When I was nine I spent approximately three weeks laying on my hands in bed, sick to near-death from the chicken pox. My mom may dispute the three weeks claim. It could've been one, or it could've been five for all I knew in my state of delirium, but it seemed like an eternity's worth of Monkees and Brady Bunch reruns, interspersed with Ducktails and chicken noodle soup.

I was somewhat new to school at the time, in our first year back in Kansas after a year's exile in Missouri following my parents' divorce. It was a nice school in a nice neighbourhood, but I didn't like my teacher because she wore an unrealistic curly brown wig.

She was different like I was different and I hated being different, therefore I hated my teacher. 

I also didn't like the fact that I was put in a reading class for "special" readers. You know, the one where they put the children who struggle with dyslexia (most of whom didn't know it yet) or near-sightedness or speech-related issues. I suffered from none of the above, but I was new and anxiety-stricken and drew a lot of slightly disturbing sad faces, so I think they put me in this class to encourage me. This experiment - the "encouraging me experiment" - failed when, in week three of reading class, I walked in to find scrawled on the desk in freshly learnt script:

karen is stupid.

At the time there were two Karens in the class, though other Karen was actually spelled Karin, so I knew it was meant for me: Karen with an e. I was mortified. I was smart and I knew I was smart, but I felt stupid. All the time. The stupidness and the smartness had no relation in my mind, for my heart almost always ran ahead of my brains, the stupid feelings preempting the smart ones.

And here, of course, was proof. Someone had outted me, had seen it, too. Someone turned out to be other Karin: Karin with an i, a 5th grader with gorgeous blond hair.

So you can see how the chicken pox came as a relief.

This week has been the week of sick children. Asher went down first with the flu and today I've got a girl with a temperature in the living room. She's currently using a roll of craft paper as a telescope, and even though her cheeks are flushed and her throat is sore, she is exploring and experimenting and drawing, all from the edge of our sofa.

My kids are smart kids. Jack is light years ahead in reading and Ella is kicking math butt. They love school and the subjects they're studying, about Galileo and Florence Nightingale and the Irish word for pink (bándearg). We discuss all this - and how they're actually thankful for it! - on the way to kids club. In the mornings we pray over such things, asking to show a bit of the heart of Jesus by how we act and treat each other and learn from our teachers. They hop out of the car and run away from me smiling, laughing. School and science and Irish and maths... these are all stops on the adventure train; puppy show-and-tell, sometimes included.

I don't know how they ended up (or are starting up) this way. As Jack walked through his school gate this morning, I stared after him in slack-jawed awe. We grew a person!, I thought. An intelligent, loving, happy person. Though at times he feels fearful or frustrated or sad, he never feels stupid. He feels burdened for the people and the things around him, for his mum when she's overwhelmed or his dad when he's away from home or the rubbish along the side of the road. The heart-burdens are positives in his book and ours, and the confidence that's somehow embedded in his psyche had to come from somewhere. It sure didn't come from me.

The girl, too, even on the sick days: she knows she's awesome. Smart and creative, too. She never cleans her room, she spends hours with a nutella mustache like a garland round her lips, and she gets angry like you wouldn't believe if you stared into those big brown eyes for any length of time. But she embraces these things as proof of her brilliance. I want her to stay this way forever, to always feel this strength within her.

It's too soon to tell with Asher. He's still our surprise baby, a hazel-eyed mystery.

Twenty-six years later I write these things knowing this: the power of feeling stupid can be broken. It can be washed away by something more powerful and elusive than generational patterns. Inside their tender bodies my genes flow, but somehow smart and independent and free shine through. Stupid dims in the background, overcome by a sturdier ground they walk on.

There may be a kid or two who write the words of shame on their desks, but the words on their hearts are in fine print, a permanent warranty against the lies of this world. 

I have them, too, written by One who always knew I was more than a label on a desk. They lay dormant for awhile, blurred by circumstance or covered with the scribbled drawings of a chicken-pox infested nine-year-old girl. But they remain, long after crayon fades away.

***

How do you see your childhood self? More importantly, how did you cope with chicken pox?

Our lass :: At home in Ireland

I'm well into the time-frame when I get all angsty and emotional about my child's birthday. Ella will be 7 tomorrow and I can hardly believe this is the same baby we first moved to Ireland:



Ireland was rough on her at first. She was known to eat sand by the plastic-shovel-full and frequently fell into the saltwater tide. We suffered along with her during the early days of car sickness when, exactly ten minutes after every arrival, she'd lose her lunch.



For the newbies, you should know we've lived here before. I repeat this fact all the time, whenever they hear my accent and want to know when we came. I tell them January, but I'm quick to clarify. First, it was Meath, I say. For two years. Two long, hard, beautiful years. And in that time, our lass changed from this:



to this:



And now, three more years later and on the precipice of 7, she has become this:



Her hair is wild and her room is blue. She wears black and turquoise on the days she's free from navy blue pinafore and oxford tie. She is making strides with reading and occasionally cheats at her maths. Like her mother, she loves the sea and has an irrational fear of Willy Wonka. And she's not sure, yet, if she wants to become a mother.

She defies every expectation we had, making our hearts grow and quiver with every wall climb and high jump.

And she still asks us, months and years and houses later, if this is where we'll stay. She's moved seven times in seven years and her adventuresome heart longs for a place belonging just to her. When we say, yes - yes, this is where we're staying, indefinitely - she decorates her walls and hardwood floors with permanent marker. I try to discipline her, but she's not buying it, "You said this is our home, you know."

Yes, I certainly did. You go right ahead and we'll explain it to the landlord later.

On being done, the sequel

On Sunday night I laid down next to him and cried. It was such a small thing, really, but to me it was the world shifting. Life as I know it, my life, mother-of-babies life, is over. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow will be a new one, and I never even mastered the old one.

He was on his side and I was on mine, and I tried whispering I love you one last time before the baby left and boy began, but I got no reply. And I cried saying goodbye to this era, to the babies, to the rocking chairs and the nursing hours.

It was easy to make the decision we were done when there were still baby years left, when he still toddled and babbled, carrying a sippy-cup everywhere and falling asleep to my songs. Today he runs, speaking words faster than I can understand them, lunching in his barn and telling me as I unbuckle him at the school gate, "No, Mom, I walk in by myself." Now, we are done done.

Two days later, I carry his sorry self across village lanes and over the canal, up a tall narrow staircase and into the waiting room. His brief illness has returned the baby to me, for a couple of days, at least. I feel silly thinking of crying in his bed on Sunday night when yesterday he is curled in my lap for hours. 

I try not be a Helicopter Mom, but I am his. And he is our baby. And the school days won't change that. And at four, we've still got time. And today, and tomorrow, and the next day I have three hours alone in the house with all the babies gone. It's a brave new world and I, mercifully, start over again.

***

I can't promise this will be the last baby-being-done-and-growing-up post. I'm clearly still processing. And he is wearing his Jayhawk blues to represent Kansas, embodying so much of our old life while we live this new one. Does yours look different today, this month, this year, too?

On being done, but still holding on

So it turns out, I don't mind it all that much. Every night his chubby hand reaches for mine and he asks, "You lay down by me?" We've both settled into it nicely, now. And even though the sky is still bright as the days linger longer, we lay down. A few books between us, cars and trucks jumbled in blankets. I lay down by him and he turns to his side, snoring. Asleep in no time.

We are in the rhythm.

He's our last, you see. No more babies. It's a remarkable feeling, actually; freeing and contented. I didn't think I'd ever know with sureity. But the second he left my body and entered the world, I knew this was it. We felt complete and just like that, we were done.



I thought I'd correct all my mistakes, redeem all my failures with this third baby. I embraced the inner earth mama, waist deep in cloth nappies and pureed organic blueberries. I am gonna do right by this one, at least, I thought. But co-sleeping and nursing on demand was not as romantic as it sounds (what? that doesn't sound romantic?) and when he self-weaned at nine months, I was sad, but secretly somewhat relieved. I was done with all that now. I am done.



Except, now he's almost done, too. With babyhood. He's leaning into the preschool years, testing his speed and growing his words. And I'm beginning to grieve a little bit. For not getting it all right in the beginning, for the lost months of nursing, for the era that's now come and gone, too soon. Babyhood is waning. At three-and-a-half, it's actually mostly gone. We are done, and now I make peace with the grieving.



So, when he falls asleep in my arms as we cuddle after bathtime, I breathe in his hair. I take photos everytime those lashes stop moving. I lay down next to him in the cozy twin bed, listening as his snores sing me a lullaby. I am perfectly content to be here, in these fading moments of babyhood, committing his eyelashes to memory, the fullness of his cheek still round with baby fat.

I don't mind it, these final acts of co-dependence. I'm not allowing regret any more leeway. I will lay by his side, until we are done.

Naptime :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 17}

He's switched the beds, old for new, baby for toddler. The crib held all three babies born, built by their father, stained and assembled with care the night before we welcomed the first.

A gift of love.

But it's gone now, and it's ok. It did it's job. All babies deserve a comfortable, peaceful, safe place to sleep. And ours had that. Thank you, Lord.

And now? Well, now it's not as peaceful and a bit more explosive. Bedtime routines are less predictable now, and don't even get me started on naptime. Naptimes barely exist anymore. It's not just that he's three, but it's that he's no longer penned in. A toddler bed of pallets and an old door cannot contain him.

And it's ok. He loves this new freedom, the feel of the bounce when he runs and jumps in. How we can lay next to him and read. How he can exhaust himself from playing and land in a heap. How he can wake up, nose to nose, with the father who gave him a place to lay his head.

When your baby is no longer your baby :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 8}

Help.

He's growing up. And I am not handling it super well.

Ok, so he's only nine, but he might as well be 19 for all the huffs and closed doors and big hazel eyes dodging mine. When I sit next to him and explain the hows and whys of discipline - how it's all wrapped up in love, how our hopes for him rely on a few boundaries - his long fingers play with fraying jeans.

Do you understand? Would you like to say something?

Silence.

I know this is how it goes, and I remember what they said. When your baby speaks only in howling cries and you don't know if he needs food or nappy or a change in scenery, they tell you it will get better. And harder. How the days and years fly by. How one day you'll have actual conversations. How they might even break your heart.

But he's nine, and it's too early for fighting.

How do you grow with your kids? Are you all mess and tears, like I am?

On this day, you are

A

On this day, you are fast; so fast I can't keep up with you, and neither can your chubby legs and the wide feet tripping over slightly too big crocs as you stomp off toward the nearest escalator. You are loud, banging the sides of your crib and along the walls with whatever will suffice as a drum stick. You are too big to be caged in, but not yet big enough to be trusted in a real bed for a whole night. You are smiling and laughing and crying and talking, all at once or never at all. You are affectionate with a mild, infrequent streak of meanness, which you regret as soon as it appears and cover with kisses and snot, all over my face and yours. 

You are going to be three in 23 days, and I cry; grieving the baby you were, savoring the boy you are.

E

On this day you are rebelling, squealing, screaming when you don't get your way, which is several times a day including this very moment. You are fists clenched tightly at your side, brown eyes wide with rage, quivering lips of remorse. You are wild, flailing movements of exuberant joy your lithe body cannot contain. You are a ninja warrior in a world filled with princesses. You are a fighter, a builder, a wrestler, a runner, sprinting and winning and finding your way along a very narrow pink road. You are going to school soon - Kindergarten in America - against your will because you'd rather be in Ireland, rather be a Senior Infant girl, rather match the boys in a navy blue jumper.

You are seeking me out, every night, close enough to touch but never needing to, because you are all your your own; a mysterious, beautiful creature I am still trying to know.



J

On this day you are so good; the absoluteness of this goodness sometimes leads to dissidence. You are so sure of what is right, that the logic behind quiet times or naughty steps or the inconsistency of your mother just doesn't add up. You are starting most sentences with, "according to my calculations," learning and maturing faster than we can keep up. You are running out of space for imagining, you say, and I know you are aching for room and for freedom. You are entirely reasonable, listening and hearing everyone, ready to engage us all, if only we'd just be patient enough.

You are anxious and I am so sorry; you got this from me, the fears and the worry, and we pray together to trust enough so the anxiety doesn't become who we are.


On this day, who are you? What are you waiting for, living for?

halloween's gone past

came across this picture today

the girl @ 12 months

the boy @ 4 years

the whole crew, 2007

oh, it goes so fast...

2006

2008

2009

2010

Forgotten girl, the sequel

In browsing our flickr account today, I ran across a video of the girl. I watched it through silly tears streaming into my eyes and down my cheeks. I miss her so, even though she lives in my house. This sweet child, who always was a mystery, who writes on walls and on her tongue without any fear, who wants to be a cowgirl - no a knight -- no a mom, who's teeth used to not touch due to too much pacifier, who was born into our craziness and makes it so much crazier.

Oh I miss her so, though we've never ever been apart.

then

now

A deep breath, in five

Only a day late, and a few words short, but here is my Five Minute Friday post linking up with GypsyMama.

Deep breath...

I hear him before I see him, the sing-song call,

"Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee."

I open my eyes to see the bedroom door swing wide and crash into the wall. Huffing and puffing, now,

"Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee."

He flings himself on the bed, swiftly and expertly, crawling on hands and knees for the first time in ages, across sheets and pillows and duvet. A smile, a giggle, a hug, a gentle whisper,

"Mommy. Mom..."

We lay there for a moment, so brief and still. We smile and laugh, and he hops off the bed as easily as he hopped on. He's on to the next adventure, all torso and chunky thighs, laughing and calling,

"Da-deee, Da-deee, Da-deee."

I take a deep breath and steady myself, because the baby is gone. He's gone and growing and going only in one direction: up. All I can do is breath and remember this one moment, before it's gone.

Go ahead and give it a go.

When You Were Young

[I realize, in retrospect, that every person has a story like this and most aren’t nearly as melodramatic as mine. But it is my story, and I’m sticking to it.]

I’m seeing ghosts around every corner.

It’s been two weeks or so since we moved back to my hometown. Well, for this year, we’re not exactly in my hometown. We’re actually living across town and it’s an area I haven’t spent a significant amount of time in these past 10+ years or so. But way back in the day - when My-So-Called-Life and Pearl Jam were on every TV and radio, when the guys from U2 were still in their 30s, and when I wore birkenstocks all year round – I spent nearly every day here. This is where my church was, where my friends lived, where my boyfriend(s) were. I guess I really did kinda grow up here… but being back here is feeling rather odd.

I take the wee ones to the park where I used to play as a preteen, with the old slides and giant animals we would hide out in and tell secrets to. I drive by my old church (where we still visit rather frequently) and feel the butterflies in my belly that I used to feel, driving down that road, anxious for youth group and who would be there and what would happen. I wait in parking lots where I used to wait, in those first old used cars, waiting for friends to get off work, and all of us climbing – we were quite the crew – into the same vehicle, heading off on some mildly dangerous adventure. I drive past the hidden entrance to the rope swing, up and down the hills where we could go hill-jumping, past the restaurants we used to only order coffee or desserts in, past the parks where we would go late at night and laugh and talk and occasionally make out (sorry, Mom). Memories, everywhere. Old, dormant, weird-feeling memories.

And then, of course, like every story – there is a boy. When I was 18 (well, ages 14 through 19, sadly), I loved a boy who didn’t love me back. He lived right down the street from here and I drive past it more than I would care to. We were together really only a year, but being absent for so long and now coming back, strange and sad feelings return as if it was yesterday. Feelings of heartache and regret, and I hate feeling that way.

It took me years to move on and let go of all that. Mostly they were great memories, many old friends still remain great friends. But I was a different person then. At least, I think I was a different person then. I was young, and naïve, and infatuated, and running wild. The friends who remain grew with me and know me as who I am now. But still, being here, I wonder if I’ve really changed at all. I’m still longing to belong, trying to fit in, looking for affirmation. I may not be trying to find those things in boys anymore, but the insecurities are – not surprisingly – still there. Every landmark and road that still stands remind me of a time when life was great and carefree, and yet heartbreaking and tragic. They remind me of who I was, and who I still am.

So today, I began making new memories. Maybe not to replace the old – (I’m not sure the bad ones will ever completely go away, and I think I want the good ones to stay; I was young once and there was joy and love and friendship.) – but new memories with my kids and with my man and this weird time of transition we find ourselves in. Memories set to new music and changing landscapes and the laughter of my children.

After all, I do think - if I were to be truly honest - the girl I was then would look at the woman she became with surprise, and be so relieved.

A year ago

Ella says "dance" and "thanks".
She signs "more" only if absolutely necessary.
She puckers her lips when happy and tears at her clothes and hair when mad.
She cuddles more than before, especially after exposing bare bellies - hers and mine.

Jackson writes his name - all the time - every day.
He draws, too - LarryBoy and pumpkins.
He quotes lines from commercials and points with his middle finger: "Your world, delivered."
He prays and talks to God and he says God talks to him, too.

Matt is in Ireland, pursuing a dream, answering a call.
I think he will find Christ there, leading him.
I pray for his heart to endure the waiting.
Strength to overcome the fear.
Wisdom to replace all questions.
More like Christ now, to serve Him better later.
To introduce who He is to the doubtful and proud, we must be more like Him -
chase His holiness.

I am in Kansas. Finally learning a thing or two.



written 11 November 2007

Hard, but good

This has been my motto as of late. Life, love, ministry, kids... all hard, but good. Yesterday was a hard, but good day. And really, it was more good than hard.

The hard part: proof of my baby boy growing up, letting go, continuously giving him up to God and saying "He's Yours".

The good part: a new beginning for Jackson, learning and growing and watching him learn something new every day, Matt saying, "He's becoming Irish!", trusting God more...