Category: stories

August 20, 2009 mother's heart

Morning Luxury

It’s funny how luxurious a morning routine can be. Over the past four years since our morning rituals began to involve a third (and fourth and fifth) party, our schedule has changed, of course. We’ve tried all kinds of permutations to discover a working combination of showering, ironing, dressing, eating, hugging and driving to get the work day started. Typically each trial and error session has given way to the next coinciding with new skills, or stages (or children) in our lives.
I discovered this week that we’ve been living in the lap of morning luxury, Quiver and I waking up with the daily anticipation of barely awake giggles, groggy hugs and more “help” getting to the car than we can handle. We divvy up the jobs, but still, there’s a perpetual full house participation. We’ve both had the opportunity to be involved in waking our children, getting them dressed for preschool, enjoying the plethora of voices and sound effects and conversations that so often are the backdrop of brushing teeth and eating poptarts. Each morning we’ve had the opportunity to double-team locating each child’s favorite tag-along stuffed animal and juicy cup, and to share the buckling tasks of three car seats.
Every day we’ve enjoyed a sometimes challenging, but comfortable full family trip to daycare, a parade of little ones bearing nap mats or bottles or just the gusto of life as boys and a smiling Baby Girl. We’ve ALL traveled to each preschool classroom giving tandem hugs and kisses and “good days”, sometimes forgetting to sign our names acknowledging arrival–first Baby Girl, then Squiggle Bug, and finally, Little Drummer Boy. Quiver and I have waved and blown kisses and eased ourselves into the transition of clients and offices with smiles on our faces and “spit kisses” on our cheeks, pulling out of the parking lot in different directions in preparation for the day’s work.
This week was different. I was reminded again of the blessing we have in just how much we do things together. Quiver has a new job with a local landscaping company that has meant some long hours and a few early mornings out of the house, meaning that he couldn’t participate in our normal AM routine–not so easy for a family man. At least not one from our kind of family. It’s odd to some, but we’re just the kind of folks who like to do things together. It’s not that Mommy or Daddy can’t adequately accomplish the morning requirements by themselves. It’s just that it’s so much more fun when we do it together. Anticipation of the change made us start missing Daddy during p.j. time the night before. And, we couldn’t help asking while pulling on the Transformer underwear, “don’t we wish Daddy was with us this morning?”
Tomorrow morning IF it’s raining–if he doesn’t have to leave the house at 6:30am–I don’t think I’ll complain about how long it takes him to put on his shoes, or the mud he’s tracked across the carpet. I don’t think I’ll insist that Little Drummer Boy go back to the table while I dry my hair or cut short his morning hug so I can hurry through blush and eye shadow. I don’t think I’ll tune out Squiggle Bug’s play by play of Old McDonald’s menagerie or rush him through the slow climb into the tall extended cab back seat. I think I’ll gladly take all the big brother help I’m offered for carrying Baby Girl’s diaper bag, or choosing a “cute” dress or providing some changing table entertainment (volume 10, and all). I think we’ll slow and take a closer look at the road construction crews and the pick-up trucks we pass. I think we’ll look for a front-end loader or a digger. I think I’ll linger with the good-bye kiss just half a second longer. I think I’ll crawl up into the lap of morning luxuring, sit a spell and smile.

It’s funny how luxurious a morning routine can be. Over the past four years since our morning rituals began to involve a third (and fourth and fifth) party, our schedule has changed periodically. We’ve tried all kinds of permutations to discover a working combination of showering, ironing, dressing, eating, hugging and driving to get the work day started. Typically each trial and error session has given way to the next coinciding with new skills, or stages (or children) in our lives.

I discovered this week that we’ve been living in the lap of morning luxury, Quiver and I waking up with the daily anticipation of barely awake giggles, groggy hugs and more “help” getting to the car than we can handle. We divvy up the jobs, but still, there’s a perpetual full house participation. We’ve both had the opportunity to be involved in waking our children, getting them dressed for preschool, enjoying the plethora of voices and sound effects and conversations that so often are the backdrop of brushing teeth and eating poptarts. Each morning we’ve had the opportunity to double-team locating each child’s favorite tag-along stuffed animal and juicy cup, and to share the buckling tasks of three car seats.

Every day we’ve enjoyed a sometimes challenging, but familiar full family trip to daycare, a parade of little ones bearing nap mats or bottles or just the gusto of life as boys and a smiling Baby Girl. We’ve ALL traveled to each preschool classroom giving tandem hugs and kisses and “good days”, often distracted from signing our names to acknowledge arrival–first Baby Girl, then Squiggle Bug, and finally, Little Drummer Boy. Quiver and I have waved and blown kisses and eased ourselves into the transition of clients and offices with smiles on our faces and “spit kisses” on our cheeks, pulling out of the parking lot in different directions in preparation for the day’s work.

This week was different. I was reminded again of the blessing we have in just how much we do things together. Quiver has a new job with a local landscaping company that has meant some long hours and a few early mornings out of the house, meaning that he couldn’t participate in our normal AM routine–not so easy for a family man. At least not one from our kind of family. It’s odd to some, but we’re just the kind of folks who like to do things together. It’s not that Mommy or Daddy can’t adequately accomplish the morning requirements by themselves. It’s just that it’s so much more fun when we do it together. Anticipation of the change made us start missing Daddy during p.j. time the night before. And, we couldn’t help asking while pulling on the Transformer underwear, “don’t we wish Daddy was with us this morning?”

Tomorrow morning IF it’s raining–if he doesn’t have to leave the house at 6:30am–I don’t think I’ll complain about how long it takes him to put on his shoes, or the mud he’s tracked across the carpet. I don’t think I’ll insist that Little Drummer Boy go back to the table while I dry my hair or cut short his morning hug so I can hurry through blush and eye shadow. I don’t think I’ll tune out Squiggle Bug’s play by play of Old McDonald’s menagerie or rush him through the slow climb into the tall extended cab back seat. I think I’ll gladly take all the big brother help I’m offered for carrying Baby Girl’s diaper bag, or choosing a “cute” dress or providing some changing table entertainment (volume 10, and all). I think we’ll slow and take a closer look at the road construction crews and the pick-up trucks we pass. I think we’ll look for a front-end loader or a digger. I think I’ll linger with the good-bye kiss just half a second longer. I think I’ll crawl up into the lap of morning luxuring, sit a spell and smile.

August 11, 2009 mother's heart

Confessions of a Nest Builder

I spent the last two days desperately needing an oxygen mask. I’m on a staycation at Myrtle Avenue for part of this week, and I have been anxious to bring some order to a few areas of our house that haven’t seen it in the last couple of years. One laundry room, one utility room, one walk-in closet and about a dozen boxes and trash bags later, I have the contented self-satisfaction of creating a place for things that have been left wanting and letting go of the unnecessary. I’ve waded through dusty boxes, papers, piles of oh-I-forgot-we-had-that and other allergy inducing stacks of what have you. I’ve sweated, washed, climbed up and down ladders, vacuumed, swept and lugged around giant garbage bags. It’s been a great two days! The only thing that would have made it better is if I had been able to do all that while also hugging my little ones. Alas, daycare was the better option so that the piles and I could have a little alone time to work through our differences.
I’m one of those domestic engineers who is in perpetual nesting mode. There is almost no feeling I relish more than the peace of enjoying my own home when everything is in order. I don’t know how it is for the rest of the human race. I only know that for me, an ordered environment leads to an ordered and relaxed mind. It leads to refreshment and fresh thinking. So, despite the inevitable sweat and sneezing, I can find simple pleasure in creating a place for everything–a beautiful and colorful, yet quirky place–but a specific place nonetheless.
I know what you’re thinking, and I’m perfectly willing to own my obsessive tendencies. It’s not that I have an incessant need to constantly tidy up. The 2 or 3 years it took to create the piles I’ve been ordering rules that out. But, I do “need” a positive environment. I have a coping threshold for how much clutter I’m able to live with while maintaining my good humor and the ability to think rationally. It’s just a fact I’ve come to recognize. Also, I have clear criteria for what constitutes a home rather than simply a house. Part of that criteria includes being surrounded by the pattern and texture of beauty (at least to my eye) and the layered trappings of memory.  Feathering my nest puts me in the perpetual process of denoting memories, articulating preferences, stimulating peace, contentment and refreshment through the surroundings that have most come to signify our “place.” In her book, Creating a Beautiful Home, designer Alexandra Stoddard said:
“It is human to want to give physical expression to that which we hold sacred, and to define ourselves–through light, color and texture–by the spaces we inhabit… Home gently and subtly forces you to face the reality of your unique qualities and to mold, contour, adapt, build and change the things that don’t support this truth.”
Making a home out of a house is a gratifying and worthwhile pursuit. After having children, the pursuit has been made even more poignant with the thought that this specific place, which for so much of their early lives is the very center of their world, is the place that will build their assumptions about life and about home for future generations–whether what to emulate or what to avoid. Like it or not, THINGS, the trappings of life and activities and relationships, are often the tangible expression of those abstract, unspoken values and emotions we hold “sacred.”
By “things,” I don’t necessarily mean the latest and greatest from the catalogs, HGTV and Toys R Us. No, those things can sometimes make an impression, but regardless of trends or popularity, it is so often what we do with “things” that infuse them with their power of place. It is the wonder and excitement of my children seeing a Mickey Mouse gumball machine, purchased when I was a child and unearthed from the boxes of personal ephemera. It is the anticipation of filling it with M&Ms for ready snacks where the fun lies in scooping them from the slot. It’s the lamp and hand-me-down lampshade set on a chest to light a darkened corner in the reclaimed entry space. It is realizing I just created Buddy the Cat’s new favorite napping spot isolated from the curious hands and squeals of toddlers. It is an old Valentine I made for Quiver found in a box and hung in a newly cleaned and appointed office bathroom. It is blessing him with a convenient way to clean up during a hot August day of landscaping work. It is speaking an unexpected reminder of all we hold dear.
In my nest building, another of Alexandra Stoddard’s descriptions equally motivates and encourages me to declutter each moment and take good care of it:
“For me, home is the coming together of my past memories and experiences, of my love for my children, husband and friends; my love of nature and beauty; my love of life and belief in continuity; my optimism tangibly expressed in life-enhancing ways–room by room–and of the tender appreciation that no matter how much of myself I put into this home, I, like everyone on earth, am a temporary guest.”
A temporary guest.

I spent the last two days desperately needing an oxygen mask. I’m on a staycation at Myrtle Avenue for part of this week, and I have been anxious to bring some order to a few areas of our house that haven’t seen it in the last couple of years. One laundry room, one utility room, one walk-in closet and about a dozen boxes and trash bags later, I have the contented self-satisfaction of creating a place for things that have been left wanting and letting go of the unnecessary. I’ve waded through dusty boxes, papers, piles of oh-I-forgot-we-had-that and other allergy inducing stacks of what have you. I’ve sweated, washed, climbed up and down ladders, vacuumed, swept and lugged around giant garbage bags. It’s been a great two days! The only thing that would have made it better is if I had been able to do all that while also hugging my little ones. Alas, daycare was the better option so that the piles and I could have a little alone time to work through our differences.

I’m one of those domestic engineers who is in perpetual nesting mode. There is almost no feeling I relish more than the peace of enjoying my own home when everything is in order. I don’t know how it is for the rest of the human race. I only know that for me, an ordered environment leads to an ordered and relaxed mind. It leads to refreshment and fresh thinking. So, despite the inevitable sweat and sneezing, I can find simple pleasure in creating a place for everything–a beautiful and colorful, yet quirky place–but a specific place nonetheless.

I know what you’re thinking, and I’m perfectly willing to own my obsessive tendencies. It’s not that I have an incessant need to constantly tidy up. The 2 or 3 years it took to create the piles I’ve been ordering rules that out. But, I do “need” a positive environment. I have a coping threshold for how much clutter I’m able to live with while maintaining my good humor and the ability to think rationally. It’s just a fact I’ve come to recognize. Also, I have clear criteria for what constitutes a home rather than simply a house. Part of that criteria includes being surrounded by the pattern and texture of beauty (at least to my eye) and the layered trappings of memory.  Feathering my nest puts me in the perpetual process of denoting memories, articulating preferences, stimulating peace, contentment and refreshment through the surroundings that have most come to signify our “place.” In her book, Creating a Beautiful Home, designer Alexandra Stoddard said:

“It is human to want to give physical expression to that which we hold sacred, and to define ourselves–through light, color and texture–by the spaces we inhabit… Home gently and subtly forces you to face the reality of your unique qualities and to mold, contour, adapt, build and change the things that don’t support this truth.”

Making a home out of a house is a gratifying and worthwhile pursuit. After having children, the pursuit has been made even more poignant with the thought that this specific place, which for so much of their early lives is the very center of their world, is the place that will build their assumptions about life and about home for future generations–whether what to emulate or what to avoid. Like it or not, THINGS, the trappings of life and activities and relationships, are often the tangible expression of those abstract, unspoken values and emotions we hold “sacred.”

By “things,” I don’t necessarily mean the latest and greatest from the catalogs, HGTV and Toys R Us. No, those things can sometimes make an impression, but regardless of trends or popularity, it is so often what we do with “things” that infuse them with their power of place. It is the wonder and excitement of my children seeing a Mickey Mouse gumball machine, purchased when I was a child and unearthed from the boxes of personal ephemera. It is the anticipation of filling it with M&Ms for ready snacks where the fun lies in scooping them from the slot. It’s the lamp and hand-me-down lampshade set on a chest to light a darkened corner in the reclaimed entry space. It is realizing I just created Buddy the Cat’s new favorite napping spot isolated from the curious hands and squeals of toddlers. It is an old Valentine I made for Quiver found in a box and hung in a newly cleaned and appointed office bathroom. It is blessing him with a convenient way to clean up during a hot August day of landscaping work. It is speaking an unexpected reminder of all we hold dear.

In my nest building, another of Alexandra Stoddard’s descriptions equally motivates and encourages me to declutter each moment and take good care of it:

“For me, home is the coming together of my past memories and experiences, of my love for my children, husband and friends; my love of nature and beauty; my love of life and belief in continuity; my optimism tangibly expressed in life-enhancing ways–room by room–and of the tender appreciation that no matter how much of myself I put into this home, I, like everyone on earth, am a temporary guest.”

A temporary guest.

July 19, 2009 mother's heart

tiny messages . Finding Fingers

When Baby Girl was not quite two months old, I remember a smile creeping to my face as she would hold her hands up in front of her face and stare at her own fingers. Watching intently as each finger moved, she was fascinated by them, and I by her again. I have loved that moment with each of my gifts–that moment when they discovered for the first time, “Hey, those are mine. I can move them.”  Finding your fingers is a monumental step.
She found her fingers, then found that she could move them, then that she could hold things. As the sense of discovery moved from her fingers to her toes, she realized that toes were good for chewing. Naturally, putting fingers and toes together brought a whole new dimension to life: mobility. Sitting, skooching, lop-sided crawling, standing, stepping while holding on. Now, we’re approaching another more literal monumental step. THE monumental step. The first. I’m not sure I’m really ready because I know one small step for Baby Girl is one giant leap for off-to-the-races. We can only barely contain her perpetual motion as it is, and her brothers are already quite often vexed by her speed, agility and desire to join the game. I can only imagine what ramifications THE step will bring to that scenario.
Still, as I watch Baby Girl, I can’t help but think about that day in October when I first noticed her find her fingers. Look how much she’s grown. Look how far she’s come. Look how our lives around her have changed, just from her ownership of those tiny, precious digits.
In the months since Baby Girl’s discovery, I have found myself on the cusp of finding fingers for myself. In seasons of dissatisfaction or seeking after something new, I’ve realized that change requires the discovery of my own ownership of where I am. If I want a situation or attitude to be different, I must find my fingers. I must find my action and my will to move. Even if the change I think I seek is in another person, I can only move myself. I’ve been convicted that I must BE the change I want to occur around me.
“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” (psalm 37:4)
Again and again, I’ve come back to that familiar promise. How easily I can focus on the delight and the desires. But, if I step back one verse, I see the first grasp of the fingers. “Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness.” Even before delighting in the Lord Himself comes taking posession of the land He’s put me in. Comes the willingness to live there. The gumption to cultivate it.
If I want a more loving and peaceful home, I must sow seeds of love and peace by my own actions and attitudes. If I want to see new areas of creativity blossom, I must discipline myself to take the steps to weed and water. If I want the description of my daily life to be different, then I must take the effort to cultivate changes row by row, seed by seed and snip by snip. And, that effort begins with the realization that, “Hey, those are mine. I can move them.” Monumental steps, and indeed carefree running, begin with finding fingers.

gift_tag_head

When Baby Girl was not quite two months old, I remember a smile creeping to my face as she would hold her hands up in front of her face and stare at her own fingers. Watching intently as each finger moved, she was fascinated by them, and I by her again. I have loved that moment with each of my gifts–that moment when they discovered for the first time, “Hey, those are mine. I can move them.”  Finding your fingers is a monumental step.

She found her fingers, then found that she could move them, then that she could hold things. As the sense of discovery moved from her fingers to her toes, she realized that toes were good for chewing. Naturally, putting fingers and toes together brought a whole new dimension to life: mobility. Sitting, skooching, lop-sided crawling, standing, stepping while holding on. Now, we’re approaching another more literal monumental step. THE monumental step. The first. I’m not sure I’m really ready because I know one small step for Baby Girl is one giant leap for off-to-the-races. We can only barely contain her perpetual motion as it is, and her brothers are already quite often vexed by her speed, agility and desire to join the game. I can only imagine what ramifications THE step will bring to that scenario.

Still, as I watch Baby Girl, I can’t help but think about that day in October when I first noticed her find her fingers. Look how much she’s grown. Look how far she’s come. Look how our lives around her have changed, just from her ownership of those tiny, precious digits.

In the months since Baby Girl’s discovery, I have been sitting on the cusp of finding fingers for myself. In seasons of dissatisfaction or seeking after something new, I’ve realized that change requires the discovery of my own ownership of where I am. If I want a situation or attitude to be different, I must find my fingers. I must find my action and my will to move. Even if the change I think I seek is in another person, I can only move myself. I’ve been convicted that I must BE the change I want to occur around me.

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” (psalm 37:4)

Again and again, I’ve come back to that familiar promise. How easily I can focus on the delight and the desires. But, if I step back one verse, I see the first grasp of the fingers. “Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness.” Even before delighting in the Lord Himself comes taking posession of the land He’s put me in. Comes the willingness to live there. The gumption to cultivate it.

If I want a more loving and peaceful home, I must sow seeds of love and peace by my own actions and attitudes. If I want to see new areas of creativity blossom, I must discipline myself to take the steps to weed and water. If I want the description of my daily life to be different, then I must take the effort to cultivate changes row by row, seed by seed and snip by snip. And, that effort begins with the realization that, “Hey, those are mine. I can move them.” Monumental steps, and indeed carefree running, begin with finding fingers.

The tiny messages God continues to include with our 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)

July 6, 2009 on faith

Even the Darkness

On Saturday, through a series of perplexing and frustrating circumstances, someone very dear to me almost died. I apologize for neglecting a gentle preface, but I’m still in the state of emotionally catching up. For the last two days, I’ve been in the slow process of processing, switching out of the auto-pilot mode that allowed me to be calm, rational and supportive during a dicey 24-hour period. It was a 24 hours that held wondering, worrying, judging reactions, discerning causes, weighing options, and a few instances of minding somebody else’s business. Confusion is a dark and unknown place. It’s full of fear and concern and resignation.
In the warm light of two days later, our dear one is on the mend. I have been blessed with the opportunity to stand with my mother in support and strength, and I’ve had the chance to fill a gap in serving my father when needed–all the while watching “Cars” a few times and conducting some of our own hot wheel races. Gentlemen, start your engines. In this warm light, I am also witness to the truth of one of my favorite verses in all of the Bible (psalm 139:12). Again.
“Even the darkness is not dark to You”
Through the weekend, we were blinded by the darkness of confusion, of not understanding what was happening, of not knowing what to do, of not even knowing whether something needed to be done. We found ourselves in the place of being forced to let go, to let it be what it is, to release a situation into more capable Hands. I saw with gratitude (and at the same time horror) that our dear one’s life was probably saved because we decided to hold our ground on one simple act. It could have easily gone the other way. It was the difference between joining the family for supper or going to bed early. As seemingly insignificant as that, life and death are intertwined, light and dark. On your mark, get set.
“and the night is as bright as the day.”
I tend to forget how undeniable and unquenchable the God who is Light really is. Where light is, dark cannot remain. Where God is, there is no dark. And, where isn’t God? There is no confusion that can circumvent His knowledge. There is no dark that can cloak His vision and understanding. Thank God.
“Darkness and light are alike to You.”
Now, there’s a radical concept. I’ve noticed how much time we tend to spend classifying people and things and situations into the light and dark categories– wrong, right, good, bad, yes, and no. In the warm light of this day, the shift of dark to light is refreshingly uneventful. My dad has a favorite memory he shares about his training in the National Guard. He talks about his whole unit being gathered into a pitch black room. He always marvels at how quickly their eyes adjusted, and how easily surroundings and people came into focus after just one small flame was lighted. Amazingly, light dispels dark rather quickly, efficiently and indiscriminantly. Light is generous, and despite the unfortunate efforts we sometimes impose on ourselves and others, it is uncontained.
Of the lessons I can boil down from the dark experience of July 4, the foremost is that people are an all-too-brief gift, treasured daily to glean their full worth. The second is that “God is light and in Him there is no darkness at all.” (1 john 1:5) The third is that the blackest dark loses its way in the presence of even the smallest light. Even a weak light reflecting its true Source spreads with uncommon power. The light I have to share, though small, can and will impact any sphere in which I choose to shine it.
“Even the darkness is not dark to You.” Go.

On Saturday, through a series of perplexing and frustrating circumstances, someone very dear to me almost died. I apologize for neglecting a gentle preface, but I’m still in the state of emotionally catching up. For the last two days, I’ve been in the slow process of processing, switching out of the auto-pilot mode that allowed me to be calm, rational and supportive during a dicey 24-hour period. It was a 24 hours that held wondering, worrying, judging reactions, discerning causes, weighing options, and a few instances of minding somebody else’s business. Confusion is a dark and unknown place. It’s full of fear and concern and resignation.

In the warm light of two days later, our dear one is on the mend. I have been blessed with the opportunity to stand with my mother in support and strength, and I’ve had the chance to fill a gap in serving my father when needed–all the while watching the movie Cars a few times and conducting some of our own hot wheel races. Gentlemen, start your engines. In this warm light, I am also witness to the truth of one of my favorite verses in all of the Bible (psalm 139:12). Again.

“Even the darkness is not dark to You”

Through the weekend, we were blinded by the darkness of confusion, of not understanding what was happening, of not knowing what to do, of not even knowing whether something needed to be done. We found ourselves in the place of being forced to let go, to let it be what it is, to release a situation into more capable Hands. I saw with gratitude (and at the same time horror) that our dear one’s life was probably saved because we decided to hold our ground on one simple act. It could have easily gone the other way. It was the difference between joining the family for supper or going to bed early. As seemingly insignificant as that, life and death are intertwined, light and dark. On your mark, get set.

“and the night is as bright as the day.”

I tend to forget how undeniable and unquenchable the God who is Light really is. Where light is, dark cannot remain. Where God is, there is no dark. And, where isn’t God? There is no confusion that can circumvent His knowledge. There is no dark that can cloak His vision and understanding. Thank God.

“Darkness and light are alike to You.”

Now, there’s a radical concept. I’ve noticed how much time we tend to spend classifying people and things and situations into the light and dark categories– wrong, right, good, bad, yes, and no. In the warm light of this day, the shift of dark to light is refreshingly uneventful. My dad has a favorite memory he shares about his training in the National Guard. He talks about his whole unit being gathered into a pitch black room. He always marvels at how quickly their eyes adjusted, and how easily surroundings and people came into focus after just one small flame was lighted. Amazingly, light dispels dark rather quickly, efficiently and indiscriminantly. Light is generous, and despite the unfortunate efforts we sometimes impose on ourselves and others, it is uncontained.

Of the lessons I can boil down from the dark experience of July 4, the foremost is that people are an all-too-brief gift, treasured daily to glean their full worth. The second is that “God is light and in Him there is no darkness at all.” (1 john 1:5) The third is that the blackest dark loses its way in the presence of even the smallest light. Even a weak light reflecting its true Source spreads with uncommon power. The light I have to share, though small, can and will impact any sphere in which I choose to shine it.

“Even the darkness is not dark to You.” Go.

July 4, 2009 mother's heart

Bittersweet Independence

The day, being what it is, has me thinking about independence. As I mentioned a few posts ago, there are all kinds of freedom wings being spread at our house. Baby Girl’s newfound joy (and speed) of crawling has added a whole new dimension to the other declarations of independence going on with her brothers. Her crawl usually involves moving with her left knee and her right foot so that she’s ready to sit back with the tiniest effort at a second’s notice to pop the latest find right into her mouth. Apparently, sitting is soooo 9-months. Her new-found independence at 10-months threatens to give Mommy a nervous breakdown, thinking of how infrequently I actually sweep and mop ALL the floors. Her independence has also injected a little wrinkle into Little Drummer Boy and Squiggle’s boy world of toys. It seems cars and trucks are just as interesting to Baby Girl as they are to her brothers, which can make the following realities problematic: 1) Coffee tables (even those found in barns) are just the right height for 10-month old standing; 2) Said coffee tables have heretofore been the domain of car races and tower building perpetrated by brothers; and 3) Where brothers are, Baby Girls should be. Two plus one equals three, and three can rock even the most lively of boy domains.
Yes, Little Drummer Boy and Squiggle are somewhat confused by their baby sister’s independent streak, half surprised that she’s suddenly popping up everywhere, and half perplexed that she doesn’t understand how to take turns. As for Hub and me, we’re just plain shocked (again) at how quickly day to day life changes. Much as we try to hold the reins and slow the gallop to a trot, time is still off to the races. While we take joy at seeing how each of them grows and gains new skills and develops new interests, we hold dearly those rare times when they are still so completely dependent on us, those times when we are their whole world–and they ours.
Independence. Its breaking free is a bittersweet moment. I remember that several months ago Little Drummer Boy went to AWANA all by himself for the first time. Hub normally helped the teachers with crowd control, but had another commitment that night. So, I dropped off LDB in his room and hoped for the best. He goes to preschool every day in the same building with a few of the same children. Still, the situation was different which makes LDB a little more sensitive. When I came back to pick him up about 10 minutes early, they were still having music time. I saw in his eyes that he was torn. It was his newfound independence confronted with the familiar security of Mommy. He was torn between doing his own thing with the songs and running to Mommy for a hug. What a jolt. My presence was actually deterring his independence, making him doubt himself.  He was suddenly self-conscious about doing the motions to Father Abraham, or opting out in favor of his own daydreams. There it was, the bittersweet reality of independence and the need for letting go that’s required to achieve it. His independence and my letting go.
I once had a conversation with LDB’s infant caregiver about the daily concerns of parenthood. I was a brand new parent and she was parenting a grandchild and a son who had made some wrong turns. Through our sharing of stories and sometimes tears, I remember commenting, “When I see him, I can hardly imagine him ever disappointing me. But, I know that one day he will. One day he’ll do something I don’t approve of, and that makes me cry just thinking about it.”
That day has long passed for us with Little Drummer Boy and Squiggle, and Baby Girl’s is coming. But, now I know that the bittersweet independence is tempered by a love that eclipses any disappointment, any white knuckle grip, any reluctance to fly, any insistence on soaring. Perhaps the best and most poignant metaphor for heart-rending independence is the father in Jesus’ story of the prodigal son, the father who freely and without hesitation gave an inheritance to be squandered. When the poverty of rebellion and forgetfulness came to fruition, he also freely and without hesitation gave acceptance–restoration to an independence gone astray. How I need that. How my babies need it. How we all need it.

The day, being what it is, has me thinking about independence. As I mentioned a few posts ago, there are all kinds of freedom wings being spread at our house. Baby Girl’s newfound joy (and speed) of crawling has added a whole new dimension to the other declarations of independence going on with her brothers. Her crawl usually involves moving with her left knee and her right foot so that she’s ready to sit back with the tiniest effort at a second’s notice to pop the latest find right into her mouth. Apparently, sitting is soooo 9-months. Her new-found independence at 10-months threatens to give Mommy a nervous breakdown, thinking of how infrequently I actually sweep and mop ALL the floors. Her independence has also injected a little wrinkle into Little Drummer Boy and Bug’s boy world of toys. It seems cars and trucks are just as interesting to Baby Girl as they are to her brothers, which can make the following realities problematic: 1) Coffee tables (even those found in barns) are just the right height for 10-month old standing; 2) Said coffee tables have heretofore been the domain of car races and tower building perpetrated by brothers; and 3) Where brothers are, Baby Girls should be. Two plus one equals three, and three can rock even the most lively of boy domains.

Yes, Little Drummer Boy and Bug are somewhat confused by their baby sister’s independent streak, half surprised that she’s suddenly popping up everywhere, and half perplexed that she doesn’t understand how to take turns. As for Hub and me, we’re just plain shocked (again) at how quickly day to day life changes. Much as we try to hold the reins and slow the gallop to a trot, time is still off to the races. While we take joy at seeing how each of them grows and gains new skills and develops new interests, we hold dearly those rare times when they are still so completely dependent on us, those times when we are their whole world–and they ours.

Independence. Its breaking free is a bittersweet moment. I remember that several months ago Little Drummer Boy went to AWANA all by himself for the first time. Hub normally helped the teachers with crowd control, but had another commitment that night. So, I dropped off LDB in his room and hoped for the best. He goes to preschool every day in the same building with a few of the same children. Still, the situation was different which makes LDB a little more sensitive. When I came back to pick him up about 10 minutes early, they were still having music time. I saw in his eyes that he was torn. It was his newfound independence confronted with the familiar security of Mommy. He was torn between doing his own thing with the songs and running to Mommy for a hug. What a jolt. My presence was actually deterring his independence, making him doubt himself.  He was suddenly self-conscious about doing the motions to Father Abraham, or opting out in favor of his own daydreams. There it was, the bittersweet reality of independence and the need for letting go that’s required to achieve it. His independence and my letting go.

I once had a conversation with LDB’s infant caregiver about the daily concerns of parenthood. I was a brand new parent and she was parenting a grandchild and a son who had made some wrong turns. Through our sharing of stories and sometimes tears, I remember commenting, “When I see him, I can hardly imagine him ever disappointing me. But, I know that one day he will. One day he’ll do something I don’t approve of, and that makes me cry just thinking about it.”

That day has long passed for us with Little Drummer Boy and Bug, and Baby Girl’s is coming. But, now I know that the bittersweet independence is tempered by a love that eclipses any disappointment, any white knuckle grip, any reluctance to fly, any insistence on soaring. Perhaps the best and most poignant metaphor for heart-rending independence is the father in Jesus’ story of the prodigal son, the father who freely and without hesitation gave an inheritance to be squandered. When the poverty of rebellion and forgetfulness came to fruition, he also freely and without hesitation gave acceptance–restoration to an independence gone astray. How I need that. How my babies need it. How we all need it.