Category Archives: motherhood

To Noelle on her fourth birthday

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Oh my sweetness, we woke up this morning and you were four. Technically it all happened yesterday but I was so busy party prep that reflection time was non existent until bedtime.  Poor planning on my party.

But as evening fell we laid in bed together, readying Busytown books and reflecting on the day that you were born.  And all the beauty and spirit of your life washed over me like sweet music, pure and perfect.

I can’t believe it’s been four years since you burst onto the scene and we started this mother, daughter journey together.

When I watch you navigate your days I’m brought to tears by your gorgeous soul.  There’s a lot of talk about creativity these days, but you don’t even know what that words means even though you embody it in it’s purest form.

When you play outside with your imaginary bunnies, Piner, Buzz and Heinz, I wonder if perhaps you shouldn’t teach a segment on creativity at a conference somewhere.  The way in which you engage our world is astounding and watching you discover and explore life is truly one of my life’s greatest gifts.

These days I’m committing myself to tuning into what God poured into you and doing my best not to get in the way of it.  No, my job is to teach you discipline, patience and perseverance among a thousand other things.

I think you were born with the gifts of kindness, selflessness and hospitality.  We learned this deeper still yesterday as you greeted your party guests with hugs and served them each a blue, plastic cup of lemonade whether they wanted it or not.  You manned your station long after everyone had been served, pouring a dozen spare cups “just in case.”

We decided that it was your party, you could pour if you wanted to.

And pour you did, until the counter was full of cups and the floor was sugary sticky.

We had to peel you away from the lemonade station, there was too much lemonade poured.

Too much baby.

This reminds me of something I want to tell you, now and for the rest of your life:  The world is going to do a damn good job of telling you that you’re too much.  It does this to all of us but I worry that you’ll encounter it more than most as a creative, busy, beautiful girl and someday woman.

They may tell you that you’re too loud
Too wiggly
Too busy
Too curious
That you talk to much
That you weigh too much
Or that you’re too tall
Too ambitious ( I hope )
Too emotional

Too much.

And the worst part is that I know for a fact I have joined in the chorus and will continue to do so.  And that I’ll be the first one for whom you try to change, to please.

But try not to concern yourself with pleasing us.  Please God.  He’s the only one that matters when it comes to the art of pleasing, I know it won’t seem like that but it’s true beyond words.

My prayer for you today, on the occasion of your fourth birthday, is that you are already forming a resolve of inner contentment.  That you fall in love with the person God created you to be.  That your creative, lovely, compassionate core is protected from all who tell you that you’re not enough.

I pray that our home continues to grow into a place where you are loved “as is” and that we, your parents and family, are most interested in doing God’s work in your life.  That we are listening to his plan for your days and disregarding our unimaginative notions of who you should be.

I pray that God blares his will for you into our ears until it drowns our our human preferences.  

That he protects your from those who aren’t interested in loving you “as is” and try to conform you into something for their own selfish sake.

Most of all I’m thankful for the gift of Noelle.  You have undone and rebuilt me baby girl, in four short years with more to come. You have been a balm to my own relationship with my lost mother.  You are more than I could have hoped for, asked for, prayed for.

You are everything I was afraid of and exactly what I needed.

And God?  He is all knowing, so good, so worthy to be praised.

Grace, Selah, Amen and a Thousand thank yous to our Father.

 

 

Dear Mom, I’m not judging your tantrum

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I think it’s possible that the best writing topics are the ones that bear a sense of deja vu.

The ones you’re fairly certain you’ve written about before, perhaps several times.  Those are the ones we need to keep processing and pursuing because clearly there’s something there.

So along those lines… mothering is tough.  And I think so often we feel judged by well, everyone really.

We feel judged by the people at the table next to us in the restaurant.
We feel judged because of the noise coming from our cart at the grocery store.
We feel judged because we’re just so crabby sometimes in public and doing a poor job at portraying the ethereal mom-gasm we’re supposed to be embodying.

The other day Kel and I decided to screw the budget and take our two lovely little ones out for breakfast at Holland’s The Biscuit before we ran new-house related errands.

I regretted this decision within the first minute we were in the door.  Caedmon threw two tantrums before we were seated and two more before the waitress arrived.

When I picked him up for a time out and some stern words he slapped me in the face and I swear to you, everyone saw it.  I promise that I heard the restaurant gasp in some sort communal oh “Oh snap!” and “What now, Mom?”

I was sure they saw me as a terrible mother with out of control children. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor.  Surely they were all wondering why we brought our tantrum-y son out for breakfast to ruin their dining experience.

tatrum These are the moments of parenting that suck the strength from your soul and send you wondering if 11:00 A.M. is too early for a glass of wine… and does wondering this mean you’re an alcoholic?

But, with every terrible grocery shopping trip and taxing dining experience I’m coming to realize that most people are giving me grace when my children and their tantrums hijack my sanity.  Either that or they just don’t care.

Most people around you have been there before, the other Moms regard you with sympathy and the older ones just remember it with nostalgic fondness … somehow.   Continue reading →

Crap, I’m a sexist.

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Earlier this week my friend Anne wrote a thought provoking post about women in the workplace.  You should go read it, really.  

We were texting about it as I folded laundry and my thoughts turned away from women in the workplace and onto my own life as a working woman.  True, I’m not in the workplace at the moment, but I AM working nonetheless.

I get up before most every morning with my early risers and start changing diapers, reading books and refereeing toy disputes.  I prepare three meals a day unless we’re reheating leftovers, and cycling laundry.  I am diligent about using my creativity to create a personal and comfortable ambiance in our home.  In between all of this I work on my writing career as well.    (This isn’t a post about about why women should be “at home” with the kids, it just happens to coincide with my current employment status)

I’m a mother, A chef, A Decorator, A writer, An engineer of blocks, A seamstress, A housecleaner, A book reviewer, A lover AND a fighter

See?  I’m working.  I don’t think many people dispute this, in fact I think a lot of people respect the life I lead and the way I balance my time.  

crap I'm a sexist Yet, there is one person who doesn’t respect me at all.  In fact the language they use is sexist, disrespectful and it degrades me to my very core.

This person is Me….  Crap I’m a sexist.

This is most prevalent in my language and thought life.  Allow me to illustrate:

Let’s say Kel offers to take the kids to the park so I can get some writing done.  I will always inevitably respond with: “Thanks, I’m sorry, Thank you, I really appreciate it.” Continue reading →

On moving in, finding grace and moving on (a letter for the new woman of my house)

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Dear Future Woman of this house,

I don’t know your name, I keep forgetting to look every time I sign yet another official document.

Your realtor told me you fell in love with this place instantly. I hope this was partly because of the architecture and partly because you felt the warmth we’ve cultivated here.  I’ve been praying that this home would invite just the right family in to stay. People who would love doing life here as much as we have, who would appreciate the sunsets and gather around the table with hunger and gusto.

I know you’re planning on painting the red wall in the living room, I don’t blame you, I’ve being wanting to do it for a few years now. Red seemed like such a great idea five years back but color schemes have cooled down a lot. I was going to paint it a gray/aqua, just a suggestion because of course, it’s your house now. Or it will be in a few short weeks.

home truth

I know you’re excited and you probably want to get everything perfect as soon as humanly possible. You might, like I did, think that a beautiful home is one that’s pristinely clean and tastefully decorated all the time, but it’s not.  One thing that I’ve learned in my five years as a homeowner is that a home is always a work in progress and that the beauty is in the life contained within the house more than the artwork on the walls.

Just as we souls are never finished, neither is a home. There is always work to be done, make peace with this as soon as you can.

I’ve heard that you plan to bring babies home into these walls, this makes me smile broadly because this is a wonderful place to snuggle newborns.  I’ve walked through the white, leaded-glass door with two brand new lives, carrying in my heart all the excitement and fear that comes alongside motherhood.

I nursed new babies half asleep in a glider and walked trails into the carpet soothing their newborn needs.  We woke up in the middle of the night to their cries over and over again, we still do.  You’ll find the hallway layout is such that you don’t really need a monitor, but we installed one anyway and watched their every crib movement from only 12 feet and one wall away.

I learned about sacrifice and selflessness in this house and I suspect that you will too. The first years of marriage are hard and adjusting to marriage with kids doesn’t come naturally either. The living room has seen arguments and make-out sessions the likes of which you wouldn’t believe.

The kitchen walls were splattered with cookie dough one Christmas after a fight over using whole wheat flour in cookies (which I’ve learned isn’t worth the extra fiber.)  I sat in the car with wet socks stewing in anger but I never left home.

The driveway is a good place to cool down, but as soon as you can go back inside.  Always go back inside and keep working at loving well.

This home is a place for staying but it’s also a place to for going somewhere.  Every season will give way to a new one and lessons learned add up to progress and depth.  As you stay within these walls, you’ll move and change as a family in ways that you never imagined.  No home leaves you the same, who knows where this home may take you?

Oh and use the tub, use it frequently and often.  I’ll leave you tips on cleaning it and the shower as well.  I may as well pass it on and make your life a little easier, who wants to clean the bathroom any more than they have to?  Nobody, that’s who.

But mostly, If I could offer you one piece of advice, if these walls could whisper one word to you it would be this:  Grace sister, just grace.

Grace and deep breaths as you get everything settled and make it feel like home, your own brand new home.  Grace as you hang wedding pictures and order just the right curtains.  Grace as you tuck into bed exhausted and discouraged that you didn’t get it all done.  Tomorrow is another day, remember a home is never finished.

May new life come easily to you. May you find grace in your pregnancy and peace in your impatience to hold your new person.  Put your feet up and breathe deeply again in this season, love it as best you can.  Oh and remember:  Babies don’t care what color the walls are or how well-themed the nursery is, babies just want to eat, sleep and feel love.

Grace as you learn that you can’t get nearly as much done with children as you could before.  May your standards lower and may you make peace with it, may you learn to rethink your definition of a successful day.

Oh and when they start walking I recommend moving out the coffee table for a while to foster a safe space for toddling and exploration, trust me the cute coffee table books aren’t worth the banged up baby foreheads.

But really, it’s your house now, in a few short weeks I’ll turn in my keys and this place that seems like it’s been my home forever will become your future and my memory.  A bittersweet moving on for us and a joyful coming home for you.  

Grace. Shalom. Blessings.

My Short Stint as a Preschool Teacher (or small faithful = big lovely)

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Thursday the “Mother’s Day Out” preschool where I was working shut it’s doors permanently.  I hadn’t been there long, only 5 short weeks. I only started working there to make some extra money for our impending move.

So when they gathered the teachers this past Tuesday and told us they were shutting the program down,  I’m not sure if I felt relieved or sad. I suppose it was a mix of the two.  It had been a hard month of work, of learning the ropes, the politics and the kids.  And just when I thought I had a knack for it? It was over with a few quick words from the director.

I couldn’t help wondering what the point of my short stint as a preschool teacher had been.  Was I supposed to work there in the first place? Did I misread the plan?

Yet, this past week: God, with his wit and wisdom has been show me that longevity and notoriety has nothing at all with his ability to change lives.  He needs faithful hands for both the short and long term.

In my mind my time at the preschool was nothing extraordinary.  I’d simply gone to work, poured goldfish, changed diapers, read books and played blocks upon blocks.

But to God, I opened up a channel with which he could show love and grant grace.  A usable connection to affirm his worth and establish his kingdom in a simple preschool playroom.  And on our last day, several of my Mothers told me that I was a regular topic of dinner conversation, and a big part of why their kids wanted to come to school.

They’d noticed the change in their kids since I’d started and they were thankful to God that I showed up.

And now it was over, I said goodbye to those three year olds forever and watched their mothers walk them to the car.  Their age and the brevity of our time together assured me that my work and presence in their lives would soon be forgotten.  

biglovely

Yet, as I always do, I was completely underestimating God’s ability to use the scraps of my faithfulness in the big picture of his overarching plan.   I’m beginning to see that he can use the smallest acts of love and faithfulness to adjust the trajectory of a life forever.

And moreover I was believing in the lie that God is only working through the works of those who are receiving the highest accolades and notoriety, and since that wasn’t me I thought that my small faithfulness was unusable to him.  I worried that the work of my hands was nothing more than adequate effort, forever passed over in favor of lovelier choices.

So often we believe that only the big dogs make a difference, but it’s utter BS.  So what if you’re a small church, a little movement, an introverted youth worker or whatever your case may be?  The enemy is thrilled when we believe that small is insufficient, because it leads to doubt and so often surrender.

But we have to remember that everything in the world, even the big things, are comprised of small faithfulness and discouraging turn outs.  God uses the small works, the simple acts of showing up to bring about his purpose in the lives of his children.  And when his kids feel his love and affirmation the ripple effect is unpredictable and revolutionary.

So if your numbers are done
Your job is gone
The time seemed too short
The outcome wasn’t what you hoped for
You wonder if this is your calling or if it’s time to give up…

Don’t think it was for naught, God uses the work of your hands for his beautiful glory, and what more can we hope for when it comes to the fruit of our time?  God wants your faithfulness and sees it as every bit as lovely as that of the people your comparing yourself to.  

Your small faithful is big lovely, lets stop forgetting the God into whose hands we commit the works of our days.

Quilting my womanhood

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One of my favorite modern theologians is Rich Mullins, I get this from my Dad, who I believe has coffee with Rich on a regular basis.  In my heaven they’re buds, don’t challenge my doctrine please and thank you.

One of my favorite quotes from Rich Mullins is this:  “I think, writing-wise, I am probably more of a quilter than a weaver because I just get a little scrap here and a little scrap there and sew them together.”

I adore the idea of quilting l and I’ve found that this quote rings true, not only for writing but  parenting, cooking, reading, self-image and marriage as well.

We truly are quilters, gathering scraps from each other and sewing them into the fabric of our lives, piecing together something entirely new.

I made my first quilt of sorts this past weekend, an easter skirt for Noelle. I cut and gathered scraps of fabric and pieced them together to make up the swirly bottom of the skirt.  I used some new patterns from the local quilt store and some leftovers from my rainbow suitcase of fabric, a huge old trunk full of scraps all lined up and waiting to be repurposed.

There is something magical about taking a little stack of squares and creating something harmonious, all the fabrics singing together like a choir.  Suddenly you take it off the machine and you’ve created something entirely new and original and completely whole.

It’s not “less than lovely” because it’s comprised of found materials, rather it’s more beautiful for the patchwork, more interesting for the hodgepodge.

Lately I’ve spent a lot of time thinking of my sense of womanhood as a quilt and reflecting on all the different pieces I’ve collected over the years.  Every session I spend in reflection leaves me a touch more thankful and inspired.

Growing up with an overwhelmed and depressed mom left me confused about it means to be a woman and to be honest, I didn’t want to be one.  I hid my body and balked at the though of someone referring to me as a woman rather than a girl.

I thought that womanhood may undo me, that any bumps and bruises would mar my heart for life.  I saw myself as weak and unworthy.

I remember the first time I consciously added a scrap to my quilt of womanhood. I was working at Asbury Seminary for two woman, both named Tammy. They were strong and lovely, brave and hilarious, gracious and intelligent.  They were both single and raising three kids after difficult divorces.  To my surprise they didn’t live their lives in despair, there wasn’t an ounce of bitterness, only a vibrant zest for life and God.

Since then I have been gathering scraps here and there, so many friends and bloggers have become unwitting mentors and spiritual mothers to me.

I’ve quilted the way my friend Sandy thoughtfully loves her people
The way my Aunts weave God into every conversation
The way my Grandma prays for her grandkids and gathers us as a close-knit family
Sarah Bessey’s gentle mothering
Rachel Held Evan’s brave quest to bring truth
Anne Bogel’s intentional take on life

The list doesn’t stop here, so many women have given me valuable lessons that I’ve sewed into my quilt, God has used so many of you to teach me what it means to be a fully alive daughter.

For too long I thought I was just a little sister copy-cat of better mothers, writers and women.  Always running behind them, doing what they’re doing, hoping to be notices and deemed acceptable.

quilt pic

This weekend as I gathered and stitched together the squares I realized that all fabric is woven from existing threads.  Nothing starts out whole, it’s woven from something else.  We are all quilters. This doesn’t makes us boring copy cats, this practice of scrap gathering is a beautiful practice indeed.

As we gather and stitch, the pieces becomes so many and the pattern so wild that each quilt is something entirely new and breathtaking.

A daughter living out her God-woven gifts is one of the most lovely experiences on earth.

Through our mothering, singing, painting, doctoring, writing, cooking, teaching, quilting we bring God to life through our hands and he is truly worshipped.

Suddenly money, square feet, job titles, marital statuses and dress sizes don’t define us but rather the very act of glorifying God through the fabric of our souls.

You are not a copy cat, we’re all quilts friends and we were made to give and take scraps from each other, to mentor each other by simple proxy.

You are a part of my quilt and I am flattered beyond words for the gift of your scraps.

Tell me about your quilt, who do you love to gather scraps from?  

Five Minute Friday: Remember

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five minute friday

(Today I’m joining a group of beautiful writers who writer for five short minutes every friday on the same topic, sharing stories and life on topics created by the unflappable, amazing Lisa Jo Baker)

I’d spent the entire day working at the bank, with little to do, always staring at the clock, wishing it was time to go to my Doctor’s appointment.

And then your Dad and I met up at home and dashed off the the doctor for yet another non-stress test, sitting in a little closet of a room hooked up to monitors and watching the numbers on the screen go up and down, up and down.

They were high this time, so high, we asked the doctor to check on things and sure enough, you were ready to greet us. She was worried about your umbilical cord, so I was rushed to the hospital, no bag, no camera, all nerves and a few tears.

Everyone was in such a hurry and I was putting on my bravest face for them all.

mom and Noelle

The nurse who put in my IV missed, 5 times, stabbing me over and over in different spots. I tried my best to be gracious, but a repeated stabbing wasn’t exactly what I needed at that moment.

Then more needles, sedation and a rush into the delivery room. They cut an incision and tugged for a while until, even in my groggy drugged-up state I knew you were free of me.

But there was no cry, Your Dad and I looked at each other with worried, wondering eyes.  Why couldn’t we hear you?

He stood up to check and was yelled at by a nurse to sit down, they were trying to get you to breathe.  And then in one glorious moment, after what seemed like hours you cried for us and the rushed you away, apart from me for the first time.

I laid in the recovery room alone for an hour, thirsty for both water and my new family. 30324_507507430017_5851086_n

When I got back to the OB Floor I could see you in the window, naked and wiggly.  So many friends were there, excited for your Dad and I, but mostly about you.

They kept you behind that glass for a long time, far too long.  I got pissed, my mama bear coming out for the first time.

Then finally, hours later, we were reunited and I stared at you for weeks as we tried to learn each other, nursing, sleeping, snuggling and just gazing at those eyes we’d been waiting to see.

302118_524300840887_66769267_n And now in a flash, you’re a tall three year old, in size 6 clothes.  A tall, brown eyed beauty who’s never met a stranger.

And I love you, and we’re still learning each other.

And that Noelle is the story of the day we met, the day you were born.

 

 

 

 

 

When you wonder if your life has any room for you

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A golden honeysuckle candle burns in my office, barely flickering in the stillness of the morning. The quiet of the dimly lit kitchen is often broken by the sounds of the cat playing with a balloon in the living room. This is music to my ears because it’s keeping him from his usual routine of meowing in the hallway with hopes of waking up the children, his playmates and sometimes friends.

And here I sit pajama clad sporting bed head and white mug of coffee, wondering how quickly “my time” will come to an end. They call this “me-time” and I crave it with an inner need that makes me feel desperate, guilty, selfish and justified all in the same breathe.

room for me

Lately Caedmon’s first “mama,” the one that sends me into his room to scoop him up, it feels like work lately and not at all like joy, I hate that.  My whole life feels like a chore that I’m struggling through, always wishing for a weekend, a holiday that never seems to arrive.

Kel and I pass like proverbial ships in the night and I’m generally asleep before his work day finishes up.  I crave time with him nearly as much as I crave time alone, I feel so utterly spent when we’re finally together that I have no spirit left for him, just a few kisses and apologies as he tucks me into bed and retires back to the living room.

I play and work from 6:30 AM – 8:30 PM when I pass out with nothing left to give my writing , no strength to channel the creative spirit into something tangible or legible.  I often take comfort in chocolate, wine and pointless TV in the spare moments between the moment Noelle finally surrenders to sleep and the moment that I do.

Is this the best of my life right now?  A little chocolate and wine?  The cannot be my escape, oh Lord save me from the death of this rhythm immediately or sooner.

I want to run away, find a field to occupy, free and alone.  I want to blow dandelion fluff and find shapes and faces in the clouds. I want to my family drive away for a while so I can enjoy my home with a bit of peace and quiet, yet so I often protest the suggestion, because I’m wracked with  guilt for the very need of it.

Is this depression, stress, laziness or it the labor pains of something new being born?  Is it normal?  Is normal even real?

This is my adventure, the life I’ve always wanted yet somedays I wonder if there’s any room for me in it?

Are my house keeping standards too high?  My children too demanding?  Why am I doing wrong to wind up with this strong a need to run away from it all?

This isn’t a cry for help and I hope it’s not whining, it’s just my need to write mixed up with the only song I’m singing today.  I feel the need to apologize for it, but then I wonder if somedays you don’t feel it too?

Have you been here before, in parenthood, work-life or any other season?  In the middle of the life you love wondering if there’s room for you in it?  Shall we pray for each other, figure it out together?  Give it to God (virtual) side by side?

Mom Hack (from picky to licky)

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DSC_0642-1 Today I’m excited to share a guest post from one of my favorite people, my friend Jillian Burden. Jill and I met in college and I remember being amazed by her from day one, she’s stunning inside and out. She’s on my short list of people I want to go out for coffee with, because she laughs deeply and listens so intentionally. 

Jill and her husband John brought home their first child, their Son Artem, in November shortly before US / Russian adoptions shut down.  I love being on the mothering journey with Jill, even if from a distance, her joy and love for her son and orphans world wide are contagious. So without further adieu… 

I just love food. I love the way a toasted piece of sourdough soaks up the savory flavors of tomato basil soup. I love the creamy/sweet contrast of goat cheese and red pepper jelly on a thin, crisp water cracker. And I really love the sweet and salty slurpy wonderfulness of any kind of peanut butter and soy sauce noodle dish. I’m not a natural born talent in the kitchen, but I’ve taught myself to cook because I need a means to get to the end of delicious food.

Not only do I love to eat food myself, but I love to cook for others. I think one of my love languages is feeding people. So you can imagine that as I stood on the precipice of motherhood, I had grand visions of cooking beautiful dinners to be enjoyed with great thanksgiving by my hungry children.

And then my husband and I brought home a picky eater. We adopted our two-year-old son Arie three months ago from Moscow, Russia and he survived Thanksgiving through Christmas on cheese, bananas and multivitamins.

Our pediatrician assured me this was normal and that it could take up to 16 “tastes” of a new food before we’d actually get him to eat it.

Turns out though, sixteen tastes is a lot. Especially when you’re wiping them off a chin or a bib or a floor for the tenth day in a row. Actually, wiping food that was spit out from our son’s mouth was something of a victory because most of the time he’d guard his tongue by pressing his lips together like an oyster hiding a pearl. Short of forcing a spoonful of yogurt in his mouth, I had no idea how I was going to get sixteen tastes in there.

I won’t lie; I was feeling a little desperate.

Picky Eaters

I guess genius sometimes lives in desperation because therein I found my answer: food licking.

It started off with, “Hey Arie can you stick out your tongue??” (Yes- he’s two; he can definitely stick out his tongue) and progressed to, “Watch Mama lick this berry!” slurp slurp slurp “Isn’t that funny??”

Sure enough, he started giggling and licking. Little does he know, licking is the same as tasting. Over the next few weeks, small licks became big licks, and big licks became nibbles, and nibbles became bites!

Arie licking

Unintended consequence: first time we baked together, he licked the dry ingredients.

We’ve moved from a list of two acceptable foods to about 20. We’re still licking too, so here’s hoping that list continues to grow!

There’s my mom hack: teach your picky eater to lick her food. I hope the licks turn into bites for you too!

MOM HACK BREAKDOWN
WHAT- Teach your picky eater to lick her food before rejecting it.
WHY- Because just getting one “taste” in her mouth is one step closer to getting her to actually eat it.
TIPS / HOW- After she takes a couple licks she has to eat it or put it aside, otherwise you might have a lick-fest on your hands. And that’s just bad manners. ;-)

DSC_0013Bio: Jillian Burden is an adoptive mother, blogging about her adoption & parenting journey and all the blessing, lament, joy, and conviction that happen along the way.

Check out Jill’s writing at her blog
Follow Jill on Facebook
And on twitter here

PS If you’re interested in sharing a mom hack let me know by sending an email my way!

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