me pause.  There were two kids needing beds, a brother and sister.  If you're doing the math, that would mean five days with five kids in the house.  Maxed out for space in the car and the beds.  Food disappearing from the fridge at an even faster rate.  I looked at the phone for a beat, and then said yes.  This is our adventure.  This is our calling.  This is our heart.  (And not to brag or anything, but we totally nailed it.  It was exhausting, it was challenging.  But we did it.)

While we were hosting these two spunky siblings, I read the story about Davion and his plea for parents.  I cried at how many children are still waiting for that placement, stuck in group homes or an endless parade of placements because there aren't enough good people willing to become foster parents.  I remember how scary it seemed to open our home to an unknown child with unknown issues.  I know its different from the Hallmark picture of giving birth in a halo of light to a child who will be yours and yours alone forever.  But if you are reading this, nodding your head and agreeing, Yes, they need parents!  They deserve parents! Please.  PLEASE.  Consider what you can do, right now, to change the life of a child in foster care.  Because as long as there are people looking for a way out of their present reality through drugs or alcohol or World of Warcraft, there will be dealers and enablers, and the children will suffer the most.  As long as there are cycles of abuse and poverty, with no one to intervene with education and healing, children will be at risk.  They are the most vulnerable people in the world, and they need someone to stand up, to speak out, to give them a safe place to grow.  Its my adventure, and it might be yours too.

For local folks: www.starkadoptfoster.com
For the US: www.heartgalleryofamerica.org

In the Leaves

Today was a good day, the kind of good that reaches deep and fills me with joy.  Not like yesterday, when an interrupted nap caused me to cry along with Michael, when I unsuccessfully tried to referee a fight with the rear-view mirror and ended up throwing a baseball glove back to get the boys' attention.  Today, we had nowhere to go.  We had no appointments or meetings to hurry for, no one waiting for us to arrive or depending on my ability to get shoes on small, wiggly feet.  This morning, perhaps for the first time ever, Winston willingly shared his cars with Michael, and as they played peacefully, I was able to get my shower.  Once we were all dressed for the day, the boys insisted we play outside, and thanks to this beautiful weather, a week of sunshine and falling leaves, we found ourselves in the backyard jumping around in piles of crackling leaves.  I took pictures to capture the moment, to share it with my husband busy at work and relatives who only experience our family via social networking.  The joy of the moment is caught on my children's smiling faces, but the pictures hide my internal struggle.

Last night, I read Matt Walsh's blog about At Home Moms, and I realized that a war is raging within me all day.  First I am a woman, a list-maker and do-er, someone who derives identity and worth from what she can accomplish.  That woman was a great student and employee, always doing more and more.  She set goals and made things happen.  But that woman became a mother.  A mother is a nurturer and giver, whose time is best spent being: being with her children, being present in the moments that come unbidden and without warning, the first steps and the first words and the questions and the requests to read the book again, play the game again, make me another meal, change another diaper.  Being alert to the nonverbal signals that a child is tired, hungry, wet, scared, needs his mama.  And if you haven't already figured it out, doing and being come into conflict over and over.

The woman in me says leaves should be raked and collected and gotten rid of.
The mom in me says leaves are meant to be raked into a pile over and over so children can jump and throw and kick and laugh.
The woman in me says an hour playing outside with no accomplished task is a waste of time.
The mom in me says playing outside means setting aside the list of things to do and enjoying with the kids.
The woman in me sees the grass stains and dirty pants and panics that they won't come out in the wash.
The mom in me sees the grass stains and dirt as a measure of how much fun is being had.
The woman in me looks for a way to make this time productive, like teaching ABCs or learning to identify the trees.
The mom in me looks at happy faces and thinks her children are teaching her something.

Sometimes I need Winston to dump out my bag of leaves and shout, "I want a BIG PILE!" to remember that moms don't need to have the nicest lawn or the cleanest house.  They need to have secure children who know they are loved and valued.  And they need to stop doing, and just be.  So the mom in me is glad that I made that decision many years ago to stop working at a job and make motherhood my job.  That my husband supports us and supports me in who I am.  That lists are fine and good and have a place, but don't contain my worth as a person.

Papa doesn't live here anymore...

Three days ago, I told my mom that I would speak at Papa's funeral.  No problem, I thought.  I can keep it together and represent our family in the service.  But today, when my moment came, it was a struggle.  Not because "I'll be Missing You" played on the radio as I drove to the church.  Not because of the open casket.  Because just before my time up front, we sang a hymn, one of his favorites.  And I heard it.  The huge, empty silence hovering over the middle of the room, just above where Grandma stood.  Every time I have been in church with my grandparents, I have heard his voice rise above all the others, deep and strong and full of melody.  That was when I finally understood:  Papa isn't here anymore.

There is a vacuum, like the reverend said.  There is a hole in our family, a void in our hearts.  But even though he is gone, there are memories, stories and moments and images that we can cling to and remember that we were loved.

Every person at the calling hours, the service, everyone who wanted to there but couldn't make it, each of our lives were touched by this man.  Jonathan reminded us all that he was so proud of his family, that he looked forward to being a part of the moments of our lives.  With 15 grandchildren and 13 great-grandchildren, it was a full-time job.

He lives on in the faces of his grandchildren.  His work can still be seen around the farm that he tended for more than 60 years.  His commitment and fidelity is evidenced by the gold ring Grandma passed around to show us last night.  Papa was worth celebrating.  His sister-in-law remarked that he was a father whose children remembered him fondly, because he raised them with a steady hand.  His brother said that more than siblings, they were friends, with 81 years of stories to tell.  And what better way for us to honor him, and his memory, than to stand up, with Nathan leading on guitar, and sing like never before, oh my soul, and worship the one who redeemed us, the one who prepared a place for Papa to live.  Because he doesn't live here anymore.

The "Navy soldiers" folding the flag for Grandma

Papa

A patriarch is the male head of a family, its leader.  The man who sets the tone for everyone by his words and his actions.  It is easy to see what is important to my grandfather, who has always been known as "Papa":  his life is a study in hard work, family unity, and Christian service.  One of my earliest memories of Papa is attending his "retirement" party, although I've never known him to be idle for a day.  When, in his 60's, he stopped working for Westinghouse, he continued to run the 100 acre farm he lived on with my grandma.  In the winter months, when the farm was tended by my uncle and cousin, my grandparents went south, to the border of Mexico and Texas, but not to enjoy the moderate temperatures and slow down.  Those months were spent building schools and churches, meeting with other "retired" folks, and teaching the children of Renosa.  When I was in high school, they took this missionary work up a notch, spending a year in Honduras running a mission house.  It was the year of the earthquake that ripped that small country in half, and we watched on our TV as news reports came in of monumental damage, lives lost, and we wondered if Grandma and Papa were somewhere in the rubble.  But not too long after, they were able to call on a sat phone and let us know that they were okay, just managing a little differently now that many roads were cut off and buildings fallen to the ground.  Not exactly peaceful, easy living for a couple in their 70's.

Surrounded by their children and spouses

One of seven children, Papa always tried to make contact with his siblings on their birthdays, dispersed as they were across the country.  He attended family reunions for several different offshoots of his family tree.  He also came through Dallas to pick up my sister and I on his way to his brother Paul's funeral in El Paso.  I remember that Papa drove the whole way, an 8-10 hour drive, at least, and he was not as sensitive to my 7 year old entreaties to make bathroom stops as my parents were on such long trips.  Nonetheless, we made it without my bladder exploding, and went through the burial ritual.  The only thing I remember about my great-uncle's funeral was his granddaughter, a girl close to my age, with whom I'd been playing Barbies earlier in the day, sobbing into her mother's shoulder and crying out, "He's my grandpa!"  I wondered at the change that had come over her, and of course, couldn't understand her grief, as my own grandpa was sitting down the row from me, very much alive.  And really, if I'm being introspective and philosophical, that is the defining characteristic of my Papa, that he was there.  He was there, in our kitchen, drinking coffee and playing card games with us on his annual trip down to Renosa.  He was there at Christmas, watching his children and grandchildren open their gifts.  He was there in my living room, as I played the first song I learned on the clarinet for him.  He was there at my high school graduation, and again for college.  He was at the weddings of each of his grandchildren.  He was there, in my hospital room, the day after I gave birth to my first son.  He was there, six years ago, helping us move furniture into our new house.  And he was there, just last September, at Michael's first birthday party.

Christmas 2009

When my mom went into labor with me on April 3rd, some part of her mind must have disengaged from the pain and the relief that at long last, the baby was coming out, and thought about her dad, who was celebrating his 55th birthday at his home in Pennsylvania.  I think she was pleased at the idea of her daughter and her dad sharing a birthday, but I wasn't.  True to form, I stubbornly stayed inside her until the next afternoon, already determined to be original.  The fact that our birthdays were a day apart didn't seem to change anything, however, and we frequently celebrated together.  The first was on my fourth birthday, which we spent sharing a beach house with Grandma and Papa in Virginia Beach.  I don't remember much about that except for the house being on stilts, which was a novel concept.  There is a frequently told story from that trip, though, about my burgeoning vocabulary, in which I told Papa to "stop aggravating me!"  He said, "You don't know what that word means."  And I responded, "It means 'to fight'."  Another birthday spent together was my 23rd and his 78th, at which time I was a newlywed who bundled up with her husband and parents and drove to a Cracker Barrel halfway between Papa's farm and my new apartment.

Spending a snowy birthday together 2005



Our lives have only overlapped for 31 years, and though I've heard stories about his time as a young man, turning in bottles to get a nickel and heading downtown to watch a movie, playing basketball in high school and sailing in the Navy as a young man, becoming a father to five children and watching them grow, what I have seen is who these early experiences shaped him to be.  I know him as a man of consistency, someone who loves to sing and has a pretty good sense of humor.  I have seen the pride he takes in his family and a job well done.  I am awed by his knowledge of planting, growing, and harvesting, caring for animals and running all the equipment required.  That is what I remember, that is what Papa means to me.

On Your 31st Birthday

On our way to Prom, 2001

If you met your husband when you were both 17, you may be so impressed with the person he has become by 31 that you have to wonder if he's the same person.  Because you remember that boy who made your insides vibrate when he looked at you, talked to you, made you laugh.  You remember how strong his pull was, that you just wanted to be around him all the time.  And then your flirtation became a Relationship, and you went from being two lovely, perfect creatures to real people with flaws and differing points of view.  And you watched him spend his graduation money on CDs at Best Buy, and then hide them under his driver's seat because his mom would lecture him about it and you wondered if someday you would be the one he would hide things from under the driver's seat.  And he made friends with a ridiculous group of guys at college, and you were grateful for the distance because it meant you didn't have to go with them on group outings and when he told you stories about them over the phone he didn't see how many times you rolled your eyes.  And you wondered if they would ruin him, this sweet boy who gave you the cherry off his ice cream sundaes and waited weeks to kiss you, who wrote you silly poems and insisted that you had to have A Song because all couples have A Song, and when you decided on one you both liked, he preferred the one from the Notting Hill soundtrack and you were adamant that it had to be the Alison Krauss version.  So you weighed these things, the douchebag friends and the daddy issues and the conflict avoidance and the fact that he was really cute and had a nice car and loved you and when he held you it was like the earth shifted so that everything was right at last.  You didn't know which was more important and you wanted it to be like a math equation, except math was always your worst subject and this wasn't an algebra test, this was real life, this was maybe the most important decision ever, whether to fall head over heels or turn and run.  And then suddenly, it wasn't a choice anymore, it was inevitable that your life was going to merge with his, and so when he got down on one knee, you barely listened to everything that he said, you just waited for that question so you could say YES!  And then the day came when you said your vows, you were both still so young, but you'd been to weddings where the bride and groom were both younger than you, and it made you feel like you were old getting married at 22.  And it didn't take two weeks before you realized just how vulnerable you had made yourself, that you had given this person your life and your heart and he could destroy you completely.  And every time you passed one of those billboards for "when a diamond isn't forever", you prayed that you'd never have to call 1-800-DIVORCE, that you would treat each other as tenderly as the cake you placed in each others' mouths in that rented hall as everyone looked on.  Because he was still a boy, so much so that when you opened a drawer to put your clothes with his you found a note from his mom that said "Don't forget to shower and put on deodorant" and you couldn't believe that the person who held your heart had trouble remembering something so basic.

First Father's Day 2007

But you built a home together, one that was filled with garage sale furniture that you proudly brought home in your tiny Saturn, and the Dave Matthews posters decorating your bedroom, and the ceiling above the bathtub that caved in so you could wave up to the couple who lived upstairs and fought constantly until one day the lady was gone and it was silent up there and the ceiling was fixed and you didn't see anyone anymore.  And you learned together, and when he got the call that his aunt died, you knew that as much as your heart was breaking, his was breaking worse, and so you held it together and packed his black pants and sport coat and held his hand.  And when you peed on that stick and the two pink lines popped up, and you felt dizzy and sick and completely overwhelmed, he hugged you and insisted on going out for steak to celebrate because this was Good News, and he held it together while you puked and cried and threatened to shove a peanut butter sandwich down his throat, so help me God I wanted crunchy peanut butter, not creamy, and he drove to Taco Bell at 1am because you just had to have a crunchy taco (what was with the crunchy cravings?).  And when you held that baby in your arms, that life that you created together, you looked at him and didn't see a boy anymore, he had somehow become a man, a father, and he took that title so seriously and went to work without complaining anymore, and said, Yes of course you should be home with the baby, I'll make the ends meet all by myself, and suddenly you were home owners and he was cleaning out gutters and mowing the yard.  And you tried not to be surprised every month when he paid the bills on time, but it was still hard to believe that he was prioritizing the mortgage over a new Playstation.  And then another baby came and he shocked you even more by cleaning the bathroom without being asked and he learned to cook really good food and suddenly he was switching from Sports Center to the Food Network and was so confident and in charge.  And so you returned to the math equation, the listing of the good and bad, and his hair was disappearing every day, but so was Prince William's and if its okay for a prince then it should be good enough for the love of your life, and beyond the looks you noticed integrity and honesty and maturity, handling difficult situations and refinancing the house to get a lower interest rate and getting up in the middle of the night to clean up the kids' puke and then coming in and cleaning up your puke and you knew that you couldn't do it if the situation was reversed.  And he updates your phone and finds educational apps for the iPad, and even after all these years, he makes you laugh.  And when your car breaks down on vacation and your aunt dies and your sister moves across the country and the doctors say there is something wrong with your son, he holds your hand and there is no one you would rather be with when everything is falling apart.  And when your bank account is overflowing and your best friend comes for a visit and the flowers that you planted are blooming, there is no one you would rather be with.  And then you discover this common desire, this wish to give a child a home, and together you fill out the endless paperwork and go to the classes and then suddenly the phone is ringing and there is a baby for you, and together you nurse this little life and make him your own and you see that the love he has for the new child is just as fierce and strong as the love he has for the ones you made together.  And you hear him at night, tucking the kids in bed, praying with them, reading from the storybook Bible, and you know that he is sharing his deepest self with them.

Family picture 2012

You wonder.  Where is that 17 year old boy?  Of course he is still there in the face, if you Wooly Willy some hair back down his forehead and trim the beard back so its just a goatee, and when the radio station plays hits from the 90's, you see him in the man bobbing back and forth and rocking out to the songs you both loved from the time when you were falling in love.  And he's there in the laugh that still shakes his whole body and the earnest eyes that are all-too-often weary and frustrated these days, when the kids won't go to bed and the appliances need to be replaced and there aren't enough hours in the day.  And you realize that he needs to get away, to take a few days and relax, and so you book a cabin for two and you get your parents to watch the boys and once again you pack his bags because he is threatening to only bring a toothbrush and you know that the people you pass by on your little trip will definitely not want to be seeing all of that.  And you try to think of a way to let him know just how much he means to you, how much better your life is because he's in it, and you hope that he feels the same about you.  You hope he still sees glimpses of that 17 year old girl you used to be, the one who loved to watch movies and eat ice cream and laugh at all his jokes.  The one who always had a hard time saying the Real Stuff out loud, who never quite got the right tone of voice to say "I love you" and didn't know what to think of a boy opening doors for her and offering to hold her purse.

My Fear

"So the good boys and girls
Take the so called right track
Faded white hats
Grabbing credits and maybe transfers

They read all the books but they can't find the answers."

I went to that cookie-cutter high school John Mayer sings about, the one that teaches the equation abc=xyz, with abc being Take these classes, Get straight A's, Graduate with honors, and xyz, you will Get into the top college of your choice, Graduate summa cum laude, and Get the best job ever.  And that's it, that's the meaning of life.  But I was lucky, because my parents didn't believe in conveyor belts, and they encouraged me to chart my own course.  They never shied away from being "weird" or different.  If I wanted to take a class that went away from the mold, they said do it.  If I liked reading science fiction novels instead of the "classics" required in AP English, they said drop the class.  If I wanted to wear clothes from Goodwill or my grandma's attic, they shrugged and went on with it.  They showed me how to figure out exactly who me was, with no right answers, no strict guidelines.

Well, I never lived the dream of the prom kings
And the drama queens
I'd like to think the best of me
Is still hiding up my sleeve

Sometimes when I mention something that my parents did really well, they'll scoff and say they weren't doing it on purpose.  They were flying by the seats of their respective pants, with no map to show them where to go.  So maybe it wasn't sheer bravery that caused them to let me be weird.  Maybe they were just clueless about what they were supposed to be doing.  But isn't that courage in and of itself?  To plow ahead, not looking to the side to see where the other parents are, if they are on the right course or headed for a cliff, to push me into the wide open world instead of on a narrow path to the Ivy League?

"I think what must have frightened my parents most 

of all [about my diagnosis] was the possibility that I would

not be able to lead the "normal" life they really wanted for me.

Like many parents, they equated normality with

being happy and productive."

Daniel Tammet, Born on a Blue Day

So why then, coming out of a home that placed so much importance on individualism, have I become that parent who is constantly checking what the others are doing, wondering if my kids are missing out, not measuring up?  Because I'm afraid.  I'm scared that my kids will show up at school reeking of different, and that will lead to bullying, low self-esteem, resentment toward me.  If they haven't had swim lessons by age 5, did they miss out on important childhood memories?  If I buy their shoes for $4 at a consignment sale, will other people be able to tell?  If our idea of family fun is eating popcorn and watching movies, if I buy them Skittles or let them drink Sprite, am I setting them up for obesity and isolation?  I just want to fit in, to blend in the crowd so my kids will be safe.  But that's not good parenting.  I know it isn't.  I was taught from such an early age to do what is best for me, to clear a path if none existed, to go where I need to go.  And why should that be any different for my kids?  I confessed this to my friend, and she laughed and said, "Oh, you SO don't fit in."  Wow, and that was when I was trying.  So I decided to shut out all the noise, all the websites and commercials and statuses that made me feel like I wasn't measuring up.  I called to mind John Mayer's young adult anthem, the song I identified with so well as a 19 year old nontraditional student.  Because my boys don't fit in boxes.  They are so much more than a list of grades or accomplishments or failures.  They are little people with passions and hopes and dreams.  And I want them to learn what I learned, how to create a life of one's own choices, how to arrive at one's own destination.

I wanna run through the halls of my high school
I wanna scream at the top of my lungs
I just found out there's no such thing as the real world
Just a lie you've got to rise above

My Heart

 "And in my heart I find a need
Of Him to be my Savior

That He would leave His place on high
And come for sinful man to die
You count it strange so once did I
Before I met my Savior"

-Aaron Shust "My Savior My God"

 

When I was very young, my dad sat with me and explained that I could ask Jesus to live in my heart.  This would make me a Christian.  It was something that Mom, Dad, and my older sister already were.  And it made sense to me at the time to do this thing which was obviously the right thing to do, but for all the wrong reasons.  So I would be like my family.  So I wouldn't go to Hell.  I lived my life as a "Christian" on the outside; I never stole, never killed anyone, got good grades and didn't have sex with any boys.  But on the inside, my heart wasn't really in it.  I hated people, like full-blown if they were injured on the side of the road I would walk right by or maybe even kick them HATRED.  And so I talked about these people with my friends, and we exaggerated things that were true about them to the point that we created almost a legend of false gossip in our high school.  And when I planned for my future, I sat God down and told him what I was going to do and where I was going to go and then gave him the green light to make it happen.

But he didn't.  My life after high school didn't look anything like what I had listed off to God in my Christmas List prayer.  And so I had to wonder, who is this guy?  What do I actually believe about God and heaven and hell and being a Christian?  And there were years when I struggled to figure it out, and I tried letting my outside match my inside and skipped church and failed a class and went to a bar and drank alcohol.  But this didn't get me any closer to feeling like I understood anything.  So my fiance (who soon became my husband) found a church for us to attend together, and we went and we sat with a pastor and we asked questions.  And week after week, he answered my questions.  I began to realize where I had gone off course before, where I had made God in my image, instead of the other way around.  When I was 23, my husband and my pastor baptized me in a lake, and I can honestly say I walked out of the water a new person.  I was now on a mission to change my heart.  I didn't know how exactly, but I realized that gossiping about people had to go.  That was a tricky one.  I borrowed some steps from AA...I stopped reading "gossip" magazines like US Weekly, I stopped hanging out with those friends who loved to talk about other people.  I focused on having conversations about Ideas and Places and Themes and went cold turkey off People.  Once I got the hang of that, I saw other things that I was doing, things that began deep in my heart and welled up out of me, things that someone following God shouldn't do.  I examined the people I hated, and found a new way to see them that was full of love and grace.  I dug deep into my heart and grabbed hold of the secret shame I carried and pulled it into the light and refused to carry it any longer.

And just last night I sat in a church, surrounded by moms who were looking for encouragement and comfort, and I remembered what my dad had taught me all those years ago, about how Jesus lived in my heart.  And maybe its because I'm really getting the hang of this homemaker stuff, but I realized that I hadn't given him a very nice place to live.  He was crowded out by anger and shame and jealousy and hatred.  But letting that go, emptying all that darkness, made room for Him.  I gave Him a place to fill with His love, His peace, His kindness and goodness.  I'd like to think that my outside matches my inside again, that all this light that fills my heart shines out.  I'd like to think that God is giving me the marching orders these days, that what I do and where I go is part of His plan, and that this world is becoming a better place to live because of it.

Driving

There's a highway that heads out of town.  I've been down it so many times, going away, off to do or see or be somewhere else.  Its the road I drove when I was a senior in high school, with special permission to visit my sister at college for the first time.  Alone.  Overnight.  I sat behind the wheel in our family's giant van, excited by the freedom and independence I was given, and a little terrified that I would get lost in the cold, dark backwoods that I had to travel once I got off the highway.  I made it, remembering the route I had driven when we dropped her off in the summer, when mom and dad decided to sit in the back and remember every special moment of my sister's life, crying and laughing, and I rolled my eyes up front.  I got to go a few times over the next couple of years, although visiting a college dorm is a little less exciting when you also live in one.  But that first visit...I still remember the excited feeling of being on my own, driving my sister and her roommate to a Mexican restaurant a few towns away for dinner, the flowery smell of a girl's dorm (who doesn't have college flashbacks when she smells that cheap air freshener they sell at the dollar store?).  It was on that road, returning from one of those visits, when I got my first (only?) speeding ticket.  The trembling fear of being pulled over, not knowing what to do or say, and of course, the sinking loss of freedom once mom and dad found out.  Except the cop gave me a ticket and a fine to pay, and I had a job and a checking account, so I mailed off the payment ($140 people, it set me back!), thinking I was free and clear from having my driving privileges suspended.  But I didn't know that the insurance company would send Mom and Dad a letter a few months later, informing them that their rate was going up because their daughter had been pulled over.  Trust me, its worse trying to explain something after many months have passed than to just fess up right away.  Because not only did I get caught, but I lost trust.

I hit the road again when my boyfriend (now husband) started college.  The first time I visited him was on September 11th.  Classes were cancelled, and I sat in my friend's dorm watching the news for about an hour, until the newscaster said, "This is a time to be with the one's you love", and I didn't think of my parents only an hour away, or my sister at her college further away, I thought of the man I loved, four hours away, and I hopped in my car and went to him.  I should mention this was right around the time that we each had gotten cell phones, but I was young and impetuous, and calling to make sure it was a good time (even calling my parents to let them know what i was doing) seemed crass and unromantic.  So I showed up at his dorm and met a cast of characters that I would grow to resent for being idiots and influencing the most important person in my life.  This was the first of many trips, each fueled by an excitement to get there, every love song playing on the radio communicating to my foot to press a little harder on the accelerator.  Each trip was also marked by a tearful goodbye in a parking lot, surrounded by people heading to the cafeteria, feeling jealous that they were so close to him, able to see him whenever they wanted, full of heartache as I drove home, the love songs causing a new wave of tears.  Eventually, we both lived in the same place, the goodbyes were short-lived, lasting only the night, until they were ended altogether by the exchange of rings and vows, the cutting of a cake and the unloading of all our possessions into the same home.

But still, I went down the road.  Because my best friend went to a college and settled into the city and married the love of her life, a native, and every few months, a trip was made to see each other.  Sometimes I had company in the car with me, my husband cracking jokes and finding the station playing Backstreet Boys so he could be cheesy and sing along, or a baby riding in the back, crying for 60 straight miles, not wanting to stop because that was just more time in transit, but also not wanting to listen to him cry.  As soon as I crossed the threshold, it was a race to speak all the words I'd stored up, share all the stories that had built up in my mind, listen to hers, laugh and be together, because its only ever a visit, the time for long discussions and silent camaraderie are over.  We are both wives and mothers who have houses to clean and relatives to spend time with, children who demand our attention, more attention than we thought we had to give, jobs and chores and errands that don't care if we are seeing each other, won't let us have a week off.  Sleep is seen as optional, and I always drive home with a caffeinated beverage in hand, slapping my cheeks and cranking the A/C, because if I've learned one thing on all these drives, its that heat makes me sleepy, so no matter what the weather, its cold air blasting through the vents.

I went there again this weekend, to see the new baby and support my friend, but I went alone.  I drove in peace and quiet, and remembered all the drives that had come before.  I noticed how the curve of the road caused an emotional reaction, how my heart remembered the signs and filled with longing at the memory of what used to wait for me at the end.  But its different now.  Because my home is actually at my home, where my family sleeps and eats, and the world beyond doesn't beckon me like it used to.  Home used to be a place to escape, a boring place where time stood still and everything I wanted required a drive down the road, out of town.  For the first time, its the drive home that makes me press a little harder on the accelerator, the image of my boys waiting at the door, ready to jump on me all at once the second I walk through the door, my husband smiling and pulling me close despite the small bodies wrapped around my legs, the house that we have made a home protecting us and keeping us together.

Waiting

Two years ago, we opened our home.  We made room for another life to join us for however long he needed.  I am ready to do it again.  Its not just the extra bed that is waiting.  I've cleared room in my heart for another child to fill.  While he or she may occupy the extra room for a short time, the love I have will stay as long as my heart is beating.

I don't do this alone.  There is a man who stands beside me.  Although he isn't certain that he is ready, because he tends to worry and think about the worst things that could happen, he agrees none the less that every child deserves a home, a family, and while I wait with my arms wide open, he waits too.  Its why we are a twosome, his fear and my optimism together make us considerate but brave.  It means that we don't jump without looking, that we don't charge ahead without a plan.  We evaluate and discuss and decide together.

We're in a groove now.  This family-of-five thing is running smoothly, with a shampoo-rinse-repeat reliability.  The weeks begin with a full fridge and each day planned out, the laundry sorted and placed in the dressers, the house clean and the grass mowed.  As the days go by, the food gets eaten, the house gets trashed, the clothes are messed and tossed in the waiting machines, the library book pile grows, and always, always, we must be doing something, going somewhere, running running running because these boys are balls of energy that must be constantly engaged in some activity or else they will make up the activity, and there will be cracked eggs on the kitchen floor and flooded basements and footprints on the ceilings and toys down the heating vents.

But every time we add another person to this household, the whole family leaps out of the groove and we have to hold on tight as we figure it out, how does this work now?  It takes months to get back to that well-oiled place of understanding our roles and what needs to be done every day, every week, what can wait?  Its knowing this, that our lives will stall out, go off course, move from order to chaos, that actually makes the waiting bearable.  I can wait for a grumpy husband informing me that there is nothing to wear to work and he needs me to find something in 20 minutes, wait for the children asking for snacks and realizing that the cupboards are empty, wait for the inevitably difficult attempts to leave the house all together.  But, oh, the newness.  The energy that seems to well up from nothing, the excitement and the YES I CAN spirit that have helped me overcome the jarring transition three times now...I know it will be there.  And so I wait.  With open arms.

Accepting the 10

I was folding laundry recently (like, um, every day for the past 6 years), and I had an epiphany.  As I held up a pair of my capris and began to fold them together, my eyes fell on the number 10 in bold font on the tag.  And I cringed.  I realized that I don't like seeing that number on my pants.  I used to see a big, old 6, and it made me feel good.  Then I had a baby, and the number bumped up to 8.  Then I had another baby, and suddenly I was in the double-digits.  Size 10.  Four years have gone by, and although the Jillian Michael's Shred helps firm things up, the number on my pants stays the same.  Every time I see it, I feel fat.  But I have friends who call me skinny.  I have a husband who calls me beautiful.  I have children who rush to hug me and wrap their sweet little arms around the very body that I get disgusted by.  So maybe I'm the one with the problem.  Maybe I'm missing something they are seeing.  And I've decided it means I have to accept this number, and stop wishing it was different.

The tag on the pants and jacket says L.  Winston says that stands for Love.

1.  I want to be healthy.  I could definitely eat better...I drink 2-3 cans of pop a day and have a child-like love of candy (although, unlike a child, I have the means to head out to the store and get more whenever the mood strikes, and no one watching to make sure I save room for dinner).  I enjoy being active, and am constantly chasing my kids and going for walks.  Plus, just carrying one of these guys is a quick workout, now that the oldest is topping 50 pounds.  Try hefting that up to the top bunk 5 times a night.  So being healthy and skinny aren't always the same thing.  As long as I feel like I'm practicing moderation and taking care of my body, it shouldn't matter what size I'm wearing.

The dreaded task: shopping for new jeans

2.  I need to put it in perspective.  I don't have the stats, but I'm pretty sure there are millions of women in the world who wish they were a size 10...from both ends of the spectrum.  Women who are starving and literally don't know where their next meal will come from would be ecstatic to have such a round waist that they have to wear my size 10s.  And women who struggle on the other side, the plus-size, full-figure, Diet Coke-sipping ladies who can't find their size in stores, who resort to mumus to hide their curves...well, if any of you are reading this, don't roll your eyes and write me off because I don't even know what a weight problem is.  I'm in the middle, I'm smaller than Marilyn Monroe, I'm blessed, I get it.  And you all are right.  Being a size 10 is not an international tragedy.  Its just reality.

And the backside...lucky this one didn't get deleted!

3.  I should focus on the positive.  My photographer friend once told me that she hates giving a new bride her wedding proofs, because the first thing she does is find the flaws.  "Oh, my hair looks weird" or "I hate my nose" or "That dress makes my butt look big!"  And she sits there, dumbfounded, because looking through her lens she saw a gorgeous woman on the most exhilarating day of her life looking amazing.  But we all do this, don't we?  We don't look in the mirror and say, I am looking awesome today!  I have the prettiest blue eyes!  I love how this skirt shows off my long, sexy legs!  My lips are just the perfect size!  Personally, my eyes are always drawn to my tummy (flabby), the mole on my chin (how did Cindy Crawford pull this off?), my frizzy hair (0% chance of precipitation my butt!).  My phone rang this afternoon, and it was a friend calling to tell me I'm beautiful, and (for the millionth time) what nice legs I have, and how she wishes she was tall and lean like me.  And I thanked her, because I really needed to hear that.  I've been feeling bad about my looks, particularly feeling fat and unattractive, and it pulled my eyes off the flaws and toward positive.  She's totally right.  I have amazing legs, and I love short summer bottoms that show them off.  Even the ones with a big, old 10 on the tag.

So these are my baby steps, trying to forge a new path toward loving my body.  I would welcome anyone else's perspective, how you love yourself, or even what is your best feature?