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The crib is gone, the changing table is obsolete, and the tiny clothes are packed away in storage bins.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.

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.

Outside In

Every other Saturday night, our house fills with delicious smells.  My husband and I take turns making yummy breakfast foods, because every other Sunday morning, we teach the middle school students at our church.  A wise friend once told me something that has proved to be true: you have to love people from the outside in.

When we show up with food, our students will sit with us and allow us to nourish their minds because we are first nourishing their bodies.  Over time, after being consistent with food and honest answers and showing that we care, they will finally allow us into the depths, where their spirits reside.  If we want to reach their souls, we have to start by feeding their endlessly hungry bodies.

It makes sense if you think about it, because we all know how poorly people learn when they are starving, or afraid, or worried about their personal safety.  I learned Maslow's hierarchy years ago in a college sociology class, and yet I can be so intent on what is below the surface of the people I love that I completely ignore their more pressing physical needs.

It shouldn't be complicated, and yet it is.  Sometimes it is tunnel vision, sometimes it is our own ignorance.  I was thinking about my son who is adopted, and the little girl that we fostered a few years ago, about how needy they were when they came to us.  And we wanted to soothe their bodies and fill their bellies and reassure them that they were precious and loved and safe, but we were ignoring the first layer.

Do you know what is most important to a child?  More than food, more than physical safety, more than warm blankets on a clean bed?  His mom.  Psychologist Harry Harlow performed experiments on rhesus monkeys in the 1950s that demonstrated how crucial a mother is to her baby, and the conversations I have with my non-biological children confirms it.  Which means that while we mend the physical and emotional wounds of children who have been neglected and abused, we must also demonstrate love for the adults who allowed it in the first place.  No easy task.

I had a moment of panic the other day when my son reached for a bag of cookies and said, "I've never tried this before.  Let me have some!"  Because I can easily imagine his birth parents saying or thinking something similar when they were introduced to the addictive drugs that derailed their lives. How much are we, as adoptive parents, able to re-write biology?  Is there something ticking inside him that will go off in adolescence and take him down their same path?  Or was it childhood hyperbole that I was reading way too much into?

I don't want my son to repeat his mom's mistakes, and the best way I can think to help him is to let him know her, to be honest about why he lives with us and what unique challenges he'll face as he grows up.  The worst thing I could possibly do is talk about her with disrespect, calling her names or criticizing her choices.  If I can step back and allow him to see her as she is, without casting my own thoughts or feelings onto their relationship, then I trust that he'll understand what is true better.  He won't grow up with some idealized version of her (or me, for that matter), because he will know where he came from.

That Time I Wrote a Novel

When I think back to the happy times of my childhood, I remember books.  I remember getting lost in a story, to the point that I couldn't hear my mom calling my name or my sister asking me to come play with her.  Books truly transported me somewhere else, to Prince Edward Island at the turn of the century, to Sweet Valley, California, to the Orient Express chugging across Europe.  And like many readers before me, I wanted to use my words to move and inspire people.  I wanted to write.

I remember sitting at my desk, a fresh notebook open in front of me, pencil poised to record a new story.  That was the best moment back then, when the possibilities were endless and all I had to do was begin.  So I did.  Again, and again, and again, I began to write.  Sometimes I would fill a page, sometimes several.  But the same thing kept happening.  I didn't know what came next.  I would stop and chew my lip and tap my pencil on the desk.  I was great at inventing a character and setting and describing what was in my head...but then what?  I couldn't come up with a plot.  And because the words didn't just flow out of me (as I imagined they did for Judy Blume and Ann M. Martin and Agatha Christie), I considered myself a failure.

I never quite lost the idea that I would write something someday, that eventually it would all come together in a magical afternoon and I would finally figure out how to progress in my story, and even find the ending.  But when high school came along, followed by college, the focus of my writing turned to book reports and term papers.  There didn't seem to be time to imagine, to create something new, in a world that demanded I learn new information and regurgitate it for a good grade.  I downgraded my goal to writing a children's book after I took a class on Children's Literature in college.  It would be perfect.  The books were shorter, the stories and language simpler.  I could do that.  Please.

Except it's not that easy, if you've ever tried it.  Dr. Seuss deserves all the acclaim he gets for making stories that seem simple and singsongy...except they rhyme and draw from a pool of less than 50 words and tell a whole story in a handful of pages, with pictures to match!  It all began to feel hopeless and impossible as life moved on.  A title would come to me out of nowhere, and I would begin to imagine the story I could tell, but I'd dismiss it after a while as just a dream that would never materialize.

Then I became a mother.  I quit my job and stayed home with my tiny bundle of love and spent hours on the couch, reading classic literature and eating dried fruit while my baby slept on my lap.  And my mind began to wander in ways it couldn't while I was working or in school.  An idea took root, and I took the time to let the story come to me.  Finally, while the baby was asleep and my husband was at work, I snuck off with a pen and a notebook and began to write again.  My first story in over a decade.  There were plenty of stops, followed days or months later by starts.  I didn't put pressure on the idea.  I wasn't thinking about word count or whether people would want to read it.  I wrote what I found inside me.

The end result was a short story entitled "In My Mother's Closet".  To date, only my husband has read it.  I don't know if it's any good, but it was the start I needed.  After another baby, I had another idea.  I sat down late at night over the course of a summer and wrote.  This was it, the idea that had enough depth to become a book.  I was so excited that I showed it to my husband before I even finished the first draft.  I was proud and wanted the ego boost of his support.  Except...he didn't really like it.  He pointed out some holes in the character development and kind of shrugged over it.  It was disappointing, yes, but he was right.  I set it aside for about six months as we welcomed another child into the family.  In the meantime, I did some research.  I read some books on writing, I set a goal for myself to finish, then I pulled up the Word document and re-read it.  Suddenly, the fixes became clear, the edits I needed to make in order to finish the book and present it to my husband for a second opinion.

Because the life of a mother of three young children is hectic and distracting, it took another two years to get to that finished work.  (We added yet another child, a 3 year old foster daughter who left shortly after the book's completion.)  But I did it, I wrote a novel called Every Little Piece!  I shared it with some trusted friends, people who would be honest with me but also kind.  They offered some great suggestions to make it even better.

For the past 18 months, I've been sitting on this book.  I've sent queries to agents and researched the publishing industry and fretted about what to do next.  Four years after I began to write it, my novel is ready for Kindle Direct and becoming an e-book.  I have no idea what will come next, if anyone will read it or like it, but my childhood dream of writing a book has already come true, and now I'm ready to fulfill another goal: becoming a published author.

Friends, I hope you'll check out my book.  I had fun writing it, getting to know my characters and telling their stories.  But more importantly, I hope you'll think back to the thing you loved when you were young, whether it was dancing or playing outside or making jewelry out of dandelions or painting, or maybe even writing the first page of a story.  And I hope that you can let go of whatever distractions or to-do lists have kept you from it.  Find room for that thing to be a part of your life now, without fear or embarrassment.  Return to your first love.

A busy life
Photo credit: We Love Your Love Photography

Am I a Good Mom?

When I became a mother eight years ago, I was kind of obsessed with this one question: Am I a good mom?  It's something people would say when they saw me playing with my sons at the park or comforting them when they fell.  "You're such a good mom."  But I doubted them.  They didn't see me sitting at home, holding my new baby and wondering if this was all there was.  They didn't see me lose my temper at 3am when my toddler woke me up wanting to watch cartoons.  They didn't see me in the midst of crying children wishing I was anywhere but there.  Those moments made me feel like I wasn't doing it right, like I was a defective Mommy.

There are so many aspects of raising children to cover.  We want them to develop physically and spiritually and emotionally.  We want them to have good manners and make good grades and find good friends.  We worry about their health and what they eat and whether today's sunburn will turn into skin cancer in 20 years.  And I'm willing to bet (based on my own personal experience) that at any given moment, moms feel like they are getting it all wrong and ruining their children's lives.  No matter what other people tell us, our friends, husbands, even strangers, we don't feel like good moms because we know we are dropping the ball somewhere.

Here's the thing ladies...none of us can do it all.  We are all choosing to prioritize a few things over the rest.  I choose to focus on what my kids are learning and their emotional development, while my friend does great at feeding her kids healthy food and strengthening the family bond.  I know another mom who creates beautiful experiences for her children, who is dedicated to creating memories and protecting the purity of childhood.  There are other moms whose children have chronic health issues, and they choose to combat germs and research surgeries and hold vigils in hospital rooms while their children receive treatment.  And every one of us is doing a great job.

Instead of asking myself if I'm a good mom, and comparing myself to all these amazing women I know, seeing all the ways that I fall short of their mothering abilities, I've found a new question.  At the end of the day, as I am falling peacefully to sleep (...or passing out in the middle of a Gilmore Girls episode), I ask myself if I did what was best for me and my people.  Did I give my children what they needed--food, hugs, attention, correction?  Did I give myself what I needed--food, quiet, hugs, contentment?  Is my house still standing?  Is everyone still breathing?  Then I can hang my hat on a day well spent.  If I was able to control my temper or finish the day with a glass of wine, that's a bonus.  If I managed to transform dirty clothes into clean ones, I give myself a pat on the back.  If I carved out time to have a conversation with my husband, and maybe some kisses or whatever, then I am killing it.

I was never meant to do everything perfectly all the time.  That's just not reality.  I am meant for this life, for the people in my home and the ones who cross my path.  I am not supposed to imitate the awesome mom down the street or mold myself into some societal image of womanhood.  And neither are you.  So stand tall and with a loud voice proclaim: Today I took a shower! I rule!  I went to the store and didn't lose a single kid! I'm awesome!  I played Candy Land for the 8th time and didn't check my Instagram feed! I am a good mom!  I went to work and provided for my family! I'm freaking amazing!

And when you see the other moms in your life sweating as they push that double stroller to the park or fumbling in her purse for the thing her kid is screaming for or sitting at McDonald's Playland feeding her baby while the older kids run around, tell her she's doing a good job.  Even though she won't believe you.

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.

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 Women

I woke up this morning with a question on my heart:  Has there ever been a better time to be a woman?  The answer is an emphatic NO.  One only has to watch season one of Mad Men to realize how much has changed for those of us living today, how much freedom we have to think and act and be who we want to be.  Thanks to the tireless work of the suffragists, the educators, the trailblazers, the leaders, the law changers, I get to live in a time of unprecedented opportunity.  I can choose what job I want to have (homemaker!), what color to dye my hair (I'm thinking purple next...), what books to read (The Trumpet of Conscience, go read it NOW), who to vote for (that one's trickier since politicians suck as a rule).  Don't even get me started on the advancements in menstrual care...from red tents and rags to those bizarre belts and toxic shock syndrome, and today researchers are hard at work finding ways for us to avoid that monthly debasement altogether.

Girl Power! (I'm in the yellow shirt) 2006

I shared last week how I feel about men, both the general men of the world and the men closest to me.  It is because of these men who love me, my husband and father and sons, that I find my femininity.  It is in response and in relation to them that I see who I was created to be, see all my strengths and weaknesses clearly.  We have both, sisters, because we are whole people and we are flawed people.  The weaknesses of our gender aren't too hard to discover.  We wound with our mouths.  We gossip and whisper, we exaggerate and lie, we criticize and we judge.  And for all of the pain we inflict, we are mortally wounded when the tongues of others lash our skin.  Chris Rock says, "Women would rule the world...if they'd stop hating each other."  We allow envy to course through our veins and we forget to cheer each other on.  We forget to embrace the positive side of womanhood.

BFFs 1998

Because we live in a world that says we have to be like men to be worthwhile, we have forgotten why it's so great to be a woman.  We carry and birth new life.  We are created to safeguard the next generation with our bodies, and are capable of so much love, tenderness, and nurture.  If the children are the future like the song says, then ladies, it all begins with us, with our wombs and our breasts and our arms.  Let us never forget to wonder and celebrate at what we bear within us.  And closely related to our child-bearing is our child-birthing and ridiculously high tolerance for pain.  I firmly believe that if men had to experience the process, the human race would die off.  But we don't just stop there, with the necessary aches and groans of labor, we inflict more pain on ourselves in the name of beauty.  Waxing and tweezing and high heels and underwire (not to mention the torture of Jillian Michaels) and we don't even bat our eyes.  That's nothing.  We can endure and we can triumph through it all.  And our greatest strength is really the flip side of our greatest weakness.  All the infighting and verbal assaults we wage against each other can very easily be steered towards good.  Because our most feminine quality is our ability to go deep.  We learn about each other.  We open up about our hurts.  When we let our hearts swell with love, we realize how much we actually care about each other.  We realize that your victory is my victory and your pain is my pain.  We learn how to join arms and hold each other up.

It takes a Village 2013

I went to high school.  We all went to high school.  So we all know how scary other women are.  I chose to inflict pain right back at those who hurt me.  That seemed like the only way to survive.  But it's not.  I've been learning the past few years about another way to go, about real, healthy female friendships.  What it is to accept someone for who she is, to notice her abilities and her beauty and not feel threatened by it.  I've learned how to be vulnerable because I know I'm with safe people.  I know what it's like to be freaking out and scared and realize that my girlfriends (or sisters or roommates or classmates or whatever) are the last people I want to call.  Which is a real shame, because I have a few ladies on speed dial that are better at talking me down than even my husband (that's really saying something, since this is the guy I chose as The One to talk me down for the rest of our lives).  And WOW!  When I can reach out and there's actually another woman there who doesn't make fun of me or criticize me or judge me?  It's an incredible feeling ladies.  It's what I want for us all.  But we have to make it happen.  We have to be the change we want to see.  (Ghandi!!!)

Sisters (at Madame Toussaud's) 2013

For all that we have left to accomplish, the changes of the past several decades give me hope.  We aren't "there" yet, but we can get there because of the advancements women have already made.  We have platforms and microphones and education and spending power ladies!  We have voices and passions and we were made to be part of the solution!

*All the women pictured are dearly, deeply loved by me (even Oprah), and I will always feel tremendous gratitude to each of you for being a friend, a sister, a mentor to me.  You ladies rock!*

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.

In the Tension

I first came across this phrase "in the tension" when I read Rob Bell's book "Sex God" several years ago.  In it, he describes living in the tension through the lens of body and soul.  We aren't animals or angels, he explains, but a mix of the two, and when we satisfy our bodies, we can't disrupt our peace of mind.  Likewise, we must keep our peace of mind without depriving our bodies.  I thought it to be one of the most true things I've ever read.  In this particular book, the tension is in sexuality.  Yes, we have desires in our bodies, but instead of treating sex as though we are at Baskin Robbins and must try all 31 flavors, we should ground it in a monogamous relationship that is mutually beneficial (you know, like marriage), therefore satisfying the body and bringing peace to the mind.  I thought of this again today as I sat in church and listened to a man describing a trip to a garbage dump in Ecuador, where people search for food to feed their families, and recyclables to trade for nickels and dimes to provide everything else the family needs.  Then I went home and looked in the cupboards (full), the fridge (half-full), the freezer (overflowing), and wanted to whine that there was nothing that looked good to eat.  Because, you know, I just brought home a trunk full of groceries two days ago.  How can I sit in my kitchen and satisfy my body, eating fresh bread and cherries, drinking cold water and Coke, defrost some chicken breasts for dinner, while these families to the south (and really, all around me) are going hungry?  How can I balance a peace of spirit with a tummy that's used to eating good food a few times each day?  I think I would stuff my pockets with ten dollar bills and walk through the garbage dump handing them out.  But would that be culturally sensitive?  Would it insult the people it was meant to bless?  There's a much bigger tension than the desire to experience fidelity in my marriage.

Parenting is another example of the tension.  Because we want to hold our children close and breathe in their special childhood scents, but we also want them to grow and develop and eventually leave the home we have so lovingly nurtured for them so that they can create homes and families of their own.  As much as I am looking forward to the start of school in about 5.5 weeks, I know I'll get teary when I take the boys to pick out lunch boxes and fill our cart with pencils and glue and safety scissors.  I have loved having them home with me this summer, I have loved our morning cuddles and our afternoon quiet and our long walks and outdoor exploration.  I have delighted in their kisses and declarations of love, a new thing around here.  But I have also cheered wildly as they learned to ride their bikes and enjoyed the ease of family outings now that they can help carry the load and stay longer at fun places like the amusement park and the pool.  I have had moments of congratulatory parenting as I stood in the hall and listened to the boys settle an argument and return to their play, because YES I taught them something! but Oh wait, I'm no longer needed.  Likewise when they get their own snacks it is liberating but also sad.  So I live in the tension of giving them the love and security they need but also encouraging their independence.

Tension exists where there is no easy fix, where two things battle for dominance.  Or tension is the place we choose to be when we acknowledge the duality of our lives.  Tension is hard; tension is good.  Tension can drain us, or tension can make us aware. 

"In this tension something beautiful and compelling happens...you find language to say 'It's great to be you.'"  Jason Morriss, Austin New Church

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.

On Eugenics

When I was a flight attendant, I had the opportunity to observe all types of people.  Every so often, someone would hug me.  The huggers had one thing in common: they weren't harried businessmen (those guys whipped out their cell phones as soon as possible and were already deep into "important" discussions by the time they passed me), or parents (fumbling to carry all the accessories for their little kids)....all the huggers had Down's Syndrome.  The only group of people I met in all my travels who didn't care that I was a relative stranger, that weren't upset at the seat they were assigned, who weren't rushing to their next gate or destination.  There are tests that can be performed on pregnant women to let them know they are carrying a child with Down's, and 70% of women who receive this diagnosis set up another appointment to terminate their pregnancies.  There is no test that can let a mother know she is giving birth to a future serial killer, to a man who will someday rape a woman or embezzle millions of dollars.  There is no way to guess if a baby will grow up to be someone horrible, who will make this world a worse place.  But that test that detects trisomy 21 (aka Down's), it doesn't just tell us that our babies will look a little different or have heart problems or cognitive delays...that test also indicates that a woman is carrying a person who will bring joy and laughter and unabashed dancing into the world.  The kind of person who hugs their flight attendant.  The kind of person who sees and lives a little differently.  Yet that's the one who gets aborted.

James, before diagnosis

My son James was three years old when he was first labeled with the word "autism".  It was the first time I perceived anything different about him.  What if there had been a test, a routine part of pregnancy for a healthy 24 year old woman like myself, that would have revealed what the future held for James?  What if I had been given a choice to end it before it even began, and what if that choice was informed only by statistics and words like perseveration and nonverbal and out of control and institutionalized?  What if someone had told me then how hard it would be sometimes, how much thought and worry and struggle would mark our lives?  My choice back then would have been affected by an extreme selfishness...the kind that is eradicated when you care for a child with special needs.  Instead, I proceeded in ignorance, I gave birth not knowing.  For three years, I cared for him, fed him, studied him, engaged him, cuddled him.  I fell in love.  And so, when the doctor used that word, that scary label that seemed to imply that he was less than what he should have been, I took my beautiful boy and walked out of his office. (If I was a less polite person, I might have given him the finger)  I should clarify, we followed the advice of the other professionals who evaluated James: he began speech therapy and attended an early intervention preschool.  I became a student of developmental disabilities and sought out solutions to make this world more liveable for him.  And while autism affects his life, it isn't all that he is.  He is kind.  He is silly.  He has a terrific memory.  He loves nature.  He is a great driver (in video games at least).  For the past two years, he has exceeded the goals set for him by his teachers.  And it is thrilling to hear our celebrations of all he has accomplished drown out those warnings the doctor proclaimed over his future.  My son isn't perfect, but he is precious, and he has changed the way I look at people.

James, after diagnosis

 My pro-choice friends have been vocal and clear about why they believe in abortion rights, and I would just like to take a moment to explain why I feel differently.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because abortion is the end of the story.  That's it.  You won't face the difficulties that you would have if you had given birth, but you will miss out on the joy and wonder too.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because even if you are a parent for a day, a week, five years, twenty-nine years, or until the end of your days, it's worth it.  There is no other experience on earth that comes close to it.  There is no artificial re-creation of it.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because that child that you can't imagine raising, who may seem like a burden, to me he is a wonder.  I belong to a special group of women (we call ourselves "adoptive moms") who literally ache to hold that child in our arms, to nurture and raise and love him.  If you can't do it, friend, we will.  And so again, I say CHOOSE LIFE.

The Things that Were Taken

It was bedtime, and our Girl wouldn't put down her toys.  She wouldn't put them away, so they were taken away, downstairs with the other toys for the night.  I rubbed the cocoa butter lotion on her skin and helped her dress in the pink and white pajamas and wrapped her hair in her purple scarf and covered her with her blankets.  But she wasn't happy about it.  "Mommy," she said, "I want the things back that were taken from me."  I know she meant the Monster toys that were downstairs, so I said, "In the morning, you can play with them again.  Now its time to sleep."  But as I walked across the hall to my own quiet room, her words echoed with me, and I heard a new meaning.  I thought about all the things that were taken from her, and I knew that the rising sun wouldn't begin to help restore those Things.

We are born into families, homes, cities that are varied and much of our early years is determined by the things we are given by our parents, what is culturally acceptable, what choices the big people around us make.  When I had my first baby, I had a job, a college degree, a loving husband, a home in a two-bedroom duplex on a quiet street in the suburbs.  I had a car and parents nearby who were excited to be grandparents for the first time.  I had a room full of gifts from friends and family, a brand-new crib, a dresser full of clothes, gender-neutral blankets, diapers and wipes that would last for five months.  All of this affected how James was raised, how he was loved and cared for and what he learned about family and his place in this world.  Even when, a few years later, we learned that he was different, that he would face challenges we had never known, it didn't change the fact that he was precious to us, that he was safe and loved. (Really it helped, because it gave us a better idea of how to love him, how to structure things to make life easier for him.)  But this Girl?  Even though she was born in the same city, she didn't have much of that.  For her, and too many other children in our country, in our world, she didn't learn from day one that she was precious.  She didn't see healthy, appropriate adult relationships.  Her development and interests were not the number one priority of her primary caregivers.  And when it was determined that she was a little different, that she would face challenges her mother had never known, it only made things harder.  She wasn't given the care she needed to thrive, and ultimately the state had to get involved.

What happened next...another Thing.  She was taken.  Sitting in a police car watching her mom yell and protest, and then someone brought her to our house.  New people, new rules, different food, different schedule.  Those first weeks with us, she asked so many questions.  She didn't understand how we related to each other.  One time, when she was in time-out for hitting one of the boys, she said, "My mom just whoops me."  Even the punishments are different here.  I don't know if she has figured it out yet, that even though she is one of four here, that her health and her safety are the number one priority.  That she is precious and loved, not because of what she does or how cute she is, but because she exists.  Because she is a child.  And I don't know how to explain that some things she will never get back.  She can never unsee those things.  She can never unfeel those hurts.  She can never get back these months that she has been apart from her Mama.  I know.  I've tried to pretend that I was someone else, someone who didn't lose her innocence too young.  But it happened, and I can't get it back.  How do I tell her that she has other things now, that life will replace those Things that were taken, that, although she is now marked by the system, that doesn't have to be a bad Thing?  That, hopefully, this experience has changed the home she came from into a safe place for her to live; that someday, when she's ready, she can talk about everything that has happened and find peace; that her heart has been shaped to break when she hears about other children just like her.  That she doesn't have to repeat the life of her mother or father, that she can find something new.

I wish I could wave my Foster Mom wand over her while she sleeps and make her understand these things when she wakes up.  But I don't have a wand, all I have is a warm bed for her tonight, hugs and kisses in the morning, and a mouth to pray for her future.  Won't you join me?