In Celebration of Mamas

I usually dislike Mother's Day. Because I think it's silly. I don't like Hallmark cards that someone else wrote. I'd rather have a piece of yellow construction paper, "I love you Mommee" in green crayon. Because he made it. Folded it with his seven year old hands, smoothing down the crease with one and then the other.

I don't want artfully arranged roses. I want the gerber daisies he chose from the buckets at the grocery store because he thought they were bright and beautiful.

"They're your favorite, right Mommy?"

Of course they are. Anything he chooses for me, hoping it's my favorite, is absolutely my instant favorite. Even if it's....cactus.

Someone asked if I would get breakfast in bed for Mother's Day. I sincerely doubt it. But that's not what I want. I don't want any thing for Mother's Day.

I want another day to serve my family. Honest.

Every Sunday I head to the farmer's market and buy several dozen farm eggs. Sometimes a few bowls of mushrooms. I will do the same thing on Mother's Day. Because I have the awesome privilege of caring for my children and my husband. Making them breakfast every morning. Waking each of them up with a hug, coaxing them from their beds with a promise of warm food. It's important to me that I do this. I spend so much time away from them....

So much of my active mothering occurs when they're not even awake. I'm the first one up and the last to lay down. And I wouldn't change it.

To sit on the side of his bed and comb his thick brown hair with my fingers and wonder how it could possibly need trimming again. To trace the outline of his perfect nose and kiss his cheek and squeeze his foot as I quietly step out of his room, careful to avoid the million and one Legos he left on the floor.

To reach into her crib and twirl her precious curls around one finger and then another. To brush the soft squish of the top of her hand and the ring around her wrist. To place my hand before her open mouth just to feel her breath.

These living, breathing, giggling, screaming gifts. Thank you, God.


My mom sent me this picture today. My 17 month old baby hiding "behind" a tree. I am so blessed to be her mama that I can't even stand it.

For Mother's Day....

Just. This.



I can't even get into how much I love my own mama. I just get a huge lump in my throat and my fingers freeze. She takes care of me. And my brother. And my sister. And my daddy. And my husband. And most especially my kids.

Just. Can't. Even.

Happy Mama's Day, friends. I wish you love and joy and laughter with your families.

And handmade construction paper cards.

May I have your next twenty years?

He asked me if I'd go out with him. January. Twenty years ago.

I said yes. He smiled.

And two apartments, two houses, five cars, one large dog, two pretty kids and a lifetime later....I'm still glad I did.

I don't write much about him. For as outgoing and friendly as he is, he is also intensely private. And so I give him that. His privacy.

But I love him. And I want to thank him. For twenty years. For most of my life. He has loved me. Not so much in words. But in deeds. In patience. In presence.

He loves me.

I have yet to figure out just why.

It has to be maddening to love me.... I cry. I scowl. I stamp my feet. I say things that must later be covered by a quilt of apology, for spoken words do not consent to erasure.

He does none of these.

He gives me everything he has. And he doesn't keep score.


Twenty years....


Thank you. It's not always lovely.

Most of the time it's messy.

But it's beautiful....

And it's ours.


I love you, Jason.

The Day the World Broke

"Wait! Hand hugs!!"

I reach back and grab his thin, small hand. We squeeze our hands together several times in rapid succession while he unbuckles himself with his other hand just before the patrol kid opens his door. It's been over a week since we've gone through the drop off line at school so we almost forgot.

Our hand hugs.

He had the flu and missed the entire week of school. Dropping him off today from the car line I watched him as he waved to me through the window then turned and walked/bounced his way through the breeze way, stopping to chat with his beloved PE teacher. I just watched him in awe, forgetting for a few seconds that I needed to move up. Keep traffic moving.

But there he went. Seven years old. Into his other world of elementary school. First grade.

He exits the car and goes through his day without me. He knows nothing of the Connecticut shootings. Nothing of the twenty children his age who died in their classrooms just on Friday.

Twenty. Such a huge number. Unfathomable.

I often worry about him, wondering if he'll somehow struggle. He's afraid of the fire alarm during drills. I just tell him to be brave and do exactly as his teacher says.

It's never entered my mind to tell him what to do if a gunman ever enters his classroom and starts shooting kids. That's craziness.

But now it's happened. In a small town very far north and east of here.

But now it's happened...



The little one....Sunshine. Her hair beginning its transition from baby fine to soft sweeps of light golden brown. Soft curls forming at the nape of her baby neck.

She sat down on the floor and talked to me this weekend. The first time she's actually seemed to be telling me a story. Something mournful in her own language a year in the making.

A language that will disappear just as quickly. Replaced by words and common phrases. I won't remember her garbled little words. I try real hard but within a minute they're already gone.

A minute.


Help me hold on to my kids, Lord. Let me never take even a minute with them for granted. Let me never know the pain of laying a child to sleep under a blanket of earth. Let the strain of evil that entered Sandy Hook Elementary never visit us here.

One poster on a blog I read mentioned wondering about their socks. The little socks that held the feet of the children who died. Might seem an odd thing to wonder....but not really. To think of the details. A ponytail. A pair of beloved boots. A journal left behind. "I love you, Mama" in crayon.

Crayon.

A little boy who rode on his daddy's shoulders every day to the bus stop....

Twenty little lives ended. Twenty little hearts stilled. Twenty little voices silenced. Twenty little caskets readied.


Come, Lord Jesus. Come quickly.

Why I Don't Miss Facebook....

I left Facebook.

Yup. I sure did. It almost makes me feel like a superhero.

Almost.

Disappear from Facebook and you might as well drop off the face of the Earth....

I don't miss it. At all, actually.

I re-activated a couple of weeks ago just to pop on to see if I was missing anything.... I wasn't. Honestly, I could not back out of there fast enough. "Deactivate your account"? YES, PLEASE.

I'm not even sure what it is, really. I was just getting annoyed. And bored. Lost even.

Facebook can be a wonderful thing. But for me it became a huge distraction. I no longer have my iPhone glued to my hand. I no longer have a dedicated tab opened to Facebook, running in the background behind Word documents and Westlaw. You know, just so I don't miss anything. As a result, my office is clean and organized for the first time in years. That's not at all embarrassing.

Maybe I just felt like I didn't belong at the party anymore. Insecurity. Instead of sitting alone at the table off to the side, maybe I just decided to go home.

Home.

I like home.

I'm sure I'll go back to Facebook.....sometime. Maybe. But not now. And not soon.

I'm discovering my own life. And how much I love it. And maybe it's that I want to hold close what's mine and shut out the world for a little bit.

I take long walks everyday now. Yesterday, I sat in the lush green grass and played with my barefoot baby girl, quietly watching her little hands to make sure they hadn't picked up a dropped acorn on the sly.

For the first time possibly ever, I am someone's favorite. She will choose me over anyone. ANYONE. And I love it. It was surprising at first. Still is. But I relish it. When I pick her up she excitedly pats my shoulder with both hands, her face shining joy with two teeth. If someone else offers to take her, she looks at me, smiles, and excitedly pats my shoulder with both hands again. She chooses me. And every time she does it, she rebuilds a thin layer of confidence that's been lacking.

Why would I want to miss one minute of that for something on Facebook?

I wouldn't.

I Have a Thing About Cars

"I think I just found your next car."

It was back when those words could bring excitement instead of dread.

He had driven past it on the lot at Jordan Ford. Medium Wedgewood Blue. Low miles. The right price.

He took me back to see it the next day. Another salesman was pressuring ours, saying he had someone who wanted it if we weren't going to take it.

No one else was going to take it. It was mine.

We traded Jason's single-cab Chevy S10 for what seemed like bigger than anything we'd ever need. A 1998 Ford Expedition.

It was meant to be. We'd been talking about getting a bigger vehicle....the sole reason being that our dog no longer fit comfortably in either of ours.

He'd surged past 80, 90, 100 and then 120 pounds. Cramped into the back of my tiny Saturn or in the front of Jason's S10 just wasn't cutting it.

Fast forward 10 years down the road.....

That dog is old now. He can't jump up into the back anymore.

It went to the beach and sand bore deep into the carpet. It went camping and Jason packed every square inch of it. It showed a cedar tree who was boss.

It hauled lumber and lawn equipment, carried our two babies home from the hospital. A boy and then a girl.

And last night when Jason handed over the keys and counted the cash, I cried.

So long, old friend. Thank you. You were the best.

210,000 miles. And every last one of them worth it.

Eight

He stood a few steps before me. His hand that bore the scars outstretched, offering to take mine.

I don't want to. I don't know where you're taking me.

I stood there with my arms crossed, feet determined to stay planted on the ground that gave way beneath me.

I didn't trust Him. How could this possibly be meant for good?

Why are You allowing this to happen? What did I do wrong? Can't You just go back and fix it? Please?....

The little life that I had to let go of on July 28, 2004....I had no way of jumping forward to October 4, 2005 or December 8, 2011. And yet I consider all three dates to be dates of enormous blessing. Different, fortunately. I had to go through one to get to the others. And at the time, I couldn't see the joy ahead.

Through the loss of one tiny babe, I gained....so much. There is no trading here. And I can now say that I'm thankful. Thankful to feel beyond myself. Thankful to have learned to hold the hurt and then to tenderly release it.

I have been blessed. Immensely.

My blessings have names. The obvious....Wes and Sunshine.

Jason. Mama and Daddy. Jared. Anna.

My precious girls....Shonda, Mona, Gia, Melissa, Diane, and Kelli. We learned together how to circle the wagons and hold each other up like no one else can. We learned to smile again and laugh. To stretch the cords of friendship across time and across the country. We learned to share life beyond our great losses.

My most treasured friend of thirty-plus years. My April. I can't even find the proper words to thank you. For never giving up on me. For reaching down into the well of darkness and grabbing my hand and never letting go. You have a special jewel in your crown just for loving me.

Eight years. Eight full years have gone by. I didn't want to trust Him and walk in faith into the unseen tomorrow.

I didn't have to....

He carried me instead.




So. Very. Blessed.

The Littlest of These

He pulls off his sleep shirt, forgetting to remove his glasses, and slips another on. Going through the motions of another morning. His light brown hair brushes over the tops of his ears, in dire need of a trim. We brush teeth and comb hair and pull on socks and shoes, not in that order but each having its importance in the morning routine.

He's tired. I'm tired. Woefully lacking in sleep, I start another day. Pushing forward into this one while still dragging yesterday behind me. Drafting a plan of attack I already know will be revised ten times before it's scrapped altogether.

Lost in this race to live life quickly is a little boy. Waiting. To be guided. To be held. To be listened to. To be loved.

I can tell him I love him all I want. Calling it over my shoulder as I race off to whatever happens next.

It means nothing if I don't show it. Words ring hollow. Hugs on the way out the door smack of careless indifference.

I soothe myself by explaining that I do love him in action. I make his breakfast every morning. Warm and welcoming. I prepare and pack his lunch, sometimes with a short note on the napkin. Things he'll remember when he's older.

But what about the right now? I have to make this better. I have to give him something to hold onto. Something to say "Hey, you're still important." Something to make up for the brushing aside.

If nothing else, it is my profound duty as his parent to start his day off well. The world is waiting to tear him down. He needs to know, without question, that I am on his side. That I am cheering for him. That I will celebrate his victories, no matter how small. That I love him without qualification.

This morning as I walked him into school I witnessed a father berating his son in hushed tones. I have no idea what was said, but the look on his pudgy red face and the vacant look on his boy's face told me that this was not uncommon. He was holding his child, his CHILD, by the ears....his face only inches away....and the words spewing from his mouth did not convey love. Sometimes you don't have to hear the words to know what is being said.

My heart hurt for that little boy. I silently lifted him up to the God who IS love and asked for his day to be blessed with grace and for somebody to love him today. As much as I didn't want to, I prayed for the father as well because I know, without a doubt, that his disappointment and anger with his son is merely a reflection of how he sees himself.

Parenting is hard. But at the very least, the VERY LEAST, we must must must start our kids' days off with love. I have scarred myself with guilt over my own words of unkindness to my child. And everyday I have to ask for help from my heavenly Father. Help...and forgiveness. Freely given. Gratefully accepted.

Speak with kindness to your children. They're going to choose our nursing homes, you know.