Bigger Picture Moment: The Garden

I'm on the fence about planting a garden this year.  Well, not the planting part -- that's what I love. The dark, damp earth, tilled into tenderness; seeds poked and sprinkled; nametags planted at heads of (mismatched) rows.  I love the anticipation of gardening, and the excitement over those first, timid shoots rising above the dirt. 

And it sounds to me like I just described -- in plant metaphor -- why I'm thrilled and a little nervous to be pregnant.  The expectation and growth; first, fluttery movements tickling me from within; months of planning and dreaming; love at first sight and nurturing first days.  But because I've done this before, I know what it's all about, both joys and stresses.  I know strain and exhaustion will be added when we bring home another child, and I know how I'll be filled with doubt over my ability to do this right. 

I'll be picking at undesirable weeds and watching for gnawing insects.  I'll be hunched over in the heat of the summer, working, while the world seems to be playing.  Yes, I'll admire the beauty of what we've grown, and I'll love it through hailstorms or drought, hoping to bring forth fruit despite my inadequate gardening skills.  But will it be enough?

It will, because it has to be. 

As for my back yard, part of me is ready to swap my vegetable garden plan with all its pressure and worry, and plant a tangle of flowers instead.  Something that will be lovely and imperfect and under no insistence to produce anything other than a bit of color and life.  Perhaps a honeybee garden: weedy at first glance, but abundant with sweets and the hum of promise; perennials, so I don't have to fret over a new plan each spring. 

And -- again -- it sounds to me like I just described why this baby, no matter how uncertain I've felt about jumping into the babyhood fatigue once again, will be perfect for our family.  Because we knew that our family wasn't complete yet, and this time...this time...

maybe we'll simply let the baby be a beautiful, buzzing, tangle of life.  Maybe we'll let it grow without stressing about what fruit it bears or how easily it sleeps through the night.  Maybe we won't succumb to anxiety and doubt this time around.

Maybe we'll simply appreciate the gift of the flower, and savor its unquestionable placement in our garden.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Melissa's place today! Take a minute to focus on what's real in your life -- what's important -- and record it. Share it, visit the other participants, and let us be a part of your Bigger Picture!

One Morning

The thin light of a cloud-covered morning pushes through taupe blinds on my window.  The light turns ruddy instead of cool, and I wonder if the whole day will be dark?  Behind me, my husband's legs are shaped perfectly into the curve of my own.  My feet rest on top of his until his big toe wiggles, tickling my arch, and I tuck my toes instead into the warm space between his calves.  Tickling is the surest way to make me shrink away from contact, even when it's inadvertent.  Even when it's most likely only a muscle twitching awake.  Even when it's from the one I love.  My alarm clock spurts out a quiet pulse of music before I reach up to push away the intrusion.  Cold air assaults my bare shoulders.  I cuddle back into the dent of my pillow, the cave of my quilt, hug my husband's hand to my chest, and doze for a few more minutes that seem like hours. 

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My biggest girl marches out of her bedroom in footed pajamas, her hair static-clung to her back and forehead.  Her cheeks are bright and warm, her eyes squinted against the overhead light.  It's still cloudy and damp outside, a contribution to this late wake-up, certainly.  As she settles onto the couch and trains her gaze at the morning news -- soon to be switched to morning cartoons -- I perch beside her fleece-covered legs.  Her rosy cheek fits into my hand as if molded by the shape of my palm.  Fingertips tickling her hairline, thumb tracing her cheekbone, I test her for heat.  Is this a fever?  Or merely the warmth of fleece pajamas and a tangle of blankets?  Time will tell, so we negotiate breakfast: oatmeal with only a pinch of brown sugar, or she'll refuse the whole dish.  Too sweet ruins oatmeal, she says.  Her lips are hot-red and plump, but chapped.  Is she sick?

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Mommy, look!  My toddler's squeal comes from the back seat of the car.  She's dangling her battered lambie from both arms, dancing it in front of the fogged window.  Lambie's a dancer, mommy, and she wants to come to school with me!  I glance at the clock; we've just left home, and school started 6 minutes ago.  At this point, I hope a dancing lambie is all it will take to distract the teachers from our late arrival. In the opposite seat, her big sister is staring lifelessly out the window at passing traffic.  She yawns one giant, face-crumpling yawn, and hugs her blankie to her neck.  We are a car filled with lovies.  A pink, tattered blankie in one corner, a creamy white (but dingy gray) lambie in the other corner, and a mom in the front seat cradling her midsection.  The baby inside moved again last night and I've become a mother of three already.  So soon?  Still so unknown.

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The hospital waiting room is filled with strangers.  I wait with my lab orders and flip through the pages of a book order.  I don't remember getting lab work done with my first pregnancy, but isn't it strange?  I know I didn't have preschool book orders to keep me company back then.  A nurse shouts my name and we traverse the hallways on our way to the phlebotomist's lounge.  For it does seem like a lounge: nurses are chatting and gossipping.  I hear about one lady's pet peeve of claustrophobic countertops, another lady's ongoing dental crisis.  All the while, I sit with a rubber band stretched tightly around my arm.  As uncomfortable as this is, I anticipate the needle being worse, so I focus on a stranger's dental problems instead.  With little fanfare, I turn my head away for the needle to be plunged under my skin, and am startled to realize that the nurse got it right the first time.  There will be no digging or rolling.  Cautiously, I glance at the tube filled with my cells and watch it snake and drip into a vial.  There's something almost comforting about being relieved of my blood; at least it's better than having a vein blown and leaking tears of frustration.  It feels like an exhalation. 

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Despite the grayness of the day, the sharp, cold air, the birds sing of spring.  A bluejay squaws from my back porch while I slather a biscuit with strawberry jam.  Shouldn't I be doing something productive with my free time, I wonder?  Washing last night's dishes, perhaps?  Folding the towels, maybe?  But free time isn't usually so unspoken for; I settle on the couch to finish the last few pages of a novel that's taken me much too long to finish.  Soon, I'll half-nap while the birds outside -- in the forested treetops, hopping on the damp ground, foraging on my porch -- twitter and lie.  After all, if they were telling the truth with their cheerful songs, the sky would be bright and blue.  The sun would be warm.  The new buds and blossoms would have a worthy backdrop.  But maybe what I mistake for deceptive cheer is actually a voice that doesn't know it sounds happy, when in fact, it's trying to speak words of mourning.  I'll go gather my children from school in a bit, and trust that their voices aren't ever deceptively cheerful.  They are either happy or they are not.  And, for now, I never have to guess which. 

A Strawberry Shortcake Birthday Party; A Reticent Reveler

When it comes right down to it, no matter how perfectly strawberryish your cake looks...

No matter how sweetly your homemade decorations are hung....

No matter how festively the table is filled with treats and sweets....

No matter how thankfully opened are the presents...

The birthday girl just might refuse to blow out her own candles, on principle. 

The principle of shyness, that is.  It's nearly impossibly to overcome with such an audience.  Nevertheless, Happy Birthday, Sweet Lauren!

Weekly Column: Parents Need Behavior Tips, Too

Going out in public places with small children usually isn’t without risks.  Embarrassing outbursts, messy accidents, and simple exhaustion are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what might go wrong when little ones are present. 

For my family, it’s become common practice to outline the behaviors we expect of our children in advance.  We remind them to speak quietly and stay close.  We offer rewards for good behavior.  We plead (with unshakeable authority, of course) for obedience.  And in many cases, the planning pays off; our family outings become easier as the children learn the ropes.

But what about the parents?  Don’t we need to learn the ropes, too? 

Parents of small children are often in uncharted territory, this being their first voyage.  None of us know exactly what to do, and that includes parenting in public situations.  If our children hear such frequent outlines of how they should behave, it’s only fair to expect that we parents might also wonder what behavior is appropriate when out and about.

Here are a few quick ways for parents to navigate the tricky world of public parenting. 

Stick To Your Rules

It can be tempting to ignore undesirable behavior in your children just because there’s no easy, private place for your rules to be enforced.  After all, finding a good spot for a time-out in the middle of the mall is much more complicated than the same disciplinary strategy would be at home.  But to brush off the broken rule will only reinforce your child’s understanding that rules don’t matter in public.  Try to improvise when necessary and follow through as soon as possible.

Ignore Peer Pressure

If every other parent around you seems to be impossibly strict with their kids, that doesn’t mean you have to follow suit.  By the same token, if the rest of the public space is filled with parents who allow much more leniency than you’re comfortable with, you don’t need to change your own standards.  As tough as it may be to be the single dissenting voice, trust other parents to accept that you’re doing what you feel is best for your family.  More importantly, trust yourself to know what that means. 

Know When to Bend

At the same time, there are situations when a bit more leniency or caution is required.  Be mindful of the location and activity, and focus on ways to stick to your own brand of parenting while allowing your family to enjoy the outing with a minimum of fuss.

Dial Down the Judging

When faced with parenting styles that differ from your own, don’t be hasty with judgment.  Unless the parents in question seem to be physically or emotionally harming their children, allow them to decide what’s best for their family.  None of us can ever know the entirety of another’s situation.  Plus, none of us want to be judged ourselves.  Do Unto Others…

Remember Your Focus

If you’re on a family outing, you’re probably hoping to have a good time with your children.  Remember why you’re there – at the park or the movies or the party – in the first place.  Focus on your children; play with them and enjoy their fun.  Don’t obsess about what others are, or are not, doing.  By giving your attention to outward concerns, you’ll miss all the good stuff.

Despite the opportunities for embarrassing disaster, going out in public with small children in tow will never be without benefits.  And thankfully, we parents will grow more and more comfortable with taking those chances.  All it takes is a little practice.

[Online version here.]

Portrait of An Almost Three-Year-Old

Lauren, my Lauren, this is who you are right now. 

In a few days you'll be three-years-old, and I find myself baffled.  Not only at the passage of time (which baffles me so often that I'm almost becoming used to it) but at the shape your personality is taking.  You -- for some reason -- have felt like a complete unknown to me since birth.  I'd stare at you and your tiny, rosebud mouth, and wonder who ARE you?  Now, I'm finding out.  Starting to find out, that is.

(Oh, please don't misunderstand: even in my ignorance, I've adored your unknown ways.  You are just such a different child than your big sister was, that I've had to adjust my knowledge.  Which is a sweet blessing.  I never want to take for granted that I know everything about my children.)

You are tender, but strong.  You are intimidated by people other than your direct family members, but show a stunning independence of spirit.  You don't wait for help to climb down from the porch ledge: you maneuver yourself against the wall and the garden hose, and you make a path.  You are capable and smart.

You are dreamy.  Very often, I find you with your hair twirled absently around your fingers (sometimes so much so that entangled knots are left behind) while you gaze into the distance, pondering some wonder.  You question the world, and adamantly so.  You must know the answers.

But you are wildly silly, too.  Being capable and smart hasn't succeeded in stopping you from employing the time-honored tactics of facial contortions or bodily noises in order to get a laugh.  And between your adoring big sister, encouraging father, and long-suffering mother, there is no shortage of fans to laugh with you at your jokes. 

Although surrounded by family, you do seek seclusion at times.  You're happy to be alone in a back bedroom, pretending a world of imagination while the rest of us are interacting with company.  If there's nobody who'll follow your plan for mess-making, you don't mind: you'll go dig in the dirt by yourself, and it'll be the most fun you have all day.

The thing I find perhaps most fascinating about you (right now, anyway) is your ability to pretend.  You are only three (almost), and you've been highly invested in using your imagination for many months now.  Anything can become a friend, an antagonist, a magical venue, or a serious plot, and you hardly stop to take a breath when recounting your amazing adventures. 

But also fascinating is the truth that you are more like me than I've ever thought possible. It's strange, isn't it, that you can be such a duplicate of my temperaments and tendencies, and yet I still feel like I don't understand you.  Maybe it's easier to recognize truths about opposites -- easier to diagnose worries and fears when they're not carbon copies of my own. 

Whatever the case, sweet Lauren, I love you endlessly.  You are wonderful and confounding and joyful and shy and hilarious.  You are emotional and theatrical and beautiful.  You are mature and immature and my baby and my big girl.

I know there's every likelihood that you'll continue to dazzle and mystify us all in the coming years.  I also know that I look forward to each moment: I must see who you are becoming. 

Because Lauren, my Lauren, this is who you are right now, and you couldn't be more wonderful.

Bigger Picture Moment: Lost But Found

The girls and I made an impromptu banana cake for dessert last night, and despite my second helping of dinner, I still managed to devour one giant piece of cake.  Of course, I wanted another, but since I was headed to a Lenten bible study -- a place where there was bound to be a delicious selection of goodies -- I refrained. 

Plus, I didn't want to make myself late for the small group.  I've missed the first two meetings because of a tangled up mess of busy-ness.  Mostly Justin's busy-ness, which (strangely) left me either too tired to participate in group discussion (no matter how delectable the accompanying selection of desserts might be...) or without a babysitter while he was away.  Plus, I just didn't think the addition of a stress-filled attempt to attend a small group, even if its purpose was to be Lenten in nature, would help me feel more calm and thoughtful about readying my heart for Easter. 

Nevertheless, I was able to make it without any trouble this week, so I wanted to be on time.  Be a welcome addition to the group.  A thoughtfully insightful member.  An appreciative eater of baked-goods.

(Oh, by the way?  My cravings are no longer limited to salty, savory, spicy, crunchy.  Sweet bakery items are back on my radar.  Glory be.)

I kissed the girls good night, left Justin with his arms full of pajamas, and skipped lightly out the door. 

Now, I'm not the best with directions.  I get fantastically mixed up about where I am versus where I need to be, and very often, this results in Justin tricking me with short cuts and back roads just to revel in my look of confusion.  But last night, this tendency of mine to be directionally clueless was confounded by a lack of actually remembering where the house was located. 

I've been there before.  In the darkness of wintertime, several months back.  So basically, I didn't know where I was going, but since it's lighter now in the evenings, I trusted myself to find it.

Turns out, I'm not to be trusted.  I drove around a few gorgeous neighborhoods for the better part of an hour, passing the same wrong houses and the same wrong roads.  Not to mention, the sun (being up later) was shining directly into my eyes for much of my search.  Eventually, I called Justin to beg for help.  Eventually, I found the house.

The empty, dark house. 

There was nobody home.  Either the meeting was cancelled, or it was relocated to another house, but it didn't matter.  I drove home, defeated, to have another piece of banana cake. 

Strangely, I didn't cry.  It was...kind of...enjoyable.  The night was gorgeous, I was alone and quiet...well, almost quiet.  I talked to the baby a little bit, in a show of solidarity in lostness. 

The thing is, I haven't connected with this baby much yet.  Truth be told, I'm a little afraid of it.  Nervous in its presence.  (Which, as you undoubtedly know, is all the time.)  And I know it sounds weird, but last night's loooong foray into the wilderness of unknown neighborhoods helped us bond.  It was the baby and me against the world.  Just the two of us.  We were lost together, and I felt comforted somehow.

Simply put, a fruitless drive across town became fruitful. 

And not just with banana cake.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Hyacynth's place today! Take a minute to focus on what's real in your life -- what's important -- and record it. Share it, visit the other participants, and let us be a part of your Bigger Picture!

I Meant to Do That

I didn't skip my shower yesterday morning...I was just trying to conserve water.  And shampoo.  And razor blades.

I also didn't send the kids out to play so I could have some quiet time to myself...I was just trying to foster independent play.  They are endlessly creative until I'm around: then they require constant entertainment.

I certainly didn't feed my children boxed macaroni and cheese for lunch simply because I had an unhealthy craving....it was just that we were out of the usual lunch suspects.  Calcium and carbohydrates are important nutrients, after all.

I didn't wear a low-cut shirt yesterday because I'm beyond thrilled with my new pregnancy decolletage...but because I've fallen behind on laundry.  And really, this shirt didn't seem so low-cut last month. 

I didn't haul a screaming toddler out of the library yesterday...I politely escorted her.  She was almost contrite after a delayed time-out.

I didn't spend unnecessary hoards of time yesterday researching the earliest detection (by the mother) of fetal movement.  It was vital to my sanity because I swear I felt this baby move...at only 10 weeks.  (Which seems to be possibly, according to my highly scientific research.)

And I definitely did NOT forget to make my bed....I just intended to wash the sheets.  Tomorrow.

A Love Scene

Scene: A young, gorgeous, married couple are sitting in a parked car in a darkened lot.  The moon is glowing directly above their windshield, and faint clouds are scuttering across the black dome of the sky.  As the car's engine ticks it's cooling melody under the hood, the lovestruck couple gazes longingly at one another -- their hands intertwined with passion.


Him:  (With concern, bordering on impatience.)  Are you sure this is what you want?  I mean, I KNOW I could figure out something better if you just give me a few more minutes.

Her:  No, it's okay, really.  This place will be perfect...let's just do it.

Him:  Alright.  (Starts to unbuckle his seatbelt before pausing dramatically as with a sudden inspiration.)  No!  I know where we need to go!  (Enthusiastically aims to re-buckle the belt and turn the key in the ignition simultaneously.)

Her:  NO!  (Halting his hands with her own.)  Seriously, we're already here, I don't want to drive around any more.  I'm tired; I just want to go home as soon as we're done. 

Him:  But...(With broken-hearted tenderness.) I know where we need to go.  It's exactly what you've been dreaming of.  Do you even want to know what I was going to suggest?

Her:  Well, I guess so.  But we don't have to go there tonight -- can we save it for next time?  Where is it?

Him:  That barbecue place I went to with Mia the other night sells funnel cakes and they're topped with a scoop of ice cream.  You begged for a funnel cake not fifteen minutes ago.  THAT'S where I want to take you.

Her:  (Eyes slightly glazed and greedy.)  That...mmmm...that sounds good.  But, no.  Let's just stay here.  This place makes the best cinnamon rolls and now I can't stop thinking about cinnamon rolls.  I want one.  (Patting her swollen belly with gravity.)  The baby wants one.  Let's go. 

Him:  (Shaking his head slowly while opening his door.)  I'll never understand you.

(The couple exits the car, walking slowly, cuddling up to each other despite the man's confusion.  The woman reaches up on tip-toes to kiss her husband's bare neck and whisper one, last, secret desire.)

Her:  (Directly into his ear; softly.)  Doesn't pizza sound good?

Weekly Column: Actions Speak Louder

This particular trip to the grocery store was going perfectly, and it was almost over.  No toddler had dashed away to pillage the bakery cart, no preschooler had pulled the center can of fruit out of a tall display, and no mother had lost her temper.  At least not among our small group.  My own children were following directions with relative ease, and I was calm. 

As I reached for a large tub of yogurt, my confidence must have caused the temporary false assurance of invincibility.  For surely it couldn’t have been a mere lack of grace and coordination that caused me to fumble the yogurt.  In slow motion, as most hideous moments unfold, I watched the plastic tub float away from my fingertips and come to a messy landing on the floor.  Yogurt exploded at my feet, and I stared in fascination. 

When the slow motion ended, I was left in the middle of a sea of shoppers gawking in wonder at my accident.  In fact, I thought to myself for a split-second that if there hadn’t been quite so many witnesses, I might have been able to slink away blamelessly.  But that wouldn’t have solved the problem of the now-oozing yogurt.  And, more pressingly, there was the issue of the two most impressionable witnesses being hauled in my very own shopping cart. 

My daughters gawked as well as the other onlookers, only with less verbal reserve.  They peppered me with questions; never had they seen such a messy accident, and caused by their own mother, no less!

Sheepishly, I searched out the nearest employee and explained the problem.  I expected irritation or worse, but to my surprise, she was positively gushing with thanks – happy to know of the mess first hand rather than to have discovered it only after customers had tripped and tracked their way through it. 

And my children heard the whole exchange.

How often do we wish to teach our kids the importance of telling us when they’ve had a problem?  How many times do we stress the value of truth-telling, even in uncomfortable situations?  They need to hear those messages, without a doubt, but imagine the impact if they see their own parents actually living that advice rather than merely preaching it. 

Children see everything and understand more than we give them credit for at young ages.  They notice if we knock a shirt off a store display without replacing it.  They notice when we run a red light.  They hear the judgment in our voices when we condemn a stranger out of earshot.  And then they parrot our own words and actions back to us as they grow older. 

If, at the scene of the accidental yogurt spill, I’d ignored my mistake and wandered away, my children would have absorbed my lack of responsibility.  They would have understood that a mess – accidental or otherwise – could be ignored and denied.  That to face a bit of embarrassment in confession wasn’t worth the risk of punishment.  Those are lessons they’ll have to encounter for themselves in order to have the chance to choose correctly, but visual proof in the form of a parent’s intentional choice is bound to have an impact. 

I believe that in order to raise children into responsible adults, those children need role models of the same quality.  And knowing how much they see of our actions can be a little intimidating to admit.  But isn’t it nice to hope that the act of raising children intentionally can also boost our own integrity as we strive to be worthy role models?

[Online version here.]

Walking: In Captions

She'll hold his hand without question -- with everyone else, she demands independence.

A hill is not a hill, when the air is warm and breezy and the sun is nearly setting.

Is a stranger's flower any less beautiful because I had to sneak across a yard to photograph it?

Is a stranger's ancient barn any less gorgeous if we've never noticed it before, yet walked this way countless times?

This may be the world's tallest stump...

Better than any stroller, Daddy's shoulders carry the weight of memory and glee. 

One of the good things about walking with a toddler is all the opportunity she provides to stop; look; notice things.  And to prod them with a gnarled stick. 

The way home.  The path of peace.  The trek of spilled-energy.

The last burn-off of the day's hectic pace.  Thank Heaven for spring!

Bigger Picture Moment: What the World Needs Now

Hey mom, can I have the scissors?  I'm making you something with markers and...I need you to write me some instructions, too.

"Sure baby -- what instructions should I write?"

Just write I LOVE YOU.  Okay?  And then go away so I can surprise you.

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Here, mom!  Look, BOTH sides are red, and it's for you because I love you SOOOO much.  Now, you need to hang it on your wall, RIGHT by your bed so when you wake up every morning, you'll know how much I love you first thing, okay?  Go get a nail and I'll show you where it should go.

There's really nothing bigger or more simple than this, is there? 

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Alita's place today! Take a minute to focus on what's real in your life -- what's important -- and record it. Share it, visit the other participants, and let us be a part of your Bigger Picture!

Forgive Me While I Darken

I'm a rose-colored-glasses sort of girl.  I see life as half-full and silver-lined more often than not, and if I feel myself slipping into worry, doubt, negativity...I pretend the joy until it becomes more tangible.  Real tragedies are no less real to me, I just refuse to be shaken from my blind clinging to the faith that I -- we: my family, my world -- will be alright no matter what.  Because it's my choice to turn towards hope and find joy in whatever circumstances we may find ourselves.

Like I said, though: real tragedies affect me hugely.  And right now, I can't seem to focus on anything but what's happening in Japan.  News stories around the world which would have held my attention only days ago are now relegated to the bottom of my thoughts.  If the headline doesn't include 'Japan', I can hardly see it. 

I like to think that my humanity alone is holding me captive over Japan's plight, but I think it's alright to admit that since I have friends there -- worrying about food shortages and radiation and aftershocks -- my sensitivity is doubly heightened. 

And I'm still turning towards hope with a rose-colored tinge.  For the people in Japan as well as myself and my family a world away in the middle of Heartland, USA.  But I feel like I can't keep posting cute pictures of my happy, healthy daughters without also acknowledging this hulking, greedy, worried core inside me that only thinks of Japan, all day, every day. 

So I guess I'm just saying...know that for every light, joyful, positive post or picture I publish, I'm also writing one in my head that rings with endless concern over Japan's crisis.  I'm also making emergency preparedness lists and planning escape routes (from what?) in case we're confronted with a disaster of our own.  Any cutesy, silly stories (if or when they get written) aren't me moving past my worry, they're me embracing the good, hopeful parts of my world, because I have to. 

Right now is one of those times that I feel myself slipping into doubt and anxiety and restlessness, and I have to pretend otherwise or it'll consume me completely.

Ice Cream Timeline

1. Become frustrated that all of the ice cream is unreachable within the deep, jagged perimeter of the irritatingly bland cone.

2.  Try to delve as deeply as your tongue will allow, still cursing the crispy cone.

3.  Admit defeat and allow that the only way to reach the ice cream is to BITE the infernal cone.

4.  Savor the last drops of available ice cream while melting the camera's lens with your achingly blue eyes.

5.  Beg for more ice cream.  Receive anything your heart desires because WHO could say no to those baby blues?

Weekly Column: Real, Big Fears

With everything happening in Japan right now, we're getting a big dose of practice in this area, so I think you all might be dealing with the same things.  It's hard for kids to ignore what they see on tv of such devastation, and it's hard for ME to turn it off just to keep the kids in the dark -- I want to know what's happening.  But acknowledging the reality of the earthquake and resultant emergencies will, I think, help our kids work through it.  Honestly, carefully, and with compassion.  How have you handled this fearsome news with your family?

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I find it very easy to acknowledge my daughters’ fears when they’re expressed over something I’ve feared, myself. 

Darkness, spiders, monsters – I can vividly remember being afraid of these things as a little girl, so they’re simple matters for me to understand.  (Yes, two out of the three things on that list are still frightening to me, but that’s not the point.)  I respect the reality of those fears, address them with sincerity, and try to help my children move past them.  I’ve employed night-lights, silly stories, and protective teddy bears, using much time and energy.

It can seem like a lot of fuss over nothing, come to think of it.  But it’s not.

It’s so important to respect the worries and fears of our children as being legitimate.  No, thunder will not cause the sky to fall.  But if your child has that worry, it’s a real issue to her.  It can’t be brushed away with careless instructions to ‘stop crying’ or ‘be a big girl’.  Her imagination IS being big, and it’s terrifying her. 

If there’s really nothing to fear, then she should be able to trust in her parents to explain why.  To show her the truth and to comfort her in the meantime.  Otherwise, her fears will not only consist of the original worry, but they’ll expand to include the feeling of being completely alone.  I do believe kids want and need independence, but abandoning them to their fears will only delay them from reaching that independence in a healthy way.

But what if we really, honestly can’t recognize their fear as real?  What if their fear is over something so impossible as to make us laugh and dismiss it without a second thought?

My youngest daughter was once terrified of elephants.  Not a big deal, really, considering there have never been any elephants in our neighborhood.  We would smile at her serious expressions, laugh at her imagination, and then forget about it entirely.  We never noticed how consuming this fear had become until one night when she couldn’t sleep because she thought an elephant was in her darkened room.  She screamed and shivered while I finally grasped the depth of her worry.  It wouldn’t have helped anything if I’d merely sighed in exasperation and discounted her illogical fear so I could get back to my own bed quickly, so I helped her look all about the room.  We whispered and smiled and hugged.  She became comforted and confident, and the night became peaceful again.  If I’d shrugged off her fear as impossible she would have been awake all night, disturbing the whole house with her anxiety.

With our oldest, her fears are becoming more concrete and realistic.  She’s worried about how houses catch fire.  She’s concerned about exposed electricity.  She starting to understand the fragility of life; all manner of accidents seem suddenly sinister.  I don’t want her to become a chronic worrier, so I don’t plan to tell her every detail of each disaster, but I have to help her work through those fears.  We talk about what we’d do if there was ever a fire, and how firefighters would come to our house.  We talk about the benefits of electricity and the ways to be careful around it.  We talk about the unlikelihood of accidents like these happening, while acknowledging their reality. 

Our children’s fears are honest and real, and they deserve compassionate honesty from us in return.  Whether they’re terrified of a tiger or a tornado roaming in their backyard, parents are the front-line defenders against fear.  Our kids should be able to trust in our confident reassurance. 

[Online version here.]

7 Quick Takes Friday, #onemillion

1.  Welcome to the internet, Jellybean! 

2.  Please keep my friend Megan's baby Haley in your prayers.  She's 7 weeks old, and in the ICU for some frightening lung infection issues: RSV and pneumonia and a few other unnecessarily heaped-upon worries.  Hold them close with me, please?


3.  After talking with my friend Emily and being awed by her bravery at putting her computer away for all of Lent, I've come to some conclusions.  First, I worry that I could never do without the internet for such an extended period of time.  Second, it's sad of me to admit that fact, yet do nothing to change it.  I struggled with my honest use of the internet for work and social reasons, and my lazy habits of obscure, time-sucking waste.  So, after much thought, here's my Lenten plan:



4.  I will only use the internet for the few hours the girls are in preschool, and at their naptimes.  I will only allow myself on the internet in the evenings if Justin is otherwise occupied.  I will only check Facebook once per day. 



5.  It seems like a lot more complication than a sacrifice should entail, but I think it will work.  Even though it may be more confusing than simply giving up the internet altogether (because I do rely on it a little bit for my work commitments), I'm optimistic.  It feels good to say that this is not my priority, and that other aspects of my world -- God and family and life -- are more important.  That those things are worth unplugging for for much of the day.

Plus, it's helping me be more productive with my few allotted hours of internet time.  I know the things I must accomplish, so I can't waste time reading nonsense articles and surfing blogs for fun (as much as I enjoy those things). So if I'm a bit absent from your comment boxes this Lent, please forgive me!  Not that I have much of importance to say anyway, but I know I miss your voices if they're not around for awhile.



6.  I see some serious future hijinks in this photo.  Serious.  These girls are going to pack a whopper of a fun, crazy punch, and I'm glad that I get to be their mom for the duration of the craziness. 

7.  And now my cyber alarm-clock is going off.  (Whoa -- honestly, it is: the neighborhood tornado siren just started sounding.  Weird.  Only a test, blue skies abound, but weird.)  So tell me -- what are you up to this weekend?

Have a beautiful Friday, and head over to Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes!

Bigger Picture Moment: The Unseen

There were still a few long, low rays of setting sunlight streaming across our western lawn on the day this picture was taken -- but you won't see those.  Our hair was frightfully windblown; Mia's was loose from her ponytail and whipping about her neck, Lauren's was plastered across her brow and cheeks carelessly -- but you can't tell.

You don't know that we stood next to a patch of hardy, weedy flowers poking up through the winter scruff of dried grass, and you don't know that our driveway beside those flowers was cracked and oil-stained.

You couldn't possibly know that Mia's nose was running almost onto her upper lip, and she'd just finished wiping it on the back of her sleeve.  You don't see that.

You don't see the dirt under her fingernails -- not really: the fuzzy distortion takes care of it -- or the marker stains on her fingertips.

You wouldn't have heard me yell for Lauren to come away from the woods, we weren't going there today.  You wouldn't have heard her huff of indignation.  You wouldn't have heard my sigh of exhaustion.

You only see that tiny, delicate bloom.  The brightness of its impossibly perfect stripes.  The symmetry of its fragile petals.  Its diminutive stature cradled in a set of tender-loving hands.

That's what I showed you.  Because that's what I decided to see, too. 

Because those tiny, fleeting moments of beauty -- the moments immediately preceding Mia's little-girl desire to fling the flower into the wind's grip and watch it tumble away (no strings attached) -- are worthy of capture.  It doesn't even matter what tangled hair or snotty sleeve or angry toddler or imperfect lawn were in the background.

Just the foreground, just the purple flower, just the glowing hands in the late afternoon's slanting light. 

We can acknowledge the whole, big picture, but sometimes that means diluting the negative and reveling in the beauty of a close-up.  The simplicity of the zoom.  Life is messy around the edges, and it really does help -- I think -- to tune all of that mess out once in a while, and just...

simply...

enjoy what's beautiful. 

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful.  Please join us today!  Take a minute to focus on what's real in your life -- what's important -- and record it.  Share it below, visit the other participants, and let us be a part of your Bigger Picture!

The End of the World as We Know It

I've avoided the prospect of kindergarten for Mia so thoroughly, I've failed to notice that this week is enrollment week. 

THIS week.  As in, the past three days have probably seen hundreds of on-the-ball parents enrolling their bright and eager children in kindergarten, while I've been sitting around, coloring pictures and folding laundry.  Doing the normal things. 

How does a mother -- a self-professed hovering mother -- miss kindergarten enrollment?

Perhaps it's a Freudian slip.  For years now, I've dreaded the inevitable onset of kindergarten. 

It's a gigantic leap ahead in my first baby's childhood, and it truly, honestly terrifies me.  It's exciting and inspiring, too -- yes.  But more than anything, this step signals to me that Mia is a little girl to be let go of. 

She's entering the world now in a way she hasn't before.

Or, she will once I've made my way to the elementary school this morning and enrolled her for the fall semester.  Doing this feels like releasing her to the whims of reality.  So off I go, birth certificate and other personal particulars in hand which will allow her entrance into elementary school this August. 

The world...

Kindergarten...

They sound the same to me.

Spring Tease

Things are beginning to turn green around here, but only teasingly.  (And only when color-boosted with a simple photo editor.)  It's warm and golden one day then freezing and gray the next, leeching whatever color we'd begun to regain. 

But on those golden days, those days not prone to induce shivering...we go play.  It almost makes it worse the following day, when we're trapped back indoors.  Not trapped, really, because we could bundle up if we felt like it.  If we all liked being in the fresh air enough to not mind its frigid quality. 

I wish I were an all-weather sort of mom, I really do.  It would be so much easier to have outdoor time every day, and I know it would help our moods.  Unless the dreary chill made me grumpy.  But then, spring is around the corner -- by my calculations, in which March, April, and May equal spring, it's here already --

and it's getting easier to make it work.  The sun heats up the backyard nicely in the late afternoon, and we can explore.  Stretch.  Fly.  Dance.  Yell at the top of our precocious little lungs. 

The gray trees and blanched grass will brighten up, I know.  The air will lose its chill, I know.  The color will come back into our world, and we'll soak it up with healthy greed. 

And then it will get hot and I'll be ready for fall. 

There's no pleasing me, but I swear the color burst that's about to happen will help it go more smoothly.

Weekly Column: Golden Opportunities

It can be hard to admit that our children aren’t perfect.  After all, we fall in love with them instantly at birth, are enamored of their tiny smiles and milestones during infancy, and humored by their antics in early toddlerhood.  They don’t make mistakes so much as learn by trial and error; life is all about learning and growing. 

But the first time we see our darling angels striking out in anger over a favorite toy’s loss, or hear them yell in defiance against our helpful guidance, the perfection seems to be over.  The realization that our kids are just like other kids – willful, bossy, defiant, clever, exhausting – comes like the dawn of a stormy day: messy and threatening.  It would be more comfortable to brush those instances of undesired behavior under the rug than to face them head-on, right?

Only until that behavior gets settled into your routine, at which point you’ll be wishing you’d addressed it in the first place.

I’ve come up against these moments with more frequency than I’d like to confess, but here are some of my worst cover-ups:

In the name of not waking the baby, I let the toddler get away with all manner of rule-breaking so as to avoid a LOUD meltdown. 

In the name of laziness, I let my almost three-year-old speak rudely to me without consequences.

In the name of avoidance, I let my five-year-old leave her room in a disastrous state while she goes out to play, leaving me to clean it up rather than force her into a prolonged clean-up battle. 

I’ll go to terrible lengths in order to keep the peace when it would ultimately garner more peace if I’d fix the problem at the outset. 

The biggest factor in me digging myself out of this rut is, first, to recognize my mistakes.  This is real life, and pleading ignorance will only hurt our happiness later.  But more vital than mere recognition of my avoidance are the actions I must take from here on out.  And to do that, I’ve needed a big attitude change of my own.  It’s simple, really, and only takes a bit of practice, but here’s what I know now:

Each time I’m presented with misbehavior, it’s an opportunity waiting to be addressed.

Instead of dreading the melt-down when I enforce a rule, I might anticipate it and even look forward to it.  I can be pleased with a tantrum because it is affording me the chance to address a problem and fix it.  Instead of backing away from my child’s occasional rudeness, I remain calm and, somehow, manage to appreciate that this rude remark is paving the way for a lesson-learned.  Instead of wallowing in the guilt of knowing that I’ve let an unhealthy behavior continue too long, I can be excited that the next time it occurs, I’ll step in and handle it differently. 

It makes for easier days and nights, knowing that misbehaving children – however capable of sweetness and lovability – WILL be in my future, and that their actions provide us with golden chances.  Teachable moments abound; instead of fearing them, I embrace them, because consequences dodged are opportunities lost. 

This doesn’t mean I’ve turned into a punishment-happy drill sergeant, though.  I still use gentle, careful methods of teaching lessons, utilizing natural consequences and explaining reasons throughout.  I still maintain that calm respect will get us further than fearful punishment. 

But just as gentleness doesn’t equal permissiveness, imperfection doesn’t equal failure, neither in imperfect parents, nor in imperfect children.  We all have room to grow. 

We just have to embrace the opportunities.

[Online version here.]

Five for Friday

First, have you seen my friend Alita's giveaway?  It's for MORE HOTTER SHOES!!  This is the last giveaway from Hotter that I know of, and you have GOT to go enter -- these shoes are wonderful and quality and pretty.  And expensive.  But not for one lucky winner....


Second, Mia yelled and yelled last night for Justin to come into her room after bedtime.  (I'd thought we'd moved past this...)  Her majorly pressing question?  "Hey Dad, why don't belly buttons have any bones?"  I was glad it was him trying to explain biology and anatomy, and not me.  That late at night (approximately 7:35pm), I'm not up for such trivia.


Third, have you checked out my Heavenly365 photo blog lately?  I'm having FUN over there, you guys.  All of my photos aren't fabulous (in fact, most are not), but they're providing such a running pictorial commentary to what our lives look like right now.  The colors and adventures and boredom and moods and seasons...it's wonderful to think so much can be conveyed through a series of photos, without a single word.  The lack of need to explain or expound is freeing.  But it's also a little frightening.  I mean...I'm a writer.  Sort of. 


Fourth, Mia's recent imaginary play has rendered me half amused, half concerned.  The 'daughter' in this cast is either throwing a massive tantrum, face-down on her bed or sleeping away the day (with a selection of delicious cupcakes at her feet as a luxurious treat).  And the parents have either been incapacitated by exhaustion or relegated to the floor for the daughter's comfort.  But at least she's using her imagination....

Fifth, my dear friend Lenae had her much-anticipated baby girl on Wednesday!!  Sweet baby Quinn is a doll, and I wish I could smooch her darling, tiny, plump cheeks in person.  But will you join me in smooching them via cyber-kiss?  Happy Birthday, Quinn!

P.S. I'm on my way to my first pre-natal appointment this morning...a finally heard-heartbeat awaits!  Wish us luck!