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?

Thoughts on Compassion Blog Month and choosing to make room

September is the month for Compassion Blogging and I just feel stumped.

I love Compassion, love our Compassion kiddos (this year we both lost and gained one), believe in the necessity, the success and the sustainability of it, but I feel parched for an angle with which to add to the conversation. My brain feels clogged and my heart is just plain distracted.

These days, I’m focused on the three kiddos living in my home. Their hearts are the top priority of my own at the moment, these uprooted and displaced shoots. Oh, they’re doing fine, really. More than fine. They love life, enjoy school, run circles around me and one another. They walk with heads held high into church or school or playground.

They smile, always.

But it’s a delicate dance, this new life. Eight months in, now, and we are all a bit tired. Dinner table conversations are a bit heated. They are a bit short with one another and with us. In truth, I am a bit short in return. Tears fall a little easier than they used to. And they are not sad, no, just… weary, or frustrated.

I am so thankful for the country we now live in, for the teachers and the programs and the youth workers and the lay people who guide them, shape them, teach them and love them. They have no want for people in their lives, and for this I am so grateful. But still, my attentions are those they seek most… and when I could be writing letters to Daphine or our new little guy in Colombia, I am instead slicing apples or my lap is occupied by one little person or another. When I could be writing about poverty in Uganda, I am instead writing about bedtime routines and the way Jack lowers to one knee as he reads a book on the floor.

And when I think of Compassion month and the children around the world marching into their sponsored programs in their own uniforms and with their own school books, I think of the classmates of my children, who themselves are from around the world: North Africa, the Middle East, Eastern Europe. They’ve all come here, too, just like we have. These wee ones, uprooted and displaced shoots, just the same.

I wonder at it all… how small this world is, how strong the need for love, how children are so much the same, no matter the skin or the country or the language or the heart. I wonder what I could give to them, how much I have to offer them, when I am consumed by the well-being and survival of my own.

Can I make room?

Will I make room?

Our children here have ample support, education, health care and love. But, so many children go without, and as you know, Compassion aims to change that. Child sponsorship IS a necessity, it is successful and it is sustainable… if only people like you and me keep saying, Yes, I’ll give. 

Even when I can’t go, even when I have children here who need me, I’ll keep saying yes.



The goal for Compassion Blogging Month 2013 is 3,160. Last year we superceded our goal! Let's do it again.

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?

The one who came last

I wrote my Five Minute Friday with pen in my car on this Sunday afternoon. I knew I wanted to write this prompt, and I knew what I wanted to write, but between my birthday and his and summer break and life and work, everyday is a blur and sitting for just those five minutes to write about him didn't seem fair. Until today, whilst Asher slept.

Some days you sit in a car with a sleeping child because this is the only moment of peace in your day. He is a blur, in pictures and in your mind, so that when he is stilled - peach lips parted, chest gently rising, not even a sound escaping - you don't dare move for fear of missing it.

Yesterday was his birthday and the age of 4 betrays the fact that today he is still your baby. 

He is the one who came quickest, the one who came last, the only one to come without being prodded with pitocin. He's the one who came in a white wrought iron bed, the one whose eyes first blinked at the Irish sun, the one born by the sea. He's the one you felt the most, far from home and without so much as a drop of tylenol, so that when he was placed on your chest, fresh and wild from the womb, you forgot what you had fought so hard for, for only that moment.

The midwife said, "Look, your son." And you asked, "My son?"

Yes, that's right. Four years and so many suns and moons ago. Two continents and half a dozen homes ago.

My son came in a blur; quick, and last.

***

Sometimes on Fridays I write, with Lisa-Jo Baker and her gypsy friends. Join us here.

Give me your blah

I don't feel like I'm standing on holy ground. It feels more like I'm standing on three day old remnants of shredded wheat. 

I don't feel like I'm giving my kids the greatest gift of love and therefore receiving their love and overflowing with God-love. It feels more like I'm just barely keeping them alive till bedtime, and before then the best gift I'm giving them is unending rounds of crackers (or m&ms or fill-in-the-blank).

I don't feel like motherhood is holy, like it's my highest calling, my greatest joy. It feels more like really, really hard work. Hard work I'm not even that good at.

Mommy bloggers, you are amazing. I love you and I am one of you. But really, if there is one more post or article or book about the wonderful redemptiveness of diaper-changes and burnt dinners and holy ground walking on a dirty kitchen floor and the beautiful gift of receiving God's Beautiful Gifts, I'm gonna go nuts. It's not that you're wrong or misguided... I think you're probably right, and I think there are some days where I do need to hear it.

But most days? Most days it's just blah.

Most days it's just coffee and errands and laundry. Most days it's just videos and temper tantrums and impaling my foot with a tiny lego man's lego sword. Most days it's just make it to the next days. Most days the only moment of peace is in the bathroom... and even then it lasts less than a moment because within 30 seconds someone is looking for me having spilt his milk all over the brand new computer keyboard. Most days I can't even think to whisper gratitude. Most days I don't think.

Do I love my children? Yes. Is this the job, the people, the life God has set before me? Yes.

Am I complaining? Yes.

Because I think we need to know - the new moms and the old moms and the Princess Kates and the Kim K's - that it's not going to feel holy, amazing, fulfilling most of the time, probably not even a fraction of the time. I think we need to know it's ok to feel blah. It's ok to not feel like this is the greatest thing on earth, the most divine, the most sacrificially-like-Jesus we will ever be. We need to know it's ok to not like it. It's ok to look forward to the days they're all in school, the days they go to bed early, the oh-so-rare days we get to go away by ourselves and be refreshed and renewed by something other than soapy water.

It's OK. It's just OK.

We still love our kids. We still want them to grow up to be compassionate, loving, amazing, joyful people. We're still grateful for the gift of them. We want them to grow up and be the best moms and dads they can be.

And then, there will still be those moments of pure joy when we will bask in the wonder that is a child, a Gift From Above, who loves and forgives and trusts without even thinking about it... just because we're Mom.

But on the blah days, the blah months and the blah years, when we are just hanging by a thread... don't tell me how holy and blessing-filled and Christ-like I'm being. That just makes me feel worse, like my tiny piece of thread is fraying, leaving me and my children dangling in mid-air.

Tell me you and God and my kids will love me anyway. Tell me we'll all survive. Tell me about your blah days, minus the silver lining or spiritual lesson. Just give me your blah. Then, maybe, I'll feel a holy space to tell you about mine. And one day (probably not today), God will redeem it all.

***

Ok, so it's probably just me, but do you ever just feel blah? About parenting or work or marriage or whatever? 

The lazy mom's guide to summer

Ok, I've got 10 days to prepare myself mentally, emotionally and physically for my kiddos to be home 24/7. I love spending time with my kids, but both they and I need space. Frequent space. So we like to keep summer low-key, low-maintenance, and low-energy. Some people call this lazy. Fair enough. I, for one, will choose to embrace the laziness of summer and lean into my lazy giftings.



1) Reading. Reading isn't exactly lazy, but round these parts it is. We lounge around in our pjs, spreading out all the reading material and colouring books. I also institute a mandatory quiet time wherein each child must stay in his or her own room for one hour. With a book (or audio book). Whether they read it or not is their choice, but it's gotta be screen free and away from me and each other. Check out your local library for kids' reading programs. Our library has one, but the late fees are killer. Which brings me to...

2) Get online and renew, order, check out, shop, whatever. If you've got books and don't want to drag a potty training three-year-old across town to the library, renew your books/movies online and reserve new ones. Your girl needs a new swimsuit? Check amazon or other online shops. The eldest is forgetting his maths? Give him your old slow laptop and introduce him to online kids math games (check your school's website for recommended links). Watch videos on youtube or netflix, have your kids play games and watch short clips on pbskids.org or other some such educationally fun site. Just because you're home-bound doesn't mean you are without options. You just have more, comfy, pajama-friendly options.

3) One outing a week. Any more than this and you risk endangering yourself and innocent bystanders. Pick something close enough so they won't fall asleep in the car, but far away enough that you can justify driving through McDonald's for milkshakes on your way home. Don't put pressure on yourself to come up with loads of outdoor activities or daytrips. Just try to think up one place a week that won't break you or the bank. Even if it's just across the street to the green (which is where we'll be).

4) Water. Buckets, bowls, cups of water. Doesn't matter. Just send them in the back yard with a container, show them the water and let them go to town. For added fun, give them a few towels to lay down on, dry off with, whip at siblings. If you pay for water, keep track of the time or use a sprinkler or sprayer to keep it under control. My friend Nicole made a great homemade sprinkler last summer using old 2-litre bottles. If you're crafty and non-lazy, you could help your kids create them. If you're like me, make Dad do it.

5) Forts. Never underestimate a good fort. If keeping it indoors (like we had to do last year), set up shop in the living room, bring in loads of chairs, blankets and pillows, turn on a book on cd (we prefer the Chronicles of Narnia radio theatre). If you've got outdoor space (like we do this year, praise God!), use lawn furniture, towels and old sheets. Things will get dirty and fights will eventually break out, but this can help your kiddos work together while you "work on pinterest" or "write" or "inculturate by watching back to back to back episodes of Doctor Who." Whatever.

6) Chore charts. My kids don't make much of an allowance, but in the summer I always try to up the ante. They get more chores, but they also get more rewards. Ranging from big (sweep the floors, which in our house is a major task) to little (brushing teeth), I'm trying to help them become responsible and independent. Also, I have my kids fill out their own chore charts. This can take a handful of minutes to several hours, depending on the child. Mine get a kick out of coming up with their own tasks, and I enjoy seeing what they think is valuable work. Just make sure you save your pocket change. You're gonna need it.

Finally...



7) Don't clean. Just don't. I mean, yes, if there's a major spill on the floor, take care of that. And I'm assuming you like to eat on clean dishes. Do laundry when you run out and hang it to dry (better for the environment and a great excuse for only doing one load a day!). Forego dusting, vaccuum only when necessary and leave the kids' stuff where they left it. Toys and junk and books will inevitably cover your floors and table tops, but stressing about reorganizing everything every night will just make you the Hyperventilating Mom with Crazy Eyes (trademark pending) when the kid-tornado comes back around in the morning.

So there you go: seven tips to making yourself the lazy summer mom you've always dreamed you could be. Results may vary, screen time may increase, tears will be shed. But come September, everyone will be well-rested and ready to get back to school's structure. And most importantly, everyone will have survived. Which, really, is my overarching goal of any parenting adventure...

Survival.

What are your plans this summer? Are you go-go-go? Are you do you feel kinda lazy? No judgment.

The naive optimism of summer "holidays"

Ok, "summer" break. We've got a bit of a discrepancy.

My calendar says you are blissfully 2 weeks away. I have counted on your fashionably late arrival, chuckling on the inside as my friends welcome their wee children home in the middle of May. I, too, love my children and look with naive optimism to the lazy, long days of summer, wherein bedtime routines are not as frantic, early morning brushing of teeth not as important. 

But this is not the point.

The point is, you are coming between us, my children and I. Because they think - told by their classmates and confirmed by exhausted teachers - you arrive Friday next. As in one week. As in seven days. Nay, four-and-a-half days (not counting the weekend, obvs) as the twelve noon bell rings the summer in. This is not what my calendar says, not what the woefully outdated school website says, not what my mother-heart says. And the eldest and I are at an empasse.

So I say I'll ring in to the school, confirm it with the nice secretary who knows me by name, or at least by sight. The American Mom, belonging to one American Jack(son). I'm sure she'll tell me the truth, so kind as she gently lets me down. But I'm afraid and I'd rather just wait and see. I'm really very good at purposefully living in ignorance.

The thing is, summer, the flipside of the relaxed bedtimes and fluid schedules is one kid asking for food all day long. Or the ice cream truck coming through at 3:56 every afternoon. Or Netflix streaming one terribly awful Power Rangers episode after another. Or the sun coming up at 4am, bringing little children to my bed before the most punctual bird ever nabs that first worm.

The school year gives us such a nice little rhythm, a schedule to abide by. It makes sure we're out the door by 8:40am. It keeps the children reading and gives Asher some independence. For a family that is so haphazard, we need those bits of routine. They make us feel like everyday we accomplish one more thing, keeping us sane and moving forward. 

I do love you, summer, really I do. I do think we may manage a day trip or two, the occasional walk to the park, the forts and the sea. I know we'll survive, like we do every summer. And I know it could be worse, the temps could be hellish and humid like last year, it could be Kansas in July.

But... but... I was counting on that extra week of solitude, of routine, of my own independence... even if heavily involved in the one-on-one game of potty training, with a heavy dose of laundry on the side. With all the children home, all day, every day... I may never do laundry again.

Oh, look at that! I found a silver lining. We'll just make it the Summer of No Laundry and call it even.

CODA: Verdict is two more weeks! That was a close one.

I can't be the only one with a summer holidays aversion. How do you cope with the loooooong days of summer?

The thing about mother's day : we are all mothers

She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come. Prov 31:25

I have an amazing mother, who raised me and my sister on her own, working hard and relying on the family of church and neighbours when her own lived wide across the state. It's a testimony to faith, really, that when she was alone in a big city with two little girls, men of God came alongside her. Women of God looked after her. And we were not alone, raised by our mother, and the Church.

The Church, she is not perfect. There was a time or two when she was found terribly wanting and absent, when we were in crisis and the hand of help was withdrawn. My mother was not a widow, you see, and we were not orphans. Not in the technical sense, anyway. And though she grieved and cried, wounded, my mother held on to faith. To God. She forgave, and waited for the Church to come around.



My mother's story is the story of a million mothers. And our story, my sister's and mine, could've been told a million different ways. Runaways and lonely girls longing for a daddy's love, and now that we know better - the world knows better - we see those runaways and lonely girls for what they were: taken and abused and trafficked and worse. That could've been our story, too, for girls without fathers at home are easy targets. And who's to say that we did not have a bullseye on our backs a time or two?

But we had our mother, and the Church, and we were saved in more ways than one.

So when I think of mother's day, I think of my mother who held on, holds on still. Giver of life and love, firmly fixed on Him. My greatest champion and my oldest friend.

I think of the women in our church, who watched me walk down the aisle with tears in their eyes. I think of the men who took us mother's day shopping, helped us pick out necklaces and bouquets. I think of Matt who was prayed for by dozens of saints before my shoelaces were ever untied.

I think of my grandmothers - all still living - who mothered us from near or far, asking for strength and mercy, forgiving. I think of my aunts, who made room in their homes and hearts for two wild girls. I think of my stepmother, who is loved, adored by a mess of grandchildren. I think of Matt's mom, who filled in some of my chipped edges, still rising with the sun to hold a grandchild on her knee.

I think of all my sisters, brought together by pain or circumstance, flourishing through grace, my best friends and fellow warriors. I think of so many women, mothering me and my children in service, in teaching, in song, in prayers.

Women of valour. All of you.

That's the thing about mother's day. In one way or another, we are all mothers. We're in it together, not meant to be alone.

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.

Things that happen when the dad is away

OK, so background: When I was a freshman in college, my mom and sis were away for a week. I was driving back to KC from school late at night when I started having car trouble. Thinking my sad car wouldn't make it to my dad's house, I stopped by my mom's to let the car rest a bit and gather some things.

At 1am, as I reached to open the back door, there was no handle to turn. The door had been kicked open by a size 9 boot, the house was ransacked, and the front door was swinging wide. Still swinging. As in, they just left, these mean robbers who stole our computer and tv and beautiful new CD player/radio my dad had just given me for graduation. Even the couch was upturned, kitchen drawers ripped out, our cat was missing, and the only thing left untouched was the baby grand piano. And that front door was still creaking in the wind.

I'm not sure I'll ever forget it, this one act of violation. A stranger coming into your home and leaving it bare. I was safe, fine, the police came and my dad rescued me.

But the memory stays.

***



Well, here we are again. Back to having Matt gone for a few days and I'm staying up way past my bedtime watching shows online waiting for bad men to come kill me and steal my macbook. I always tell him, "No it's fine, go! Have fun! Do what you do! We'll be grand!" But in the end, I scowl at him from the window as he departs, leave him with short kisses, saying, "No, really, fine. Go. Have fun. Whatever." It's the true mettle of life overseas, how well the wife and mom can do on her own for long stretches of time.

It's ok, really. I'm an adult, you know. I have birthed three children and travelled to Israel by myself at 19 and can drive on the left side of the road in bustling city centre traffic. But leave me alone overnight in a new-to-me house and WIND and creaking and three kiddos and no one to make me coffee in the morning or protect me from killers... I mean, really. It's fine. Go.

Anyway, here are the things that happen when the dad is away:

1. Invite people over for dinner and they bring their own pizza dough! Brilliant idea! Big hit with kids. New friends for life.
2. Tell man who comes to door working for UNICEF, asking for donations, "I'm sorry, I can't make a commitment right now because my husband is out of town." Well done, Karen.
3. Wait all night for nice looking (but probably totally crazy) UNICEF man to come back with his other good for nothing UNICEF friends to steal your babies.
4. Kitchen gets cleaned. Kitchen stays cleaned. I'm not naming names.
5. Kids are in bed by bedtime.
6. Watch three episodes of Doctor Who back-to-back until you pass out on your laptop. This is good for staying awake and becoming paranoid. Also, I may have an addiction.
7. Kids are up way before you are.
8. Pizza for breakfast (pretty sure this happens when the mom is away, too).
9. While you sleep in, the three year old demolishes an entire package of custard cremes, only to wake you up at 8:30 demanding more "snacks."
10. Netflix.

This is only just Day One with the dad away. I'm hoping we may actually venture out of doors, enjoy the sun (?) and build a fort or two. But I'm also counting on delivery from the chipper, diet coke in the fridge and three more seasons of Doctor Who to keep me company until Matt returns home.

At any rate, I'll return the favour next month when I'm away for almost an entire week. To France. For work. Boom.

***

Are you a home alone person, or a stay up all night waiting for robbers and/or killers person?

In the garden, where we mine our hearts

Nine months pregnant with Asher and I'd sit in a bed of weeds. 

Matt would grab hold of my arms and lower me down as I could neither bend nor reach over my belly to the ground. He would check on the veg, plucking and pulling what was ripe. I would weed anything within 12 inches and 360 degrees of my extreme roundness, turning on the garden pad (a soft yellow sunflower, reminding me of Kansas summers). Ella was usually nibbling on an herb of some sort - fennel, mostly - or elbow deep in mud. Jack manned the watering hose.

We would talk things over there: how we were doing, what our hopes were, where we had run short, what middle name we should give the baby. He'd be named Asher years before, and we needed a suitable follow-up. There was a long list of Irish names I couldn't settle on. Cian, Eoin, Niall, Liam, Rhys (this one was Welsh, but a favourite of mine).

In the end we gave him his grandfather's name. Jared. But those conversations in the garden weren't all for naught.

I never pictured myself here. Blooming with child on Irish soil. Matt was the gardener, the outdoorsman, the lumberjack. I was the city girl, happy with a book and a lamp and air conditioning. But in the garden, everything was up for discussion, and in turning the soil ("I'm working the land," I'd tell my mother-in-law, who laughed at the thought of it) we plucked our brains and mined our hearts for where the truth lay, where our spirits settled, where tears and contentedness met under cloudy skies and ocassional sprinkles. It was Ireland, after all, and no trip to the garden left us untouched by rain.

When the harvest was done, and the baby born, and the peas and green beans and lettuce and parsley eaten and used, we had nothing left but beet root. The beets just kept coming. Time was getting on and we were soon returning to America. The garden we'd have to let go of, but we were trying to outlast the beets.

I don't care for beet root. Don't like the texture or the colour or the taste, but it was a big hit among our friends (and children) here. We had beets for dinner, beets for company, beets in baby food, beets for dinner parties. We'd show up to a new house with a steaming plate of roasted beets, solidifying our post as favourite American guests among our crowd (at least, I like to think so).

We never saw the end of the beets. Had to give up the land before the last of them found their way to our plates.

It had been months since I'd been to the garden. Those days I did my pruning and weeding in a rocking chair with a baby at my breast, mining my heart for him who could only reply in full sighs and fragrant burps. We were leaving and the garden was no longer ours and this surprisingly beautiful moment had passed. Matt wanted to drive by it one last time, parking the car in front of the allotment, the beets now gone and the land tilled, lying in wait for the next gardener to dig deep.

I hate to admit it, but the truth is we cried there on that farmland, silently, so as not to alarm the children.  And then we drove away.

Yesterday we spent hours in the back garden. It was overgrown and messy, in need of a sharp handsaw. The seeds - sprouting in egg cartons and toilet paper rolls - were in need of a new home outdoors. Asher ran round in his pyjamas and wellies, Ella working a tiny hatchet on the remains of a pine tree. A rosebush had rerooted and webbed itself around several times. A mystery tropical plant (like a palm tree, but not) overshadowed a humble hydrangea, ready for spring.

Matt handed me the garden shears, "Do you want to prune back the dead blooms of the hydrangea? It'll make way for new growth."

The weight was heavy, but the burden was light.

"Yes, yes I do."

When at last I need her

She reached me under cover of darkness - literally - hiding in my room behind closed door and drawn blinds, curled up beneath sheets. I called her that morning, told her I couldn't go on, that something had happened, that I needed her Right Now. The dorm phone rang and I knew it was her reaching for me, buying me a train ticket, meeting me to take me home.

I don't know what happened that year, to my brain and the serotonin levels and the fear that clocked minutes away like eternity. She didn't know, either. But she knew enough to know I needed her, and a good therapist, and probably some meds. She knew enough to know that when I reach out, it's usually a last ditch effort. She knew enough to know that after you've done it all on your own (which she did), after you've raised a daughter to be independent and bold and unafraid of the world (which she did), when fear collides with reality, she knew enough to wrap her wings around me and let me nest awhile.

14 years later (more than that really: years and years and divorce and adulthood and marriage and kids and moving-half-way-around-the-world later), it's still a mystery to me, that she never gives it a second thought. She answers the call. She gives freely. Even when I don't want to, she waits for me, when at last I need her.



Following a lovely series at Lisa-Jo's blog about what our mamas did. What did your mother do, for you?

Next time, it will be different :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 31}

There's a place right around the third level of hell that is commonly referred to as "Party City on Halloween Eve." This scary place is home to every giant cartoon balloon, sad/smutty lady costume, and wide-brimmed straw cowboy hat known to man.

And I have seen it, with my own two eyes. I have been there, and I have lived to write about it.



I put off everything. Literally. I am the worst procrastinator. When it comes to school parties (birthday parties, Christmas parties, moving parties), I leave everything till the last minute. I stop at the grocery store on my way to the school (10 minutes late, natch), grab the store-made cupcakes nearest the entrance, and make a mad dash for the express checkout lane. Then I mosy in to the gathering (bris, baptism, wedding) with the goods and wipe the sweat from my brow.

I will never do that again, I think. Next time, it will be different.

But it's not ever different. Especially this time, especially on Halloween. I don't sew costumes, I don't make anything. I wait for the shops to put holiday items on clearance and then I force my children down the aisles, "Sorry, kiddos, this is all that's left. Bummer!" We grab a synthetic pumpkin or two, a two-sizes-too-big Darth Vader costume, and we're all set.



Except now things don't go on clearance until after the holidays (ugh, Obama!), and all of the sudden it's Halloween Eve, and three Targets and one KMart later, I find myself at Party City. Up until I enter their streamer laden sliding doors, I feel like the worst mother ever. Of course every kid wants to be Iron Man. Of course my kid is growing, growing, gone. Of course he changed his mind a coupla times. Of course everything's full price, everything's sold out, and I'm speedwalking through three different counties during rush hour.

And then, I arrive at Party City. Suddenly, I feel a bit better, a bit lighter, a bit... ok, a lot more scared. Packed to the brim with bickering parents and pointing younguns. Instead of costumes, there's a line-up of pictures on the wall. A who's who of cartoon consumerism. Name brand only, lady. Which Avenger, Star Wars character, Disney Princess would you like?

Um, uh, I think... 138? Yeah, 138, in a youth medium, um, please.

"138! Medium!" She yells into her headset. "Sorry, ma'am [I'm sorry, what did you say?! Ma'am?!?!], but that's sold out."

Ok, 136... the one with muscles, in a youth medium. Yeah, Ok, 136.

I have now upped my game from $20 to $30 for one costume for the eldest, and if it is sold out, then God help me, I won't be able to go home.

"136! Medium! Ok, we got one. Follow the green feet back."

So I follow the green feet, and I wait in the back with the tweens and their Scream masks. I lay my hands on the beautiful 136 and I take my winnings and my pride and walk, head held high, to the checkout line which wraps itself 'round the store.

One hour later and I am home. Ah well, this is how it goes for the messy mom, the procrastinator, the unskilled keeper of the home. Every year, every time, just in time.

He is waiting by the door, "Well, well?! Did you get it?!" And as I lay the prize in his long, thin arms, I think, I will never do that again.

Next time, it will be different.

So this is it. The 31st day. Thank you for joining me here. I'm still a mess, but at least I'm not hiding it anymore. And at least we can lean into it together. And at least we've made some headway, cleared out the clutter a bit, tidied up so there's room to grow. At least, I hope so.

I was ugly :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 25}

I think I will regret this, putting it out there. It is so much more, so much heavier - wrought with humility - than a witty 31-day-series tag line. Writing down the words, words I've only said to two, maybe three people... writing them here for you to see.

You will judge me, but I feel compelled. I want to see how truth is beauty. Even ugly truth, made beautiful by what happens, what came, how God was in it anyway. The beauty, it's all him. The ugly - that's me.

The truth is, I didn't want him.

I took the test in a fit. Of course, of course. And when the second line turned pink... of course.

We had talked about a third, always wanted a third, even named a third. But I wasn't ready. And I wasn't happy. And this was not the way it was to go.

Ireland was new to us, only a few months old to us. The wheels were greased, turning easier and faster and we were ready to hit our groove and sail right along. I'd been given an assignment, one I felt so proud to deliver on and make mine, one I hadn't even begun yet. I sat in a coffee shop, sick and stressed and hiding our secret.

We were idiots. And now there was a third. And I didn't want him.

This is ridiculous: a married mother of two not liking the timing, the inconvenience of a third child. This is the worst thing: to know how God loves and creates tiny humans for the delight of eternity and to feel so distraught over it. We were (mostly) in love and we were (mostly) able to readily welcome an addition, and yet I was (mostly) in despair, for no other reason than my misguided desire for a life worth something... more.

The not wanting... the not accepting, not thanking, not participating in the life within drained my reservoirs of faith. I was so ashamed. I was so afraid. I was so sure I would not - could not - mother him the way I ought. I was ugly with selfishness. I hid from God.

But... but... of course. Something changed. We grew.

Two months of sickness and stillness makes one think and leads one to pray and allows one to rest in the inconvenient, inefficient nature of God. Around week ten I was nervous and antsy. I began to worry that my not wanting him made him go away. I was in a fit, knew it was too late, wanted to take it all back. We begged to be seen by the local GP (weeks before my first scheduled antenatal appointment in the hospital). We needed to hear it; I had to know.

We heard the heartbeat, and Ella's laughter rang through. 12 weeks along. Then 16. Then 33. Then due date, contraction, labour... a boy. The beauty, it's all him.

The truth is, I was ugly and did not want him. But he was beauty and we named him Asher. Happy.



Are you in this place, dumbfounded - saved - by beauty amidst the ugly?

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 making excuses & not showing up :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 5}

It's an easy excuse I use too often.

"Sorry, I can't, I've got the kids."
"Oh, that sounds great, but it's a little too close to naptime."
"I'd love to, really, but, well, you know how toddlers are."

Life with the wee three is tailor-made for excuses of all kinds. They're loud and they're fast and they all run in different directions. They distract and disrupt and yell. Did I mention the biting? Or the falling and the crying? And I'm a mess. A real, human frazzled-and-frizzy-haired-mom-of-a-mess. I yell and cry, too. I chase them, and sigh, and want to hide. I'm embarrassed and exhausted.

These are my reasonings - my very adequate and totally understandable reasonings - for holding back, not showing up, missing out. I'm doing you a favor, I think. Truly, you wouldn't want us there.

Except... that's no way to live. And it's no way to teach your kids how to live. Or to serve. It's no way to be family within community. And it's really no way to grow or to learn or to love. 

And those are all the reasons why I said yes to today. Me and my kids are going to show up. We are going to be loud and we are going to be messy. We are going to go meet some other kiddos who are oh-so-far away from home. My kids are gonna love the heck out of them, for no other reason than they are kids, too, and they know what it's like to be away from home. We are going to craft it up good, even though we are not crafty and even though the wee lad will be running and throwing and probably eating said crafts.

It's too easy to say no, but it's oh so hard to train them in the way they should go if you don't show up at all. We may as well just all go together, before they start making excuses, too.

[a repost from April 2012]

So, who else has a mess - or just plain old life and family and biting toddlers - they're afraid to show up with?

The bend of her bow :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 4}

We're bent the same, she and I. They say that it's the one who is most like you - the one struggling with your weaknesses, the one mastering your strengths - who will exasperate you and frustrate you and push you to your fraying limits.

She's mine: my tiny, brown-eyed twin.



It's not that she's disobedient or bad or anything like that. On the contrary, she wants to please... so much... so much that it hurts (literally) sometimes. We used to say, when the wee lad was born, that she might accidentally kill him with kindness (this was when she'd run and jump over his wee newborn body or lay on top of him, smothering him with kisses). But she didn't and he's still around, calling after her in newly pronounced Ls.

"El-La, El-La."

He chases after her, which is what we all do. We can't keep up. And we can't keep her down. She's a sly one. Free-spirited. Creative. Wild. Brave. All the things you wish for in a girl, things that will make her strong and independent. Things that will help her in the future when she auditions for her first play, or goes toe-to-toe with the boys on the hockey team, or applies for the job she's always wanted.

She got those things from me. But she also got the the stubborness, the talking more than listening, the allergies, and the temper.

And this is where we push and pull. Her strengths and weaknesses, all jumbled up with mine. We both yell and stomp and flail arms around, trying to match the other's logic with reason. I fight with her more than I do anyone else. I sigh at her, walk away from her, question her, punish her. And in doing this, I fail to recognize the me in her.

It is me she is chasing after. And what she sees (and feels in her bones, marrow from the woman who bore and nursed her), she mirrors right back at me. Round and round we go. Chasing.



Oh, Ella, Ella. It is your 6th birthday. And I still don't yet know you, I still fail you, I still misguide you. We are the same, but you, you... you are so much more than the emotional, wild, stubborn streak I gave you. I'm sorry I don't see you. I'm sorry for not leading you better, in the way you should go. I'm sorry I'm still struggling at being me, unsure of how to empower you being you.

I will learn the bend of your bow, the bend of mine. We can string them together, and our arrows will fly.

Do you have one, the child who is most like you? The child you don't really know, but are somewhat sure you're probably messing up? Let's give one another (and them) some grace here.

A diamond jubilee

Four years ago, my mother and I climbed a large hill; many hills, actually. She came to visit us in Ireland, and we walked and walked, visited the sea a dozen or more times, drank tea and ate scones. All of my favourite pictures of her were taken during that trip.

As you can see, we kept her on Ella Duty.

Thank you for helping me become the mother I needed to be, for sending me where I needed to go, for showing me how to be simultaneously independent and wholly dependent on God. 

We wish you, Queen of our tiny tribe, a happy diamond jubilee. And many more.

I open the door, in five

It's always a risk.

Dropping him off at school, waving to teachers I only know and trust because the school seems to know and trust them. Letting her visit family, a whole week apart from me, without a mother to keep eye out. Just sending her out the front door with a ball and a wave.

I've heard of this happening, mothers who are overwhelmed by fear and anxiety for their children. They keep the door locked and the blinds closed, not willing to take the chance. Because who knows? Who knows what might happen, who might prey, how they might disapear or get hurt or...?

It's enough to make any parent, no matter how sane or prepared, go crazy.

This week the papers are filled with these stories, of coaches and counselors and teachers, lying and hurting and threatening. My stomach hurts and I look at them, imagining their cries without realizing it. Why even leave the house, I think? I want to keep them all safely tucked in nook and nest, away from the world, away from harm, away from pain.

It's futile, really. Who can live life that way? I protect them now but there will be heartbreak later, at 17 in the driveway, at 30 by the kitchen sink, at 45 in an empty house.

They long to stretch their growing legs and taste the summer breeze. So I risk it. I open the door and let them go. My eyes watch as they make their way into the wide open, praying the world will stay away just a little longer.



Linking up with Five Minute Fridays. You should, too.

Pink Line Anniversary

10 years ago today six pink lines appeared (I wanted to be sure, ok?) and our lives changed forever. What I thought was just jet lag turned out to be just a baby, and my world hasn't stopped spinning since. Hopefully - eventually - I'll get this mom thing figured out!

a weird anniversary to remember, I know... :)