On Mother's Day or Feeling Halfway

Today marks my ninth Mother's Day as an actual mother.  Since it is a day to celebrate me and all the other women who have birthed or raised children, I feel like the best way to celebrate is to take the day off.  I've devoted my life to my children since the first one arrived, and on this one day a year, I don't want to do dishes or fold laundry or wipe noses or play Candy Land.  I want to go to the movies or sit at Panera and slowly eat a pastry.  In recent years (now that I have friends again), it's been a chance to gather all the ladies I love and go for a walk or eat fried food or peruse the perennials at a local greenhouse.  It's a day to pause and reflect and remember who I am apart from these (not so) little people who call me Mom.

This week has been a challenge, for sure.  I've had all three boys lose their minds over something, screaming and kicking and yelling at me.  (Thankfully, it was all at different times.  I probably would have taken off running down the street to get away from them if it had happened at once.)  I've also had all three boys, at different times, tell me that I am beautiful and wonderful and they love me.  And, more than anything, this week has made me feel as though I am right in the middle of this mothering thing.

Now, my oldest kid turned nine this year, aka halfway to adulthood.  But I'm learning from watching my own mom that having a kid turn 18 hardly concludes the role.  Moms are like the mafia:  in it for life.  However, I am deep in the midst of seeing how this plays out.  We have our books and blogs and parenting experts and mom labels (like "Free Range" or "Helicopter" or "Tiger Mom" or "Hot Mess") and we are throwing our weight behind the importance of breastfeeding and limiting screen time and encouraging our kids while exposing them to the world, protecting them while also pushing them out of the nest.

After the week we've had, I admitted to a friend that I just don't know.  I don't know if I'm doing anything right or if I'm making all the wrong choices.  Am I disciplining the boys like I should?  Am I too permissive?  Am I pointing them in the right direction so they'll become capable and responsible adults, or am I missing moments to impart serious life lessons?  Or, am I completely missing the point?

We are in the middle of our journey together as a family.  We've left the starting point, we are down the road, we've come too far to go back.  But we haven't arrived anywhere.  We haven't reached the point where we see clearly.  Our children are partially formed lumps of clay, sometimes looking worse than before it all began.

On my Mother's Day hike today, we climbed a structure a few stories high.  We were surrounded by trees, and part of the way up, all I could see were branches and leaves.  But when we reached the top, it was the most gorgeous view.  Sunny and verdant and picture perfect.  Looking down from the top, I could see this little pond we'd passed earlier, the vista of trees we'd walked through at the beginning.  And I can't help but feel like this moment in time is in the midst of the climb.  I can't see the forest for the trees.  I have no idea how my children will turn out, how much will be my fault, or if any of it will trace back to this exact week.  (Let me interject here:  I doubt it.)  I just have to keep going.

May these words ring true, not just for me, but for each of you.  Stay the course.  Keep showing up for your kids.  Refrain from joining them on the floor during their tantrums, or matching them shout for shout.  Keep making the sandwiches and reading the stories and folding the clothes and reminding them to wash their hands.  Keep modeling respect and honesty and hard work, and pray for them every day.  And don't forget your Mother's Day ice cream sundae.

Feeling Inside Out

We took our kids to see Inside Out on Father's day.  It seemed like a great family activity, and a way to celebrate the Daddy who does so much for us.  We are all happiest, it seems, at the movie theater.  With popcorn and sugary drinks, with bags of Skittles passed down the row, with the lights dimmed and the magic of Tinseltown at work in front of us.  I was excited, of course, because Pixar movies never disappoint, with their tight stories, gorgeous animation, and that amazing ability to delight both children and their parents.  But I was also feeling nervous.  I had done a little research the week before, listening to the director, Pete Docter, on Fresh Air with Terri Gross.  It was fascinating to hear how the film's writers and animators had worked out the story, learned about the functions of the brain, and chosen the actors to voice the characters.  There was a key element to the movie that I knew would hit a little too close to home, though.  The movie shows the emotional life of Riley, an 11year old girl who has just moved across the country with her parents.  Pete Docter shared that this was chosen as the catalyst for the Emotions to get out of whack because his family had moved when he was 11.  But it's more than Riley's story and Pete Docter's story; it is also my story.

When I was 11, just finishing the fifth grade, my parents decided to move from my hometown of Dallas, Texas to Ohio.  In fact, I missed the last day of school to help load our Ryder moving truck, and we spent the night as a family at motel near the highway in order to get an early start in the morning and try to miss the Dallas rush hour.  I even lost my last baby tooth during our move.  In Texas, I was a basketball player, a native well-versed in the state's history, a Cowboys fan, occasionally too loud, occasionally too aggressive.  I loved school and my teachers, I knew every inch of my neighborhood, from the well-worn paths where my sister and I rode our bikes to the cavernous stormwater pipes that ran under our street.  I had friends and I was confident.  And then we moved, and much of that changed.

It wasn't until I watched Inside Out this past summer that I could finally articulate what that move was like for me.  There it was, playing out on the giant screen, the way everything around changes while everything inside is changing too.  For me, growing up felt like a severing of myself.  Childhood was in Texas and adolescence was in Ohio.  I imagine that people who don't move in the middle of their young lives probably have a stronger feeling of integration, that the places where you have your first kiss or your first job are the same places where you used to play with your friends or shop with your parents.  Just like Riley, I struggled to fit in at my new school, to be excited about the changes in my life.  And just like Riley, I lost pieces of myself along the way.  The friends I left behind disappeared like Bing Bong in the Memory Dump.  Basketball was different, and within a few years I switched from being an athlete to being a band geek.  I lost some of that confidence too, the feeling of belonging, of being home.  It took many years, and a few more moves, for me to find that again.

Then there is the final lesson of Inside Out, the realization that all of one's feelings have merit and purpose, and that Sadness is necessary to move forward.  It felt like I was sad for a full year, overwhelmed and confused and struggling.  I longed to go back, to return to the Lone Star state and my real life.  But that wasn't happening.  Yet it was in that sad state that a new self was born.  I became the sapling of the woman I am today, sarcastic and pensive and loyal and silly.  I made new friends, developed new hobbies, found new places to ride my bike and new ways to express myself.  It wasn't easy, but probably no one feels like it is easy to get older.  And it created something special inside me, a sense of compassion and tenderness towards girls entering 6th grade and experiencing all those changes.

It's amazing how it all works out, isn't it?  How the places where you feel the most pain and challenge become the places where you are most able to help others, how the worst times lead to the best times.    And how home turns out not to be the place you left, but the place where you arrive.

Word of the Year: 2016

For the past year, I've focused on my habits.  I wanted to become a healthier, more productive version of myself.  I think I've succeeded.  I changed calendars with my 6 year old last night, and felt good about ending 2015.  Then I lay in bed, listening to my neighbors set off their second round of fireworks (the first were around 8:30, apparently someone was too impatient to wait for midnight).  And I thought about what word should weave itself through the coming year.

Healthy eating

Something I've learned by changing my habits is VALUE:  the value of a glass of water over a can of Coke, the value of powering my body to run a 5K, the value of organizing my home, the value of creating something rather than consuming it.  As I sought to clean up my eating, I found that I had more energy.  That energy helped me to be more consistent with workouts, and actually following through with my Couch to 5K running program.  The time I spent running allowed me to listen to podcasts and think through ideas, which helped when I sat down to finish writing my second novel.  And I would probably still be procrastinating (instead of writing) if I hadn't joined a Clutter Free group and changed my desk from a general dump to a productive workspace.

Organizing and Unloading

I found that I have enough if I use what I have wisely.  There is enough space in our house (just under 1200 square feet) for a family of five, including 3 active and growing boys if we use the space correctly.  This means throwing away or donating most of the boxes in our basement to create a bike path for the kids to ride through the cold winter months.  It means sorting toys and storing them better.  It meant I finally had to take my clothes out of the closet in the boys' room (which had previously been Chris and my room) so that their stuff could fit and be accessible.  My project for the coming year in this area is going to start by sorting out the part of the master bedroom I didn't get to last year, so that we can reorganize our spare room into a bedroom for Mikey, and finally convert what has been a nursery for the past 8 years into a homework room and office space.  I was amazed with my decluttering project of 2015 at how I just have to convert what is already here into a useable space, instead of browsing real estate listings online and imagining myself in a new house.

Similarly, I wanted to make some changes for my body and overall health.  I had fallen into a pattern of dealing with the stress of caring for young children by eating lots of sugar and chili cheese fries, and yet I felt like I was losing my temper too much and just exhausted by life.  Now, maybe my children aging a few years has also contributed to the peace I've found this past year, but I'm guessing that using relaxation methods like exercise and meditation have also played their part.  So much has changed since I chose to stay home with my baby nearly nine (what?!) years ago.  I can sleep through the night, no one gets their nourishment from my body anymore, and for the first time, all my kids are enrolled in school.  The stop-gap measures I used in the past needed to go, and a new, healthier mom was able to emerge.  I didn't spend a bunch of money to get in shape.  I used a Jillian Michaels DVD ($7, purchased 2 years ago), hand weights ($5, also purchased 2 years ago), a Couch to 5K phone app ($5, purchased several years ago), new running sneakers and a few new shorts/tops (under $100 total).  And then I ate real food, purchased from the same grocery store that sells me Doritos and Coke and Zebra Cakes.  I drank water, which is way cheaper than pop, and vegetables that are less expensive than processed crap.  There's no secret or magic to getting in shape; you just lace up your shoes and get your butt out the door.

Through being more thoughtful and aware, I feel like I was able to be a better mom and wife.  This is good, because my kids are getting old enough to remember things like how I treat them and what we do for fun.  They've always made me more active than I want to be, but this year I felt like I was more present and able to think ahead and prepare for our adventures.  Instead of dreading summer break and bemoaning the days as the kids are stuck on screens, I made a plan of action, daily activities and places we would go to make our summer fun.  We had designated hours for watching TV and playing video games, and the rest of the time was spent playing outside or reading books or creating pictures. There was a time when I could only write when my children were asleep, but now I can get my work done while they're at school (mostly).  I still get angry, I still need to work on what I can control (my reaction), but I definitely feel like I've made progress, like the time I spend with my family has increased in value.

Making memories at the Magic Kingdom

So here's the goal for 2016:  bring value to my life.  Value my own body and mind enough to care for it properly.  Value my family by giving them my best, which includes attention and teaching and creating special memories.  Value my home by making it a place that everyone feels welcome, and making space for what our family needs.  Value my work by giving it time and consistent attention.  Value my community and the world by contributing to what makes it better, whether it is by continuing as a foster parent or possibly getting involved with child welfare in another role, whether it is financial contributions to organizations that are already making a difference or volunteering my time in some way.

How about you?  Do you make New Year's Resolutions or Goals?  Do you have a word for 2016?

Love and Marriage (10 Years In)

A few years ago, our pastor preached a sermon on marriage and told the story of Adam and Eve.  You know how it goes, right?  The world was created, then Adam and Eve were created to live in it and care for it.  They were made for each other, to be helpers, partners.  The Bible tells us that they were friends with God, that they were naked, and they felt no shame.  But then...then there was the forbidden fruit, the Fall, the Covering, the Curse.  The man and the woman hid from God and they made clothes to hide their bodies from each other.  I sat in my seat (3/4 of the way back, where I am most comfortable) and I thought about this story.  Like, really thought about it.  The end of the story, well, that all sounds very familiar.  Shame?  Secrecy?  Hiding from everyone, even God?  Oh yes, I know it well.  But back to the beginning.  That part sounds amazing, and impossible.  I wondered if that would ever happen for me and my husband.

I think every love story is a reverse of the first one.  We begin distrustful of the other--fallen, covered, cursed--yet we long for this person so much that we overcome our fears and we take that leap.  We imagine a Paradise, a personal Garden of Eden where we can return to that original state, and look at each other naked and unashamed.  But how do we get there?  What steps do we take, how do we change?

I've been married for ten years:  ten busy, stressful, happy, confusing, lonely, lovely, life-changing years.  By no means have we "arrived", nor would I call myself an expert.  But I've seen glimpses of what true partnership can be.  It is so good.  Turning to another person and having him meet my needs.  Telling the truth-the whole truth-and he listens and accepts me as I am.  Tackling tasks (whether it is the dishes or raising the children) together and realizing that it takes half the time and energy when we are both giving it our best.  This is how two become one.  By taking care of each other.  By supporting each other.  By working together and building one life, one family, one home.

It really hit me when I asked my husband to buy a new mascara for me at the store.  He was heading out to get groceries with one kid while I stayed home and entertained the other two (it's just easier this way).  I needed a new mascara because I lost the other one.  I found it a few days ago in a box of tampons.  Who knows how it got there.  When I couldn't find it, I assumed it had gotten thrown out by accident or eaten by one of the kids.  So Chris can get me a new one, right?  He doesn't know anything about makeup, but this is what I did: I told him the exact name of what I wanted.  I texted him a message so he could reference it when he got to the store.  It's in an orange tube.  He got there and called me to say they didn't have black, but they had black/brown.  Would that be an okay substitute?  Yeah, it's fine.  And he came home with exactly what I had asked for.  It seems like such a small thing (I mean literally, what's a tube of mascara?  4 inches?), but it represented something huge.  A milestone of sorts.  For the first few years of our marriage, he would go pick up sandwiches for us and I would write out exactly what I wanted, the way you do with your co-workers when everybody orders out.  And he would always bring home French Onion chips.  Why did you get those?  Don't you like them? No.  Oh, well I thought you liked something gross so I figured it was this.  Every.  Single.  Time.  For years.  And I was disappointed because I thought my husband at least should know the kind of chips I like.  It went both ways, truthfully.  I would buy the wrong candy (But I thought you liked this?).  He would buy the wrong shampoo (NO, the green bottle!).  I would pick a movie he hated.  He would listen to music at night.  And on and on.

I'm an independent kind of person anyway.  I know I can at least trust myself to do things the way I like.  And that's a great mentality for a single woman.  But it doesn't make a marriage work.  The partnership that we all crave (whether we say it out loud or not, you know it's true) is the Good Thing that we hope will happen when we say "I do."  But what I've learned over these past ten years is that you only get the Good Thing after you do the Hard Thing.  And the Hardest Thing is to trust.  To be open.  To say, "It really bothers me that you don't remember what kind of chips I like.  I want salt and vinegar."  And to be willing to figure out how to help him remember.  Maybe he needs a text.  Maybe he can only handle a list that has one item on it.  Maybe he needs to carry the empty bottle with him to the store.  (And, for the record, maybe he needs to be slightly less self-involved and pay attention.)  And that goes both ways.  Once you start getting the lunch order right, then you can move on to the bigger things.  The insecurities.  The fears.  The hopes and dreams for the future.  Honesty and vulnerability are Hard Things.

It's a Hard Thing to stand before another person, to bear your soul and your body and the rest of your life, to be naked and unashamed.  And how amazing for him to strip down too, to lay it all out on the table.  Not just that, but to accept you for who you really are, and for you to accept him fully.  That's the Good Thing we are working towards, what makes this all worth it.

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 Getting Messy

A few years ago, Chris and I decided it was no longer enough to say and do all the right things without actually touching the hurting world around us.  We weren't satisfied to remain in our comfortable suburban life, raising our two biological sons, so we went out.  Outside the box, outside the established order, outside what we knew.  We looked complicated and messy in the eyes and rolled up our sleeves.

It would be inspirational to say that we love this life.  I would challenge you to join me in this messy work because I would show you pictures and tell you amazing stories and I would say, "It's so worth it."  But the truth is that stepping out of comfort and into the messy lives of other people, touching their wounds and sitting through their dark nights is hard.  And there are days when I wish we hadn't changed anything.  Days when I long for suburban comfort and simple answers.

And then I pull out my Bible.  Something that has been hitting me hard lately is where I find Jesus in these stories.  Jesus is never at the extreme.  He isn't supporting sexism or racism or elitism or terrorism.  Because those are easy.  It's easy to say you don't like people who don't look like you or live in your neighborhood or speak your language.  It's much, much harder to take each person as they come, to get to know them all and realize that some poor people are great, and some are kind of obnoxious.  Just like some rich people are kind, and some are huge a-holes.  Good leaders can be found among men and women.  Jesus knows that, because He knows people.  Jesus can always be found in the middle, in the tension between two extremes.  While politicians debate and opposing sides entrench in their beliefs, Jesus walks among the crowds, healing and teaching.

This is where I am tonight.  I am frustrated and tired and not sure what comes next.  I am looking back with longing at the life I could have continued in and wishing for easy answers.  I don't feel like an inspiration or a paragon.  I can't promise that you won't get dirty in this tension.  But it's the only place I know to find Jesus.

Apples

Ohio does fall really well.  I think it's what this state does best, actually.  We don't have the best sports teams, we don't have the best economy, we don't have the best health, but man, October 1st rolls around and we have leaves turning every color, bright blue skies and lush green grass.  We have warm days and chilly nights.  We have bonfires and tailgating and trips to the pumpkin patch.  And we have apples.  Oh baby, do we have apples.

When I was a kid in Dallas, Texas, we had two kinds of apples: red and green. (There were also those mealy gross yellow apples, but did anybody ever actually eat them?)  Then we moved to Ohio, and I remember during our first autumn going with my dad to the orchard.  We pulled up and a sign boasted way more than two kinds of apples for sale.  I had no idea what I'd been missing.  Even better than a tart Granny Smith, there were Empires, Jonagolds, Pink Ladies.  These apples were juicy, crisp, sweet and tart at the same time.  Oh, fall became my favorite season.

It was fortunate that I was once again living in Ohio when I became pregnant for the first time, and fortunate that fall marked the onset of a voracious craving for apples.  I went to the same orchard my dad had taken me to all those years ago at least once a week, grabbing the biggest bag of apples for sale.  I ate 3-5 apples a day.  I can still remember the pleasure my hormonally-charged body got from each bite, the juicy apples thrilling my taste buds.  It was no surprise the next fall when that sweet baby boy eagerly grabbed an apple to munch with his four tiny teeth.  And so my love of tasty apples has passed to the next generation, with each of my boys LOVING our trips to the orchard and the bounty of delicious apples we bring home.  It's become my favorite as well, because once I distribute an apple to each of them, our boisterous car becomes gloriously silent.  All I can hear are the quiet crunchings of teeth and apples.  And I usually eat one too.  I love fall!!

Leaving Home: Part 2 #atlasgirl blog tour post

This post is part of the Atlas Girl Blog Tour which I am delighted to be a part of along with hundreds of inspiring bloggers. To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE!   This is the second part of my post about leaving, and ultimately finding, home. 

What image comes into your mind when you hear the word "wanderlust"?  Do you see a woman on a mountaintop, arms outstretched, wind whipping her hair?  Or maybe exotic locations, waterfalls and ancient temples, a road less traveled?  When I was 21, hopping all over North America as a flight attendant, I would belt out the lyrics to Sara Evans "Born to Fly".  I had the Wanderlust, and I was not alone.  Most of my co-workers lived as nomads.  We had our base city, bare apartments shared with several other people called "crash pads", friends and family that we visited on our days off, but nowhere we called home.  Ever since my family had left Texas, home hadn't been the place where I lived.  So I was searching for it in every city I visited.  In August 2003, I lost a friend.  A roommate.  A fellow flight attendant.  It rocked my world.  I wasn't sure what I believed or who I was, but as I emerged from the haze of grief, I realized that the rest of my life could be a few more weeks or 75 more years.  What was I waiting for?  Finally, I planned a trip that was sure to cure my wanderlust:  I was heading to Paris.  I pictured myself at the Eiffel Tower, eating crepes and wearing fabulous jeans and finally pulling off red lipstick, visiting art museums and in general being the best version of myself.

Somehow in the months to come, my European adventure included my mother.  For me, it was the realization of an adolescent dream, a first step to the life I was meant to live.  I don't know what it was for her. (A week before we left, she asked, with a crinkle in her nose, "Now what is there to do in Paris?"  I gave her an exasperated look and began, "Well the Louvre for one..." and she interrupted, "OOO, yes!  Can we go for a gondola ride on the Louvre?"  I couldn't even begin to explain everything that was wrong with that sentence.)  We flew in to Spain, took another short flight to Frankfurt, where we stayed with friends (Germany in a nutshell:  terrified by the Autobahn, entranced by the medieval castles, loved the cake in the Black Forest, sampled blood sausage).  And then....we boarded a train for Paris.

I felt euphoric as we hurtled toward the City of Lights, my nose pressed against the glass.  We found a cute little hotel run by a married couple (who made cafe au lait and baguettes for breakfast), ate some dinner at a nearby restaurant, only had 3 fights between the train station and our shared bed, and I fell asleep to the noises of the city.  In the morning, I was ready for Paris to sweep me off my feet.  My mom and I walked all day.  We saw a brasserie, a bucherie, a pharmacie.  The Arc de Triomphe.  The Louvre.  The Champs Elysee.  We bought chic clothes.  At twilight on my mother's 45th birthday, we dined at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.  And I fell asleep disappointed.  Because there was also the endless claxoning of emergency vehicles.  The overwhelming smell of Armpit on the Underground.  The aggressive Asian tourists.  And my mom was the only familiar sight.

When people asked, "How was Paris?", their eyes alight, waiting breathlessly for some tale of adventure, all I could say was, "It wasn't what I thought it'd be."  In all my planning, I'd forgotten a very powerful force.  Like Lord Voldemort, I had underestimated LOVE.  Going to Paris was the most important thing to me....even more important than the ring I was wearing on my left hand.  You see, all through school and flying, I'd also been falling in love.  I kept returning to Ohio for him, once a week, every other week (3 weeks apart only twice, and how those weeks dragged).  A month before my trip, he'd placed the ring on my finger and asked for my hand, but he hadn't factored into my plans.  Each day I had struggled with European pay phones and walked away frustrated, unable to connect across the time zones.  I just wanted to hear his voice.  And, while it didn't have the outcome I thought it would, my journey across the ocean did help me realize where my home was.  It was in his arms.

I started to resent Ohio a little less as we settled there, not far from the place where I'd felt like a Texas girl in an Ohio world.  In 2007, I gave birth to my beautiful baby James and we bought a house with a big yard and rooms for the other children I suddenly wanted.  And it's through the eyes of my boys that I see and appreciate what makes Ohio our home.  Jumping into a pile of multi-hued leaves.  The many, many uses for snow (snowballs, snowmen, snow cream).  The excitement when football seasons starts, though I'll never forsake my Dallas Cowboys.  And the church downtown that welcomes us, loves us, teaches me the truest meaning of family.

Chris asked me recently if I still wanted to move away, and I was finally able to answer NO.  My need to feel significant isn't defined by a place, it's filled in the arms of the people I love.  It doesn't matter where we lay our heads, as long as we lay together.

Emily T. Wierenga, award-winning journalist and author of 4 books, has released her first memoir, Atlas Girl: Finding Home in the Last Place I Thought to Look. They say the book is like “Girl Meets God” meets “Wild” meets “Eat, Pray, Love.” I say the book is inspiring. You can grab a copy here.

Leaving Home: Part 1, a #atlasgirl blog tour post

This post is part of the Atlas Girl Blog Tour which I am delighted to be a part of along with hundreds of inspiring bloggers. To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! 

Have you seen these ads on Facebook that try to get you to buy custom t-shirts?  Ones that say "I crochet so I don't strangle people" or "I'm a programmer; trust me", because some sort of computer algorithm (look at me, using words I don't fully understand) has taken your personal information in order to sell you something.  One that pops up on my feed frequently says "I'm a Texas girl living in an Ohio world", and every time I see it I think about when I used to be someone who would have bought that shirt and worn it as often as sweat and body odor would allow.  I remember being a scrawny tomboy who loved the Dallas Cowboys and pecan pie, who helped her mother make tortillas in a special pan and wore the burns like a badge of honor.  I remember ducking into a large sewer drain with my sister to get out of a sudden hail storm, riding bikes for hours, neighbors named Bubba and Nacho and Fay.  And I remember the mutiny that rose up in me when my mother announced that we were moving, that she missed her family and we were going home.  Except that Texas was my home, and Rocky and Cathy and Jayne and Freddie were my family and I had finally reached the age where I had real friends that would call on the phone, even though it bored me to talk about clothes for more than a minute

But I really couldn't do anything to stop the move, other than watch the boxes pile up in my room and glare at my mother whenever she talked about how great our lives would be in the North.  This is how little my opinion factored in:  the day that was chosen to pack up our house and leave was my last day of fifth grade.  The day when teachers threw out the lesson plans and brought in sno-cone machines, when recess lasted for hours instead of 30 minutes, when children were emboldened to tell each other their true feelings.  I was sitting beside my mother, the Dallas skyline whizzing past us as we headed to Oklahoma, then Missouri.  And I still remember the conversation that we had that morning, the promise I made to make new friends in our new home, to get along.  My sister apparently made no such concession, because she kept the clock in her room on Central time for more than a year after we settled in the Ohio suburbs (and I wish for the life of me that I knew what happened to finally make her change it, but I'm drawing a blank).  I kept my promise that summer, as we walked our new town to get our bearings, since there were sidewalks everywhere and quiet streets  and everything fit in six square miles.  And I kept my promise as I walked to school each morning, after my dad had left for work and my mother took my sister to the middle school on her way to the hospital.  I listened to the kids around me talking, and I felt like an anthropologist studying an aboriginal tribe.  They used different words, like clique for the way people clumped together at recess and queer (which I thought meant when a boy liked another boy) for when something was strange.  And when I finally did speak, they asked me why I didn't have an accent, and I just shrugged, because the accent I heard most in Texas was the lilting way Hispanic women spoke, and the "Texas" accent heard on tv was more common further south.  But I couldn't keep my promise at our new church, when my parents brought me to the Wednesday night program, when I was expected to walk down the hallway by myself to a room full of people I didn't know, never mind that they were my own age.  That was when I cried and begged them not to leave me, but they did anyway, so that I had to walk down the hallway into a room full of strangers with a splotchy face and red eyes. (This is one of those moments I think about now, and I still don't know if they did the right thing.  Do you push your shy, awkward baby out of the nest or let her stay home with her nose in a book?)   Then one day, on my walk to school, I saw something I'd never seen before.  It was like little ice on each blade of grass.  Later, I learned it is called "frost".  When I got to school, I asked if it had snowed, and I got funny looks. (Much like labor pains, once you've experienced snow, you don't mistake a tiny pattern of cold for the real thing again.)  Actually, I seemed to get funny looks most of the times I spoke.  The boys called me by my last name and the girls had apparently decided who their friends were in kindergarten, and I bounced around trying to find my place.  A year is a long time to go without a friend.  But suddenly sixth grade was ending and I had found Melissa.  Of course, I didn't know then what she would mean to me over the years; pretty much all I knew was the distance from Texas to Ohio, and that people stopped saying Coke and started saying Pop somewhere in between.

That was the turning point for me, finding one person who liked me just the way I was.  The next year, I joined the school band and made more friends.  I had a boyfriend or two, which was more a cause for anxiety than excitement.  I found an identity I could live with, at least for a few years.  I was the nerdy girl who got good grades and used her quick sarcasm to make her friends laugh.  "My So-Called Life" aired for a year, and I watched each episode, entranced by Claire Danes and her struggle to be a good daughter, a fun friend, a desirable girlfriend.  Like many adolescents, I struggled to have control.  It seemed that everything that went wrong could be solved by a change of location.  The kids at my school are snobs.  The winters are too cold.  The budding trees make me sick every spring.  My 18th birthday stood out like a bright yellow Finish line.  Once I got there, everything would be different.  When the college brochures started arriving in the mail my junior year, I tossed every one that was located in Ohio.  I perused the ones from Wisconsin and New York, but they went in the trash once I found out how snowy their winters were.  What remained were schools in Florida, Washington DC, Virginia, Arizona, Georgia, and of course, my beloved Texas.  I had the grades and test scores to go where I wanted, and that was anywhere but here.  But I didn't have the money to pay for any of them.  I still remember the desperation as my senior year drew to a close, trying to come up with a plan, some kind of loan that would get me out of Ohio and on to the life I was supposed to be living.  Finally, in June, after graduation, I admitted defeat and took the short trip up the highway to Kent with my dad, filled out an application and took a tour and went home with an acceptance letter.  It was affordable and offered the degree I wanted, but it was not the grand experience I thought college would be.  So I graduated early and took a job as a flight attendant.  I stepped off the plane in a new city every day, and I invited the world to audition for me.  DANCE.  SING.  Give me a reason to never leave.  I explored New York City and Kalamazoo, Michigan.  I strolled through Jacksonville, Florida and Greensburg, South Carolina.  I ate barbecue in Charleston and lobster in Maine.  I flew to California and Canada and Cincinnati.  And I felt like Goldilocks, because none of them felt quite right.

There was one trip I was saving, a destination I had very high expectations for, the one I was certain would fit like no other city on earth....

I'll be posting the conclusion of my journey on Saturday.  In the meantime, purchase Emily T. Wierenga's new book, Atlas Girl: Finding Home in the Last Place I Thought to Look on amazon NOW!!  ALL proceeds from Atlas Girl will go towards Emily’s non-profit, The Lulu Tree. The Lulu Tree (www.thelulutree.com) is dedicated to preventing tomorrow’s orphans by equipping today’s mothers. It is a grassroots organization bringing healing and hope to women and children in the slums of Uganda through the arts, community, and the gospel.

Even When Your Heart is Breaking...

Tonight, I'm nursing a broken heart.  It's happened before, of course, when the boy that I liked didn't feel the same way, when the person I loved, a fixture in my life, passed on.  I felt that shattering inside, cried those nonstop tears, wondered how I would ever get through it.  But this is a brand new heartbreak, because today the social worker called.  Instead of vague ideas and hypotheticals, she called to give me a date.  Two weeks.  In two weeks, our little girl will be moving back home with her family.  All I could say was, "Oh," as the lump formed in my throat.  Because we knew this was coming.  We had been told this was the plan.  This is what we signed up for.  And yes, I can think of a hundred different reasons why this is going to be good for everyone, how this is the best plan given the messed up nature of the world we live in, where parents aren't always the best people to raise their children, where a flawed but well-meaning foster care system is necessary.  I won't have to worry about that hair anymore.  She won't talk back to me when I speak.  Our next holiday celebration isn't going to be hijacked by her behavior.  She won't be able to teach my sons anymore bad habits, and maybe the ones they've learned over the past eight months will die out over time.  She'll be with the people who look like her.  She'll be able to see her mom more.  She'll be someone else's responsibility, which would mean I can finally relax.

But every time I think of it, the actual date, packing up the dolls and hair products and clothes and shoes that have drifted to every corner of our house, I just keep crying those non stop heartbreak tears.  Because we are her family, and I am her mother except in the one way that matters to a judge.  After living with us for eight months, she has become my daughter, and I love her.  I just hung our new family photo yesterday, the one with Chris and I surrounded by daffodils, with four kids spread across our laps, 3 blonde boys and one brown girl.  That is my family, but in two weeks, it won't be.  Instead of listing all the ways she bugs me, I keep thinking how much I'll miss her.  I'll miss seeing her grow up.  I'll miss all the development that will happen after this point, won't see the final result of all that we've poured into her.  I won't know for sure that she is safe, that she is being fed, read to, hugged, given appropriate boundaries.  Maybe her (other) family will still call and invite us to see her, but it's not guaranteed. 

We knew this was going to happen, theoretically when we signed up to be foster parents, and practically, when her social worker told us she would be moved sometime this summer.  And I've said myself that I just can't see us adopting her, signing up for another 15 years of being exclusively responsible for her, making her a permanent member of our family.  Right now, I wish I could be more calculating, more rational about all of this.  I wish....I don't know.  That I wasn't human?  That the very act of caring for someone day in and day out didn't forge a deep and lasting connection between two people?  That I could just smile and wave and tell her goodbye and never think of her again?  I honestly kept thinking that when it was time for her to go, we would just go back to our regular lives.  But now I see the flaw in that thinking, because there is no going back, there is no life previously in progress that has just been waiting, static.  We are all different than we were 8 months ago, both because the boys are young and that is just the nature of early childhood, but also because this girl came into our house and she infiltrated every one of  us.  How are my boys going to react to losing the person they have started calling their sister?  Part of me thinks there will be some relief, a welcome quiet in the mornings and in the car and all day long,  Probably they will notice and appreciate that there is one less person to share with, one less person to occupy their mother's time and her lap.  But at the same time, I think they'll miss playing with her.  I think they'll miss her nonstop energy, her whole-hearted joining in of whatever game they devised.  We've laid the groundwork to answer their questions, of course.  They know she has another mommy, another home.  We've said she's just here for a while, but they will never have to go.  I've whispered that this is their forever home and I am their forever mommy in the quiet minutes before they fall asleep.

I keep thinking back to a conversation that Chris and I had at Friendly's (because, of course it was at Friendly's, where every pivotal moment in our relationship has happened, every deep conversation, every big decision) a few years ago.  Michael was just a baby, only a few months old and just coming out of the infant drug addiction that brought him to our family.  His social worker had informed us that she was contacting family members, looking for a kinship placement for him.  We sat across from each other, the little guy fast asleep next to me, and Chris said, "I think we should have another baby."  I shook my head.  No.  I didn't want to be pregnant again.  I was no longer interested in growing our family biologically.  And besides, I knew the real reason he wanted me to get pregnant was to salve his heart as he faced the loss of Michael.  He wanted to make a baby that they wouldn't be able to take from us, because there would be no conflicting loyalties, no one standing before the king and asking to cut him in half.  Another baby would be all ours.  But that wasn't the solution to losing Michael, and I told him that.  Chris was disappointed, but he knew I was right.  I wish I could summon that calm person right now.  Because I just keep thinking about how nice it would be to get pregnant, to have a new child to look forward to while I am losing this one that I love.  It won't happen, because we took that option off the table about a year ago.  There are always more foster kids though.  More babies and toddlers and preschoolers who need a home, a safe adult to look out for them.  As much as I want to call Children's Services and ask them to send me another, I know that I need a break, at least for a few months.  I need to let myself grieve.  I need to feel what I'm feeling, because there is no "fix" for this.

Time heals all wounds.  Right?  So if I can just give it time, maybe I can stop crying.  If I just think about all that she has learned and experienced while in our care, maybe I can tell myself that we did what we could, what she needed, and release her.  Maybe if I can quiet this internal storm, I can hear the voice that reminds me that He loves all His children, that she will always be in His care, that His love is big enough and deep enough and transforming enough that we'll all be able to get through this.  And I need to remember the look on her face, the huge smile that broke out when I finally dried my eyes long enough to tell her that she was going to see her grandma, that she gets to have a sleepover this weekend.  She knows who her family is, every last one of us, and she belongs with them as much as she belongs here.

On Fantasy

I realized something about myself recently, about a little habit I have on the Internet.  It's time to confess...Every so often, I get this urge, and so I go online, and I begin at a certain website.  I scroll through photos, and I fantasize.  The website is Zillow.com; the pictures are of houses for sale in my area.  Yes, real estate is my porn.

I have no plans to move, to sell our current house or buy another.  I just like to look.  I like to see what houses are selling for in certain neighborhoods, what kind of square footage you can get in different school districts.  I cringe at older homes with busy wallpaper or forest green carpet.  I drool over slate fireplaces and large kitchens.

But it's more than just a time waster.  I imagine myself in those homes.  I think about how my furniture would fit...or, better yet, new furniture!  I imagine how much space I would have preparing a meal on those granite counters, what it would be like to have a dishwasher, playing with my kids in that fenced in backyard with the lush grass.  If we lived THERE...we would be happy.  If our house had THAT feature, my life would be easier.  The house would always be as clean as it is online.  The sheets would match.  There wouldn't be spills or stains or sick children there.  Ants wouldn't crawl all over the counters.  Things wouldn't break.  Everything would be better SOMEWHERE ELSE.

That's not true, is it?  If I moved into a different house, even a newer house, I'd bring my family and my own clumsiness with me.  Dust would begin to settle on window ledges, balls would be thrown across the living room, orange juice wouldn't stay at the table, but would dribble down the beautifully carpeted hallways.  I would still have to clean.  I would still lose my temper.  We wouldn't change, just our surroundings would.

What I need, instead, is to stay in reality.  I need to look around at all that I have, and realize that it's enough.  This house is a blessing.  We moved in here 7 years ago, when our little family consisted of me, Chris, and our 6 month old baby.  We have hosted birthday parties and barbecues, we have wept and struggled and laughed and persevered.  We have grown here.  Our family has gotten bigger, but we've grown up too.  And the love that we share isn't going to get better if we have a real mudroom or our own master bath.

If home is where the heart is, then my heart is a yellow house on a quiet street with dandelions in the yard and toys on the roof.

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.

It's OK to miss your mama

As a foster parent, I've spent quite a bit of time in class over the past three years.  We took 36 hours (12-3 hour classes) just to get licensed, and we take 20 hours each subsequent year.  Sometimes the classes are really helpful, the teacher is passionate and I'm in the right mood to learn.  Other times, the teacher has trouble with the Power Point (or DVD player, or projector, really these teachers need to take a class on using technology before being released to instruct others), or I'm tired and have trouble concentrating, or another parent hijacks the class to air their grievances or get help specific to their situation.  Usually in the course of 3 hours, I can get at least one thing to take home and apply.  Especially in the beginning, I had to save these lessons for future use.  Now that we are in the thick of it, I find that I remember the words of my teachers more and more.  One thing that stood out to me, in a class about maintaining information about birth families, was the instructor's explanation that just because your kid isn't talking about something, doesn't mean he isn't thinking about it.  If a child is separated from siblings, or parents, or another close relative, odds are their thoughts are never far from that person.  She said foster parents have to open the dialogue, and let the kids know that it's OKAY to talk, it's okay to say you wish you were back home, that you miss your family, even that parent that beat you black and blue.  That really resonated with me; after all, I kept in almost everything that I thought about as a child.  I've been thinking lately that I really should have spoken up to my parents about many things that I kept secret, because they probably could have made things better, helped me.

So when a child comes to my home to live, under confusing and possibly scary circumstances, I have no doubt that they are thinking way more than they are saying.  Foster kids learn to say whatever they think the other person wants to hear; they don't know when they will see their biological family again, what the new rules are, where they fit in this new family.  While fostering is definitely similar to more traditional parenting, with the preparation of meals and the wiping of noses, the bedtime stories and trips to the park, there is an added component of nurture that these classes are meant to teach.  The most important part of foster care is the healing, taking in a broken child with no foundation, no structure, no good examples, and transforming them into a whole person, someone who knows his worth, who knows there is another way to live than what he's seen first-hand.  Sometimes these conversations are difficult to start, but if I don't help my kids heal, then what am I doing?

Our current placement is a young girl.  She came to us on a Friday afternoon.  We didn't know much about her, except that she is an only child.  She really enjoyed the experience of having other kids to play with, and jumped right in with our boys, rolling in the leaves and driving trucks across the living room.  But at night, she would cry.  She would ask me to take her home, to her mom.  And I would feel so helpless when I told her no, that she would stay with us until her worker said different.  It's a complicated situation to explain, and I've tried many different ways of phrasing.  We talk about this several times a week.  We've also gone to the library and perused books about parents and children who are separated.  I found one picture book called "I Miss You Everyday", which I believe was written for children whose parents divorce and one lives far away.  In it, the narrator mails herself across the country to see her dad.  Another one, "Llama Llama Misses Mama", is about a little Llama who starts school and has trouble when his mom leaves for the day.  This has actually become a favorite of all our kids, since three of them are in school and have experienced this kind of separation.  But our foster daughter loves it most, and these days, she asks to read it at bedtime instead of crying for her mom.  In the middle of the story, it all becomes too much for the Llama, and he cries out, "Llama Llama misses Mama!"  His teacher rushes over to comfort him, and our Girl burrows deeper into my side.  "Don't cry little Llama, it's okay to miss your mama!" I read.  Then the Llama warms up to school and actually starts to have fun, just as the words "Mama Llama, you came back!" appear with a picture of the Mama coming to pick up her son.  Although our girl can't read, she excitedly says the words at just the right time, and her face lights up in a smile.  I smile too, picturing with her the day when her mama comes to get her.  When she no longer has to miss her mama.

On Intimacy

I'm a lucky woman.  I married my best friend, the person who knows me better than anyone. 

I thought I knew what marriage was.  I'd observed it first-hand growing up with my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, family friends.  I saw couples raising children, washing dishes, paying bills, taking vacations, running small businesses together.  I thought that's all there was, and I was more than happy to link my life to Chris' and take part in all those things.  But there is a hidden element to relationships, something that is necessary for them to survive, and its called intimacy.  Intimacy became the surprise creamy center of my love-filled marriage.  Yes, we raise children and wash dishes and pay the bills.  That's all there.  But when you look at another couple's marriage, their intimacy is something that you can't see or feel or taste.  I think this is why we are surprised that a couple gets divorced.  "But they seemed so happy!"  "They just went on that beautiful cruise!"  "Their youngest isn't even a year old yet!"  On the outside, everything appears fine.

From the inside, I see it in the way my husband immediately passes me his pickle at a restaurant.  I feel it as his hands massage my favorite peppermint lotion into my feet at the end of a long day.  I taste it in the millions of kisses we've shared, our lips finding each other over and over. 

When we talk about relationships as though they are living, breathing things, when we say, "You have to nurture your marriage," I think we really mean you have to tend to the intimacy.  We can feed our bond, or we can starve it.  Chris and I like to spend time together.  We don't get much sleep these days, because after putting four kids to bed, it is pretty late.  Instead of rolling away from each other and turning off the light, we spend those last few hours together.  We talk.  We watch movies.  We sometimes even manage to read something together.  We light some candles and connect (wink, wink).  We trust each other.  We tell each other our secrets and frustrations.  We protect the sacredness of our bed.  I love the episode of How I Met Your Mother when Marshall says, "Yeah, I have a list of all the women I've slept with.  It's called my marriage license!"  That holds true for Chris and I as well.  But it goes further.  I am always surprised when I meet a married couple who don't share a bed.  (My first thought, no joke, is that this makes middle-of-the-night sex so inconvenient, if you have to get up, go to another room, warm up your space...)  There are times that we don't sleep together, but we limit it to one or two nights max, and usually because one of us is up with a sick kid, doing laundry and making sure they keep breathing.  Otherwise, when we are both at home, we are together.  We also try, at least once a year, to get away together.  There was plenty of time, before the kids came along, to grow closer and make time for each other.  Now that it's become more rare, we cherish those weekends to relive that simpler time.

Sometimes marriage and intimacy means that you suffer together.  When your spouse makes a bad decision, you both have to live with the consequences.  But even in those difficult times, it's important that I am Chris' wife, not his mother.  It would be all too easy to nag, to instruct, to say, "Now Christopher, I told you...."  If you are like us, especially, and married young, there's a good chance you both entered marriage before you were finished growing up (this can also be true even if you are in your 50's).  You still have to give your spouse the space to figure some things out for herself.  Just because you became one flesh, doesn't mean you share one mind.  You need to allow for, and even celebrate, each other's differences.  How could I trust my husband if he didn't find me and my quirks unique and adorable?  There should be things that only your spouse knows about you.  I very strongly believe that I should be the only person who knows when Chris needs new underwear.  There's just no good reason anyone else should be aware of that.  When you share a bed, and a home, and a life, you learn things that no one else could possibly know.

I was afraid to be vulnerable for most of my life.  Being known, all the way down to my darkest depths, was terrifying.  I was sure the person I let in would make me regret it, by telling my secrets and confirming that I wasn't loveable.  Over the past 14 years, Chris has proved time and time again that I was wrong; that he is the one person to whom I can show it all, and our love continues to grow.  The more we share, both in the day to day and of ourselves, the stronger our bond becomes, the more threads are sewn in this beautiful tapestry we are creating.  And through it all, I feel emboldened to be myself, to live the life I was born for.

Regret and Resolution

Last week marked the start of a New Year.  It's the time when we take some time to remember the past, when we begin to look ahead in the future, when we resolve to make changes.  I worked at a gym in high school and college, so I know how quickly many give up on their goals for the new year.  Every January, the workout room would be packed with people, and their numbers would dwindle until April, when the people who truly had a commitment to personal fitness were the only ones showing up.  They were the same faces I saw week after week, year after year.  My own resolutions tend to be financial.  This will be the year I don't get any library fines (already failed that one, with an overdue CD still in my car).  This will be the year we finally pay off our credit cards (despite being a recurring resolution, I KNOW 2014 is going to be the one!).  This will be the year I turn my little writing hobby into a paying job (although with four kids to take care of, actually finding time to finish that novel is going to be the biggest challenge).

Self Portrait

 

I think one of the purposes behind our New Year's Resolutions is to avoid regret.  So that this time next year, we can look back and say we didn't waste it.  This was the year that we turned things around, in our finances, in our health, in our relationships.  This was the year that I did things for me, instead of putting myself last.  But I don't regret putting other people's needs ahead of my own.  I don't regret all the times I make food for the kids, then realize hours later that I still haven't eaten.  I don't regret the path my life has taken, even if it means I'm somewhere different than I imagined.

Play doh creations

This is not to say I live without regrets.
I regret all the times I cared more about what other people thought than doing what I knew to be right.  Growing apart from friends whose opinion used to mean so much helped me see how much of my life had been lived to get someone else's approval.
I regret everything that I abandoned because it got hard.  I regret what remains unfinished.
I regret the narrow and shallow way I used to look at the world.  I regret the people I wrote off because they didn't seem good enough, able enough, cool enough.

Angry Birds: GO!

Something tells me 2014 is going to erase some of those regrets.  Not because I made a resolution on January 1st, but because my heart is being transformed daily. Because forgiveness and love are replacing achievement and regret.  Because I'm raising little children, which often means I'm learning way more than I'm teaching.  Because I've found a community, a Village, that links arms and carries the load and refuses to leave me behind. 

Not for Auld Lang Syne, but for a life without regret.  Happy 2014!

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.