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.

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.

On how God's way is a brilliant mystery, revealed to me on my birthday

I have a laundry list of things I need to do today and a short window in which to do them. But I feel like I can't charge forward without laying down some words first.

Yesterday was my birthday, and I never know quite what to do with it. We've always had a complicated relationship, my birthday and I, and I'm sure you'd say, "Who doesn't?" I know this is true, as there's always some invisible line where birthdays cross from best day ever to again, another year older? My issues are a bit more complex and maybe one day I'll open up the birthday book wide.

Until then, I say (think, feel) this:

I am supremely loved, I know it every day. And for the hard days, or the complicated days, or the days where hurt lingers, I want to embrace and revel in the fact my parents once fell in love and got married and had me and my sister. And that fact is awesome and beautiful and belies nothing else but how God's way is a mystery. A brilliant mystery. And I will rejoice in the mystery, no matter the day. 

And my birthday? It was lazy and fun and chaotic and frustrating and all the things that make every day a part of that same mystery. I love being alive. I love my children and the handmade cards and how beautiful birthdays are to them. I love that Asher's birthday is tomorrow and we will celebrate him turning four with friends, an oreo cake, and a new-to-him playhouse (playbarn, really). I love facebook and how I feel like I spent the whole of the day with my family and friends, even if only virtually. I love how Matt goes over the top - not with gifts, but with love and forced-cuddling.

And I love how my dad is the first. Always the first, with a video or a text or a song. My birthday always begins with him. And it always ends with my mother, recounting the memory of the day she became a mother, and how she wouldn't change a thing.

Time can heal. Well, I'd say God and hard work and love, too. But time, another year gone past, brings me - I think, I hope - one step closer to wisdom, to the mystery of Jesus, to grace.

It gets better, every year. I hope I get better, too.

I hope we are all better.

Five Friday Favourites (in pictures)

My favourites of the week, as pictoral essay:


1. the children, stretching their legs and exploring mountain lakes


2. the view from our backgarden, at sunset


3. i don't know them, but they picked a great spot for a girls' night


4. a morning with just the two of them


5. my birthday dates, today as I turn 35... they keep me young/humble/exhausted/content.

How was your week? Any favourite things pop up? Write about it, use the button and let me know!

<a href="http://www.riverintowords.com/search/label/five%20friday%20favourites/"><img src="http://i1249.photobucket.com/albums/hh507/jackandellasmum/fivefridayfavebutton_zps879fe232.png" width="200" height="200" alt="The River Into Words" /></a>

How to be called (on your birthday)

So, we call you Jack, now.

I mean, we've always called you Jack. Your grandparents, aunts, uncles and sister call you Jack, and it has bounced between our tongues in our home from the moment we carried you into that first apartment. But to others, to the outsiders, to those whom we love but are still somewhat separate from our tight crew, you have always been Jackson. Until now.

You love the story we tell, of how we chose your name. We wanted something strong; fun but formal; something that wouldn't hem you in, confine or define you. Your dad loved CS Lewis before I did, so that when he told me he'd like to call you Jack after him, I hadn't a clue. He gave me Surprised by Joy to read, in which Lewis offers up the proof: when he was four he named himself Jacksie after the dead dog. He would answer to nothing else, till after awhile he was somehow convinced to go by Jack, and there you have it.

I thought Jack was fine, though short. Being a Karen, I'd always wanted a classic name for formality, but a nickname for familiarity, so we compromised. You became a Jackson.

Just two weeks ago, on your first day of your new school in a new country, the principal was trying to squeeze you into a class. He checked with the teachers and the classes, and all the while you sat there with a big smile on your face, unafraid to be new. We're living an adventure, that's what we tell you. And, thank God, you're starting to believe it.

He came back to the office, successful in finding your place, barely looked up from your enrollment sheet and said, "So your name's Jackson, is that right?"

"Yep," you replied, smile still in place.

"Do you mind if we call you Jack? How 'bout we just call you Jack."

Not a question, but a statement. Here you are called Jack. You sign your name Jack. On the papers and the backpack and the tracksuit your name reads Jack. You have become new again. Your identity is coming into view.

I worried that you'd miss Jackson. Apart from family, you've always ever been Jackson to everyone else. But you said no. You said you liked being Jack here. You said it reminded you of family, that you were going back to your roots. "After all, you named me after CS Lewis, and he was a Jack. So I'm a Jack, too."

So, we call you Jack, now. On the eve of your 10th birthday, when I remember all those years ago practicing the full length of your name in cursive, then shortened, then in print, then typed in different fonts, I wondered what you'd end up being. I had it in my silly little mind that we were somehow creating you.

The truth is, we only chose the name, but you have chosen everything else. 

You chose how to trust, how to make do, how to look on the bright side, how to create, how to imagine, how to be kind, how to get along, how to organize your clothes in your dresser, how to wear your hair, how to sign your name, how to be brave and now... how to be called.

I was afraid I'd mess you up somehow, I was afraid to hold you for a long time, I was afraid to cut your hair, and then I was afraid at each passing birthday. "Oh time," I thought, "you move too fast! Soon he will be gone!"

But I'm beginning to take my cue from you. When I pray courage for you, when you choose courage, I pray it and choose it for myself. You go forward with joy and excitement, you pass time with ease, and every day is an adventure in the story you are writing.

Like the author we named you after - Jack - you are chasing after Aslan.

And I am following close behind you.



A love letter to the eldest on his 10th birthday, who is choosing what - and how - to be called. What do you want to be called? 

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.

Vintage cursive loops of faith

Do you know what's amazing? Two grandmas circling 90, with a few dozen grandchildren and great-grandchildren between them, remembering to send a birthday card on time - nay - early, even!

Eleanor and Gail, two women who had their own set of dark curls back in the day. One gave me the strong will and the outspoken nature. The other gave me the maternal spirit (some might call it "fretting") and the super sensitive skin.

Apart from the curls they are as different as night and day, but I belong to them. I bear their image and carry their legacy. Resilience and hope, courage and humility, grace and mercy.

I don't think I deserve them. In fact, I know I don't. I don't send birthday cards, I can be ungrateful, I am impatient with my children, and I am prone to wander. 

But they point the way. Imperfect and true. Vintage cursive loops of faith.

I open one of the cards and out drop a handful of pictures: me and my grandpa, grandma laughing, matching grandbabies in receiving blankets. Her gift to me on my 34th birthday. I tell my sister and we sigh together, remember grandpa's laugh, think how perfect and generous it was for her to send them to me.

"Although..." my sister says, suddenly very suspicious, "I am kind of worried she's starting to dole out her precious belongings."

Well, yeah, there's that.

UPDATE // I'm forced to print a retraction: one of my dear grandmother's is only circling 80, not 90. But that would've made my sentence longer, and not as flowy. You know, poetic license and all that. Besides, as my sister says, she's circling closer to 90 than she is to 20. :) 

A Weekend Surprise

For some reason, I thought it would be fun and not at all hard to throw my wee baby sister a surprise 30th birthday party. Let me tell you, it was quite a job! I haven't worked that hard in years! :) But in the end, it all came together in a beautiful and fun way, and I think the birthday girl was quite surprised.

I was too busy with the planning and the chatting that I didn't capture a single photo. But Jessica's friend Megan, who helped me big time with the decor (along with another new friend, Emily), took some great photos. Don't you wish you had been there? ;)

A Full House

One thing we've discovered living here is, when home alone or when not seeing people regularly, we feel down in the dumps. But when our house is full or when we're in a community of other people, meeting and greeting, sharing memories and trading jokes, we feel full and free and merry.

Last night (scratch that - we're a week on now!), our house was full. It was Matt's birthday, and having not had many birthday parties as a child or young adult, we decided this was the year. The guest list was simple and the atmosphere a bit crazy with the kids running about. But there was laughter! And smiles! And hugs! And stories! At one point I was upstairs feeding and rocking the baby to sleep and I would hear roars of laughter below... to me, that felt more like home than anything had in a long time.

The boy

My baby boy turns 7 next week. Not so much a baby anymore, at least for these past 6 years, especially now that there is an actual baby boy in the mix again. But still, I look at him and all I remember is this big, roly-poly, hunk of a man-child that I somehow was able to give birth to and still had enough energy to feed him, take care of him and watch him grow.

He's at the age now where, if I call him "baby", it is now an insult and he gets mad at me. But he still loves to cuddle, loves to kiss, loves to hold my hand, loves to tell me he loves me, and loves to be a part of this little family. He is all kindness and light and energy and creativity. He draws, writes stories, imagines, dances... he's just about everything that is good in the world.

Of course, he's not perfect. He is my child, after all. He is a bit quick to stomp his feet when he doesn't get his way, or to growl at me when he's displeased, or to hit back without even thinking. But those are all just fleeting moments, short-lived evidence of a fallen nature, quick to be replaced by angelic brown eyes and a kiss on the cheek.

When I think of all that he and I went through together, from the tumultuous labour and delivery, to the long days and nights of all eat and no sleep, to the helpless months of post-partum depression, to the moves from one house to another (and another and another), to the transplantation of our family to another life in another country which seemed awfully scary at the time... we're survivors, him and I. We've done it all together.

Birthday girl, take 2; or Will my kids grow up to hate me?

Today my girl Ella Cate (The Artist Formerly Known As "Eleanor") turns 2. She got her first princess dress today, her first purse, and her 2nd-3rd-and 4th baby dolls. I will also tell you that she was angry for most of the day, we didn't get a single picture of her opening presents, we forgot to sing happy birthday to her, and she didn't blow out any candles. But that was all OK... having a full house of new friends made up for it.

-----------------------------

Last night husband and I were reminiscing (regretting?) how many changes/transitions our kids have had to endure over these last 5 years. In Ella's two short years, we have moved 6 times. In Jackson's five years, we have never lived in the same place for more than 2 years - the shortest of which only being 6 weeks. It seems like we have packed them up, dragged them around, shown them off, and wiped away their tears of confusion more times than I would like to count. All because we wanted to follow God wherever we thought He wanted us to go.

No doubts about it, we know He wanted us to go to Ireland and He consistently confirms this fact to us, but I wonder if He didn't make the path a little bit straighter than how we chose to follow it. I wonder how much crap we piled on top of that path, until we could no longer see it clearly and didn't know where to step.

Perhaps the winding road we followed instead was exactly the one God meant for us to be on. But I can't help but wonder: will our children, who never chose to follow this path and instead are along for the ride, end up resenting us one day because of it...?

Birthday Shmirthday

Anticipating 30 sucks. So far, actually living 30 isn't too bad.

Last night awesome spouse and lovely friends took me out to dinner in Dublin - Mexican food! Brilliant!

And today, Facebook and about 30 of my closest friends and family sent me birthday wishes from afar. Skype let me see the faces of all of my parents. Sunflowers were delivered to my door. Apple pie was made (and vigorously eaten). Neighbours BBQed for us and now Matt and I sit on the couch waiting for 30 Rock to come on. (Oh wait, I just got that! 30 Rock!!)

Of course, 30 +1 day might not be so hot.

But still, for today... I am grateful for good friends, good food, and feeling at home in Dublin.