The Man You've Become

I spent some time this weekend trying to find the perfect song to dance to with my son at his wedding . Let me tell you, moms, if you need a good, cathartic, two-Kleenex-box cry, this is the exercise for you. Make sure you are not wearing mascara, and if you need a shoulder to cry on, don't be alone.

I listened and then told my husband to come here, I needed a hug. "I need a moment," I told him. He put his arms around me, not knowing what I had just been doing. Poor guy, this woman of his just starts crying out of nowhere?

He patted my back and stroked my hair once, and then said, "Okay, that's been more than a moment. It's been like six moments." Somehow I managed to tell him briefly what was on my heart, something about letting Ben go that's really hitting me right now.

He said, "That's what we raise to kids to do--leave home and be independent." I said, "I know, but..."

"I know" is not what I meant in the moment. (Or in my six moments.) What I really meant in my heart was, "We raise them to leave us? Are you kidding? That's a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, to just have a kid after 23 years "up and leave ya!" That's what I was really thinking.

That, plus, "I'm so proud of him and I'm so happy for him." There's always a plus.

Anyway, here is the song I believe I want to dance with him. It expresses my heart in a way I wish I could have written. Grab a Kleenex, or two, or the whole box. You're gonna need it if you're a mom, especially the mom of a son on the verge of getting married! Get ready to have

" a moment." Or six.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tsLlUnUICQM

Five Minute Friday: Unexpected

Today I'm linking up again with Lisa Jo for Five Minute Friday. The idea is to write, write, write for five minutes, without editing, backtracking, or overthinking.

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Unexpected is a word I should not use if I claim to believe God is who He says he is and will answer prayer. No, I should not be surprised or shocked when He does what He promises. But yet, I can remember umpteen times was taken aback by the answers to prayers.

The most unexpected answer came in the summer of 2001. For ten years I had prayed for a baby, a fourth child to complete our family. In 1996 I had a miscarriage and turned angry-bitter against God for taking what was rightfully His to take. In 1999 I lost again, but this time I had accepted His will for my best good. Then I prayed that God would still fulfill my hopes however He wanted, whether the baby come through my womb or not. He gave me a vision to adopt. That was unexpected. Why? Why did I find it hard to believe that He would give me a love for a child I'd never seen, whether it be from China or my body? In 2001, the very day we were going to send in our adoption application, I got nauseated while trying to figure out what to have for breakfast. That has only ever happened when I've had the flu or been pregnant.

I was pregnant. That was unexpected. Desired beyond almost everything, but unexpected. I called my husband and he said, "Call the agency and find out if we can
adopt a baby if we also have a biological newborn." That was unexpected. He had, at one time, been reluctant to "mess up our retirement plans" with a child 10 years younger than our third one, and now he wanted to know if we could have two babies in the same spring, about two months apart? That was unexpected.

They said no. We did not earn enough for the number of people in our home plus an adopted one. I was relieved for the first time in my life that we didn't qualify financially. That relief was unexpected.

But this little wise-cracking retirement-buster-upper pictured at the bottom of my sidebar was born on Valentine's Day 2002. And I am slowly learning to expect from God to deliver, each and every time, in ways previously unexpected.

Hodgepodge: Multiple Choices, Senses, and Personalities?

Welcome to this week's spicy, dicey Hodgepodge questions from Joyce.


1. What is something that bothers you if it's not done perfectly?

Crooked-hanging pictures and curtains. In order for me to really relax, they have to be at a certain height, centered, and be both straight and plumb. Our first house was a darling old 1930's duplex with "great bones" and "character" as they say in the biz, but what bothered me badly was that nothing was straight or plumb. Pictures were always going wonky on the walls, and my husband's attempts to hang border near the ceiling usually ended with us saying, "Never again. Our next house will be brand new." (It wasn't. Our next house was a 1940's colonial. Slightly bigger. Much wonkier.)


2. Do you think a 6th sense exists? Explain.

Absolutely, if by "6th sense" you mean "keen intuition, hunch, ability to perceive beyond the five natural senses" (thank you, Wikipedia). To explain, however, I want to be careful how I say this; I don't believe anyone except God "knows" anything for sure, whether perceived by natural or supernatural senses.

I believe that almost all humans possess an innate ability to sense when something is "just not right" or "creepy" or "unnatural." I believe that most parents are given an extra dose of a sixth sense to know when their kids are in trouble or pain or need help, even when they aren't in sight or they're out of earshot. It often "comes out of nowhere" such as when a mom is doing dishes and is suddenly struck with the thought, "They need protection!" or when a father says to his daughter, "I can't give you an exact reason, honey, but trust me on this. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something's not right about this situation. I don't want you to (fill in the blank) or go (fill in the blank)." (Of course, some parents have none, for they lack it on a personal level, but that's a whole 'nother saddening, maddening post.)


When it comes to sense, mothers do one better: We have a seventh sense! It's called MotherGuilt, which I am positive is the generic name for HCG (human chorionic gonadotropin)-- the pregnancy hormone. The thing is, instead of being expelled with the placenta at birth, it latches onto every cell in a mother's body and stays there till her dying day. So, it's the truth: women have more sense than men!

3. Do you say your goodbyes slowly, quickly, or not at all?

It depends. On the phone, it can take me three or four attempts at goodbye to hang up with a good friend. In person, if I'm sad to leave a person I'm with, I dilly-dally getting ready, just to postpone saying the parting words. When I'm forced by the clock to catch a plane or to keep up with my less-sentimental hubby, I usually give quick hugs and try to crack a joke to cover my true emotions. That said, if parting is not such sweet sorrow, I can get the heck outta Dodge pretty dern quick.

4. On a scale of 1-10, with ten being hot hot hot, what level of spice do you like in your food? What's your favorite 'spicy' dish?

Twenty years ago, I could do a 9 but now I'm about a 5. My tastebuds can handle it hotter, but my GI tract rebels. My favorite spicy dish is chile rellenos. I always tell my husband, "I like my food like I like my man--hot, hot, baby!" (He rolls his eyes in an "oh, puh-LEASE" way.)

5. What is one of your all time favorite commercial jingles?

The old jingle for Alka Seltzer was a classic favorite of mine: "Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz. Oh, what a relief it is..." I remember when I was a little girl, my mom used to drink it when she was studying. We didn't buy soft drinks, but she would drop those seltzer tabs into water and we girls would huddle around her glass and watch and listen as they bubbled up with that "shooey-shooey" sound. (Poor kids' entertainment at its best.)

Although, hear me out--Alka Seltzer is TERRIBLE for spicy-food indigestion. It just puts those spices back on the northbound train where they often get stuck during the ascent. Bread and milk are much better absorbers. But if ya really need to belch, by all means, plop-plop and fizz-fizz.

6. Plane, train, boat or auto...your preferred method of travel?

For zippin' around town and within a three-hour radius, I find the auto most practical. For distances beyond four hours, I prefer a plane. In fact, I love to fly! (I was watching "Marriage Ref" the other night and the "problem" was one we as a couple can so relate to. Her husband was the pragmatic breadwinner and she was the visionary globetrotter. Her dream was to see seven countries a year for the rest of her life. Sounds great to me! The main differences between her and me? She wasn't a mother, and when she felt like seeing the world, she'd pack her bags and fly--without him, to Egypt, Dubai, Finland, wherever! Be still my wanderlusting heart! I wouldn't enjoy traveling alone ,though. Half the fun is sharing the adventure and memories, right?

I get a huge thrill at taking off, landing, sitting in clouds, viewing landscapes that resemble the board in the game LIFE. Little tiny cars, cloverleaf highways, gridded farmland. I love the thrill of seeing people I haven't seen in a long time and meeting fellow bloggers in real life, bloggers like Laurie in Kansas and Rachel in the baggage claim of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport! But mostly I love flying because of the adventure, the "where to next?" and "what if?" questions. I love having to answer the in-your-face question, "What if this plane crashes?" and to realize I'd probably die and that's all right because I know where I'm going--straight to heaven.

7. What is something you take for granted?

Freedom of worship. I seldom wake up on Sundays and think what a privilege it is not to have to hide in fear of being caught, imprisoned, or killed. I don't think about it at our mid-week meetings. What a shame to admit that I'm often thinking of what I'll get out of those gatherings, what I'll wear, who will be speaking or singing. God, help me be more mindful of my Christian brothers and sisters who share pages of scripture--literally, in dark basements and deep jungles. Cause me to pray for those who "are in chains" across the globe, and cause them to pray for us in America who take our faith and freedoms for granted.

8. Insert your own random thought here.

I finally decided what position to take at the school. I'll be teaching art to the combined 5th/6th grade class. It's a volunteer position until funds become available to pay me. Thank you to those of you who prayed for wisdom. It was a harder decision than I thought, and I woke up this morning still oscillating!

As for the paid jobs, I called the senior home-care company and asked some questions and answered some, too. The nice gentleman who took my call says this kind of work sounds like something that would be a good match for me. In my nervousness, I said, "I think it would fit my personalities very well." I then had to back-pedal real fast: "I mean--I don't have multiple personalities, I mean I think it would fit our personalities--the client's and mine!"

Oh, boy. Nothing like using the term "my multiple personalities" on a cold call.

Ready or Not...

I am not ready for all the changes that have come upon me lately. I'm not saying they're bad things. They're not. They're natural and, for the most part, predictable in the course of one's life as parent. But so far I've only been at arm's length from the stark realities that come at rapid-fire pace as being the mother of three young adult children. I thought that having three kids in four years was hard when they were little. Thank the Lord I could not see into the depth of pain in the future.

I seldom feel needed. I rarely feel considered in anyone's plans. Usually I just feel both invisible and lost, as if I'm wandering around in a thick fog with laryngitis saying, "Hello? Can anybody hear me? Do you see me? Hey, did you catch that I made plans and expected that you'd be part of them? Hello?" And then it's as if a dial tone is all I hear in the fog. But instead of the dial tone saying, "Bzzz," it answers with,"Uh, yeah, I'm going out tonight. I'll be back late, 12:30, 1:00 maybe." Or it says, "I won't be here this weekend." Or, "By the way, I'm moving out in a few weeks. Thought I'd give you and Dad a head's up."

They say "don't blink or you'll miss it." When did I blink? There haven't been enough sunrises and sunsets yet. There haven't been enough hugs and kisses. There haven't been enough kind words and certainly not enough apologies. There haven't been enough car rides, long talks, or walks in the park. I am aching with an unquenchable ache to do it all again, do it better, be the mom I wanted to be, the mom I pictured being when I was carrying them but the mom who goes to bed almost every night with guilt over what she said, what she should have said, how she should have listened better. The mom who looks at herself in the mirror and says, "Who are you and what is your purpose anyway?"

I've got to find a new identity because being "Mom" is too painful right now. I don't have the same amount of control and they aren't exactly coming to me for advice. I feel rejected and abandoned. I am glad they have chosen good paths with God, good friends, higher education, jobs. I remember wanting the same freedom from my parents at that age that our kids want from us. And, come to think of it, I don't recall considering that my parents had feelings when I was 18, 19, 20. I thought they wanted me gone as much as I wanted to be gone. Never did it occur to me how they might have been having trouble adjusting to a lighter nest quickly, since my older sister and I left home , one right after the other. I never had a sit-down, let's talk-this-over conversation about my decision to ask how they felt. It was all about how I wanted my own place, was ready to work hard enough to pay for everything myself. Maybe my mom was just more stoic or mature or something. I don't remember that she cried, don't remember her begging me come home for meals or visits. Maybe she did. Or maybe she didn't allow herself to feel used that way. I don't think they cared to see my first apartment, don't know they were ever in it, as a matter of fact. Maybe it was too painful, especially since it was so small that if you rolled over in bed you could wash your hands, or if you rolled the other way, you could open the front door.

I think, then, that I've been taken off guard. Unprepared for this phase of life. Where are my friends who are going through this? Some of them are around, but I don't see grief and ache. Do we just not talk about these milestones the way we used to talk about potty-training and getting them to sleep through the night?

I think that not seeing my own mother struggle with our leaving home has handicapped me. I am not saying this as a blame; I'm saying that I have taken so many unconscious cues about how to handle children's phases from my mom. She guided me through nursing the children, diapering them, getting them to eat a variety of foods, watching for medical care I might have missed, disciplining them (though, thankfully, she kept a far distance on that one), educating them. But oh.my.word. Guiding me in how to let them go? I am floundering. Floundering! There aren't college courses on this, are there? If so, where do I sign up and I don't care if I have to pay a lot for it (just tell me where the tutors are)

I have only had one teaching on the subject, but didn't find it particularly helpful. Mabye because it was given by a dad, and I can't even get my husband to tell me how he's feeling. So I think men process it way differently. I feel like a mother who has given birth to triplets on the edge of a high cliff, and the babies are dangling by the umbilical cord which has a gazillion nerves in it, and everywhere I turn one of the babies is sawing away the cord little by little. The babies are about to cut themselves free over Grand Canyon, and fall, and all I can do is lie here shouting, "Nooooooooooooooo!"

Not a Word-less Wednesday

There are some moments in life a mother wants to freeze-frame. This image shows one of them. I wish could hold it in my mind forever. This is the best part of my day--hearing him read scripture to me.

My last-born child.

I study him from crown to sole.
The skin .
The lashes.
The hair.
The arms folded, chin resting on them.
His voice, not yet changed (thank you, God. Please don't rush that.)


I wish he wanted to be kissed as much as I want to kiss him. Sometimes I just sneak up to him and plant one. He wipes it off and says, "Mom, aren't I kind of old for you to be kissing me? What do you think I am, a baby?"

You'll always be my baby. Even when you're full-grown and on your own.


"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always.
As long as I'm living
my baby you'll be. " ---Love You Forever

"Easy Peasy, Lemon Squeezy"

We went to Chopstix for Mother's Day. What was really special was not having to initiate the plans this year.
Instead, Ben's girlfriend, Deirdra (Dee) asked me on Thursday if I wanted Chinese or Italian. (She knows me. ) I said either, as long as it's not Olive Garden (I don't like it). That left us with a few Italian choices, most of which are booked solid on Mother's Day. So Dee made reservations for Chinese, for 13 people. My whole crew, my parents and sister Jill, Dee's mom, sister, and brother-in-law.

How lovely to just walk right in on a busy restaurant holiday and be ushered to the table and I had nothing to do but say, "Thank you!" When something is really simple that like, I think of what my little boy always says: "Easy peasy, lemon squeezy!"

I wanted a picture of my mom close-up, and while this one leaves something to be desired for lighting and background (I mean, c'mon the restroom???) it's better than what I usually do--nothing--because I'm waiting for ideal. In this picture are Ben, Dee, my mom behind her, and Dee's mom, Carabeth. We had a good time. My mom's favorite gift, of course (besides being with her family), was her Barnes & Noble gift card from the grandkids. Surprise, surprise.

Think-Back Tuesday: Remembering Your Mom

I am keenly aware that some of my readers have lost their mom, either recently or long ago. Some of us have our moms living nearby and others far away. But one thing we all have in common (unless Mom passed away before we were old enough to know her) are specific memories that are sometimes hidden until thought about, and others are rather "there all the time."

Here are some questions I am throwing out there. My hope is that you'll join in and find the exercise meaningful, perhaps cathartic, maybe heartwarming, or even something to give you a sense of closeness to your mom, wherever she may be.

Copy and paste the bold section to your blog and link up here. Leave a comment and I will definitely follow you for your answers. My answers are at the bottom.


Think back to when you were growing up:

1. What fragrance did your mom wear? Was it a daily scent such as soap, or do you remember how she smelled when she was dressed up to go somewhere special?

2. What did your mom like to do for pleasure? Was it a hobby (such as reading or flower gardening) or a necessity that she found enjoyable (such as cooking)?

3. What are some phrases you remember your mom using a lot? Do you find yourself blurting them out automatically in similar situations?

4. Do you know your birth story and any details of how your mother dealth with her pregnancy, your babyhood, and any special hardships or help she had in the early years?

5. What five things immediately come to your mind that your mom taught you. Don't dwell too long on ranking their importance and whether they were spiritual, relational, practical, or whatever. Just jot down five that you think of first, in any order.

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1. What fragrance did your mom wear? Was it a daily scent such as soap, or do you remember how she smelled when she was dressed up to go somewhere special?

My mom is still alive and 69 years old. Every day my mom took a shower or bath (still does that I know of). My memories are that she always smelled clean, usually like Caress soap. In the 70s she would wear Windsong or Charlie. "Windsong" she liked to quote the commercial) "stays on his mind." Daddy would say "it doesn't take Windsong to make you stay on my mind, Brenda." (My dad, the quintessential romantic husband.) I think Mama wore "Charlie" because it was her dad's name. Today she is allergic to most skin products, so she doesn't wear perfume. She has always had minty breath, too, or at least neutral. She insisted on brushing her teeth first thing after getting out of bed. "I'm sure not even the LORD wants to smell my breath first thing in the morning!"

2. What did your mom like to do for pleasure? Was it a hobby (such as reading or flower gardening) or a necessity that she found enjoyable (such as cooking)?

Read, read, read, read. Study, study, study, study. My mom can't get enough books. From the time she was a girl raising sheep, she had a book in her hands under an old oak in the pasture. Watching sheep graze while she was reading put her in her element. When she graduated from high school, she went on to study nursing at KU. But then she got married at age 19, moved to Baltimore on her honeymoon, and within three years, put formal studies on hold for a little while. Just a little while. She went to seminary with my dad in Kansas City when we moved there in 1971 (ish) and took classes. ( I was six.) When we moved to Kansas for my dad's pastorate, Mama went to Sterling College and double-majored in political science and religious ed. She earned two diplomas the same year and would have received them on stage except that she was in the hospital recovering from a surgery that nearly cost her life. When we moved back to Maryland, she took classes at the community college and then got a Masters in Jewish Studies from Baltimore Hebrew College. Later at age 54 or so, she went back to nursing school and got her RN at age 57. So, she has always been reading and studying, learning for pleasure. Her most exciting gift to receive (which seems to get old for the giver, but she gets all "glowy in the face" when she opens up a Barnes & Noble gift card). Forget the flowers, give the woman a trip to the bookstore!



3. What are some phrases you remember your mom using a lot? Do you find yourself blurting them out automatically in similar situations?

1. "Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it."
2. "Suspicion of others comes from the knowledge of oneself."
3. "Let no evil talk come out of your mouth, but only that which is good." (scripture)
4. "Rise and shine and give God the glory." (She would sing this as she threw open the curtains on a summer morning at 7 a.m. in our bedrooms. It supposedly helped set our minds where they should be to get up and pick weeds. It backfired. It's the main reason I don't like veggie gardening.

I find myself saying only the first one, and it's usually why it's hard for me to "pack light" for trips!


4. Do you know your birth story and any details of how your mother dealth with her pregnancy, your babyhood, and any special hardships or help she had in the early years?

I am only 14 months younger than my older sister, and my first two kids are 13 months apart, so I can appreciate her difficulty. I don't know many details except that I was born at 6:52 a.m. and my dad was really pleased to have another girl. My mom got thrombophlebitis and had be hospitalized for six weeks, during which time my Grandma Dauber came to live with us to help with the grandbabies. I'm sure that's why Grandma and I bonded so closely.

5. What five things immediately come to your mind that your mom taught you. Don't dwell too long on ranking their importance and whether they were spiritual, relational, practical, or whatever. Just jot down five that you think of first, in any order.
1. By example, start the day with prayer and Bible reading.
2. As long as you have books, you'll never be bored.
3. "Learn to be content in whatever state you're in, except Alaska. I couldn't tell you to be content there if I couldn't."
4. Store up food for the future. (Her idea of future is an impending 7-year famine; mine is a month's worth of meat in the freezer and as much other food as I can get at once in order to avoid the grocery store again soon.)
5. Learn as much as you can about as many different things as you can.

Motherhood Should Come With...

Five Minute Friday, where you write as fast as you can, withoout editing , proofreading or anything. Today's title is the topic. Here goes:

Motherhood should come with a whole lot of freebies from professionals. In no particular order, the ones I'd "register" for are maid, laundress, cook for the first 5 years, massage therapists on call 24/7 . Motherhood would come with other freebies too. A lunch packer who could read my mind before waking me up to ask if I feel like packing lunches that day. most days she would leave me sleeping . Motherhood would also come with a shock absorber. I have been shocked witless too many times. Motherhood would come with a few more hands and many fewer pounds. I wish I had been given a manual on motherhood written by all the great mothers in one volume I didnt' get much out of BabyWise, written by two men who had never been mothers but were somehow experts on how to be a good mom. Things like "save energy for your husband." Well, if I had any left I would. Motherhood would come with daily reassurances that you're doing a pretty good job if you are, and not all this motherguilt. Sometimes you're doing a lousy job but most of the time we're doing the best we can.

STOP! Your turn. Link up with Lisa Jo, then see what others bloggers have to say about this topic. They will probably be refreshingly similar:).

Little Hands, Damper Bread

We should do more hands-on stuff like we used to in our home school
We've gotten too workbookish. Blech.
So yesterday I says to m'self, "We're gonna make this here Damper
Bread from this here geography lesson about Australia."

And we did.
Sort of.
The chemistry wasn't right. It called for 6 cups of self-rising flour.
I had only all-purpose, and when I consulted the conversion chart to
see how much baking powder to add for some "rising power," it would've
been something like 9 teaspoons. Can you say hypertension? I nearly had
a stroke reading that .So I did my own thing. Scientist that I am.
Added about 2 tsp baking powder and 9 cups skepticism.

Let's just say the most fun part for me was watching him enjoying the process.
Especially the part where he got to cut a big X in the top. Nothing else mattered.
A mom, a boy, a lot of flour, a hint of science, a bit of Down Under-ing, a heaping of doubt, a floppy result. Unless, of course, it's supposed to turn out Damper in the Middle than Any Other Bread I've Ever Made. Or not rise a'tall, mate.

But that's not really what I meant to write. That's all pretty cerebral stuff. What I was feeling was nostalgia. What happened to the little boy that needed a chair to stand on at the counter? The top of his head now grazes my chin. Where's the little boy who called me Comfy Princess?
Where's the little boy who wasn't allowed near knives, but turned everything into a weapon anyway. (Oh, wait, he still does that.)

Every now and then I'd reach over and caress his whipped-cream cheeks and just smile. Phooey on the baking powder. Who cares? I loved listening to his still-high voice; it'll deepen in a few short years, and so gradually it'll be like waking from a dream. I will want to go back to my dreamy state because I won't remember that voice, as hard as I try. I know I won't remember. I have two grown sons whose bass voices bellow from the shower or just sound so ...manly...on the phone. I'm sobered by the fleeting of time as my adult sons come to my aid in the kitchen to they reach things I can't reach without a chair.

My baby boy one will turn nine years old on Valentine's Day. I remember wanting him for ten years before his birth. Now we are nine years past it? Too soon he will want only his dad's attention. It happens. It's natural. It's sad. It's healthy. Too soon after that he'll want to spend every waking moment possible with a girlfriend, just like those brothers of his. t happens. It's natural. It's not all that sad (a bit scary). Usually healthy.

Too soon I will have what I've always dreaded-- an empty nest.


Talk about putting a damper on our Damper Breadmaking Day!

Let Them Be Little (a repost)

In this video, Joel was a baby (2002), the answer to ten years of longing and praying. Stephen was 10, Sarah was 12, and Ben was 13. Joel did this thing with his mouth where he'd hold it open--wide--for a long time. Uncomfortably long. Note that halfway into the video, he does it, and that someone flicks his cheek, but he still keeps his mouth open. (It should have been a major hint that I'd have perennial problems getting him to close his mouth. Like mother, like son?)

Anyway, I get choked up watching this. The green and white striped shirt is the one I wore constantly while practically immobile on bedrest. When you see me tickling him on the changing table, it was one of the few times I was on my feet, and so I get teary-eyed remembering how God met me at the lowest of the lowest time in my life--with comfort from others, comfort from the moon, and most importantly, comfort from God alone.

Almost Halfway

Dear Time,

Please slow down.

I'm eating blueberries from a Star Wars cereal bowl.

I reached for it because it was blue,
but then realized
it wasn't really for the blue that
I chose it,
but for the Star Wars.
Clone Troopers, to be exact.
That's important to know,
he says.

This bowl represents the things of childhood
that will all too quickly be replaced
by things of adolescence.
And then things of manhood.

Just yesterday my boy told me
that one of his slightly older friends
is "halfway to being a man."

"How old is someone who's halfway to being a man?"
I inquired, curious as to his thinking
on the matter of maturity.

"Ten," he said.
"Cuz when you're twenty,
you're a full-grown man."

I remember waiting ten years for this child,
ten long years
of praying, losing, surrendering,
praying harder, longing...

And then he came like an early jonquil
in February.
Eight years ago.

Do you mean that in less than two years,
this child will be
halfway to being a man?

No! Please say it isn't so.
Say it!
Say it, and just let me eat my blueberries!
One at a time.
Slowly.
From his Star Wars bowl.

And let me savor every bite,
every morsel of sweetness
called childhood.

As I do, as I pick up one after
another, examine it, and watch
it disappear after enjoying the
sublime taste,
I notice something.

Not just the bowl
and not just the fingers
are
blue.

Mother's Day Creations

Perhaps nothing made my art students more elated than hearing me say, "Today we're going to paint!"

I would lean into the "ugly cabinet" (a long, old, unpainted thing that Cheryl and I couldn't find a better name for) and pull out a big Rubbermaid tote containing their art smocks. Old cotton shirts splattered with dry paint from previous fun projects, rolled up and ready to go again. I miss those smocks. Each one represents a student and the creativity that emerged, their voices chatting away as they mixed colors and applied tempera and talked about life from their young perspectives.

The highlight of painting this year (or at least for me, a mom) was seeing the Mother's Day pot that each student painted. Every child, it seems, loves to make something for Mom. All I did was buy the pots, gather supplies, and spread out some dropcloths. Well, I did end up making a pink pot with dots for a girl who was sick that week and wouldn't have time to create a gift pot on her own. I also picked purple dianthus from my garden .It was going great guns in May, and so God provided flowers for the kids' pots without anyone spending a dime.

As I sat on my porch and handled each painted pot, filling them with soil, I marveled at the variety of personalities. One child saw the importance of putting the date on his. Another's careful lettering was of utmost concern. Still another thought his patriotic mom would appreciate red, white, and blue stripes. Kids are so thoughtful. Some are truly confident, "My mom is gonna LOVE this!" or "I can't wait till she she sees this!" and some wonder ,"Do you think she'll like this? I kind of messed up on this part." (That made me choke up. How often do I wonder, "Will God like me? I kind of messed up today." And then I realize, of COURSE. I'm His child! In the middle of trying to please him, I do "mess up" and yet He is immeasurably pleased not so much by the things I do as by the relationship we have and my "can't wait!" desire to be with Him.)

Securing the roots into the soil, I pondered the growth and potential of each of my students, the grace of God in their lives . I have been humbled by their quickness to forgive. To recognize their own sin. To pray for one another and the people that are on their hearts. To encourage each other. To want to excel, not settle. To give, not hoard. To be thankful ,not grumbling . I learned an incredible lot from them .

Waaa. He Said, "Naaa."

All good things must come to an end, they say. I think we've come to the end of the Tooth Fairy fantasy. Actually, I think it was on the verge of collapse when Joel lost a tooth a few months ago, when the dollar he found under his pillow bore a striking resemblance to the old wadded up greenback he saw on his daddy's dresser the night before.

So about a week ago, Joel's next tooth was giving him fits to the point he asked me to pull it so he could finish his cereal. It slid right out with a napkin (which I find utterly disgusting, blood or no blood, just the thought of pulling bone from another human's flesh--ick!) Anyway, I pulled it and said,

"Joel, do you want to rinse this tooth off and stick it under your pillow tonight for the Tooth Fairy?"

Apparently I am the only dummy left playing this game. He cocked his head sideways, smirked, furrowed his brow, and replied,

"Naaa. I'll just ask Dad for a dollar."

Clarifying, Smoothing Over, or Digging a Deeper Hole?

Unlike graded college essays in which I intentionally stated a thesis and then reread the entire paper to make sure that every paragraph supported that thesis cohesively, my blog posts often run willy-nilly through woods and streams of consciousness like the meandering of a brook in summer.

Such was the case with my most recent post, I do believe. My intent was to say this:

To list a fact such as "We cloth diaper" on one's blog profile comes across as petty and potentially divisive to the casual first-time reader who is both a mother and a guilt-prone woman (which may be redundant). That reader was me (or, to be grammatically correct, "That reader was I").

My intent was not to make a case against cloth diapering. (Cloth diapering has indeed come a long way, baby. I'll grant you that.) My point was that this blogger's three-word fact, though probably intended to draw in mothers of the same ilk--or should I say "cut from the same cloth"?-- managed to drive me to ponder the power of words.

From three little words came a plethora of memories--the worst being of heavy guilt (heavier than wet, poopy, bleachy diapers) from soiling the universe to failing to keep a lid on my pungent temper.

The stream of consciousness did, however, lead to a few pleasant memories.

1) thankfulness for that baby boy who was born on the first day of spring 22 years ago, thus ushering in more blessing and guilt than I was capable of imagining
2) all the times I heard "what a happy baby!" and I believed it was 50% because I changed his diaper so faithfully and cared for his every need (ahem!) and 50% because I was always smiling at him, which is where he learned his social networking skills early on (ahem again!)
3) my sensitive husband who can stretch a buck farther than any man I know, but who took my mental health into the cost analysis (or was it his mental health?) when he blessed me with the liberty to switch to disposable diapers (as opposed to heaping more guilt on me).

In conclusion (oh, what a terrible way to conclude a paper!) I will say that the blog-profile statement has raised my awareness yet again, of how words, by their very nature, include and therefore also exclude, certain meanings. Therein lies the rub-a-dub-dub.

A Mom Looks at Education through a Microscope and a Telescope

The school where I've taught for only a year and a half has been around for 30 years, but, because of the economy, the school has to close at the end of this year. Many people are in grief; they've had a long history and thousands of memories with folks at our little institution.

I confess, the news did not shock me, but I cried a bit when we were told. Not a sob fest, but I cried --mostly for the people who had not schooled any other way and were (are) sensing fear with the thoughts, "What next? What are we going to do? This is all we've ever known."

Perhaps the reason I didn't fear is that I had already begun to hear God about schooling differently next year. Emotionally I was missing Joel. Yes, I was glad to see him every day just across the hall from my room. Yes, I always gave him a hug when we saw each other. Yes, we talked about school on the ride home or reviewed his math facts for homework (plus a lot more because he soaks up numbers and numeric concepts). But it wasn't the same as what he and I had at home for kindergarten: leisurely mornings after breakfast, snuggling on the sofa, reading first the Bible and then a book of prose or poetry (Falling Up being his favorite) . I've missed having his company when I decided to bake a dessert in the mid-afternoon. I've missed much conversation. Seven and a half hours a day, times five days a week, times 36 weeks a year. That's a lot of missing his little voice, his blue eyes and soft skin, his wit and laughter. I've missed the spontaneity of being able to take off days when his daddy had a day off, or being able to visit grandparents during the day when they have energy. In short, I've missed him. I have three grown children in my home as living proof of how quickly the time goes! Can I please just sit and enjoy my seven-year-old for a little while longer?

So these past few months I was thinking I don't have to miss him. I can homeschool him again. Granted, he won't have the social life he thrives on, but then again, he won't have the social life that's been spent mainly with equally immature people as himself. I guarantee I won't be playing tackle football with him, but I'm confident he can "tackle" more science, math, and reading when he isn't having to keep a certain pace. I won't have as many other eyes on him in the course of a week to see his growth in godliness (or lack thereof), but I will see him more, and train him with the firstfruits of my energy, not the leftovers. I guess that's my main regret: pouring more of my energies into the education of other peoples' children at the neglect of my own for these past fourteen months or so.

My first three children, who are now between the ages of 18 and 21, were all homeschooled--Ben until his senior year, Sarah all the way, and Stephen through tenth grade. I can honestly say I do not regret those 15 years. (Parts of them, yes-- who doesn't? If you're a sinner, you have regrets.) I think they've all turned out well (because of God, not because of our choice of schooling). They belong to God, they walk with Him, they are ambitious in school and work, they love the church, they have social lives in overdrive, they are respected by peers and adults alike, they get along with each other, they sharpen their dad and me. I don't pine away with thoughts like "I wish I'd spent more time with them."

To the contrary, I have not had enough one-on-one time with Joel. While sending him to school was what we believed right and good for first and second grade, I've been sensing that, regardless of the school's future, Joel and I need more together time during our best hours of each day.

It's been a blessing to see education through both a microscope and a telescope. Both are beneficial; neither is wholly right nor wholly wrong. Just different. As for me, I'm going to miss the telescope of the classroom style of teaching, but I wouldn't regret setting it down. I might easily regret, however, viewing my son and his studies from across the hall--the distance of a telescope.

So, while our decision is not set in stone, I feel God calling me to examine this treasured specimen of DNA under the microscope. When he's 21, he might only be visible with a telescope. And how well I know that the span of years from 7 to 21 feels like just fourteen feet.

As I Tie Up Your Laces

My son, my youngest of the four arrows in our quiver,
You bring me such delight deep in my heart.
Your smile--the one that has not diminished through
the loss of two of its members this week--
oh I wish I could capture that smile in my mind forever.
Your laugh, a giggle over the sound of funny words strung together
in a tongue-twister book, or your daddy's joke--or your own.

Your voice, the one that says, "awww....awww, isn't it SO cute?"
whenever you see a kitty. How you long for one of your own,
but will have to "just imagine it."

Your fingers that draw sports cars and sports figures,
both in full gear. The fingers that fit and unfit tiny Lego
Star Wars pieces together, a feat of engineering that
both charms and baffles me.

Your arms which hug me tight 'round the waist
and squeeze 'round my neck
with all the love you've got and can't contain
for your mama
and you say, "I love you more than you
love me and that's true!"
and I reply, "That's impossible.
No boy can love his mama more than this mama loves her boy!"

The boy whose deep blue eyes dance with furtive joy when
he fetches the mail and finds an envelope addressed to him,
and sees that it's from
his sister,his only sister, who is living away from home.
He exclaims "It's from the best sister
in the whole entire world!"

Your feet that seem to grow with each step you take
The feet that no longer demand Velcro straps
because you're learning how to tie real shoelaces.
(I want you to learn,
but I don't, for that means you will take yet
another step of independence on your way out the door
of childhood.)

Today you and I started your first official Bible study.
Just the two of us, shoulder to shoulder on the sofa.
The book of John. "That you may believe," it says.
(My prayer for you.)
You are drawing a storyboard, starting with a picture
of the Word, and then putting words to your picture.
"You are the Lamb of God!" John exclaims, pointing to Jesus
who is on a rocky cliff above him. "And I am not." Your
cartoon bubbles are priceless: John has rips in his jeans.
Jesus wears patches on his.
You point out they're both wearing sandals that tie up.

For a moment I think of Jesus when he was seven.
His own mother must have wondered as she
sewed on a patch or two for her mud-puddle stompin' boy,
"Yeshua! Please don't grow up so fast!
Yeshua! Wasn't it just yesterday you got your first tooth
and now you've lost two? Before I know it, your voice
will change, and you'll have big muscles like your dad,
and you'll carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."

And she must have had the other same thought, "No boy has ever loved his mama the
way this mama loves her boy."
But knew she was wrong.

How many times did she tie her boy's sandals and think,
"I'm not worthy to be doing this"?
Yet, God chose her to mother His Son,
And God has chosen me
to mother you,
our last son, a task for which I do not feel worthy
as I tie up your laces.

'Tis a Happy Mother's Day This Year

Best wishes to all moms reading this. I realize that for some, this is a very difficult day. Perhaps your mother has passed away and you miss her terribly. Perhaps your relationship with her is strained, and this day brings mixed emotions and unmet longings. Still others reading this are wondering if this is the last Mother's Day your mom will live to see. Mother's Day can also be difficult for women who have miscarried, lost children, or who haven't been able to conceive. Maybe you have also struggled with guilt and depression in your mothering that this day is one you wish to pull back from or just skip altogether. May I tell you that you are on my heart?

I personally have not always enjoyed Mother's Day. I have experienced much of what I wrote above, but this year has been different, by God's grace.

My mom is still alive and I thank God she is. She is not in the best of health, but she is my dad's lifelong love and together they shepherd a small Messianic congregation near here. I wanted to have lunch out with Mama today, but she says that she and Daddy aren't much fun to eat with anymore since they are on such a restricted diet. (My dad was just diagnosed with diabetes, so they both have it.) She says she would much prefer to have the grandkids over for snacks and game playing when their finals are over. (I noticed she didn't say, "I'd like to have my children here..." --no, she goes straight for the grandkids!)

My mom is a wiz at Monopoly and my fiercest competitor in Balderdash. She taught Joel to love Upwords and beats my dad every time at Scrabble. My children are probably among the few Jewish-by-heritage-Protestant-by-upbringing kids out there nowadays and they can play a mean game of dreidel at Hanukkah, courtesy of Ima (which is what my mom goes by; it means "mother" in Hebrew, a term she liked better than the word for grandmother).

She also loves to watch children perform, not just her own, but others, and has a knack for encouraging children in their God-given bents. At the school musical this past Friday, she and Daddy attended the dress rehearsal. The musical was called "Kings, Dreams, and Schemes," about the faith of Daniel. Our little Joel had two parts: a "Wise Guy" whose only line was, "I don't want to read it!" (the handwriting on the wall) and a lion in the den. He was adorable in both parts. (Pictures coming.) The title role was played by one of my students. Mama leaned over during the play and said of him, "That kid has a future in acting." I whispered back,"He wants to be a professional actor when he grows up. He's already told me so." I had the opportunity later to tell the boy what my mom said. He beamed and jumped off the ground. "Really?! Me?! That's so cool. Thanks!" She also stopped in to the debriefing afterwards where the director was coaching the cast on what went well and what needed improving for the evening show. My mom came in and said, "Excuse me, I'd just like to tell all of you that you did a WONderful job. I'm Joel's grandma and I'm so proud of all of you!" I think the kids appreciated having a "real" audience member (i.e. from the outside) giving them kudoes. She was a very good acting coach when I played the part of Amaryllis in community theatre when I was eleven. Her encouragement gave me the boost I needed to face huge crowds and to be more comfortable than awkward in public speaking situations. I think it helped these young thespians as well.

God made this a lovely day for me. In the past, I've stayed home from church some years, my depression was that bad. But this year, I was quite happy, so take it from me: there is hope for you. Someday the cloud will lift. This morning I showered and then came to the breakfast table. Potted stargazer lilies--my favorite-- welcomed me, along with a greeting card organizer tied with a MOM balloon, a Beth Moore book, and lots of lovely cards, made and bought. Joel could barely contain his excitement over what he made for me in school--a huge card with the acrostic "MOTHER" written on it and the things he loves about me. (The best part of the day was Joel's hug; for the first time in years I have a waist that he can put his arms all the way around!! Paul had fixed a yummy batch of egg and sausage burritos. (Mother's Day food doesn't have points, right?) And after church, I got to ride in the convertible on this gorgeous sunny afternoon and they took me out for Chinese. (Again, no points to track, huh?) Came home, took a snooze, and here I am. Rested and happy and thanking God for his goodness and mercy to me as a mother, wife, and daughter.

On SUNNY Days

The kids and I love to take the covertible out with the top down.

This week, while Sarah and Stephen are in Mexico, I have a sweet set of keys and a Saab story to tell.

A few days ago Joel and I hopped into my MidlifeMobile and headed over to Broom's Blooms for ice cream. He "yee-hawed" and "woo-hooed" for two miles with wind in his hair, sun on his cheeks. Then he fell asleep in the car.

I pulled into the long gravel driveway of the country dairy shoppe anyhow, parked along the cornfield, picked up my latest read and just enjoyed the sunshine. I remember thinking, "I am so blessed. I am not in a rush. I am not thinking of the next thing to do. I am not leaving the memory-making to a babysitter. This day, this moment, this child, this age is so precious. Can't it all just last forever?"

When Joel woke up a half hour later, he was staring straight at knee-high corn.

"I'm hot," he said, bewildered. "Where are we?"

"At Broom's Blooms," I said. "Are you thirsty?"

"I'm MORE than thirsty!" he exlaimed. I was actually more than hungry, having skipped lunch, so I ordered a delicious special of Brunswick stew, artisan cheese, fresh baked roll, and apple slices. We shared a lemonade and he got the very small (ahem! it's more like a triple scoop) orange chocolate chip ice cream on a sugar cone. I fenagled a few wonderful bites from him, but he pretty well polished it off.

As we left, I took his soft little six-year old hand in mine and thought, This is one of those memories I just want to savor forever. Times of refreshing. Times of just being a mom with her little boy who has dirt under his fingernails, a band of sweat under his chin, and a smile as wide as Texas on his face.

Again I asked myself, "Can't it all just last forever?"

Finals and Tidbits

Please pray Sarah today. At 9:35 this morning, she has her last final. It's in American History, her least favorite subject of all she's taking. She's very nervous. It's not one of her easier classes, either. I quizzed her over and over last night. Hey, I learned some stuff I never knew--stuff that happened in MY lifetime that I never paid attention to. She feels a lot more confident now than she did before our study session.

Ben has 3 more finals--astronomy and film history and accounting. Please pray for him also. He doesn't let on to his nervousness, but rather keeps a cool exterior. He's always been like that.

Stephen doesn't have finals, per se, but is writing a big research on John Owen. As of yesterday morning, his thesis included the life and theology of this great preacher. As of last night, he realized he had to pare the paper to just the life of Owen. So I don't know what time he went to bed after writing a full sentence outline (the formal kind) but he was dragging out of bed and doing that hobble to the carpool van where the feet are half in the shoes, mashing the backs of the heels. He told me yesterday a sad fact: John Owen had 11 children, but 10 of them died. Only one reached adulthood. Stephen's in love with the subject matter. (He reads theology till one a.m. and biographies of great preachers. I know it's abnormal, but terribly encouraging to us, his parents.)

Sarah and Stephen are leaving for Mexico on Saturday. I am already missing them terribly. It'll be a first Mother's Day without all my children here. I'm trying to keep my mind on helping them prepare for the trip without smothering them with my version of love!

Paul is working with his colleagues to come up with a new name for their company. Their specialty is mortgage protection. They insure financial institutions. Any suggestions?

Okay, so prayers for my three oldest kids are in order.

Also for me as this month is crazy, nutty busy with graduation plans, Mexico trip, art gallery prep for my co-op presentation night, slide shows for STephen and Joel's programs, and getting seeds planted.

My parents got back safely from Birobidjhan. They didn't want to leave Russia (I can relate!) as there are so many needs and so many people to minister to. My dad came home sick, and had complete laryngitis. They are still not readjusted to the time change and they are worn out, but it was good to see them last night and hear snippets from their trip. They came by to give Sarah an early b'day present.

Joel is recovered from his orange blood booboo.

Training Wheels for Motherhood

Going through motherhood at this stage is a big test for me. In particular, mothering a tall, dark and handsome 19 year old son into adulthood before I'm gray or bald. Or both.


You think when the babies are older, life will be so much easier. No diapers, no 2 a.m. feedings, no wondering what's wrong with them because they can tell you. You feel like your schedule will forever be tied to naptime. If only you could have some alone time. Or more time with your husband. Or with friends, uninterrupted.

Then, before you know it, you've passed through the stages of diapers, potty training, shoe-tying, and carpools. You've driven to their practices, cheered them through T-ball, soccer, baseball, and lacrosse; given up Saturdays at home to watch them score home runs. You knew all their friends, their friends' moms, and maybe even what was going in on their friends' moms' lives because you chatted with them on the sidelines long before anyone heard of email, let alone used it to the exclusion of live interaction.





You held your boy in your lap and read him books. You played wiffle ball in the backyard together, and caught fireflies on dark summer nights. He'd fall down a gravel driveway. You'd brush off the gravel, clean it up, and put a Band-aid on his boo-boo. You told him he was gonna be okay. He hugged you and said, "Thanks, Mom. "

He believed everything you said, and let you hold him during thunderstorms.

Even when Dad took the training wheels off his bike, you held the back of his bicycle seat in a death grip. While he pedaled and wobbled and finally took off on his own, you couldn't quite picture the day when you'd have to let go of him again and again, trusting that God never loses His grip on His children. He may extend a very, very long arm on the back of the bike seat, but He never lets go. He doesn't grow weary; He is always patient and kind.



Then the day comes when he is not riding the little blue bike you found on clearance at Wal-mart, but he's making payments for a jet black sports car that takes off every morning with supersonic speed. Sunroof open. Music blaring.

Instead of chocolate milk, he stirs up a protein shake for breakfast. Thankfully not at 2 a.m. He buys his own formula and, like a little boy, still wants to show you his muscles, except he's coy about it, coming shirtless to the dinner table.

He doesn't ask for lunch. He buys it at Wawa, and then says after two weeks he's gotta start taking his own lunch, saving money, feeling healthier.

You don't hold him during a thunderstorm; your relationship has become one.

The pantry contents go from zero to sixty after one grocery pitstop, yet "there's never anything good to eat around here." You are sorely tempted to buy the plaque that says "Bed and Breakfast: Make Your Own," but have this distinct feeling that such sentiments wouldn't reflect the servant attitude you know model all the time. Ahem.

I trust--I have to trust or I'd totally fall apart--that He who hung the stars in place and calms the angry sea and shuts the mouths of lions and opens the womb of barren women can and will bring me (us) through this test. For right now, God is keeping the training wheels on my bike, because He knows I'm still pedaling and wobbling down the sidewalk of motherhood. Good thing He's got a very, very long arm. Maybe when I learn to ride a real bike (as in when my kindergartener is almost 20), maybe then I won't fall so many times?