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Archive for mother’s heart – Page 6

Change

12 Days of Thanksgiving: DAY TWO

We lost another tooth last month. This time I found out about it in an “oh yeah” moment. These teeth seem to be getting fewer and fewer “breaking” news flashes. Now, we’re equally on the watch for the NEW teeth coming in. And, although it can be somewhat disconcerting to get the latest (with demonstration) at the dinner table, I’m finding a distinct comfort in these little milestones of life.

We’ve gotten progressively more confident. With the tooth thing. The last time it happened at the skating rink. Apparently. I wasn’t there for that big event. Again. After the exodus of four — now five — baby teeth, my little snaggletooth Drummer Boy is an expert. I don’t think I even know the location of big event number five. That’s quite a jump in confidence from tooth number one.

When Little Drummer Boy’s first loose tooth started to make its imminent departure known, he woke me at 3am. He was afraid and worried and unsure of everything. He knew from books and conversations that this happened to every child. Losing teeth was just one of those growing things. But on that day (way back in kindergarten) it was totally different. It was happening to him. When we’re faced with that newness — that change — for the first time, it’s always bigger than we thought.

There was his concern at the breakfast table. His resistance to go to school. His wanting his teachers to know — and wanting me to tell them. His look of worry. His covering smile. His desire for someone to know. Maybe everyone to know. To be aware of this very personal change.

I know that feeling.

I remember so clearly wanting to hold him. Wishing I could hold him all day. And shelter him from the brunt of this change — a change I knew he would get past. In time and when the sting of that first loss was gone.

Change is part of life — the most consistent part. Life changes. Accepting that change is a lesson I hope as I can continue to teach my babies. As I try to accept the change in our lives myself. And my own inability to shield them from it.

My children push me forward. There’s no way around it. They are incapable of existing without joy and smiles and play. So they pull me along. They are incapable of making themselves stop growing. They can’t help but press on — at break-neck speeds sometimes. And while it’s often hard for me to keep up during this season, I’m so thankful for their continued and insistent steps forward. Toward change. And the acceptance of change.

You hear that kids are resilient. I wonder if it’s more that they just accept change more easily. After all, their whole existence is change — compacted, magnified and over-arching change. Little Drummer Boy is seven now and I don’t know if even once in those seven years has he gained his stride for more than a minute before the upheaval of another stage, another lesson, another change began its churning. Yes, he’s an expert at tooth-losing, but what of the latest and greatest lessons of every other kind? All the normal lessons, and the not-so normal ones. Such is the process of ever-learning. Such is life when you are so young. Change.

When I think about the resilience of Little Drummer Boy and his ever-revolving stages, I wonder if it comes from this: He hasn’t yet realized he knows everything. He is full of the never ending process of recognizing curiosity and trying to satisfy it. He hasn’t reached the moment when he feels certain he knows what needs to be known — when he has arrived at some defining moment of understanding. No, I think he is somehow cognizant of the vast sea of knowledge or understanding he does NOT possess. And that’s completely acceptable to him. So, perhaps facing the unknown isn’t quite so jarring. When you face the unknown so regularly.

The trouble with growing up sometimes is that we lose sight of all that we DON’T know. We are wooed by the idea that we have arrived at knowing everything we need to know. In that love affair with understanding, the unknown and the unexpected are unwelcomed, but insistent guests. And when we are confronted with change that comes from what may be the UNknowable, the blow is even greater.

As I’m pressing through my own growth spurts in this 12-day series, I’m thankful for the example from my children that life does indeed keep moving. It changes. But those changes get easier as we go.

tiny messages . From Here

“Look over there!
I can see the beach from here.”

She said it about 30 miles from home. And a good 5 hours from the beach. That’s my Baby Girl. She hasn’t quite grasped the concepts of time and distance. She’s still young and innocent enough to live her days unhindered by the sequence of things like days and hours. Anytime before right now could have been yesterday. And probably was. Anywhere but here might as well be where we just were. And probably is. A special and exciting place could very easily be right over there. And probably is. I think what Baby Girl actually saw might have been a factory, and what made it bear a resemblance to the beach, I don’t know. Still, she got my attention from the back seat.

We were driving home from a week in Gulf Shores, Alabama filled with no schedules, lots of sun, and new experiences. That week, Baby Girl saw the beach for the first time. Up until this trip it had been something we should do one day or something we were planning for or waiting for. The beach was this place of anticipated fun, filled with all the things only her imagination could conjur. The beach was something she knew she should be excited about. And she was.

I don’t know if the actual experience of the beach measured up to her imagination. In actuality, Baby Girl’s beach was filled with getting knocked over by waves and standing up again. Meticulously constructing sand castles. Gathering shells and shell parts. Testing her courage (and mine) in the swimming pool nearby. Riding up an elevator to our “beach house.” Staying up until wee hours. Driving past goofy golf for pancakes or chicken nuggets or a walking through the souvenir shop. The one with the big shark mouth at the doorway that made it the “shark store.”

Baby Girl has been to the beach now. She’s seen it and played in it and experienced her own version of it. Yet somehow it must still exist so vibrantly in her imagination. She brought it home with her in some combination of experiences and anticipations.

We were coming home still bathed in the beach’s spell. Yet, my mind, at least, was shifting into transition mode. “Reality” mode. Some of the trip had been twinged with melancholy, the call of struggles from home reaching us even there. At least reaching me and my staunch desire to keep it from reaching anyone else. And I knew we were coming home to some changes — changes it would be my job to process and interpret for my little beach babies.

I don’t know what she saw that night on the way home when she shouted, “I can see the beach.” I wish I did. I wanted to ask her what looked like the sand or the surf or the waves, but I knew she couldn’t tell me. I knew it was just something — something in her thoughts and her special view of life. Something she knew she saw. And everything in me wanted to cry, “it IS right there.” “I can see it too!”

I’ve been thinking about that drive and Baby Girl’s little declaration for the three weeks since we returned. I’ve been thinking about her perspective. And searching for it. A perspective outside of time and space, released from the boundaries they often place on our hope and joy. I wonder if it is in these Baby Girl moments that we are most like God, in whose image we are made. Most able to think like him. To grasp His perspective. The unbounded view. To see with certainty that precious place of peace and joy and anticipation and hope. Regardless of time or distance or circumstance. And the miles they take us.

I wonder.

Look.
I can see it from here.

 

Gift Tags are the tiny messages God continues to include with my gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)

Seven

I simply blinked, and seven years went by. I’m still amazed every day at the wonder and magic of you. Happy Birthday, Little Drummer Boy.

The Sky

It’s been a while since I looked at the sky. For no good reason. I follow the demands of my little ones quite often as they direct my attention to the moon or a star or a jet stream, but I have to admit that I don’t often ascertain the same wonder they seem to glean. No, my gaze is sometimes more of a momentary patronage of their whims while my brain is centered on my own passing fancies. I guess that’s how it goes with the seemingly constant multi-tasking that calls itself motherhood.

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Yesterday afternoon I looked at this sky. On purpose. For no OTHER purpose but to see it. My children were using it as a time-keeping device for how long we could stay outside — until the sun went down. But, I was just looking. Just looking to see it change and glow from a peaceful seat. Just looking to let it impress me, which it rarely fails to do when I’m paying attention.

On Friday the kids and I came to the farm to spend the week of Spring Break. It’s a place where the main rule has become, “everyone does what they want to do.” And while being the mommy requires me to keep that in reason, still we try to adhere to the spirit of the rule as closely as possible. We’ve all been looking forward to it for a long time — since our visit here for Thanksgiving really, when we had the idea to spend this week here. It’s been my pleasure to plan moments and days in this place away from our routine, and somehow the moments become cause for celebration.

The word “respite” is defined as an interval of relief. It’s the word that has risen in my thinking as I’ve been approaching this week on holiday. I’ve felt the need recently for a respite and when I arrived at the farm I realized that I’ve been relying on this week to provide it.

A respite.
From demands.
From schedules.
From keeping time.
From routine.
From stresses.
From creative exercises.
From information.
From availability.
From the pull of being in touch.
From the push of deadlines.

I found myself reducing my expectations for any “work” I wanted to do this week, communicating to clients transparently that I would be out of town. I found myself eliminating my own overestimation of what I might accomplish — a rare occurrence for my brain which is a champion overestimator when it comes to organizing “free time”. I found myself searching my bookshelves for more books to read and skimming past the design titles for more fiction options. And, of course, I found myself wanting to soak up my babies, just to enjoy their presence and their laughter and their funny stories. I get that a lot from them, but I’ve been looking forward to a time when it wasn’t encumbered by schedules and reading homework and my own need to do the dishes or put the toys away.

Yes, I have a lot of expectations about this week at the farm. The funny thing is; those expectations aren’t based on what I’m doing. They’re really based on what I’m NOT doing — my own willingness to stop. To sit. To listen. To laugh. To gaze at the sky.

Tantrums

Being a Mommy can be tough. I admit, along with Mommies and other people everywhere, that sometimes I just completely mess up with my kids. I know that when I choose a battle, as their parent, I need to win it. An older and more seasoned mother gave me that advice once. But, sometimes I choose my battles all wrong. Sometimes I inexplicably dig my heels in on some insignificant issue. Some ridiculous stance that has no meaning beyond “Mommy said so” — and I’m the Mommy in the room. Sometimes it’s about not wanting to stop what I’m doing. Sometimes it’s about being tired. Sometimes it’s about being tired of being needed. Sometimes it’s about wanting to be in charge at any cost. Sometimes it’s about being annoyed. Sometimes it’s about being ornery with some frustration entirely unrelated. Whatever it’s about, it’s almost always a stubborn, stand your ground, kicking and screaming tantrum. Mine. Not theirs.

Yeah, it’s an internal tantrum. It occurs in my thinking where I insist I’m in charge. Where I scream that it’s my way and everybody’s gonna know it. On the outside I may speak with a more rational facade that “mommy said no,” or “you need to obey,” or “mommy’s not going to change her mind,” or “this is all you, sweetie.” But on the inside, the bottom line is “this is what I want to do.” And we’re going to do what I want to do. My way.

And later, when the tears of this particular battle have been shed and the disappointment absorbed, I realize. That was all ME. Being an idiot. Focusing on something silly and staking my whole world at that moment on it. For in that moment, my world became about some stupid bandaid or special sippy cup or the time to rewind or the extra handful of cheese from the fridge, or whatever they wanted that I wouldn’t give. I let my whole world be about stupid instead of about them.

I chalk it up to misplaced frustration, or an overworked day or just a bad mood. I own it. And I go back to them. I give them what they wanted. That silly thing that mattered to them, but somehow mattered to me more than those amazing little hearts. And I tell them. Mommy tries to do it right, but sometimes I handle it all wrong. Mommy wants the very best things for them, but sometimes I make the wrong choice. And I tell myself again. Sometimes mommy messes up. All mommies do. All kids do. All people do. And their whole lives won’t be colored by that moment when Mommy did it all wrong. Their hearts and minds and spirits are way too big and wonderful for that.

In those moments I realize that perhaps the greatest lesson I teach them is that Mommy isn’t perfect. That imperfections make us real. They show us we feel and think and choose — even if it’s all wrong sometimes. And in feeling and choosing and thinking, we gain the unexpected privilege of offering compassion and patience and forgiveness and mercy.

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