Bye Bye Nursery {A Transition}

Things are in transition in the Lipford house.

It's actually a pretty challenging time for me, closing doors on the past and preparing for what comes next.

Nine years ago, I was in the biggest transition of my life.  I'd left full-time employment at a bank and brought home a newborn son, becoming a stay-at-home mom overnight.  I couldn't really express all the highs and lows I was going through, and I certainly didn't have anyone to whom I could say these things out loud.

Some days I wanted to go back to work just to talk with my co-workers, women who had served as a sounding board and advised me on so many smaller changes.  I longed for all the pleasant parts of my previous life:  adult conversations and earning a paycheck.  And lunch breaks!!  How I missed those thirty minutes of quiet.

Instead, I was nursing a child who ate round-the-clock (you don't double your birth weight in two months by slacking in this area), adjusting to the constant touch and demands on my person.  I think the hardest part of being an introvert mom is just how much time is spent in the presence of your children.  I wanted to scream, "Leave me alone!  Nobody touch me for the next hour!"

One thing I did enjoy was setting up our new baby's nursery.  We moved into our house when he was six months old, and I painted his new room and bright, cheerful yellow, with soft white curtains on the windows, bright sheets in the crib, and playful pictures on the walls.  It's a small room, 9 feet by 9 feet, and it was just the right size to fit my babies as they came along, 1 2 3.  Each would transition to a big-boy bed when the next baby boy arrived, and I would lovingly fold the tiny clothes and put them away in the dresser.

So much has happened in nine years.  I am no longer ankle-deep in babies and toddlers.  My days no longer consist of an Elmo video, a walk around the neighborhood, home for lunch, and hey! it's nap time!  We have moved on to bike rides and swim lessons and Marvel heroes.  Questions that range from the annoying ("Why did you drive this way?") to the thought-provoking ("Are police the good guys?") to the down-right incomprehensible ("When you are a baby, will I have to change your diaper?").

The crib is gone, the changing table is obsolete, and the tiny clothes are packed away in storage bins. I don't want this time to be over.  (Seriously, if anyone wants to give me a baby, I will take him no questions asked...)  Somedays, I actually miss the life I used to have, the one full of crying infants and spilled drinks and blowout diapers.  I haven't wanted to let it go.

But this week, the time has come to say goodbye.  Our little yellow room no longer works for our family.  So I'm turning it into a purple "Homework Room", with desks and books and educational artwork.

Part of me knows that this is a necessary change, good even.  We have been blessed with three healthy children who are growing up, who are learning to read and add and figure things out for themselves.  It also means new freedoms and opportunities for me, a chance to write and create and remember who I am independent of all of this.

Still...it's hard to close that door.

Peace on Earth, and Other Impossible Dreams

I woke this morning to an ominous sound.  Someone was rustling through the cupboards in the kitchen, but my husband was still in bed next to me.  This could only mean it was a child in search of candy and fruit snacks for breakfast, so I grabbed my glasses and hurried downstairs.  I walked into the kitchen and saw my six year old, already dressed for the day, standing on the counter with his face in the cupboard.

Not from this morning, but you get the idea

He turned to me and said, "Mama, I already got a bowl, but I can't get my cereal out."  We have funny storage in our octogenarian house, so I helped him jump down and did the little twist and wiggle required to get the Cheerios down.

I poured him a bowl and said, "Hey, you're already dressed!"  He nodded and told me he had brushed his teeth and gotten ready, and now all he needed was some breakfast.  I looked at the clock and saw that we had just entered the last hour before school starts, so I told him if he got socks and shoes on (somehow always a difficult task for my little boys) that he could watch an episode of Jake and the Neverland Pirates and eat his cereal on the couch.  This is a huge treat in our house, as we are scrambling most mornings and rushing out the door.  Rarely do we have the time to sit and watch 20-30 minutes of TV in the mornings.

He obliged (quickly!!) and settled in to watch his show.  One kid down, and still plenty of time to get the others ready.  Next I went to wake the 8 year old.  He is my special boy and needs longer stretches of time than we usually give him to wrap his mind around getting ready for the day.  I climbed up to the top bunk just as he was rolling over, exposing one soft cheek, which I kissed as I whispered, "Good morning!"

His eyes popped open and he smiled at me, saying, "Oh! Good morning!"  His words still feel like a gift to me; the memory of those frustrating years of nonverbal communication still fresh in my mind. "Are you ready to get up?" I asked him, and he said no.  I gave his cheek another kiss and climbed down, knowing that this is all he needs at first, to wake up and have some time to process.  Unbeknownst to me, he snuck upstairs after I left his room and climbed into bed with Daddy, who has the day off and got to sleep in.

Then it was time to check on the third kid, the one who is usually up before anyone else.  I found him in bed, holding the treasures he had acquired on his early morning trek through the house: the iPad and a sleeve of crackers.  I have found worse things in his bed at 8 in the morning.  He smiled at me and I asked him to pause his game and change into school clothes, which he did without argument.

I was doing good, and realized I had time to make some coffee and breakfast for myself.  This is usually something I end up doing at 11am or later, once I finally can sit down or return home and my stomach is growling.  While I got that ready, the oldest emerged and helped pack his lunch and got dressed, then had a good twenty minutes to play in his room.  I could hear him singing a song (an Angry Birds song that he has loved since before he sang along) as I sat at the table and ate my oatmeal.  Then the youngest came in with a puzzle he wanted to do, so we pieced it together, finishing right when we needed to get on coats and shoes.

I got the oldest to brush his teeth and put on his coat just as his bus arrived, then got the other two boys finished up and heading down to the car.  I have three kids in three different schools this year, but they all have to be there at 9am.  It is not so fun somedays.  But this morning, I got all three of them off on time, with no tears, no yelling, and basically no arguing.  Once the last one was dropped off and I was driving around running errands, I had a moment to reflect on how calm I felt.  I had eaten breakfast, played with one kid and had a nice conversation with another.  Each of my kids had displayed a sign on independence, which meant less of a burden on me.

If peace in my house is possible on a busy Thursday morning, then maybe peace on earth is possible too.

The tears are still easily accessible to me this holiday season.  I had hoped that by talking about it with my friends and pulling back from all the nonsense that distracts me from the miracle of Christmas, that my heavy heart would lift and I would get into "the spirit".  Instead of enjoying my usual Mariah Carey pop-heavy Christmas songs, I've been drawn to the more somber and slow ones.  What Child is This? or Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and even Kenny Rogers Celebrate Me Home made me cry this morning in the car.

The only time I have felt my grief met (not relieved, not unburdened, but matched and held), is when I am reading my Bible.  I've almost given up on social media; what used to entertain me just makes me upset these days.  And all around me I find people who are unhappy and falling apart.  But when I open the Bible, when I read through these ancient words, I feel like I'm not alone in this heavy season.

Psalm 46 begins: "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.  Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though the waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging."

It reminds me that it's not about calming the world around me, it's about calming the storm inside me by finding refuge in the One who will not disappoint.  And what if we all did that?  What if we turned away from the wars we start and the fights we join and remembered that the Lord Almighty is with us?  I think it would lead to the end of Psalm 46...

"He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear, he burns the shield with fire.  Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.  The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress."

My prayer this Advent season is Come Lord Jesus come.  Make wars cease to the ends of the earth.  Break the bow and shatter the spear.  Calm our hearts and bring peace to the earth, so that your Name will be exalted among the nations.  And I remember that it is possible when I can eat breakfast with my kids and enjoy a quiet morning free of tears and fights.  "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.  I do not give to you as the world gives.  Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." (John 14:27)

And just for fun, here's Pentatonix....

On Planting and Sowing

A garden has two kinds of growth.  The first is the kind I like: plant a seed in spring, reap a harvest in summer, and the plant dies in the fall.  This happens with herbs, with vegetables, with tomatoes.  Sometimes a plant springs up the following year (my friend calls these "volunteers") when a seed from the previous year has fallen on fertile earth and creates something new.  I like it because you put in a little work, you get a pretty quick yield.  In only a matter of weeks, you have plump tomatoes and zesty herbs ripe for the picking, and you get to cook for a few months off this fresh produce from your own yard.

The second kind is harder for me, not because it's more work, but because it requires patience.  See, the second kind, generally fruits and flowers and trees, takes years to produce.  You drop a seed in the ground (or an indoor container) and the first year you watch it sprout and grow up.  I did this with strawberries.  The next spring, you have a plant, and that summer you might be lucky to get some produce.  Maybe 3 strawberries.  After the first year, I pulled the strawberry plants out the same as I did for the tomatoes, thinking I'd had a bust year.  Then my farmer grandpa told me I needed to leave them in the garden.  To let winter come and wait.  Now the following spring, the third, or even fourth year that you have been tending this plant, you start to get some good yield.  You get pints of strawberries, you get bushels of peaches.  And with a little work, some pruning, some watering, you will continue to reap from this plant that took so much more time to grow.

I went out in the yard and picked 25 strawberries today.  That's in addition to the 20 or so I picked yesterday, the 15 I picked the day before that.  And there are still more growing on the plants.  I don't like to wait, to tend something that isn't immediately producing.  Yet I am reaping the benefits of long-term gardening this summer.  This analogy fits more areas of my life than I care to admit.  The visible, short term results are the ones I like.  The steady praise of a paycheck and a job with a definite start and end...so much more preferable than the daily work of raising children and developing a marriage, which pays nothing and only shows results after years of hard labor.  The work I can do on my own, whose gain is mine alone, I would choose over the efforts of a group, helping the ones who are straggling.  The thing I already know I can do, rather than the new thing that I will fail at before I get better.  What is safe instead of what requires risk.

There is a passage of Galatians which is very popular to teach to children about the Fruit of the Spirit.  Sunday school teachers use construction paper images of fruit and write them out: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control.  No matter what your religion, we can all agree that these are admirable traits.  But note that they are called "fruit", implying that these are things which do not grow overnight, but must be cultivated year after year in order to be present in our lives?

I set a goal for myself this year, to develop better habits.  Most of it boils down to this quick turnaround, the easy out, the candy bar instead an apple, the evening spent in front of the computer rather than face to face with another person.  And yet my pastor keeps repeating this verse from Isaiah-- "Behold I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland."  God is all about breaking old patterns and making things new again.  So I need to be as well.  There's been lots planted in my life, gifts and privilege and accessibility.  I need to look for long term fruit, for the berries that don't come quickly and easily.  I need to tend the plants that take many seasons to produce.

On Breaking Things

I never knew just how breakable the world is until I became a mother of boys.  It began with their births, the way my body had to break open to get them out, the stitches and staples and other random office supplies used to piece me back together.  There were a few months to recover, with noisy and greedy nursing being their primary activity each day and the occasional diaper blowout the only mess I had to clean up.  But then they got mobile.  Before their first birthdays they were pulling down the Christmas tree and chewing on books, throwing toys and falling down.  Then there were the shoes that went missing, never a whole pair, but just one shoe gone.  There were toothbrushes flushed down the toilet and bars kicked out of the crib.  There were broken dishes and broken furniture and makeup that was chewed and spit out.  I fully expect that one of these days our house will just collapse in on itself like a dying star from all the breaking.

What a shock to the woman who still has clothes from high school (and middle school), whose books appear pristine after decades of reading, who tenderly places photographs in albums to preserve her memories.  What unexpected chaos and destruction when we added these little monsters people to our family.  We agreed on a saying, "Nothing we buy is worth more than our kids," (also "Never be worth more dead than alive" see A Perfect Murder with Michael Douglas and Gwyneth Paltrow.  These are words to live by, people.), but sometimes I forget that when I see them throwing toys near the tv or playing with my computer.  Money is tight from replacing the essentials, not leaving much to replace our grown-up toys.  Or when a carton of eggs accidentally (or not so accidentally) gets broken on the kitchen floor and I find myself on hands and knees mopping up goopy membranes and multicolored shells.  Or when a body slams into a wall and a picture comes crashing to the floor, shattering glass and ruining the frame.  Then it seems harder to remember that these little people are the greatest blessing in my life and raising them will be my greatest accomplishment, hands down.

Jesus teaches his followers not to store up treasures where moths and rust can destroy, where thieves can break in and steal.  He should have added a special note for parents:  just don't love any thing because your children will break it.  This includes your body.  This includes their bodies.  Because they are just as careless with themselves as they are with everything else.  They run into walls and trip over imaginary obstacles.  They come within an inch of death on a good day just by moving around and living in this dangerous world.  Perfection and wholeness are not going to be part of our lives as we parent our sons.  There has to be something else, some other treasure worth building.  "But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven....for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Matthew 6:20-21)

What is a heavenly treasure?  How can I acquire something in this life that will be waiting for me on the other side?  That's all Jesus has to say before moving on to other instructions.  He warns people to serve God instead of money and not to worry about what you wear or what you eat.  So here's what I think:  it's not about our stuff, it's about our people.  The purpose of life isn't to build a great house and decorate it with the fashionable and expensive things money can buy.  The purpose of life is to build a home, a place of refuge and protection, a welcome to anyone who passes through the door.  I shouldn't focus on accumulating more stuff, better stuff, because stuff will go out of style (if my kids leave it alone long enough).  I should be collecting people, seeing the hearts beating underneath the clothes and loving the crap out of them.  I should be inviting them over, not worrying about wear and tear on the couch or how much food they will eat.  And I should start with my boys.  Nothing they can break will cost as much as breaking their hearts or breaking their spirits with harsh words and hurtful hands.

So go ahead.  Jump on the couch.  Spill your drink.  Slam the door.  Break a toy.  I will roll my eyes and be thankful that you are here, thankful for each reminder that none of us is perfect.

A Safe Harbor

Nine years ago, I was studying.  It's kind of my go-to thing, when life is changing or a big test looms. No wonder Hermione is my favorite Harry Potter character; her motto is "When in doubt, go to the library."  Nine years ago, life was changing and a big test loomed.  The biggest test, maybe.  I found out I was pregnant and expecting a baby.  And so I turned to books, which had helped me so often in the past.  Except for that blip my first year at college (when I made what my dad likes to call "the Dean's Other List" aka academic probation), I was an honor roll, AP class, straight A student.

Of course studying for motherhood didn't quite work as well as it does for French class, but it didn't hurt.  Most of raising children seems to be hands-on, learn-as-you-go kind of stuff.  But I remember many things that stood out from my reading.  There was some good stuff about mothers and fathers working together and celebrating their different approaches to parenting while agreeing on an overall vision of childrearing.  There were some memorable phrases like "Back to Sleep" and "Breast is Best" that became battle cries over the following year.  And then there was this:  "A mother is like a safe harbor to her sons."  I remember reading it (although I can't remember who wrote it) and turning to my husband, who grew up with only brothers, and asking if that's how he felt about his mom.  He thought about it for a moment and said, "Yeah, I guess that pretty much sums it up.  I know my mom will always be there for me."  So I tucked it away for future reference.

As it turns out, I am now a mother of three boys.  I had a daughter for 8 months last year, but for the long haul testosterone is king and all my kids stand up to pee.  And I have heard that phrase reverberating through my mind over the past nine years.  A safe harbor.  A place of still waters and docks for boats to anchor.  A place where sailors can rest and refuel and restock before heading out again.  I am finding it to be a very true picture of my role.

The goal of parenting (or a goal, or maybe my goal?) is to raise little people to send into the world.  If we do it right, our kids will head out and start lives of their own and live in their own homes and start their own families.  Some day it will be just Chris and I in this little house, with no fingerprints on the windows and no Hot Wheels under the table and just two toothbrushes in the bathroom.  Our boys will be like ships in the ocean, or perhaps little canoes exploring mountain streams.  They will set off to seek adventure and fortune and love, and I hope that they find it.  And I hope they know that they are always welcome to tie their boats up at my dock, to come home for rest and food and hugs.

But even now, I see how I am functioning as their safe harbor.  Each day they go out in some way, they go places I can't follow.  They go to school and church, they play with friends and visit family.  We get very few guarantees in life.  What is that expression, death and taxes are the only two things we can count on?  Happiness isn't guaranteed.  Neither is safety, or friendship, or comfort.  I can't promise that they will find good things when they head out our front door.  I can only be there, waiting to welcome them home, ready to love them and listen to them and reassure them that they matter.

I had no idea when I read about being a safe harbor that I would become the mother of a son on the autism spectrum.  I didn't know the challenges he would face, the barriers he would have to break, the tests and the evaluations and the meetings we would endure.  I had no idea how much work was in store for both of us.  And I had no idea that through it all, when the speech therapists were asking him questions he couldn't answer and the doctors were looking into all the nooks and crannies of his body and the world was just so loud that he would come to me.  I had no idea that my arms would be his source of comfort, that my whispered words would make him safe, that my hands placed just so over his ears would protect him from it all.  I do it all, gladly.  But boats aren't meant to stay docked.  They are meant to sail through the waters, whether they are stormy or calm.  So I am a refuge and a push forward as needed.

I had no idea when I read about being a safe harbor that I would adopt a little boy who didn't grow inside my body.  I didn't know that I would go to the hospital and bring home a baby whose other mother had gone home empty-handed.  I had no idea that I would fall deeply in love with someone I'd never met, that just looking at him asleep in that plastic bassinet would bind my heart to his, that our family could grow from 4 to 5 in a matter of seconds.  I had no idea of the feelings that followed as our son's fate was decided by judges and social workers, the uncertainty and the fear and the hurt.  And I had no idea that we'd journey down a path that still seems to be shrouded in darkness, the choices we would make about finding his first family and reaching out to his sisters and grandparents.  I had no idea that there would be so many people who loved our baby and reached out to hold him, and that always he would look back to make sure I was there.

I have no idea what the future holds for my sons, no way to divine whether they will find love and acceptance outside of our home.  All I know is who I am, who I will always be.  A safe harbor.

Scabs, Wounds, and Healing

Michael fell a few weeks ago.  He was running barefoot at the pool (insert lifeguard whistle) and tripped on a little ledge and went sprawling.  I hurried over, knowing he would need me even before the cries began.  I held him and patted his back, I inspected his knees and hands, I kissed his and head and "I got ya, it's going to be okay".  He kept crying, which was strange, because I didn't see any blood.  It seemed like too much for just a bump.  Then I shifted his body and I saw it: a giant bloody toe.  I had looked in all the expected places for an injury, but it was his toe that had been scraped of skin and was bright red.  I took him to the lifeguard station and we did the usual, antiseptic wipe, pressure to slow the bleeding, a band aid.  I kept holding him for several more minutes, then he was ready to get back down and play with his friends.  We changed the band aid when we got home, applied some Neosporin, covered the foot with a sock so he wouldn't mess with it.

About a week later, he came to sit beside me.  His feet were bare again, and he was looking intently at his injured toe.  He touched it gently, and I noticed that a huge scab had formed over the cut.  "Does it still hurt?" I asked him.  He nodded, still looking at the toe.  "That's called a scab," I explained.  "The scab grows over your cut like a natural band aid and it stays there while the skin heals underneath.  Then, when it's ready, your scab falls off."  I was about to say, "And it'll be like it never happened," but I stopped myself.  That's not accurate, I thought.  I mean, he still remembers the fall and the pain a week later, and while he might forget about it over the course of his life, it's not going to go away.  It was a big enough cut that he'll probably have a scar , a silvery patch of new skin to remind him of the fall.  So instead I said, "When it's ready, your scab falls off and you'll have a little scar where you got hurt.  But once it's healed, it won't hurt you anymore."  He looked at me then.  "It won't hurt no more?"  Nope, it won't hurt no more.

I thought some more about wounds and hurts.  I thought of James, who hits his bruises, hoping it will make them go away.  I thought of my sister, who would pick her scabs too soon and bleed, who would pour nail polish remover over her cuts.  Thankfully she learned better wound care in med school, and when she performs surgery, she stitches and glues and pieces her patients back together.  But it's not just our physical wounds that we mistreat, that we run dirt into or pretend they don't exist. We do this in our wounded hearts, we use crude, ineffective means to cover and hide and our hearts just get mangled in the process.  There is only one way to wholeness, one course of treatment in our bodies AND our hearts to fully heal.  We have to flush our wounds, treat with antiseptic, cover with clean bandages, and we have to let our bodies do the hard work of rebuilding.  We need new skin, new nerves, new connections to grow under our scabs.  And we have to wait, to allow the healing process to complete itself.  Only then can our scabs fall off, our bandages be removed, our bodies and hearts be free to live fully.  Not as pristine as the original, but whole as our scars entwine us and help us to move again.

http://desertstream.org/living-waters/

Because It's Just a Phase

I went out for a date tonight with my husband.  It was sunny and cool and I was hungry, so we went to a restaurant and talked about the big stuff and laughed about the little stuff and shared our food with each other and held hands.  And somewhere between the mozzarella sticks and the ice cream I started thinking about my friends, so many of whom have become parents this past year.  I was thinking about you all and wondering if you're having trouble getting out of the house and leaving the baby with someone else.  (Maybe you are the one having a hard time, maybe the kiddo is screaming when you pass her off to Grandma, maybe it's a little of both.)  Whew, I remember those days.

First-time parents, 2007

I remember when James was just a month old and my parents came over at dinner time and they said, "Leave the baby with us.  Go meet Chris for dinner."  See back in those days, my husband took classes in the mornings and worked all afternoon and came home around 11pm.  I had just stopped working to take care of the baby and didn't really know what I was supposed to be doing all day.  (I watched old seasons of Gilmore Girls and read novels and took the baby for a walk most days.)  So with my parents pushing me out the door, I headed over to my husband's work and met him for his dinner break and we went to Taco Bell and stared at each other until finally he said, "This feels weird."  Because it had been just the two of us for a while, we'd done this plenty of times, but now we were three, and it felt strange to be without the baby.

First Father's Day, 2007

Those early days of parenthood are around-the-clock marathons of giving and sacrificing and bonding so intensely with this new little person.  And it took months, no--years, for us to be able to walk out the door without our little kid screaming and crying and chasing after us.  There were times when I changed my mind about leaving.  Times when it just didn't feel right, I didn't trust the person who was supposed to be taking care of him, so I didn't go.  But there were other times when I knew he would calm down and have fun, I just had to leave and let him realize that other people could take care of him for awhile.  I needed to realize that other people could take care of him too.

Imaginative Play, 2013

But tonight...the boys were invited to come make cookies with Nana, so we loaded up the car.  Everybody grabbed their shoes and socks, and with a little help from us, we were all ready to go.  We pulled in my parents' driveway and there were squeals of delight from the back seat.  "NANA'S HOUSE!!"  I got out of the car, but the kids were already through the door and shoes were off again and by the time I walked inside, they had all dispersed to different corners.  I said a quick hi and thanks to my mom for the opportunity to go out, and as I turned to go, Mikey came running around the corner.  "Hey buddy, I'll see you in a little bit!" I said.  "Okay Mommy, bye bye!" he called over his shoulder as he kept running.

Birthday Bowling, 2014

And it hit me.  You guys, it's just a phase.  Those days of guilt and ambivalence and crying every time you leave...it doesn't last forever.  Those summer afternoons of breastfeeding and napping and bleary-eyed everything.  Those days of camera constantly in hand to document all the amazing, breath-taking NEWNESS.  Those frustrating hours when you just want them to sleep a little so you can look at Facebook or read a magazine or take a shower.  Those moments of doubt when you're sure you're getting it all so very wrong because it just doesn't look like how you thought it would look, your kid doesn't seem to be doing all the stuff the other kids are doing, your hair is messed and all the other moms seem fashionable and put-together.  It's just a phase.  I promise you, just keep going.  You can get through this day and this hour and this moment.  You can do this!!  You are the only person uniquely qualified to care for this little person.  To him, you are the master of the universe.  You control the weather and you make the food and you carry him around and your smile is like seeing the face of God.  And it won't last forever, this 24 hour caregiving.  There will come a day when you drop your kids off at the grandparents' house and they barely notice you leaving.  There will come a day when they walk to the playground with their brother or a friend and you stay behind.  There will come a day when they start reading books to themselves at night while you sit in the other room.  And those are all good things.  Because it's just another phase.

Spreading His Wings, 2014

The Story about the Van Door

Last night, scrolling through Facebook, I came across this post by Jen Hatmaker:

"Spent the day in Nashville with my publishers and adorable PR team, planning for "For the Love" which you will have this summer. I think we got work done, but all I can remember is laughing and telling hilarious stories. 

Beth's comment to her toddler daughter about what to do with her precious apple slices comes to mind. (Can't handle. These are so my people.)

Which brings me to this: what is your most hilarious, worst Mom Meltdown Fail? Like when I told my sassy-mouthed (then) 5th grader to get a shovel, go in the backyard, and dig his own grave? 

Let's hear it. I swear you are not the only mom who lost her crap really bad once."

My first thought (of course) was "I don't have any stories like that."  Then I began reading through, and the memories came rushing back....

Two years ago, we bought a minivan.  Finally we could have more room for our growing family!  We got the Chrysler Town & Country with Stow N Go and automatic doors.  We were super fancy.  Months later, I had planned out a fun family outing.  We dropped Chris off at work so that we could pick him up after work and go to the zoo's special Member Night, with extended hours and probably a bit quieter than during the day.  I don't remember details about how the rest of the day went, but probably it was stressful, with three boys (ages 6, 4, and almost 2) home all day, with the summer heat, with me just not managing my feelings very well.  The time came to load up in the car, and again, I can't remember why, but I was rotating car seats around. (I hate dealing with the car seats.  When we get past this age I will probably try to burn them for the catharsis.)  I was sweating and the boys were whining and I reached the point of Mommy Meltdown.  I began to yell and bark at the kids to JUST SIT DOWN IN YOUR SEATS.  Someone was stressed about a seatbelt that wouldn't buckle, and I went around to the passenger side, grabbed the handle, and with an animal roar, I ripped the door back...and it just kept going.

YES.  I pulled the door off our minivan.  The children became very quiet as they stared with wide eyes at the Thing That Just Happened.  I tried (feebly and unsuccessfully) to reattach the door, to slide it back into the track.  And then I realized that I couldn't drive a car with NO DOOR.  I called my husband to tell him he needed to somehow find a ride home.  Then I had the biggest meltdown ever, crying and talking to myself, and oh yes, sweating even more.  All while my three children watched from their seats.  I could not think.  I did not know what to do.  The world had tilted off its axis as I paced around my garage.  So I made a decision.  I called a friend.  This is someone I'd known for about a year, a fellow mom who always seems so calm and collected and is constantly giving me good advice.  She is a treasure.  I knew that I was taking our friendship to new territory by inviting her into my chaos.  I remember feeling keenly aware that this is not something I'd done...ever...with a friend.  With my voice still hysterical, I explained the situation.  And she was the exact right person to call.  In her calm, firm voice, she said, "Rachel.  Take the kids out of the car.  You are not going to the zoo today.  Just go back in the house and wait for Chris to get home."  I nodded desperately.  "Okay, okay, yeah that sounds good.  Okay, yeah, I will.  Okay, okay kids, let's get out of the car."  My voice was still in that strange, hysterical place.  And for probably the only time in their lives, my children very quietly exited the car and marched back inside and sat still and staring.  I pulled a carton of ice cream out of the freezer and served it up for the boys.

My dad came by later to sort of jimmy the door back in place, then we locked it and drove it to the mechanic, who fixed it for only $50.  A short time later, we were loading the family in the car and I was getting frustrated again and pulled on the door too hard and Chris begged me to please, please just use the buttons to open the sliding doors...something I still do to this day.  The boys would bring it up every time we got in the car for several months, "Is the door broken?  Mommy, did you pull the door off the car again?  Can we drive our car Mommy?"  Clearly this affected us all very deeply.

In fact, this crowning moment of Mommy Failure spurred me to check my anger.  Last year for Lent, I chose to give up yelling at my kids.  It was something that was happening far too often and I felt out of control.  So for six weeks, I would catch the rage as it bubbled up, walk into the kitchen, take deep breaths, grab some candy, stop and pray for peace.  I usually lost control about once each week, the shouting would come out of my mouth and I would stop mid-sentence and will myself to speak in a regular volume.  And the really magic thing is that I don't go into full-blown Mommy Meltdown these days.  I'm racking my brain trying to remember the last time I threw a couch out the front door or hurled a toy downstairs or spanked my kid so hard he bore a red handprint.  My friend remarked this morning that our family seems a lot calmer these days.  It's true.  There are arguments, of course, the kids fight over toys and I raise my voice because I TOLD YOU TO PUT IT DOWN AND COME TO THE TABLE, but overall we are much less stressed than we have been in the past.  

Because that is the power of a mother.  I have the ability to influence my children, to set the tone in our house, to train them up in the way they will go.  So how am I using that?  What are they learning from me?  (And not my words, because of course I am so good at saying all the right things and giving "important" lectures on why they are privileged white American males who have it so much better than the rest of the world and they should thank God for where they were born and the fact that they have clean water in which to bathe AT ALL, so never you mind if it is the correct temperature or the perfect depth or if you would like to soak a little longer...)  Am I showing them how to properly love other people?  Am I showing them that we all have feelings but that our feelings shouldn't rule our mouths and our behavior?  Am I teaching them what is REALLY important--not a clean house or combed hair but Truth and Justice and Mercy and Compassion.  There was a time when I really wondered if I was the right person to be raising my kids.  I wondered if someone else (Liga, probably) wouldn't just do it so much better.  But I am slowly becoming someone who is worthy of the title Mom.  I am learning to help my children fill their minds with attitudes that will help them soar, not weigh them down.  But I still use those buttons to open the car doors.

My Thoughts on Men

"Consider the target: women in their greater physical

weakness and emotional sensitivity are the target

for cruel and arbitrary assault.  The dishonor of women

runs like a dark polluted stream through history,

and all women have in some way been impacted

by it.  Misogyny is a universal blemish

on the face of woman."   -Andrew Comiskey

When I look around at the world, all the problems we face today seem to boil down to one source: men.  Think about it.  Men are ISIS, men are Al Qaeda, men are Boko Haram, men are warlords.  Men are in seats of power all over the world, arguing with each other over who has the bigger throne. Men are the oppressors of women, children, and minority groups under the guise of religion, law, and brute force.  It's hard to imagine women inventing prostitution, racism, fast food, or sweat shops.  War and all its various horrors are clearly the handiwork of men, since it is men determining when a country invades or attacks another, men who lead troops of other men to the front lines, men who created and deploy bombs, drones, and artillery. (Just in case you think I have pink blinders on, yes, women also fight.  But we like to do our damage in close range, so we can see the hurt we inflict and watch the life drain from the eyes of our enemies.  We're satisfied with sharp spears, even if they only take shape in our words.)

Not to mention, men, how you make your families vulnerable when you abandon them, leaving women to serve as both mom and dad to the children you create but refuse to raise.  Single mothers are working to sustain the family and also totally responsible for the emotional nurture of their kids.  All of that is too much for one person.  So young women grow up never knowing love and affirmation from their fathers and seek out replacements in the form of abusers and takers.  Not to mention that the young men who are drawn to fundamentalist hate groups grow up in homes without fathers.

And so I stand in judgement, blaming men for all these problems and more, but still I hold a candle of hope.  Because what stands between me and my burning hatred for the world's injustices are five guys offering a glimpse of what men are supposed to be.  I am fortunate to be surrounded by men who love me well, who uphold the often forgotten practices of fidelity and service, who embrace the strengths of masculinity without exhibiting the flaws of their gender.

I grew up in a home with both my mom and my dad, and my dad has always told me that I can do anything.  He took me to the library and let me get any books I wanted (I was at the library with my kids recently and overheard a dad tell his daughter to just get one book...I wanted to inform him that they are free and shouldn't be limited, but I held my tongue).  He taught me to play basketball and explained the rules of football as we watched games together.  He told me I was beautiful, even when the mirror seemed to contradict him.

Because of how I was raised and the kind of man my dad was, when I became an adult and looked for a partner in life, I found a man very similar in Chris.  He appreciated and loved me from the start, not perfectly (for there is only One who loves me perfectly, and I'm still trying to wrap my mind around who He is) but well.  I knew that he would be the kind of father I wanted my kids to have, and I believed he would be a husband who would honor and cherish me for the rest of his life.  So far, I haven't been wrong.

Together, we created two lives.  How I desired for those children to be girls, to raise them to be fierce, awesome women who don't take crap from anyone, pursuing truth and justice.  But God in His infinite wisdom gave me sons.  Even when we stepped outside our gene pool, still a boy was the one we got.  So instead of raising warrior daughters and feeding them misandry along with my breastmilk, I am becoming tenderized daily to the beauty of my boys.  I love them, not in spite of the stink of their farts or the messes they make, but because of them.  I am learning to take delight in their feats of strength and enormous appetites, their stubbornness and their desire to lead.  (Even the three year old the other day demanded that I follow him, instead of the other way around.)  I feel so strongly the duty I have to these boys, to show them what a woman is.  She is strong (as I chop down trees and move furniture).  She is soft (as I cuddle their growing bodies and give comfort to their boo boos).  She is smart (as I help with homework and teach them new things).  She is brave (as I kill spiders and engage in plastic sword fights).  She is loving and worthy of love (as we live this life together, taking care of each other).  And oh, I can see the men these boys will grow into.  I can see them taking jobs as teachers and police officers, helpers and public servants.  I can see them falling in love with strong, courageous women and creating families of their own.  I can see them doing the hard work of love (because if they don't, if they try to bail, their father and I will drag them back home no matter what).

And so my candle of hope burns into the night.  What if the tide is turning?  What if men and women together could bring healing to this earth, if we could set things right?  What if our men stood in their rightful places as protectors and providers instead of being pimps and power-hungry?  What if we loved so boldly that we fought back against terror and injustice?  What if all our children grew up in families where fathers were present and active, because they didn't bail, because they didn't die in an unjust war, because they knew what really mattered in life?  If we could do this, then we could all live free, men and women together.

Thanks to my guys, for being the persistent flame on my candle.

On Community (not the TV show)

It was supposed to be an uneventful morning.  It was supposed to be relaxing.  But who am I kidding, when is my life ever uneventful?  I got the big boys ready and off to school and then it was time to take the littlest one to the library for story time.  We are enjoying these quiet times together and exploring what he likes independent of his brothers and their dominating interests.  But we didn't just play with the trains and sing songs with Miss Renee.  This morning we met Katie and Scotty.  We were minding our business when Scotty came over to play with Mikey.  He had been reading books with his mom, but decided to get on the floor instead.  Mikey didn't want to share, which made Scotty cry and run back to his mom.  I thought to myself, there is something going on there, and moments later she confirmed.  Scotty was recently diagnosed with a Sensory Processing Disorder and his mom suspects further testing will reveal an Asperger's diagnosis.  He just started therapy and there is so much to work on, she said.  I nodded sympathetically.  I KNOW.  And then I said, "My oldest son is on the autism spectrum."  Words I used to avoid.  Words that brought me to tears every time I said them out loud.  But look at me now!  Casually telling this stranger about my special child.   Because we are part of the same community.

She wanted to talk more.  She told me about her family, how they are not supportive, how they undermine her when her son goes there for the weekend.  So I told her, "You are the mom.  You know your child, you know what he needs.  So do it.  It is hard, and sometimes it takes a really long time to see any progress from it.  But you'll do it."  She nodded and said, "I really needed to hear that."  Katie, I KNOW.  I needed to hear it too.  Sometimes I still need to hear it.  There are a ton of different ways to parent, to be a good mom, and you need to trust yourself that the way you have chosen is correct.  You need to be reminded that your son isn't bad, he's just special.  And that means the way you parent him will have to be special.  You will do it because it's your job.  You will do it because, although this isn't the child you thought you would raise, it's the child that you have, and he's amazing.  It gets easier to see the amazing and stop focusing on the problems as you go.

Can I just say how much more desirable it is to be the one saying "It gets better" than to be the one hearing it? This keeps happening to me, these opportunities to meet newly diagnosed kids and their caregivers, and every time it takes me back (almost five years now) to those days of fear.  I treated my son's diagnosis like all hard things in my life to that point:  I hid.  I buried the truth inside and pulled away. Fear and shame have isolated me for so much of my life, and this was no different.  I was afraid of what people would say, how they would treat us if they knew.  But my silence and my secrets have hurt me deeply.  And so finally I took a chance and reached out.  It was around this time that I met Mandy, who is not part of the special needs community, but took me under her wing and brought me to a literal Village who accepted my whole family in a way I'd never experienced before.  And because of these people teaching me about community, about give and take, about showing up with your mess and letting them wash it clean, about forging a family independent of blood or marriage, I can tell Katie what she needs to hear.  I can be the lifeline that I once needed.  I can offer camaraderie and turn a library into sacred space.

Glennon Melton of Momastery.com says that we belong to each other.  This is true of moms, of special needs families, of PEOPLE.  We need each other.  We need all of our experiences, we need all of the answers we have found, we need encouragement and support and a thousand times over we need to LOVE.  If you are in hiding, COME OUT.  We need your story, we need your passion.  And we just might hold the keys that will set you free.

An Update on My Heart

I got more than my usual number of pageviews when I wrote about our little Girl leaving to return to her family, and I so appreciate the support and encouragement that you all have given to me and my family, not just in the past few weeks, but in the past several months.  This was a very challenging placement, full of highs and lows and non-stop work.  I felt the need to update everyone about how I'm doing, lest you think my summer has been spent on the brink of full-blown depression.

We said goodbye on June 26th.  I had been packing her stuff gradually so it wouldn't all come on one day, but it was still a rush to get everything together.  I wanted to get it all out at once because I thought I might lose it if I opened a door or pulled out a drawer and found something of hers.  Well, I didn't get it all, although I did get most of it.  There were some clothes still in the laundry, a few toys that had wandered under the couch.  But seeing them did not have the devastating effect I thought they might.  Instead, finding Doc McStuffins under a pile of clothes and pink and white sneakers in the basement made me smile.  I put the leftovers in a bag and was able to take it over to her grandma's house the following week, which gave me the extra benefit of seeing Girl again.  We dropped her off in the morning, and it was just Michael and me, since Chris was at work and the boys had VBS.  I thought it was better that way, since I could focus on saying goodbye, and I thought Michael would benefit from actually seeing her go to another house, to know that she was going to live with an adult who would take care of her, to give him closure.  Because the family was so scattered that morning, we took the night before to say our goodbyes properly.  We explained to Girl that she was moving to Grandma's house, that this wasn't a sleepover, but a permanent move.  She got excited and smiled big.  Then she asked me if I would be mad at her for leaving.  I shared on my facebook page the response I gave her, which is that I was only sad to have to say goodbye.  We had talked before about how she would always be part of our family, even if she didn't live in our house.  Then she proceeded to say, "I think Daddy will miss me.  And Michael will miss me.  And James will miss me, and Winston too."  We were all there and said yes, she would be missed.  We took turns giving her hugs, telling her that she was loved and precious to us.

When the car was unloaded, when it was time to get going, she didn't want to say goodbye.  She didn't want to hug us, but that's pretty typical for her.  I never forced her to give hugs or kisses if she didn't want to, I felt like she needed to have that choice respected, and it made her rare moments of physical affection mean more.  So we left.  I spent the morning with Michael, then we picked up the boys and went home.  And I crashed.  I fed the kids and got them in their rooms for quiet time, and I laid down and cried.  For a few days, I just felt this heaviness on me, this weight on my chest, and it was exhausting.  I slept quite a bit, and my darling husband really stepped in and gave me space to crumble.  He took our boys to the pool and let me sleep, he took them to the park while I lay on the couch.  Then he suggested that we do a family activity.  We picked up pizza and went to a park.  We ate together and the kids ran around and then James wanted to go for a walk, so I followed him.  It was exactly what I needed.  I needed to get out of the house, I needed to remember how amazing my kids are, I needed to feel love and togetherness and FAMILY.  Because this giving, giving, giving is hard work.  The appointments and the medicine and the personality differences and the trauma that manifested itself over the past 8 months took everything I had.  The boys have taken it easy on me the past few weeks, they have been pretty calm and good to each other and very loving to me.  I feel like there is room for them again, on my lap, in my arms, they are filling up the silence the Girl left with their funny observations and silly games, and they are my joy.

Not many people get this experience, I think, of adding a fourth child and then reverting back to a family of five within the year.  Because what's interesting is that we got used to it, how much food to make, how much time to allot for, how to do baths and dentist appointments and school drop offs.  So now there is all this time, this space, this freedom.  The boys are pretty low maintenance.  They are content to hang out in their jammies, to watch movies or run around the yard catching bugs.  They don't really fight, they don't cry too much, overall the drama has pretty much gone away around here.  There is an element of relief to this saying goodbye that has gotten me through.

Although they don't talk about it much, I think the kids notice her absence too.  I noticed the day after she left how they had abandoned our rules for being fully clothed around the house.  A DAY people.  After almost a year of having a sister, they were in their underwear, shirts off, penises hanging out on the couch(that one I nipped in the bud, because the Girl might be gone, but Mommy has no desire to see it either).  A week after she had left, we went swimming, and as we were pulling out of the driveway, Winston, suddenly in a panic, said, "We forgot the Girl!  There are supposed to be six of us!"  We explained again that she didn't live with us anymore, that it was five again, and everyone was in the car who needed to be there.  I still see and hear her in Michael, which I figured he would be the kid who was most influenced by her.  But without her to feed off of, to egg him on, even Mikey is calming down.

I mentioned in the previous post how we had just hung our family picture with all of us in it when I got the call that she was leaving.  I then printed out some candids I had taken recently, and filled some new frames with images of our beautiful children, our family, and hung them on the walls.  I find that I like glancing across the room and seeing her huge smile, and remembering that even though it was hard, it was good too.  I think of her leaning against my shoulder while I read stories, how we held hands and prayed at night, all the times I carried her and tickled her and swung her around.  And I'm grateful for the time I got to spend as her mom.

PS-- No more ethnic hair care dilemmas.  That's what I'm most glad to be done with.

To my boys

Today I am praying for you.  I am thinking about a time in the near future when you won't be chasing each other around the yard and climbing into my bed in the early morning to start the day with cuddles. A time when you will be men.  White American men.  Because of this-where you were born and the color of your skin- many doors will be open to you, and you alone.  And so today, I'm praying.  Praying that you will recognize the arbitrary nature of privilege, that you will see those open doors not as a right, but an opportunity.  I want you to walk in to those exclusive places, places that are barred to a woman like me, or your friend in the wheelchair.  I'm praying that when you do, when you take your seat at the table, you will start a revolution that changes this world from the inside out.  I want you to teach inclusion and love, create opportunities and throw the doors wide open.  I'm praying that your lives will intersect with people who are different from you, and you'll have the chance to embrace and celebrate the human spectrum.  Because they will judge you and assess you and rank you based on your outside (all the things about yourself that you can't control), I'm praying for your insides, the part you get to choose.  I'm praying that you will use your strength to protect.  I'm praying that courage will come to you when you need it most.  I'm praying that you will think for yourselves.  I'm praying that your hearts will break when you see injustice, and you'll turn heart break into action.  I'm praying that you'll measure success in the number of lives you change.

And I'm praying that right now, today, your dad and I are preparing and equipping you for what lies ahead.  I'm praying that I will remember the big picture and not be caught up in making sure you wash your hands and tie your shoes (those things are important and worth doing, but they aren't the most important thing I can teach you).  That matching socks and washing dishes won't distract me from the job that matters most- being your mom.  Your dad and I want so badly to get it right, this job of being your parents.  We want to avoid the mistakes our parents made with us (I know, your grandparents are AMAZING people, and you love them more than us sometimes, but once they were stressed out parents and occasionally they went about things the wrong way), because we know what our baggage looks like, and we don't want to see you boys struggling to carry this with you through life.  But we will make mistakes too, probably different ones, and I'm praying that you will be able to overcome whatever wrongs we inflict on you.  When I studied history in college, when I learned of the atrocities that human beings are capable of committing against each other, I couldn't believe how much is actually carried out by the ordinary masses.  That a handful of evil people can lead entire tribes or even countries to annihilate one another. And I have to believe that people capable of being swayed to violence and hatred can also be swayed to love and compassion...but someone has to do the leading.  Boys, you could be the ones.  You could change the world.  I love you.  I believe in you.

Autism Acceptance

Are you sick of these yet?  Do you feel like sending me some new sheet music so I can play something other than this one note?  I feel that way myself sometimes.  Like, just talk about something else, right?  But just when I start to write a blog about how much I love to binge watch shows on Netflix, my fingers take over and the words come out different.  Because there are other times when I think, Why bother to do this at all if you're not going to do something worthwhile?  If I can't use my words, my blog, my hair to tell people how much I love my kids and how much they should love the kids in their lives, then what am I doing?

You've seen the puzzle pieces, you've read the articles, you wore blue!  You are AWARE of autism.  And, with 1 in 68 children in the US being diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum disorder, how could you not be?  Now that we're all here, it's time to collect your belongings and move on, to that door marked "Acceptance".  Don't just know about autism, ACCEPT it.  Understand that the child you see melting down at the store very well might be suffering a sensory overload, or having difficulty processing the transition from the car to the building.  Realize that the person on their iPad is using that amazing technology as a tool...it enables his family to enjoy dinner at a crowded restaurant, it's teaching him to speak and write, it actually engages a child who might otherwise be withdrawn into himself.  Celebrate when your friend tells you that her 10 year old learned to tie his shoes, even though your own kids mastered that skill at age 5, because development doesn't always come in a straight line.

My family is different from yours...except when we aren't.  We love each other fiercely.  We dance in our living room.  We get on each others' nerves and need time alone to recharge.  My 7 year old has terrible tantrums sometimes, and I am constantly trying new ways to reach him, to help him find his calm.  When I ask him questions, I have to wait patiently for an answer.  Sometimes it takes him years to give it.  He is also gentle and kind.  Did you know that my children only fight with each other about once a week?  That most days, they are in a nice groove, and they give to each other and walk away from each other, that they hold hands without being prompted and sneak into each others' beds to cuddle at night?  Did you know that raising an autistic child has taught me an entirely different way to look at the world, and I'm a better person for it?  Did you know that when you accept someone with a neurological difference, that you start accepting all kinds of other folks: people in wheelchairs, people with Down Syndrome, people with addictions and criminal records and even people who liked the series finale of Lost?  Because the definition of "what matters" and "who is worthy of my time" is completely re-written when you can't project the best image of yourself onto your child.  When you have to accept him for him or lose your mind, because he refuses to be something he's not.  And then you'll be free from that conveyor belt you SO DESPERATELY wanted to live on, and you'll realize it's actually pretty nice here, where time moves at a different speed and success looks so different from how you always saw it.

It's okay if you don't like my son.  Really.  If you spend time getting to know him and decide you just don't care that much about Angry Birds or you like big crowds, it's okay to go in another direction.  Because you took the time.  Because you looked at him and saw another person with feelings and interests and a huge heart.  Because you accepted who he is and didn't try to change him.

Happy April friends.  See you here again next year for Autism Acceptance Month.

Becoming a Family

I've written before about the process of becoming a foster parent.  There were so many thoughts, so many fears, just the months leading up to receiving our license provided enough material to keep this blog going.  So here's another from back then: I worried that becoming foster parents would ruin our family.  I would lay in bed at night and think about this beautiful, amazing, increasingly rare thing we had.  Chris and I did it all in the "traditional" order: we got married, we had a baby a few weeks after our second anniversary, we waited 18 months and then we made another one.  I gave birth to two healthy, beautiful boys, and the four of us were a family.  Chris earned the money, I stayed home with the kids, we all had the same last name and the same skin color and the same love of buttered popcorn and movies on the couch.  When the time to enroll the boys in school came around, we just showed up with a birth certificate and immunization record, filled out some papers, and it was done.  We got to skip over the lengthy sections detailing custody agreements.  We got to travel when we wanted, to make all the decisions affecting our kids.  We made a family from our own DNA, and I thought being in that exclusive club held us together.

We got the call, we brought home a baby, and it was different.  When I held him, when I gave him his bottle (no breastfeeding, which was a bummer), I didn't search his features to find the ones that matched mine.  Between the pediatrician and the caseworker, we made arrangements and implemented their decisions.  We tried to be considerate of the strangers who visited with him each week, the people who bore the titles of Mom and Dad.  We had to get a court order to take him out of state to visit my sister.  And then, one day, he began talking.  His first word was "Dada", and he said it while he was in my husband's arms.  A month later, he called me "Mama".  And I was confused at first, because he called the other woman Mama too.  I thought there could be only one, but he showed me how silly and narrow that was.  At church, we began meeting with other families, and we talked about being a family to others.  The doors of my heart opened to the people coming through the doors of my house.  Michael was just the beginning, as we reached out to his sisters and the relatives taking care of them, the other Second Moms.  And, despite not having a title, a roll-off-the-tongue name to describe how we fit together, I knew we were becoming a family.  My preteen neighbor started coming over, and bringing her friends, and we would stop by her house and spend time with her parents, and another branch was added to our tree.  We got another call, a little girl this time, and she quickly joined the other kids in calling me Mom, and she loves to tell people that she has two Moms, two Dads, two Grandmas and one Nana, and a Grandpa.  And she began to use a word we hadn't taught her to describe our boys; she called them her brothers.

All these people, they taught me that family isn't about looking alike and living in one house together.  Family describes the people we love, the ones who live in our homes and the ones who find a place in our hearts.  Family is who we show up for, it's who we take care of, it pulls us together.  When Michael's First Mom contacted us, when she came back to the land of the living, it was the easiest thing to share a meal with her, to talk to her, to let him sit on her lap.  Of course we want to see her, to help her, to clear off a chair for her to join us.  Because she's family.

Happy birthday (and Autism Awareness)

April is Autism Awareness month.  It's special to me because I spend all year becoming more aware of autism, learning about it so I can be a better mother to my son James.  It's a funny turn of events, since James was born at the end of March, so our celebration of him turns into a month of trying to better educate those around us to understand this thing that affects how he interacts with the world.

So let's start here:
Autism is characterized by three things.
1. Social interaction.  Autistic people can be shy or outgoing, but they will struggle to know how to connect with other people, often characterized by limited eye contact, trouble taking turns, and becoming overwhelmed by the presence of "too much" (too much...noise, light, physical touch, etc).
2. Delays in verbal and nonverbal communication.  Some autistics will never speak, but this should not be confused for having nothing to say.
3. Repetitive, stereotyped behaviors.  Don't all kids flap their hands when they get really excited?  Or repeat the same phrase over and over when they get overwhelmed?  Or just make random sounds at seemingly inconvenient times?  No? 

Now let's talk about autism and birthdays.
James began using single words around age four and a half, and we were like starving people who can only be fed with verbal communication.  "Say it again!" we'd cheer.  Whatever seemed to cause him to speak would be repeated over and over so we could hear his beautiful voice.  Just in the past six months, his words have really taken off, and he's using sentences and sometimes really loudly and clearly telling his little siblings what he doesn't like (it's true, I stand outside the boys' room and do a little happy dance when I hear his scream, "No Winston!  That's James' car!  Give me that!").  I really want him to have good manners, but for now, I'm applauding what I see as the seeds of self-advocacy that will help him later on.  Okay.  So apparently when you have a March birthday, you begin inventory the day after Christmas: what you got, what you want, how many days until I get presents again?  For the past few years, James has better understood the concept of time, the months, days passing, etc, so we start our countdown to March 30th.  He's had a recent renewed interest in Pixar "Cars"; combine that with his ability to navigate YouTube and find commercials for products that are no longer sold in stores...I've been getting a very specific request for the four cars he didn't previously have (if you're interested, they are Raoul CaRoule, Rip Clutchgoneski, Lewis Hamilton, and Shu Todoroki.  He would like the die-cast models to complete his World Grand Prix lineup.  Every day).  I was thrilled to find three of these at Target (on sale, no less) about a month ago, but several trips have come up empty for the Lewis Hamilton car.  When I checked Amazon, he was available....for $12.  So I let James know that *maybe* he was getting some new cars for his birthday, and if he got birthday money from the great-grandparents, he could purchase the rest.  And maybe this all seems mundane, not worthy of note...but he's telling us this.  With his words.  That is so HUGE.

We've been talking lately about the love languages, and how we should really try to love other people in the way that they feel loved (which is almost always NOT the way that we prefer to give love).  I thought about this as it pertains to parenting, and specifically to my child who is so easily overwhelmed, so inside himself.  I really wanted to watch him open his cars today.  I wanted to see the look on his face, and, if I'm honest, I really wish he would look at me and say something like, "Oh, thank you so much mom!  It's exactly what I wanted!"  But I'm not an early riser, and I'm certainly not "together" or even really "awake" until 11am or so.  After I talked it over with Chris, I grabbed the cars from their hiding spot, unwrapped, and put them in James' bed after he fell asleep.  This kid has been looking forward to playing with these cars for THREE MONTHS.  If it was all about me, and getting some sort of response for how awesome I am at buying toy cars, then I would have made him wait until this afternoon, so I could really appreciate his reaction.  But instead, I did what I thought he would like, and just cut to the chase.  Chris heard him squealing in his room at 7am, and he had at least two cars in his hands at all times today.  I think we did it right.

Another change we've made over the years is the way we celebrate James' birthday.  My instinct is to gather together in one place all the people who love James.  Family, teachers, friends, neighbors.  Let's spend two hours at our house, talking and laughing and eating and watching James open presents.  Guess who freaks out in such an environment?  So we pulled back.  We had immediate family over for cupcakes.  We shrugged at each other.  How do we make this special FOR HIM?  Last year, we tried something new.  James' birthday almost always falls over spring break, so Chris took the week off, and we did something different every day.  We went to the Cleveland Zoo.  We played at the park.  We went to Red Robin for dinner.  Each place was fun, and then we went home to relax.  It seemed to work.  This year, I asked James for his input.  "How would you like to celebrate your birthday?" I asked him as we snuggled in his bed at night.  "I want to go to Pump It Up," he whispered to me.  Again, this might seem really basic, but this thing of me asking a question and him responding to it in a way that makes sense to me....it's a rare treat.  Okay mister, you are going to Pump It Up!  We arranged to meet another family with boys James' age for an afternoon of jumping.  It was perfect.  Then my parents asked if we could all go bowling together, another of James' favorite activities.  We brought Winston and Girl, and invited our neighbor Amanda at the last minute, and she brought her friend Katie.  At eight people, it was almost too much.  But we had a great time, and James figured out how to hold the ball with his fingers in the holes, instead of rolling with both hands.  As we were leaving, another kid's birthday party arrived.  There were at least 10 young kids, and as many adults chasing them around, helping them bowl.  It made a contrast to our quieter celebration, but I was glad we chose to do it in a way that made James comfortable.

Instead of a cake, this year Chris suggested putting a candle in James' birthday donut.  We all sat at the table while he sat on the heating vent in the kitchen, and we sang "Happy Birthday".  When the song ended, James stood up and blew out the candle with a big smile on his face.  I was smiling too.  Our journey as parents has been influenced by the children we've been given.  A while ago, I started praying that God would show me how to be the best mom for James, for Winston, for Michael.  Not to be the mom that all the other moms want to be, or the mom with the best facebook photos, or even the kind of mom I think I should be.  Just who they need me to be.  I swear God is speaking through my kids every day.  And I'm finally learning how to listen.

Diary of a Mom shared this facebook status today, which I feel echoes how we celebrated James' birthday:
"Today, we celebrated her eleventh birthday. She was having a blast until she became overwhelmed. When she did, she said, "I'm going into the den because there's too much here." This time, I fought the instinct to convince her to stay. This was her party. She'd enjoy it in her way.

She left her guests in the kitchen and went into the den to bounce on her peanut. When the next animal came out, I called her. She came to look, was the first one to pet it, then went back to bounce again. When the next animal came out, so did she. It worked for her. She knew what she needed. And I, finally, knew enough to understand that there was nothing sad or "disastrous" about giving it to her.

After she blew out her candles, she said to no one and everyone, "This has been my best birthday of ever!"

I dare say we're all getting the hang of it."