July 16, 2014: a love letter

Soft white curtains hang at the windows and through them, light shines.  Today, the air wafts in too, because we’ve been given a break from the oppression of humidity and extreme heat.  And just beyond the front porch, crepe myrtles are in full bloom.  Hot pink blossoms are doing a slow dance in the breeze and I revel at the way the window is filled with light and color.  I call them myrtles, like they are dear old friends who gather for brunch on a Tuesday morning, wearing gaudy hats and one too many spritzes of perfume. 

Last night, after we said good night to the children, we caught the end of the sunset from the porch swing.  It’s my belief that if the sun is going to set each night with a grand display of artistry, then it should be acknowledged if only for a moment.  Our street is bordered with large trees and uninspiring power lines interfere with the view.  We are given but a portion of the sky, where the trees part, so a portion we will take. 

We rocked slowly with the sleepy street below, where its people full of oddities and issues, linger behind walls and windows.  We once thought it would be something of a circus, when we met our quirky neighbors who played the roles of cat ladies, drug dealers, and the rough-around-the-edges-and-everywhere-else-too resident grumblers.  As it turns out, we’re the only ones they like and thus, reap the benefits in bags overflowing with garden harvests.   An occasional firefly pierces the dusk and we are at ease together, in the real and transparent place of knowing and being known. Laughter is sweet, deep, and rich, ripe with exhaustion and appreciation for all the blessings and responsibilities of this life.  And something finds us in the quiet, in the closeness, the questions we still ask, the dreams we dare to dream that have not yet been birthed or eroded with time and its practicality.  The ones we’ve asked from the beginning and perhaps until the end.  The life we’ve collected is woven into the words and pauses, our matching heartbeat of adventure sounding in unison echoes in the silence. 

A tall, five-year-old boy wearing pajamas and a hat cracks appears at the front door with a stuffed crocodile in hand, to let us know that he was just telling his crocodile that they were going on a trip to the moon, in outer space, which is where the aliens live, but he didn’t know the names of the planets with aliens and so he needed us to tell him.  Is that okay that I came out of my room to ask you, he says, and surely, it must be, so we mention a few planet names and satisfied, he returns to bed.  Again, laughter lingers in the warm summer air. 

Another little one stretches and contorts my abdomen, there is little comfort to be found in these last days and weeks before her arrival, save hot fudge sundaes and nightly foot rubs.  What have we gotten ourselves into, we ask.  It’s a question that needs no answer, but we respond in playful blame and banter as we consider the days ahead. 

It’s a beautiful madness, our wandering tale.  Our hearts beat strong with love and bold dreams and unwavering adventure.  Our minds and bodies are tired with its responsibilities and realities.  But, it’s ours, together and that’s the thing.

Oh, let us acknowledge the adventures of today and ponder those of tomorrow.  Let us face life with courage and hope, knowing we never desired easy and dull.  May we always ask questions and never stop.  May we laugh in the dusk of summer and winter snow— even when our laughter betrays our exhaustion (and that fact that we have no idea what we’re doing).  And in that comfortable space of being known by each other, let us dream, always.

Another day ends as the lights of our sleepy street flicker on to keep watch.  We move about, filling water glasses, closing blinds, and re-covering little ones with blankets that have fallen to the floor. 

And again, tomorrow.

 

where a soul can breathe

I am weary and want to collapse in defeat, of lost sleep and timing beyond my control, and the responsibilities that come with these gifts I’ve been given.  Wanderlust and my restless self are met by the last weeks of pregnancy and the blazing inferno of a southern summer.  It’s a combination big enough to make me tremble, but I try to solider on, until the dark hours when I toss and turn, wanting to scream for relief to fall upon my aching body. 

Tired.

Of waiting.

Of losing sleep before I will lose more in the months to come.

Of carrying these dreams that roar into spaces too small.

Of not knowing the why and how of today.

Of waiting.

So, I pour all these words into the pages of my journal, where thoughts are prayers, most earnest prayers.

The wanderlust begs for going and doing and seeing. Life requires that for today, we stay and be and wait.  My every part aches with the promise of new life.  I must wait in expectation for the day, beyond all my control, beyond all my ways.  It will come, yes, and all the speakers of clichés will throw their words around and they do nothing for me, but stir the fight inside. 

And after a tragic night of sleep lost, I want to weep under the weight of it all and I do, then a few hours of respite come and two gracious children allow me to ease into mothering on this Monday.  I see no other option, but gather supplies and paint.  If I will not stand before the crashing waves, if I cannot bring my restless before the restless of the sea and there be still, I must. I must meet him today. I cannot do this day without, because my soul longs to breathe, and it needs a space to roar and be held by the one who knows. 

Before the canvas, I watch the paint run in thick, watery streams, falling down, down, collecting on the drop cloth.  I sweep in passionate strokes, honest of prayers and in doing so, the heaviness is lifting. Restless finds shelter in the words of the song I hear, as the colors grow.

My life is yours/ My hope is in you only/ My heart you hold/ For you made this sinner holy/ Your glory is so beautiful/ I fall onto my knees in awe/ And the heartbeat of my life is to worship in your light/ Your glory is so beautiful. (Your Glory- All Sons & Daughters)

He says, come who are weary, so I splash my weary on the canvas and watch the greens, yellows, and blues come alive.  And I remember that these restless ways have been entrusted to me, by him alone.  I remember that the roaring dreams and wild questions, the insatiable search to look deeper, to know, to seek—this is who I am.  And who I am… is weary.  Weary of the responsibility of these gifts. Weary of the waiting.  Weary of the way they don’t always mesh with the routines and rhythms of each day, of each season… this one, especially. 

These most beautiful lives, full of potential, requiring such attention to growth, encouragement, and understanding. Daily, we pour into who they are and who they will be, vessels waiting to be filled with whatever we offer.  And I long for them to know a world, so rich in meaning, beauty, and truth.  I roar my prayers for them, for all of us, into the silent spaces of dinners, play, discipline, and time.  How do I show them, that life is beyond a simple existence, bigger and more beautiful than gathering and striving on this covered earth, things and status and security.   And how I long to collect my little tribe and say, darlings, let’s away, the big world awaits and we must tell our story.  But, sometimes, my soul doesn’t find space to breathe in the now and the waiting and I feel heavy under its weight. 

Today, I cannot carry it.  Come all who are weary,  and I do.  Covered in paint, shifting in discomfort in the hard chair, I continue. And from the kitchen, I hear my children happily play together in imaginary lands, a gift, indeed.  I am weary, meet me here, I say.  My soul longs for space to breathe, I can not carry the roaring inside, I say.

Come all who are weary, he says.

The painting evolves. I am emptied out and held by the one who knows.  In a moment, I attempt to paint in a style I don’t do well.  Realism is not my strength, I know. I admire the skills of those who can, but I know my strength lies in a representation, an impression of what is.  And I fear that all my hard work has been lost to a rather awful looking mountain, an actual mountain in the way of what was a beautiful color-washed sky. 

But, in the nature of watercolors and I’m sure the nature of God, I take a cloth, dabbed in water and begin to wipe away the strokes. This could be another mistake, but little by little, the mistake disappears and what remains is something I never set out to create.   I continue to smear and wipe away so many of my deliberate strokes, finding that under the layers of all my hours and intentions, is a work of art that tells our story.

I am humbled and breathless.

I know it’s done, because the artist knows.

And he says, oh my darling restless one, look, there’s room to breathe here.

 

on a tuesday and something about curry

The setting was the dinner table, where evening meals are entirely blissful and quality moments of happiness.  A place where young children always eat their dinners without resistance.  It’s downright magical, these things called family dinner, it’s nearly enough to make adults cry warm, beautiful tears of joy. 

Or… uh, no.

Allow me to introduce the cast of characters for our story of the hour.  There is a daughter, lover of all foods, especially tomatoes, ketchup, and pickles.  There is no food that can’t be dipped into a nearby condiment. Apples in ranch.  Apples in hummus. She’s a mess, eating is a whole body experience and she spills her drink 80% of the time.   And the boy, he’s older, months away from turning six.  When he was a baby, he refused applesauce and all green vegetables; to this day, the same applies.  There is, under no circumstance, a good reason for a food to by covered in a sauce-like-substance, and any sort of combination dish is out of the question. Ketchup has recently become acceptable, but only when dipping. Never squirt it on a hot dog.  And as of Saturday, yes, this past Saturday, June 21, 2014, he has decided to eat his cereal with milk.  Cereal with milk. 

For a long time, we’d allow him to eat something different, because if parenthood is about picking your battles, we picked other ones.  Then, we tried the whole, “you aren’t getting up from this table until you eat at least one bite of _________.”  And that obviously turned into a battle of wills and in the end, is it really about nutrition if he finally surrenders and eats one black bean?  Who wins here? No stomach is filled, no energy remains. Everyone hates the black bean.  And the dear boy with his gentle spirit also has the stubborn will of one thousand angry horses.   Oh, parenthood, so rich with opportunities for life lessons.

Well, I don’t know what changed, maybe being a million weeks pregnant, maybe running out of fruit and yogurt faster than any family should, we decided it was time.  He was getting older and with great freedom comes great responsibility…or it was time to learn that he couldn’t always eat what he liked and he couldn’t starve AND he had to learn to try new things. THE END. 

We started seeing progress, admittedly, there was bribery.  But, hell, PROGRESS PEOPLE!  And then, we quickly found ourselves playing a numbers game,  it always went like this…

”You have to try this many bites.”

“Is this three bites?”

“No. It’s one.”

A bite.  “Was that enough bites?”

So many opportunities for math lessons here.  (No one likes math.)

And on and on and on…

That game got old, faster than fast.

There was tweaking. 

Which brings us tonight. When that boy sat down at the table and asked what was in the bowl. It was a vegetable curry with summer squash, in a separate bowl from the rice, naturally.  (Baby steps.) Matt and I exchanged glances, certain this wasn’t going to be pretty. 

And he took a bite.

The heavens stood still. The earth was silent.

He took another bite.

Matt and I looked at each other in disbelief. don’t move, don’t say a word.”  He kept eating as we watched in wonder and then he asked, if he ate enough. When we answered, yes, he looked at us with the same disbelief.  Vegetable curry with squash?  A vegetable covered in a sauce went into the mouth of my son, more than one time.  It’s been a few hours since the event. I’m still not sure it was real.

It’s a Tuesday miracle, I tell you.

 

a porch swing tale of life and surrender

At last, I steal away to the front porch. The children have been warned in all the, err… kindest ways of what will happen if they come out of bed to ask me for something to eat or what we’re going to do tomorrow.  There are seasons of bedtime and this one isn’t on the sweetest end of the spectrum.  Transitions have been rampant around here with my full-time work days wrapping up for now and a 12 days trip that threw us all into one exhausted, jumbled mess of something once resembling a routine. On top of all that they have been missing daddy something fierce because for six months, he was home during the days and now he started a new job and so good glory, I find myself crawling into bed just minutes after them, waving whatever flag says, I surrender.

I understand that transitions are real and they affect us all differently.  I’ll never forget our move to North Carolina, I was going forth bolding declaring my love for all things new and the beauty of change, when those two little ones launched a full-scale assault on all that was sane and holy… and mostly us.  I was beginning to wonder if we had forgotten our own children somewhere on the journey and wasn’t at all delighted in this newer version.  My easy going, happy children had become the nemesis of my existence and I probably, no, most certainly lost my mind.  I got the message loud and clear that from now on, we must tread lightly with these two fragile souls in the waters of transitions.  I’m still not sure how that works.

And did I mention that I’m nearly thirty weeks pregnant with our third and someone is supposed to start school in August, at a location to be determined.  It’s just… a lot.

Tonight as I write this, my husband concludes his part time evening job, five evenings a week and following that we will be entering into this strange and foreign land of having only one job, one of those crazy Monday through Friday, evenings and weekends off gigs.  I barely even knew they existed anymore.  It feels as if we’ve won the life lottery.  Certainly, life won’t slow down, but we’ll be spending more of these beautiful and exhausting minutes together and that makes a world of difference.  Worlds, even.

So, it was on this May evening, that all I wanted was to sit quietly and rather invisibly on my porch swing for just a while.  To let the gentle rocking wash the highs and lows of this full, complex, day, week, season into the grand motion of existence, where certainly, the sun rises and the sun sets and we rest in the promise of strength for today and new mercies tomorrow.  My neighbors returned from a walk and I prayed for the cloak of invisibility,  surely, not one further ounce of conversation was left in my lungs.  Graciously, I was ignored and the soothing began.  

It only took minutes for the sounds of little scampering feet to reach the doorway.  She needed to use the potty.  Twice.  Which is pretty much why I say to use it before getting in bed, but whatever.  Then, he did too, of course.  This was followed by, mom, why are you outside, what are you doing, can we come play? Essentially, the very opposite of stay in your beds and go to sleep.  Alas, my sails held no more wind and they flapped listlessly as I mustered all the last scrapes of something resembling patience for the day.   And with the promise of no longer having to face bedtime alone, I surrendered to everything.  I surrendered my quiet treasure of being alone and role of bedtime enforcer.  Everything.

The air was cool for a hot day, the kind that shouldn’t be missed and a light rain fell on the ground. An occasional firefly illuminated the darkening earth.  And we do have this really great porch swing.  So, instead of uttering once again, get back in bed,  I suggested, get your brother and come sit by me to the bravest one who is small and less afraid of consequences. 

They cuddled their long bodies of elbows and bony shoulders in really close and we rocked.  We rocked.  A soft, nearly invisible rain fell.   Under the canopy of night, the occasion song of birds and miniature flash of light.  I sang in the darkness, all the best nighttime songs.  A million questions interrupted all of the moments, even though they were asked in a whisper.  You sure are thinking about a lot of things aren’t you? I asked. He answered in the way of a thinker with a heavy yet, contented sigh,  yeah, mama, I do think about lots of things.

Little legs folded on each side of me, two heads infringing upon the space in which their new baby sister has taken hostage and we rocked.  There was nothing else to do, no better idea in this tiny shimmer of eternity when life feels to be just, so, everything.  It wasn’t about sacrificing my desires or giving in to their trickery.  It wasn’t some heroic motherly bit.  There is no hidden message about anything at all.

We rocked.  I stroked foreheads and squeezed babies.  I answered a million whispered questions.  The rain fell. The fireflies flickered. The birds were birds.  A soft breeze, almost cool floated through the air.  And all the words we didn’t say, went something like this,

hey, my small ones, we’re in this madness together, this beautiful, exhausting madness.

 

on the new, the known, and the terrifying

It all started with, oh perhaps, never mind and some details later, the pregnancy test that confirmed what I already knew.  Baby #3 was on the way.  And of course, all the people were like, oh, hey there’s totally no morning sickness the third time around, and I never believed them for a second.  Turns out, I was right. 

But, as the quality time with my old pals nausea and vomiting seems to be winding down, allowing me to return to something nearly human, I’m struck by the difference of time number three.   Is it because I already have one boy and one girl? Is it because we saved everything in the attic?  Is it a universal third time ease? I don’t know.  But, what I do know is that a handful of my friends are pregnant with baby number one and when I sit in a room with them, I see this great energy oozing out of them. This new, wonderful experience of waiting nine months for what will forever change them.  The excitement of making preparations, pondering just how different it will really be.  It’s a beautiful, powerful force, this energy.

And then, that thing called energy, it’s not a descriptive word I would use for myself, because while I am delighted at the idea of adding another life to our family, mostly I want to take a nap.  But, naps make me nauseous, which is totally unfair, because a girl needs sleep.  I am not lying when I say I was drinking coffee the other day and falling asleep at the same time.  Is this the picture of a mother of two, expecting her third miracle?  Anything resembling energy is distributed to the ones already born and any option to sit and rest, you take it, because this time you know a truth.  It’s all incredibly, amazing hard work, and somehow, you survive the sickness and discomfort and forget it in one glimpse, you lose sleep, you lose your mind, you’re happy and delirious, you give and there’s enough of whatever you need. Babies grow. Love grows. Children grow. There is enough.

As I was talking to a friend who had her third last year about this time, we laughed about spending twenty minutes picking out clothes for the first and how the same pajamas days in a row are good enough for the rest.  We talked of the energy that consumes a new mother and sustains the rest.  And then, with a trembling uncertainty, we talked about the next stage in which we find ourselves.  It turns out, five year olds go to school, and school, well, that’s a whole new game. 

We got the letter saying H had a spot in one of the magnet schools we wanted and the rest of the day I was something of shaken mess.  I mean, sure I knew he’d go to school, but all of a sudden, one stupid piece of paper and the marvel of a boy who I want to grow up to be brave, adventurous, kind, smart, and confident was again a fragile, new creature that I wasn’t ready to share, in the first baby kind of way. 

Today we read books and watched the Olympics and at bedtime, he said, mama, will you rock me and sing me songs?  Oh, I would.  More than anything in the world, I would. His giant legs spilled off my lap, but his head rested near my heart and in a way, it was like it had always been, since the beginning of us.  In the dark, I sang all the words to our favorite bedtime songs, you’re skin and bones, turned into something beautiful,  and the winds of change are blowing wild and free, and old dream maker, you heart-breaker, where ever you’re going, I’m going your way.  With his eyes closed, he said, okay, I’m ready for bed. 

Oh, my heart. 

---

At the end of that phone call, my dear friend suggested that maybe by the time the third kid starts school, we’ll feel the same ease in which we now talk about pregnancy.  

I don’t know though, suddenly August feels like tomorrow.

 

the wild collected: a moonlit memory

November 16, 2013

In the stillness of the night, by the soft glow of the night light, I told the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears to two little children.  First, she climbed into the biggest chair and it was so hard.  “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.” said Goldilocks, and she jumped down.  His face was sleepy.  I love the way a person’s face calms in the journey to sleep.  On this particular night, he was motionless under the blankets, head turned to the side, sinking deep into the pillow.  Eyelids falling. Opening. Falling again. Goldilocks climbed into Mama Bear’s chair and it was too soft, like a giant marshmallow pillow. (That’s how everyone tells it right?)   And then a smile so iconic of childhood, where a happy idea sweeps into your thoughts and over your face as you fade into slumber. It was a raison d’etre. A celebration of motherhood, childhood, stories, and dreams. Matter so pure, unfiltered life.

I wonder what a giant marshmallow pillow looks like in his head.  

 

on the shoulder raised, elbow arched, off-beat hop of delight.

Dinner is in the oven and every window is open, welcoming fall to stay for as long as it will.   Dead center in the space where the kitchen meets the hall, she begins to build a tower with her stacking blocks.

“Are you watching me?” she asks, as if my answer will determine everything.  So clearly, I’m watching and at the top she places a picture and her toothbrush, essentials for towers, I’m sure.  Next is her signature off-beat hop, wearing one shoe, shoulders raised, elbows arched, eyes twice their lovely size.  She applauds herself and shouts,  “Yes, Hooray!”  She’s part modern day Shirley Temple and part Pippi Longstocking, with all the charm of Shirley and all the stubborn quirky fire of Pippi.

“Will you put your hands like this and clap?” she says next, never ceasing to catch me off-guard.

I am informed that this is not a tower, but a “puurade”, or as you may know it, a parade.  And that brings me to think of all things they say which I will never correct, instead hoping to collect these little bits in an indestructible time capsule for always.  You know the ones, you can add yours too, if you like.  Like, how I need to hold you is really will you hold me?  And the way her brother first said, W, that made it last for approximately 18 syllables. It’s since become regular old W, three years later, but it was marvelous while it lasted.

Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing to write, because today I drank coffee, made breakfast, washed clothes, and had a picnic in the grass, which was short lived because the bugs were extra hoppy and hungry.  We collected flowers and autumn leaves and I held these not so small creatures as we read stories about nut-brown hares, Elmo, and Jesus. We did a reading lesson and probably, I watched Friday Night Lights while my boy played a game on my phone, during naptime.  Nothing major, but everything.  I should never believe that I have nothing to write, but sometimes, I do.  For when I begin a string of words, life unravels on the page, rich with the sweet nothings of noticing and remembering. 

And now they’re dancing to that damn reindeer dog with batteries that refuse to surrender.  In the glorious September sun that casts long lines across the floor, they all sing jingle bell rock.  I think I detect a bit of quivering in the sound recording, but it’s probably wishful thinking.

 

| Linking up with Heather and all those who Just Write.|

on butterfly wings and roaring lions

He doesn’t want to try hard things.  When he doesn’t understand or it doesn’t come easily, he wants to give up, going back to something he knows, to the safety of the familiar.  Inside, this war wages,  the adventurous dreamer wants to shout, Try it! Don’t be afraid! YOU CAN DO HARD THINGS! I want to shake it free, the resting brave and fearless in him, the belief that with work, he can do anything.  But he’s always been cautious, slow to embrace what isn’t his own idea.  The entire world is discovered and understood at his own pace, while imagination soars.   The creative mother in me understands that and wants to protect that light in him, the tender speed at which he moves and sees and learns and plays, uninterested in timelines or charts of progression.

He’s pensive and feels deeply, a soul at peace, unless he’s pushed too hard or he senses tension.    He’s wild and happy, eager to make people laugh and smile. Then stubborn, in a rooted, brooding, silence, the most dangerous kind.

His father often sits down with him and says, “I understand, because I was just like you, when I was your age, I know it’s frustrating when...”  For he sees the young version of himself in our son.

How do we encourage a little bird to test out his wings, while protecting its fragile spirit?  Oh, it’s a monster of an idea, that we are entrusted with these wild and wonderful creatures, with the roar of a lion hidden beneath the fragility of a butterfly wing. (sometimes the opposite.) And the world is capable of so much good and so much evil.  As are we. 

This morning, we wrote the alphabet on a large white sheet of paper and used found objects to mimic their shapes. He found a stick of artist’s charcoal and started to draw.  After a while, on his own he began writing a few wobbly letters, something he hasn’t done without instruction. In that moment, I wanted to proclaim all the reasons why I knew he could do it and why he just had to try and so many other bits of evidence for my case, but I didn’t, because that would have been mostly about me.  Instead, I softly asked, Is that an H? Did you make a P?  In that quiet knowing way, he answered, I did.

See, I wonder if these great reservoirs exist inside our children and maybe we have to say it a million times. Perhaps, we grow weary and wonder if it makes a difference. And sometimes, when we least expect, the water spills over the top, a burst of confidence trickles down, and they do the hard thing, they just do. 

You can do hard things, we say, and drop by drop, the reservoir fills. 

One day soon, he’s going to write all the letters and create the most unbelievable stories and he’ll finally figure out that whole bike pedaling thing, and we’ll watch him streak down the path like the brave rescue hero that he is.  One day that hard thing won’t be so hard anymore, but he’ll face something new, which will shake him and stretch him once again.

You can do hard things, we say, and drop by drop, the reservoir fills.

This parenting thing, it’s serious. It infuriating and mesmerizing. Just when we catch our breath, we face something new.  And each time, we’re quite certain, we can’t contend.  But, you know what I think?  What we tell these fragile, wild creatures, what we know to be true, it no different for us. 

The message, the reservoirs, the moments of break-through.

You can do hard things. 

We’re all wild and fragile creatures capable of achieving the unimaginable.  We are the butterfly wing and the lion’s roar. And we must fill the reservoirs.

 

Just Write

 

on the bravery within and things never to forget

Between towering vacation homes squished tall and snug, we followed the public boardwalk that stretched long and narrow.  And then before us, the expanse.

I walked behind him, as my boy met the sea, months before his fifth birthday.  His plaid blue hat atop his head. He stopped at the edge where the railing turned to meet the stairs, the stairs covered in sand, and his head turned to the left and to the right and back again.  Quietly, he observed, as is his nature.

And after contentment rushed through my bones, the kind that only comes in this place where my soul is at home, I took his hand and said, “Come on!”

We walked together on the sand. He was cautious and when I tried to walk him to where the water splashed our toes, he shivered and reached out to be held.  The winds were strong, the waves crashed, he was so small before the sea.  I held him close and spoke in his ear, isn’t it beautiful?  It’s my favorite.  This is where God lives.  Or, rather this is where you can always find him, if ever you aren’t sure. Intrigue slipped through his trembling eyes. His sister was scared too, which is uncommon for our Wild Eyes, but she saw her brother afraid and so she would be too.

The tide was low and they played in a small pool far from the waves, where giant rocks, covered in a slippery green grass, created shallow streams and caverns. A safe haven of exploration and wonder.  Every so often, they’d look out towards the greatness before them, not yet ready.  Matt and I jumped in the waves while Gigi and Allan built sand castles and collected shells.  We let the waves thrash us around. It was therapy as life and its adult heaviness melted in the power of the water, in the place where God lives.  We could be seen, but not heard in our bubble-sound-barrier of the wind and waves. We were like children and we were free.  And we flirted in wildly appropriate ways. 

We talked about how we want our children to be brave. They looked so small down the shore, playing in the sand.  We talked about how we want them to live with abandon and delight in the wonder of nature, to be able to feel him so closely in places like this, because we do -- so very much. 

We returned, scooped them up, and carried them the water’s edge.  They clung tightly as ever one could.  And safely in our arms we jumped and laughed until they did too.  We sat down and the water splashed over us.  Their cautious laughter grew into certainty, the shaking stopped, and then they stood on their own.  The salt water spray was still shocking, but no longer terrifying.

I want to remember it forever, the way he was brave first, the way his laughter started and then she followed his lead.  How he was then standing on his own, radiant with courage.  Sometimes, he’d fall and the water would wash over him, sending him running up the shore, but he’d turn right back toward the sea and try again.  She stayed close and gripped Daddy’s hands, but her little body shrieked with joy. 

They didn’t want to stop for lunch. They didn’t want to leave. And the days later, in the tiny kiddie pool at home they showed me how they jumped in the waves, like this, mom, like this.

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life is not easy and it was never intended to be, for a life well-lived will always be overflowing with maddening goodness and breath-taking badness, with easy and hard, and with wondrous beauty and ferocious ugly.   and you’ll be tired and weary, you’ll question and fear, you’ll feel confusion and doubt. 

i hope you’ll always know that when the world is dark and you’re absolutely unsure of everything that you’ll find him at the water’s edge.  you’ll see his power in the thundering waves that smash upon the shore.  you’ll feel him in the salty spray that covers you, in the wind that sweeps up your hair and makes it dance.  you’ll marvel in the sunlight and moonlight that sparkles across the water. and that you’ll know in this moment, when you stand before the great big sea, that the creator of the universe is with you.  and find his boundless love pouring out in the roaring and crashing and spraying and sparkling. 

my darlings, if you dare to live, you’ll often be lonely. if you dare to dream, you’ll have to jump into the unknown and sometimes the unknown will be more like a place where you set up camp and stay for a while, rather a brief moment or a quick visit.  you’ll face opposition in a world full of logic and reason and the masses won’t understand.  and you’ll feel small, oh so small, but, my dear ones,  be brave, be free, be strong.  his love is an ocean.

 

 

 

on the morning of June 21, 2013

I heard the squeak of a bedroom door and soft, rapid footsteps heading to the kitchen. At the table, in the dim morning light, daddy ate his breakfast of peanut butter toast. And for the next twenty minutes, one voice, young and loud and another, deep and calm talked, while sister and mama slept in their rooms.

The hum of conversation passed through hallways and walls, the rise of fall of exchange, between a father and son taking the opportunity for time alone. It doesn't happen too often, the chance for a captive audience, no girls included. I don't know what they discussed, but his enthusiasm was felt all the way to my room, and I know that a deep smile rested on the face of a father. A man who loves mornings and his family. A chance to be with his son, before hours of work that he doesn't love, but will never complain.

When the time came for him to leave, he gave me a kiss and lifted one tall, skinny boy into the open side of the bed, and said goodbye. And that little boy, he pulled the blankets close, rolled over and fell asleep, not even whispering a sound.

We stayed that way for a few hours more.   

On Wild Eyes and uncharted territory

I feel as if I would be doing a great disservice to my little collection of words here if I neglected to share these tales, because this is the place where my stories live, safely in time, phrases and sentiments, a time capsule of moments adorned with punctuation.  Likewise, in sharing them, I incriminate myself with the levels of  brutal honesty that others might simply ignore and most will surely find amusing.  Of course, I mean my mother.

But a good story is a good story and surely, I must continue typing.

The daughter of this family, affectionately known as Wild Eyes the Brave, has stepped up her game in the name of uncharted territory.  At two and half, she is emotions that spill over and overwhelm without warning, she is a mushy, melt in your arms bundle of love, and she is a wildfire of daring, fierce instigation.

Help. Us. Lord.

The resident twinkle in her eye, it knows absolutely every miniscule way of interfering with her older brother’s world.  Even the slightest sound that will always, always send him over the edge.  There’s this chomping sound a person makes when they pretend to eat something and he just will not accept the fact that she is NOT eating his robot-block-flying-boat-car or his bear or his pillow or his ear.  To date, all of those items are still in tact and uneaten by little sister, part best friend, part public enemy number one.  I will inform you of any changes.

This is the part where my mother’s face is now overflowing with tears of laughter, because the saying the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know, damn clichés.  Meet Queen Instigator, hi.  And my brother’s begin to feel vindication for the endless fights that I would prompt and quickly call for help, because daddy will 9 times out of 10 side with sweet little girl over mean, rough brothers.  You know how that games plays out.

Sister is a force.  

Part of me is amazed at her skills while the rest quivers in terror.  I saw this early on in those wild eyes.  I always knew we were in trouble.

Today, she slowly inched her bottom down the hill and ran down the sidewalk away from us, laughing the whole way.  The resident spark of ornery glowing brightly.  One might argue that they do if for the chase and that is most likely true, but others might also determine that a fearless two year old inches from the road is not really time for psychological games.  I’m on the latter team.  Sister made it five houses down by the time I left my seat, descended two flights of stairs and snatched her up.  She felt it a great injustice that she was thus confined to the porch and she expressed the injustice with all the drama and zeal one little soul could possibly contain.

Also, I regret to admit that she is just days away from realizing that she can climb out of her crib.

Any moment now… the ice is thinning.  These days are fragile, before the great enlightenment.  Fragile days.

I won’t resort to comparison at the end of each sentence, but guess who didn’t have interest in running away or destruction or leaving the safety of his bed….right. 

Surely, it’s been said by all parents of the human kind, and even the snowflake kind, the uncanny differences of children birthed from the same womb.  My evidence here is nothing new, but seriously.

These are fragile days and someone has stepped up her game.

Send reinforcements.

 

Dinner time now and then

He dipped his finger in the fry sauce, you know the gourmet mixture of ketchup and mayo, and declared that it was delicious and he did like it.  He even dipped his fry in the sauce and took a bite. Welcome to the big time folks,  dinner with kids, showing seven nights a week everywhere.  The kid, he tried a sauce,  a wet, non-solid substance, a miracle, I’m sure.

Then he boasted in trying his dinner, I tried it, I did. 

The boy, he tried the fries and ignored the fish, but you know, good job for effort.

Dinner time around here is a struggle. I’m nearly certain kids were only meant to eat two meals a day. Nearly certain.

The other day, after refusing whatever I was serving, something tasty and made from scratch, he gave wild praises about, wait for it, buttered toast.  The best butter toast ever, he said. 

Huh.  Perhaps, I’ve been trying to hard.

Well, today, when the fry sauce was so wildly exclaimed, that’s when it hit me.

I’m going to make a list of all the dinners, they don’t want to eat for the next fourteen+ years and when they go off to college and tell me how awful the food is, I’m going to send it to them.  That’s what I’m going to do.

That will teach ‘em.

And one day, they’ll beg me, they’ll plead for a delicious home cooked meal.

One day, friends, one day.

an adventure within the adventure

They have this way of talking, special conversations between the two of them.  He sits next to her and asks questions,  Is that your shirt?  Are you okay? Are you thirsty? No, Harper, that’s not a baby, that’s a dog. She looks up at her big brother and in a sweet, high pitched voice tells a tale in words to complicated for adults. Somehow he gets what she’s saying and responds.  He waits for her answer.  Repeat.

It’s my favorite thing.

Sometimes he speaks for her, but mostly she speaks well enough for herself.  Want some chips Harps?  And without waiting, Harper wants some chips.  For breakfast.  How could anyone refuse when they both want chips, for breakfast?  I laugh and she confirms their request with a squeal. Chips.  They have already learned the power of joining forces.

When he’s sick, she senses the difference and and brings him essentials: bears, cars, coloring books, and her babies.  She sets off on a mission and doesn’t stop until all of babies and animals have been relocated to his side.  She’s sits with him and if he throws up or coughs, she makes the same sounds. Her eyes tell how she loves doing this for him and his gentle smile comes alive and he thanks her.

He named his bear, Beetabop.  Beetabop it is.

The way he’s cautious and she is fearless makes this perfect blend.  She instigates the stacking chairs on top of the coffee tables.  At eighteen months.  He catches the infectious look of her eyes and joins.  When we intervene, she’s crushed and he gets over it quickly.  We’ve banned her from watching any of the gymnastics during the Olympics.  She doesn’t need anymore ideas at the moment.  But, that thrill in her eyes, the way she is so alive when jumping off the couch or climbing across a collection of furniture, it’s the most amazing to witness. The wild eyes, the energy, the moment between the destinations, the squeal,  her happy place.

This week, I took them to the park where the play structure is not too high for small ones and she couldn’t believe how I let her roam across the bridges and scale the stairs.  One of those squeaky bridges caused her brother to pause and ask for my hand, while her little legs bolted across bravely onward.

She is expressive and he is pensive.  The worlds he creates in his head, the way his toys have ideas and feelings and stories to tell.  We marvel.  When she sleeps, we build little towns of trains and Lincoln logs and animals and garages for his cars. It’s creating and possibilities, getting lost in imagination and adding details just for fun. And by fun I mean necessity, because life is our canvas and we can create just the basics or revel in the beautiful details.  Especially… the details.

You know, in the same way that God created rocks that sparkle with a parade of colors and rocks that are every inch smooth and black.  How he designed sunsets and snowflakes and the color scheme of fall.  The way leaves rustle a sweet song when they dance with the wind.  The way that the sea is moody and grey one day, then brilliant and blue the next. It’s all extra, the finishing touches on his great work.  Because, why not? Because, he can.

And in the same way, he could have just given us any old random kids, but I’m in awe of how he knows us and our children. We talk endlessly of dreams, risk, adventures and here we have this wild eyed, daredevil of a daughter looking for every chance to fly.  Her brave heart left in our care. Our boy with his quiet ways and a head full of stories and possibilities.  That which we pursue for ourselves, we are entrusted to protect and nurture in them. An adventure within the adventure, really.

It makes me feel small in the best way, how this huge part of my story is really about them, and how these pieces of them are so crucial to who I am. How we met and fell in love and made babies, these two marvelous babies. What a wonder these details that make up our days.

Rocks on the shore, decorated with a parade of colors that sparkle and glisten, shades of bravery and possibilities and love.

What do you see in the eyes of your children? What details leave you in awe?  What radiates from the shore?

 

Rainy day us.

The sweet rhythm of  gently falling rain.  A world painted grey and green.  The beautiful calm.

Earlier this morning, great booms and wild lightning woke us to listen their marvelous tale, a love story, for certain. I watched frenzied light flash across the palest blanket of bluish-gray.  I shook with the thunder and let the sleepy drip drop of the rain lull me back to sleep.

All the windows are open, the scent sweeps through our home and dances with the incense that drifts from the kitchen.  There is a natural rhythm to life in the way of weather, in the way that spring jolts us to life and summer is a flutter of activity; how the fall romances us with the best colors (and scarves and cute boots) and most phenomenal smells and then how winter beckons us inside. 

And when the rain pours down and refreshes the hues of browning green, we are invited to delight in a standing offer of  slowness.  Most of my favorite things pair well with rain: steamy coffee, books, wellies, Nora Ephron movies, baking, creating, and Coldplay, of course.  Rainy day music is something I know. 

My kids, they get rainy days too and it thrills me.  We stayed in bed and their eyes got big with each boom, not scared big, but wow big. Do you see the rain, Harper, he asked his sister.  Rain, she points. Thunder rattles.  Do you hear the thunder, Harper?  Tunder., she answers.  He is pleased, as if she has completed her lessons properly. 

Now they built block robots on the floor and watch Curious George and every so often, check the status of the great, wet outdoors.  They are calm inside and it shows all the way through to their faces and in their contented spirits.  I am so thankful for a life that allows this.

The way the earth invites us into these brief seasons of calm is something I hope they always know.  I hope they allow the rain to fall without blame when it trumps preconceived plans.  When they leave the grocery store and it instantly pours three times harder,  I hope they don’t see inconvenience, but whole heartedly step out and let it wash over them.  Clothes dry and two marvelous minutes of standing in the rain can do wonders for most anything. 

The rain reminds us we are small and not in control and we need that, because for all our dreams and plans we think we are.  We need the sun to point us forward fully alive with  passion and possibility and we need the rain that whispers sweet nothings of stillness. 

Joining with dozens of others for Just Write.

on time travel and beauty in the darkness

This heat makes their room so stuffy, I’m happy they can sleep, I couldn’t.  She woke up once last night and from the sound of her cries, she needed something.  Maybe just to brush the sticky hair off her face or maybe a drink of water, but for a moment, I held her in my arms.  A soft light glowed from the other room through the cracked open door and she soon calmed.  My favorite grey shirt, her security item by mistake was pressed gently to her mouth as she inhaled its smelly comfort.  Sometimes she tries to share that with us and shoves it in our faces, and oh my, I wash it.  Have you watched a baby when a cocoon of happy is built around them?  Her breathing flutters and sinks into a rhythm like the perfectly crashing waves, it captivates you, consumes you and washes you with a blanket of tranquility; her body melts into my arms.

In the darkness and the lull of a fan only adequately serving its purpose, I see my boy stretched out across his bed, too hot for pajamas.  His long arms and legs sprawled about as if he is lost in an adventurous dream of snugglebugs and boomjangle dins. In my arms, she’s mush with pursed lips and her wild eyes are calm under their lids.  And it happens that her face is all of a sudden hours old, all puffy and new with that nose that immediately captured her father’s heart and soul.  Do moments pass or was it just one blink, around me the world is swirling and blurry, except for this beautiful collection of skin and organs and life. 

She’s brand new and then eighteen months old jumping from the coffee table to the couch, clearly uninterested in gravity and how it sneaks its way into our lives.  She squeals, more catch and I half heartedly tell her no, but extend my arms anyway, because if you only saw her eyes after the jump.  She is helpless and soft, wild and alive, determined and fearless, fragile and sweet.  Life is a masterpiece of all these things and every bit is who we are always, all the brushstrokes and splashes of color, come together to tell our story.  And yet, we are not doomed to be defined by the broken and dirty parts, because the best works of art have shadows. They are the most real.  Shadows contrast the beauty and light. 

I don’t wish for her to be one day old again, I truly don’t. Yet, in this moment, it’s hot and July and in the dark,  I’m somewhere else on a cold January night.  I return her to bed and close the door.  As I walk the six steps to my room, I’m overwhelmed in the best way with life and all that is packed into those four average letters, it’s barely worth anything on the scrabble board.  And still, it’s huge. Huge.

Look how far we’ve come and do you dare imagine all the places we’ve yet to go?

on parenting and the idea that we are doing just fine.

Two things especially bother me. First, when people say, “I have this junk stuff I don’t want, I’m bringing it over.”   No.  I certainly do not want more stuff, I’m trying to already trying to get rid of everything we have. (Exceptions apply).  Second are those e-mails from parenting websites, you know, the your baby this week ones.    I might have an issue with people telling me what to do, like how companies tell me that my children should wear clothes that have exploded with butterfly/sparkly/sugar puff/ladybugs and nonsense words OR how it is suggested that I sign my baby up for a tumbling class so she will learn how to walk and fall.  Yeah, we can do that home.   Is there a class for breathing, because what if we aren’t sure how to do that either. 

I will never admit that I know everything, I mean, thank God that I do not, but I am certain that within us is the necessary knowledge and wisdom to raise our children.  Like how once we become mothers, we can hear the slightest sound from their room or how we know the difference between a hurt and tired cry or how we can tell when they just need some space and quiet.  We have been equipped and if we listen to that gentle voice inside, we know.

This is where things get dangerous, so hold on.  There is a great force that launches a full scale assault from the very second you find out you will be a parent. Its sole mission is to make you feel unprepared and incapable of executing the mission before you.  From the parenting books that say this is the only way or the other parents who who know everything that ever existed to the doctors appointments and the checklists that can make you feel nervous and totally unable to go on, without a half an hour wait for a ten minute visit.  Also, that whole concept of mom guilt, (don’t get me started). And no, they aren’t all bad, but the overwhelming sense is that all these voices are telling us, I have the answers and clearly, you do not. 

An empowered person who possesses quiet confidence is a dangerous thing.

When we need help, we should seek wisdom, only fools wouldn’t,  but what would happen if we started to believe in ourselves?  What if we started to believe that we were created for this (any many other things), created to raise our babies and watch them grow into capable, good hearted, and amazing people. What if we let our voice, the one that comes from our very core be the loudest. We are entrusted with the future, we are watching it unfold each and every day.   I wonder if the future would seem less frightening if the voices we heard the most were full of encouraging messages rather than hey, you, you’re doing it all wrong.

Just a few beginning thoughts on this subject,  I’d love to hear from you.

But, most of all, I hope you know you’re doing a good job.

bottom of the list homemaker.

Lately, at the end of the day, I find piles of fabric stacked on my desk, a project ready to complete, jars of buttons, zippers, and spools of thread, a stack of dishes drying on the stove, because we have zero counter space, toys tucked into their evening spaces, floors swept a bazillion times.  The tea kettle whistles for tea and I sneak outside to steal the last moments of the sun dipping below the tall, strong trees, painting the grass with a golden tint on green.  A sketchbook or novel in my hand, because I can’t get enough of reading this year, stories, I love the stories.  At the end of this set of hours, I have given my all, used all my creative energy, all of my tolerance for messes and noises and whining. 

Countless things happen in the hours of a day, full of living and doing and caring and cleaning.  Trying to be a patient mother and a thoughtful wife and an artist, always, or as much as I can. Whoa, life, huh?

Last week, I thought of those forms where you check  your occupation, where your entire raison d’etre  (purpose and meaning) is supposed to be shoved into a tiny, trivial box.  Somewhere at the bottom, you might find homemaker, dull and uninteresting, an after thought.  The form tries to make it sound like a less than ideal choice, jesting with a sneer, too bad you’re not any of those other super successful important things, you’re just a homemaker.

Silly form, the trick is on you.

I mean, HOME-MAKER, maker of homes, makers of days and lives and families and childhoods and memories and comfort and food and and romance (bonus) and beauty and care and dreams and fun and knowledge  and laughter and discipline and cookies and paper cutout animals and dances and love notes and lunches and clean socks and silly songs and clever tricks and and and and love.   (consider this paragraph in revolt against the comma.)

The thing is, homemaker is awesome sauce. Homemaker is no joke, it’s powerful and huge and sometimes  unnoticed, but wildly important.

At this point, I am sure you are on your feet ready to chant, HOMEMAKER! HOMEMAKER! HOMEMAKER!, Alas, hush, the kids are sleeping and silence is a time of magic not to be interrupted, so quiet down already.

You know that scene in Mary Poppins where Mrs. Banks is preparing to attend her votes of women rally and throw eggs at the prime minister’s house, that’s the kind of excitement I’m talking about here. 

People, you makers of home, a home for your family, the family that you love, love that will impact the future and today and right now and clean underwear for all mankind.

You are amazing. Go forth and make.

It’s really a way of creativity, this homemaking, but you knew I would say that. 

Also, remember this…

Frank Navasky: Kathleen, you are a lone reed. You are a lone...
[sits down at his typewriter]
Frank Navasky: [typing] "... reed, standing tall, waving boldly in the corrupt sands of commerce."
[pulls the page out and hands it to Kathleen]
Kathleen Kelly: I am a lone reed.
Frank Navasky: Lone reed.

a story about how my children were abducted by aliens and the wisest thing my husband ever said.

Look, this is a sad story and before you start rolling your eyes at the next sentence on the screen, let’s get one thing straight, because you’re great, you really are and I’m only sort of complaining about 56-99% of the way, which is the majority and majority feels like a very long word to type at the hour of 7:04 AM.

On the morning of June 21, 2012, in the year of our Lord, I was rudely and unpleasantly assaulted from my slumber by sounds of life from that room where my children sleep. The time was 6:16 Ante Meridiem. What the auto spell? What in all of creation is this madness and calamity of the great modern world?  Who are these children and were mine abducted by aliens in the FEW-ish hours that I was able to finally embrace the lovely slumber that night brings. And frankly, hasn’t my daughter taken enough of my sleeping hours to last a lifetime. The answer is yes, and wherever they might be floating through other worlds, I’m sure they are sound asleep, because…

My kids, my beautiful offspring, those kids wake up between 8-9AM, first the small, loud one, next the long, skinny one who stumbles out of his bed and onto the couch, because he does mornings the right way, slow and easy and quietly.  Blessed child. The other one, she has done 156 things in the thirty minutes before he has enough determination to relocate from the couch to the kitchen table, where then he will consume his basic food group of cereal.  Including try to wake him up and laugh and poke. That girl.

I know, I know, I get it, I’m sorry about whatever hour of darkness and despair your kids wake up, I really am, because I believe that the world is lurking with evil before the sun has had enough time to stretch, and drink a large mug of coffee. What the sun doesn’t drink coffee, you say, well, you don’t know that. End of discussion.

It just so happened to be the time that my delightful, handsome husband had to get up for work, poor, poor, beautiful man, and I snuck in that room of noise to grab the baby, hoping as usual that I’d extract her and close the door without my three-year-old teenage sleeper even flinching. Blessed child, did I say that already? Oh, probably.  Well, my friends, four little blue eyes met mine on this morning that is today.  Four very awake and talking eyes.   Boy eyes that said, want to lay by mommy. Girl eyes that squealed with all the energy that is not natural at such an hour.  What was I to do, and they tucked themselves under my soft, cozy blankets, where I was supposed to be sleeping for two more hours. 120 minutes. And so for the next ten minutes, they humored me with the cute little game of pretending that they were on board with the idea heads on pillows, eyes closed, slumbering magic.  I knew it wouldn’t work, I could tell, too many words were being said, too many limbs were in motion.  It was a disaster waiting to happen. And then, they stood on my pillow and started jumping and laughing, conspiring against me in the worst possible way. After all I do for them, they were making noise and jumping on my pillow before the news was even off the television, of course, that is speculation, since I do not watch the news or know what time it airs.

And with great defeat, I surrendered as my feet met the floor, followed by four very active little legs, where they were so delighted to see their father at home in the morning.  He pretended to feel sorry for me, but really, I imagine he was laughing all the way to work.

My son, he grabbed the bag of sun chips from the pantry, because someone else must have left them in his reach and he started making demands.  Want cereal, want bowl, want strawberries, want chips.  I looked at him, blurry, sleepy eyes and all and I pretended that I did not hear, because you see, well, keep reading.

Next, that man I love, the one who was surely laughing on the inside said the wisest and most important thing in all of his existence, (maybe, probably).  Listen, children, if you are going to be awake two hours early and deprive your mother of sleep, it would be very smart to not ask her for too many things.  That’s not going to work in your favor.

Have you ever heard such truth in all your life? What a wise man. Thank God for him.

And I smiled as I fumbled with the tea kettle and faucet, which are rather tricky little pieces of machinery at such a dismal time of day.  I noticed how the sun was stretching out across the green grass for the first time in hours and I tried to pretend it wasn’t pretty enough to keep looking.  Whatever, it was lovely or something, that is not the point. Focus, here.

I made some chai, because it’s way too early for coffee, check back with me around nine, when mornings are supposed to begin.  I said, hey, here’s a giant box of toys, make a mess. Hey, there 66 episodes of Diego on Netflix, let’s dive in.  I’m not even going to pretend that I don’t let them watch TV, I have nothing to prove to the collective cohort of parenting judgers who judge.

And then I sat down, because I felt that if I must be awake at least I’d try to make it a semi-entertaining story full of hyperbole and ridiculous statements. I’m surprised my fingers even know how to type right now.

Insert tangent here:  Before the hour we do not speak of, I was dreaming that I woke up on a Monday morning and didn’t finish my final book project for my English class (What, am I 17 again?) So, I convinced my mom to let me skip first hour, so I could make the entire project in time to get to school for second hour.  In my dream, I saw the entire project, based on a book series that I recently finished and in my dream I gave the entire explanation for how this project represented the characters, plots, and themes.  I know, major English nerd. True story.

So, now, I’m sitting here entirely out of words and I’m thinking about actually making that very project  for my kids.  But, mainly, because I want to see if I can replicate what I saw in the last moments of cherished sleep. You know, the ones that were taken from me unjustly and without cause.

Look, if you read this, go ahead and tell me how many times you rolled your eyes at this nonsense of a tale.  You’ll probably want me to know what time your little morning creatures rise and such, which is fine, but it’s not really going to make me want to sleep any less.  I promise. 

I wish I was sleeping right now. I wish this story wasn’t true, sadly, it is. Every non-sleeping detail.

Also, look, if there are typos and grammatical errors, you’ll have to forgive me.  Haven’t I done enough English projects for the day?

on walks and bravery

A walk is what we needed, but the stroller was in the car trunk and the car with the husband, so that trusty red wagon was loaded with all sixty-five pounds of my offspring. Now I can report this was a major mistake as my arms are protesting even the slightest movement of my fingers, two miles later.

The older one, he is content to play the role of passenger, as he silently studies the world that passes. Unless there happens to be rocks that need to be thrown into a lake, which came later.

But, that younger one, you know, the brave, doer, experiencer, she suggests every 15 seconds, “bwallk,” because now that she knows how, she has no need for sitting, ever again. At 16 months, she feels strongly about doing everything and doing it herself. Sometimes, she holds my hand, to appease me or whatever, but mostly just long enough to get her balance.

look out world, I have this baby girl and you have no idea the life that radiates from her beautiful self.

I strongly believe that children are born explorers and they belong in their element that is the nature world and so I often let them walk as I pull the empty wagon. And furthermore, walks should not only exhaust the mother. She wobbles in the best way and he comes beside her, hold my hand harpsiedoie. He is so proud in his helpful state and she feels so grown walking with him.  But, their strides do not match and it is short lived.

She shines of freedom and joy as she continues down the winding trail and all we pass swoon at her fresh-wobbly baby steps.  Because they know or remember or because it’s just this incredible wonder how children grow.

And we find a quiet place where the path opens to the lake and he immediately sits and begins to throw the rocks one by one into the water, his happy place.  It takes two minutes before she’s seated to his left and is grabbing anything her chubby hands can throw too. 

Slowly, she inches away, closer and closer to the shallow water, not asking permission, not meeting my eyes.. So much brave and just enough cautious.  And then half of her legs are covered in the debris from the edge, sticks, mud, and something green.  But, she plays and picks out colorful rocks and now the water is splashing on the lower part of her belly. Pants, shoes, everything soaked and she thinks nothing of it.  The other one, his shoes get wet and he’s back on dry ground. 

She looks up and declares, brrr, splashes and scoots deeper, far enough, I decide and she protests with all the passion she can find.  And she’s so mad over the injustice of the matter, for a decent while was we continue down the path away from this new world that she wants to know.

And the whole time I all I can think of is the greatness of her bravery and how fearless is in her blood and I wonder at the task I’ve been given to protect and nurture those pieces of her. 

To keep her safe, but never to break her spirit.  Show her how to fly so she will be able soar.

As we get closer to home, she sits barefoot in her shirt and diaper and I begin to hear the softest, “bwallk?”

My girl, you will soar.

 

Just Write

on creating a life to be lived, not merely survived

Feeling settled into our new surroundings and giving into the creative flow that will not be ignored.   For everything there is a season and happily ideas are spilling onto blank pages and unsuspecting pieces of furniture.

Yesterday I woke up in my favorite state of mind.  I began a new project, ordered some fabric, baked cookies, did yoga, and sketched.  When I gave in to the first, all the rest came freely.  My children were so pleasant and nice or maybe that was me and my rose colored classes of creativity.  Anyways, I’m convinced that when we do the things we love, it pours out into everything around us, our homes, families, attitudes, and energy. Try doing a bunch of wonderful things and then notice how washing the dishes doesn’t seem so unpleasant.

I’ve been reading Nurture by Nature, a parenting book that I finally can handle, because I’m a personality junkie and even though I hate the idea of being put in a box, I love understanding how we are all created so intentionally.  I especially love when the knowledge sinks in and you transform your life and all its systems to be in sync with who you are.  Living life so it makes sense, optimal living, not just living a life they say you should and as you struggle along wondering why it’s not working.

"Parents who understand this quality of INFJs can help protect them from a demanding and high-speed world. By creating private times and places, parents communicate a respect and understanding of their child and help foster a close relationship that lasts a lifetime."
"INFJs also need privacy to make the many intuitive connections they do and to develop their creative ideas and visions. For them, the creative process is essentially a solitary one."

-Nurture by Nature

This is what we have been doing, without even realizing it.  Because having a million things to do and dozens of places to be doesn’t work for me and it sucks the life out of me.  Interestingly enough, my son shares this personality with his parents and he thrives when he has time and space and quiet too.  Go ahead and fill his day with endless activities and you’ll see a frustrated, exhausted three-year old,  a less than dreamy version of himself.  The same sentence would describe me.

I’m on a mission to create a home full of cozy and comfort, a peaceful environment where we can thrive and learn and enjoy this beautiful, meaningful life.  That means continuously discovering how the four of us function best.  I know every family is different, but I’m convinced we don’t need to succumb to the struggle of just surviving, because there’s more, so much more.  And yes, even a beautiful, meaningful life is full of exhaustion, challenges, and trials, but they don’t get the final word.  And if our lives are indeed our most creative act (to quote Erwin McManus), then I believe we can take whatever we have and turn it into something remarkable.