Bigger Picture Moment: Taking Up Slack

My youngest daughter and I are in a fight right now.

Well, not right now; this battle emerges daily for a few periods of time before being resolved happily and melting away into the past, where I'm sure it will remain until, sadly and inevitably, it crops up once more.

It's ridiculous.

It's the pick up your toys battle.  And I'm just about out of tactical maneuvers.  Lauren, though, has plenty. 

She doesn't mind if I confiscate the non-picked-up toys, hauling them away in bags or boxes to another room until she's proven that she can handle picking up after herself.  She really hasn't been bothered by being told she can't exit her room until she's put away the toys.  She almost didn't get dinner one night because she refused to budge.  (And how terrible is it that I even threatened such a thing?  I never thought she'd come remotely close to making me follow through!)

The standoffs might last for hours, and are almost daily.  I've stopped taking the toys away from her if she doesn't clean them up, because she just doesn't care.  She's probably happy to be rid of the mess.  So I stand firm.  Which I hate.  Really, I'm a terrible firm parent.

It's true that I'd like to be able to make this all go away (poof!) like magic.  I'd like to have things simple and easy, especially since there's about to be a baby in the house.  And maybe that's where my insecurity really lies.

If I'm about to add another child to the family, shouldn't I be better able to keep the house running smoothly by now?  Shouldn't I have it all under my belt, with children who have learned to understand the value of picking up after themselves?  Of being considerate and thoughtful no matter what? 

But nothing stops just because a baby is on the way.  The lessons I'm trying to impart to my first two children will still need imparting.  I'm not starting over -- I'm adding-to.  Which sounds both liberating and frightening at the same time.

So I stand firm, perhaps more firm than I would if there weren't a baby about to join us.  Maybe my resolve will help her learn about picking up her toys; maybe it'll only aggravate both of us to the point that we're angry so often that we throw in our respective towels.  I don't know.

What I do know, is that when faced with something that is out of my control, I try very hard to gather control in all other areas indiscriminately.  When the upcoming birth will happen is out of my control.  How we'll settle into life as a family of 5 is unknowable.  Whether or not I'll fall apart at the seams from lacking the logistical knowledge required to manage 3 kids simultaneously is still up in the air.

So I'm tightening up my strings in other places, taking up slack, getting ready for the waves to become bigger for awhile. 

And that means that my sweet Lauren, baby of my heart, and I -- we're going round and round.  Luckily, on the flip side of our circle, there's always a little girl who hugs and kisses her mama, even if she has to put her ponies all back in the box instead of leaving them on the floor for all of eternity. 


(But help me out -- how do YOU get a 3-year-old to pick up after herself?  Part of seeing the Bigger Picture today, for me, means that I need your advice!)

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 at Lenae's place! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

Pregnancy Update: The 39 Weeks Version

So here I am, in a holding pattern, itching to know if this baby's labor will happen naturally -- without induction, because I'm not allowed -- or if he'll go for a few more weeks and require the dreaded cesarean.  As you can imagine, I'm a ball of what ifs right now.  Surprisingly, I'm finding tons of ways to keep my mind off the worst-case scenario, which is actually not terrible, just...less-than-desirable.

I'm cleaning and cleaning and cleaning.  And with all the cleaning, you'd think my house would be gorgeous by now, right?  Heh.  Only in small bursts, in small corners, and insofar as I can summon the will to reach the floor to do the job right. 

I'm finishing up my birth plan, which includes about one-third the amount of wishes and demands of my very first birth plan.  It's funny how my authority and expectations have fallen into something that includes more understanding and positivity.  I guess it helps that I've been through this twice now, so I know what needs to be stated and what can be left alone.  Like, Mother wishes to labor in her own clothing.  Because I've spent hours contemplating what on earth I could wear in a hospital that would facilitate delivery while adequately covering me, to no avail.  I'm at a loss. 

I'm compiling my labor and delivery playlist -- which is still open for suggestions, by the way!

I'm relishing the arrival of fall!  It means we get to play outside for hours on end again!  (And pose for torpedo-belly shots without having to edit out the sweat!)

But yes, in the middle of all that activity (which does not, you'll notice, include painting the nursery -- something we've decided is too much work for not enough reward), I'm afret.  A tiny bit afret.  (Doesn't 'afret' look tiny in and of itself?  No matter if it's not even a real, live word.  I like it.)

So distract me, please!  Tell me something funny or gross or...uplifting or encouraging.  Link me to your favorite blog post of the past week (because something I haven't been doing is keeping up with blog reading).  Whatever happens, keep me from worrying!

The Healing Properties of Hot Cocoa and Generosity

As a reward to ourselves for having a successful yard sale on Saturday, where success equals we didn't have to pack it all in because of rain, we headed downtown to our favorite restaurant for dinner. 

This restaurant is lovely for many reasons, one of which is its cozy atmosphere.  But that's not why we go there any chance we get: we go there for the food.  Mmmm....Mmmm....food.  Sadly, the state of my consumption lately is such that I'm not allowed (on punishment of probable upchucking) to eat as much as I'd like.  There's simply no space left in my midsection to spare for such a passing whim as food.  Still, I try.  I'd like to think it's because I'm no quitter.  But it's probably because I'm just a gluttonous fool.

We danced our way down the sidewalk towards the restaurant's front door early in the evening, before the crowdedness could begin to intimidate us and our enthusiastic children.  And dancing is probably the most correct description of our forward motion.  Mia stepped along joyfully while Justin tried to modulate his steps to hers.  Lauren bounced and twirled and went in all different directions at once, while I waddled behind.  I don't move forward so much as I zig and zag.  It's tiring.

On one perfectly ill-placed step, I watched Mia, with all her sweet happiness at going to a restaurant, thud her toe into a raised snippet of sidewalk, and land squarely on all fours.  I think she might have bounced, so forcefully did the sidewalk rise up to trip her dainty feet.  The scream was terrifying.  I zig-zagged forward as fast as I could, only to see two bloody knees and a wailing face.  My baby...

Justin carried her to the nearest bench -- the one that sits directly beside the restaurant's front door -- and we assessed the damage. 

Really, as a mother, I've seen my share of cuts and scrapes.  It's usually the fault of concrete or asphalt, with the occassional gravel thrown in for good measure.  This one, a concrete-induced malady of shredded proportions, was bad, and made me wish I had girls who loved sturdy jeans instead of cotton dresses.  Blood pooled around her skinned knee and began to roll down her leg immediately.  She screamed with each intake of breath.

My mother-in-law and I headed inside to look for a first-aid kit and some wet towels, hoping to find at least a band-aid.  The manager kindly offered us our choice of band-aids, gauze, sterile pads, and peroxide, and followed us back outside to see how he could help.  He stood by (with much good nature in the face of both a screaming and bloodied child) and passed me materials as I needed them, trying to talk Mia out of her terror.

And then, like a magical wizard with tricks up his sleeve, he offered the words that would be our lifeline back into the realm of calm: "Do you think a big cup of hot cocoa would make you feel better?"

Yes!  I was about to say.  I'd LOVE a hot cocoa!  But since everyone was looking to my injured child for confirmation, I knew I should keep my mouth shut.  She nodded her tear-stained face and burrowed into Justin's shoulder.  The shoulder-burrow is the surest sign of healing, you know. 

With bandages in place and tears drying up, we finally entered the building.  Our table was waiting, our seats were ready, we were hungry.  A feirce injury will do that to a family.  We ordered our favorites and sat back to chat before dinner arrived.  Mia was engrossed in her coloring page, Lauren played with a small rubber frog, and everything was perfect.  The candle in the middle of the table glowed as fairly as any moon on a sweet autumn evening, throwing our previous upset into softened shadows.  Mia was better.  In fact, she was so much better that she talked at-length and in-depth about each detail of her fall.  (And she played this conversation on repeat for the next day and a half.)

Around the corner, with a smile on his generous face and his hands -- BOTH hands -- full of giant mugs of hot cocoa, came the manager.  If the candle was the moon, glowing peacefully, the cups of cocoa were shooting stars, forcing ooohs and aaahs from around the perimeter of our table.

This gentleman, this shining example of scrape-healing knighthood, placed the cups before each of my daughters with a flourish.  He accepted thanks with reserve.  He went back to his business with purpose. 

And forever sealed the restaurant as among the very best our town has to offer. 

You know all the news stories of children and families being discriminated against for their less-than perfect restaurant behavior?  The stories that leave me sad for the state of understanding and hope and learning and acceptance?  This was so far the opposite of that story.  We were welcomed -- screaming, bloody, upset, waddling (ahem), flustered -- as a family, and shown the utmost care and generosity. 

My daughters, if I do say so, were well-behaved that night, as is becoming more and more common with their maturity and understanding.  Dinner was delicious, the cocoa was the perfect balm for the accident, and the night was glorious.

Especially since they couldn't finish their cups of cocoa, and I had to step in with offers of help. 

Now, we're drawing straws as to who will take one for the team next time we go out to dinner.  Sweet cocoa will be the death of our integrity, it seems.


If you're ever in Joplin, make sure to visit Red Onion Cafe.  Tell them Sarah The Heavenly sent you.  They won't have a clue what you're talking about, but maybe they'll take pity on your apparent madness and offer you a cup of cocoa.  And be sure to have the Smoked Chicken Dip for your starter!  That's an order.

Adventure #12: Draped in Darkness

Hey!  It's a Monday, and I've finally taken the time to share something from my Adventure List!  Miracle!  Do you have adventures to share?  Head to Emily's Keeping Time for more details...

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To say that it was dark would be a lie.  Darkness implies that there is light somewhere nearby, illuminating a corner of existence enough to see that this place is dark.  Shadowy.  Darkness, to me, implies a cocoon of cozy safety.  A place where light will arrive soon enough.

But this was not mere darkness.  This was an absence of light so complete as to be all-consuming.  A black hole in the middle of the continent.  A spot of nothingness as far as my eyes could see.  And my eyes could only see as far as the headlights before my speeding car. 

This is all I knew of North Dakota. 

My car was filled with my future husband and a pair of our best friends, and it was my turn to drive.  It would be my first stretch of responsibility on this impossibly long journey to Canada for a vacation, and it happened in the middle of the night.  Of course. 

The steady, dreamy breathing of my companions was lulling and warm.  Outside, the world was probably passing by at about 80 miles per hour, but I had no way of knowing; darkness (or whatever is more than darkness) crept right up to the edges of the car's frame and draped itself across the land possessively. 

I have never felt more alone than in those hours of driving. 

I rolled down the driver's side window to snap me out of whatever stupor had crept in.  Perhaps it was the darkness itself, draping over me, as well as the land.  Fresh summer air blew past me, and I took deep breaths of it.  As if it were laced with caffeine.  Or a jolt of memory so strong as to occupy my mind while I drove.  Anything to keep me awake.

You know the sensation of hypnotism that comes from driving in a snowstorm?  When the snow all seems to be swirling in the same direction, pulling you and teasing you into submission?  Or what it's like to stand at the edge of the ocean and watch the tide rush in and then out again over your naked toes?  When it feels as if you'll fall over forwards or backwards from sheer displacement of coordination?

That's what this highway was like.  One straight road that undulated with nothingness.  One strip of asphalt with not a curve or dip or rise to be seen.  One line of direction that pulled me and my speeding car towards an end, but no end presented itself. 

If there was a car in front of me (I'm sure there must have been -- we were a caravan), I stopped noticing it.  It was too constant on the road and it became one with the nothing.  One with the absence of light.  Like those swirling snowflakes: indistinguishable from reality.

If there were stars in the sky (I'm sure there must have been -- it was clear and summer), I failed to appreciate them.  They only added to the sensation of falling forward or being pulled indiscriminately ahead.  Like that tricky ocean wave: false in its sense of sharing motion.

I talked to myself.  I rolled the window up to ward off bugs.  I changed lanes for the simple pleasure of turning the wheel off-center.  I turned the radio on.  Then off. 

I closed my eyes, only for a moment.

Or two moments.

Or, like with the waves and the snow and the road, I was tricked into feeling things that weren't true, and I closed my eyes for several moments, thinking I was awake all the time.

Oh, it felt so good.  If only I could stay there forever...quiet...at rest.

I woke up to the car in the same lane it had been traveling.  Still straight and true.  Still draped in darkness.  I shook with the knowledge that I'd actually fallen asleep while carrying precious cargo: friends and loved ones.  Tears filled my eyes, and they were almost as relieving as sleep.

I nudged Justin awake across the front seat.  He pulled himself into consciousness long enough to understand that I was breaking down.  I was useless.  I needed help. 

We might have pulled over to switch.  He might have woken up to talk to me so I could keep going until we reached a caravan rest-point.  I might have been forced into better awakeness simply by being so scared of falling asleep again.  I just don't remember.

But I will always remember the all-dark-darkness.  The flat, stretching road to nowhere.  The way it felt to rest my eyes.

And the way it felt to open them again.

Those Silent Kindergartners

She relaxed after a full day of kindergarten while I scavenged through her backpack with glee; my favorite part of the day was upon us.  Getting to rifle through her backpack is enough to send me into fits of euphoria.  It’s the small glimpses of her day that are seeing me through this kindergarten transition.

Because goodness knows, she doesn’t want to actually TELL me about her day. 

In the beginning, I used every trick in the book. 

There’s this one: never ask a yes or no question.  But my specifically designed, open-ended questions like “What did you think about art class today?” or “Who did you play with at recess?” were only met with minimal enthusiasm.  Which means that she said either “I don’t know,” or “I don’t remember.”  And I was left crying in the corner, missing vital details from my daughter’s day.

Then, I asked for help from friends who had some promising suggestions.  I tried them right away.

“You know, today I felt really proud of myself when I finally found that book I’d been missing.  What made YOU feel proud today?”  And I switched it up with feeling nervous, excited, silly, worried, etc.  The first day, this went well.  We talked!  She answered!  I had to explain what a few emotions, but it counted as conversation and led to other discussions.  But by day two, my secret trick was old news.  Again I heard the dreaded “I don’t know.” 

Next, I tried cornering her.  Away from other distractions, maybe she’d be overcome with a desire to spill her kindergarten feelings.  In the car, I asked about her day.  She started talking, I think, but the combination of distance between us plus her little sister’s own storytelling canceled out her voice.  I couldn’t politely shush one daughter in favor of the other, especially since I’m hoping the little one will continue to talk my ear off well into the future.

It seemed hopeless.  The more I questioned her and encouraged conversation, the more she backed away.  She got frustrated and refused to talk at all if I became too pushy.  It felt like interrogation: me against her.

Although dinnertime would have seemed obvious for keeping our conversations lively, I was too bummed to continue.  Instead, I sat idly, staring at my daughters and their speedily growing selves.  They might as well be driving off to college as sitting in booster seats around the family table.  Time was my greedy enemy. 

Then, suddenly: “Hey, today at recess, I got to the second monkey-bar!”

I raised my eyebrows. 

“And did you know that Washington is on the quarter?  And Roosevelt is on the dime?  I’ll show you.  And today was A-day – that’s Art day – and the artist-teacher was really nice.  I’m going to be an artist when I grow up.  Hey, when is the next time I get to bring a snack?  Today, we had little cheese crackers, but…I don’t like cheese.  So I didn’t have any.”

And on she went. 

Turns out, as soon as I gave her some space – which felt an awful lot like giving in to despair – she felt like talking.  All I had to do was hang on for the ride and maintain the look of encouragement in my eyes.

Which was just about the easiest thing I’ve ever done.  It was holding back the tears of relief that was a bit more difficult.

So how do YOU try to wheedle conversation from your child?  And how often do your approaches work?  And will this not knowing what they're up to every moment of every day EVER become easier?!

[Originally published here.]

Some Quickety-Quick Takes for September

1.  I was rudely awakened yesterday morning by what appeared, by all accounts, to be labor.  Now, I've never had pre-labor before.  With both girls, things happened all at once, and there was no doubt as to whether or not labor had begun.  So when I felt contractions that hurt and came regularly before the crack of dawn Thursday, I was convinced.

Using the restroom didn't stop them, laying down didn't stop them.  They were real.  I'd mapped out who I'd call for help with the girls.  I'd decided how to break the news to my sleeping husband.  I'd begun picturing this baby boy in my arms within a few hours.

So, of course, they stopped an hour and a half into the excitement.  And I was mad. 

But yes, I have to admit, it's nice to know that something's happening, and that pre-labor is a step in the right direction.  Right?



2.  One of the things that occupied my swirling mind while I timed contractions was that I'd not yet compiled a labor playlist.  I've been meaning to ask you guys for help in this area, since I have a terrible time recalling what songs I might like in such a situation. 

What labor music do you recommend?  Keep in mind that I like soft and soothing and transporting and ethereal....Enya-esque.  But I kind of want to know the song, in case my head wants to sing along.  So, kind of mainstream?  Whadaya got?!



3.  Thank you so much for all of your birth story submissions so far!  If I've failed to contact you somehow, and you still want to share a birth story as a guest post while we have a Heavenly Babymoon, feel free to send it on over -- just email me!



4.  This weekend will be our second attempt at having a successful yard sale.  Here's how it went last weekend:

It rained.  Eternally.  Downpouringly.  Sale-stoppingly. 

But this Saturday's forecast calls for sunshine, so here we go again!



5.  Today is AUTUMN!!  And a no-school day!  I could do a jig of joy!  (Not really -- no jigging will be going on here until the baby arrives.  The body just can't handle such hijinks at this stage.  But maybe it would spur real labor...Hmmm...)  In celebration, the girls and I are planning on making the house smell fabulous with Pumpkin Bread.  Yay!



6.  My latest book obsession, which I need you all to read, is one I'm sure you've heard about by now since I never come in on the ground floor on these type of things. 

The Hunger Games Trilogy. 

Yes, it is a young adult series I believe, but that just adds to my ability to breeze through it speedily, ignoring my daily duties.  It's remarkably good -- entertaining and thrilling and thought-provoking, while moving along at a really quick pace.  It's definitely kept me happy.

What are you reading right now -- anything good?



7.  I'm done!  I have a book to read!  Pumpkin bread to make!  Enjoy your weekend, my friends!



More Quick Takes are at Conversion Diary.

Bigger Picture Moment: One Pearl Among Thousands

It would be a really easy thing to dissect, if I were so inclined.  It would go like this:

The sun is perfect outside our window -- highlighting the blue sky instead of obliterating it with too-bright haze.  A breeze that feels like a kiss from autumn falls through the screened window, and I can smell the beauty of the entire world, all at once. 

I turn around from where I stand making lunch at the counter, and Lauren is there, rolling on the floor.  She's singing about days of the week, twitching her feet in a rhythm only she feels.  Her golden hair is fanning out around her head, and her deep blue eyes lock on mine as I smile at her. 

If there is any spare cell of dullness or monotony left within the confines of my heart from a morning that's been less-than wonderful, it evaporates into a burst of joy.  Having kids around is just about the easiest way to remind me of what it means to be happy.

I fall to the floor (or, ease myself gingerly so as not to upset the perilous balance of my 38-weeks pregnant self) and layer kisses around her face like a topsy halo.  She is the sweetest thing for miles.  I tickle her neck and cheeks and ears and hair with squeaky kisses that morph into raspberries, like she's a baby. 

But she is a preschooler.  A three-year-old.  A child racing towards big things.

So for the moment, I pin her into the present with my fingertips. 

I poke and tickle and squeeze until her chuckling fills the room and competes with the breeze for title of 'most amazing thing, ever.'  She rolls over with the force of her own laughter, exposing the back of her ribcage, which I dive into with renewed tickle-power.  Again, she rolls forward and I attack her soft belly.  Then her neck.  Then her feet, underarms, and thighs in quick succession. 

When she begs for mercy, I stop; she catches her breath for a second.  But before I can stand back up, she's ordering more.  More tickling.  More playing.  More chuckling.  More hiccuping.  Which I grant her, easily.

So, if I were to dissect a single, perfect moment, that's how it would go.  It's normal.  Common.  So simple that it's hard to recognize, but profound in its ability to make an average day -- an average life -- spectacularly fulfilling.

These moments are scattered like pearls on a bed of sand.  They sink into the landscape until I'm not even sure if the dimples they left behind are a figment of my windblown imagination, or real. 

I prefer to string them together and see the pearls individually.  Not let them sink into the sand. 

So I tickle my daughter until we're both breathless with happiness.  I let the wind from an autumn day ruffle our hair.  I serve us lunch and find ways to keep up with her chattering conversation.  And then I roll the pearl of a memory -- a tiny, iridescent thing -- between my thumb and finger, memorizing its contours and colors.

This string of pearls, it's life-giving even as it was created by life.  A life lived in the simplest manner.

Will you share a pearl from your string of simple moments with us today?  We're linking up with Melissa at Peanut Butter in My Hair for Bigger Picture Moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful -- and we'd love to share in your moments!  Grab the button and join us!

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About An Almost-Due Baby, According to His Big Sisters

"Boy, my tummy's full!  I ate TOO much dinner, didn't I girls?!"  I patted my belly with conviction and the girls laughed.
"No!  Your belly's full of a BABY, not dinner!"  They tried and tried to convince me, to no avail.  I was sure the bulge in my middle was due to overindulgence, and failed to see their reasoning.  A rousing conversation unfolded.

"But, if there were a baby in my belly, I would SURELY know it," I said.  "Like, for instance, don't babies cry?"

Mia was ready with a response.  "Of course babies cry!  But you just can't hear it right now, because it's inside your tummy.  And you have so many bones in the way, that you can't hear!"

"Yeah!" piped Lauren, nodding her head vigorously.  I could see that she'd be easily swayed by whatever arguments her wise, big sister would provide.  And luckily for us, that wisdom kept on flowing.

"No, no, no," I assured them.  "Even if I can't hear it, I MUST be able to feel a baby, right?  What would that even feel like?  To have a baby in your tummy?"

"Well, it sometimes makes you feel like you're going to throw up," said Mia.  "But you won't, so don't worry.  You'll just feel like it."

I pretended to consider this, tapping a finger on my chin.  "I don't think so.  I don't feel like throwing up at all right now.  Plus, a baby would move around in there, probably.  And I would notice that, don't you think?"

"Yeah!  You would feel it!"  Mia was certain.  Therefore, Lauren bobbed her head in agreement.  "Sometimes, it just rolls all over the place, and you'll notice that!  It rolls around and hits any place -- " here she demonstrated, headbutting my abdomen with wobbly movements.  "But it doesn't know where it's hitting."

"Well," I was starting to concede that there may actually be a baby in my belly after all.  This was all just so sensible.  "But, if there IS a baby inside me, what does it look like right now?"

Of this part, Mia was in total posession of absolute knowledge: "Oh, well you could go to the Doctor's office and look on the computer screen and it'll look like a fuzzy kind of...of...oval.  But then when it's born, it will look JUST like a newborn.  Have you ever seen a brand newborn before, Mom?"

"I believe I have.  A time or two."  My eyes lit upon those two newborns, now perched around the kitchen in various positions of repose.  Those newborns are huge now.  "What kind of a newborn will it be, though?  What will it look like when it's born?"

Mia had some serious reservations here.  It's just so up in the air -- so unknowable.  (I understand: I lie awake at night trying to visualize...it's rough.)  "We just have to wait and see.  It might be bald or have lots of hair or have long fingernails or not...we just have to wait."

Such a difficult thing to do, waiting. 

"So, I think you might be right.  I think there IS a baby in here."  I nodded with certainty, rubbing circles on a belly that nudged back on occassion.  Mia's confidence was catching; even the baby in my womb was in on the game.  "But I have one last question."

"What?!"  Mia and Lauren gave each other looks that said what kind of a mother did we land here, anyway?! 

"I'm just curious....how will I know if the baby's a girl or a boy?"

"Oh, that's easy!"  Mia's eyes were alight with pleasure at being able to teach me a thing or two.  Across the way, Lauren paid close attention.

"A girl will be wearing a little BOW in her hair, just stuck on her head.  A boy's head won't have a bow.  See?!  You'll know it when you see it!"

So that's what I plan to be doing soon. 

Checking for bows in all the right places.

And enjoying the conversation in the meantime.

When Is a Chore a Chore?

Our three-year old hid from uncles and smiled despite herself at a family birthday party, while our five-year-old bounded about joyfully.  So many people to play with; so little time.  She’d been tickled and chased and teased until she was giddy with attention, her breathless laughter trailing behind her wherever she went.

I was sure nothing could interfere with her mood.  Then I heard her great-aunt ask her to help wash the dishes. 

Outwardly, I smiled, but inside, I fretted.  In the midst of so much excitement, I was positive she’d either accept out of mere politeness or simply refuse.  Which could then lead to irritation or grumpiness, neither of which would be welcome at a family birthday party.

I was happy when she agreed to help, and only hoped the exercise wouldn’t end with a bored little girl.  She was so pleased with the day so far, though, that I tried to be optimistic about the possibility for dishwashing to be entertaining.  The two dishwashers set off for the kitchen.  Beside me, our younger daughter became animated about something, and I forgot all about both dishwashing and its ability to put a damper on partying. 

Before I knew it, my big girl came prancing from the kitchen, her shirt drenched with soapy suds.  Her smile was wide enough to encompass pride and joy and silliness; she was, indeed, still happy. 

Of course I knew she loved bubbles – I’d filled sinks and tubs and buckets with them dozens of times for her and her sister to play in.  Of course I knew she gained satisfaction from being helpful – I’d let her enthusiastically help me bake and fold and organize for years now.

So why had I been so sure she’d become bored and irritable from a short stint of dishwashing in the middle of a party?

Because I hate washing dishes. 

The monotony and everyday-ness of the task makes me resentful of innocent pots and pans.  I see casserole dishes as enemies.  Glassware as fussy adversaries.

If I had to leave a party to attend a sink of dirty dishes, I wouldn’t have liked it one bit. 

But my daughter is not me.  She is joyful and ready to make any experience a good one.  She is fulfilled by being helpful.  She is proud of learning new skills.  And since I’d never really let her wash dishes, this task became an awesome new opportunity for excitement. 

As far as chores are concerned, she knows how to put her dishes into the dishwasher, how to empty her cups into the sink, how to clear her place.  But in my assumption that the actual chore of washing dishes would be met with disdain, I’d successfully made a decision for her rather than letting her see for herself.  In my sure knowledge of how unhappy the task is, I’d foregone any chance of finding out where her true feelings lie. 

And missed out on some fun in the meantime. 

When it comes to doing chores with young kids, it appears that all it takes to make it enjoyable is to let them try it, and not squash their inherent delight in being helpful.  It seems that a chore is only a chore once we view it as such. 

Otherwise, it’s only another opportunity for fun-loving activity.  Which is certainly the case when you’re allowed – encouraged, even! – to splash bubbles all over yourself in pursuit of clean dishes.

[Originally published here.] 

An Imperfect Understanding of 'Nest'

It is 8:45 PM -- considerably past the time when my pregnant body told me I should already be in bed -- and I've successfully removed my contacts.  I'm wearing my husband's shorts and a too-short T-shirt, and I'm getting ready for blessed sleep.

But instead of crawling into bed, I notice some yucky spots behind my bathroom sink's faucet.  They've been there for months, yes, but at this moment, they're mocking me with their mildewy stamp of disapproval; I'm a terrible housekeeper.  I grab a bottle of something that will remove all traces of mockery from those yucky spots, and start spraying. 

I scrub.  I move on to the sink proper, and scrub some more.  It looks nice, I think, but more importantly, there are no more yucky spots to haunt my dreams tonight.  I can rest.

Except, I remember: the bathtub is also sporting some proof of my housewifely laziness.  And since the spray bottle and sponge are still in my grip, I head that way. 

Except, I remember again: the drain in this tub has been clogged for a few days now.  If I want to clean this and have it mean anything, I need to do surgery first.  With a screwdriver and a pair of tweezers. It takes me awhile to remember where the tweezers are (on top of the microwave in the kitchen -- makes sense, right?), but when I finally find them, I am ready. 

So, it is 9:10 PM, and I'm on my hands and knees in the dirty bathtub, digging for unmentionable masses of drain-clogging matter with an old pair of tweezers.  And finding a strangely grotesque satisfaction in seeing what I can pull out next.  Since I only gag twice in this process, I consider it a success.  Especially when the job is done. 

Spray bottle in hand (again), I douse the bathtub with lemon-scented suds, and get to scrubbing.  The bottle pledges to contain a 'scrub-free' solution that will simply eat away at any foul accumulations in my tub, but it is lying.  I must summon elbow-grease and shoulder-grease and every other kind of grease in order to make the tub perfectly clean, for perfectly clean it must be. 

Standing up -- snapping joints in my legsbackknees as I rise -- I remember the laundry I need to switch out.  I've already completed three loads of laundry since the girls went to bed, but piles of it are multiplying on my bed, and it is all pink.  I think of how that will change.  Three weeks.  So soon?

Now, it is 9:45 PM and I am standing in the baby's nursery.  There are paint squares lining the edge of the crib where they either match or contrast with his newly arrived bedding.  There are drawers full of tiny onesies and footie pajamas.  The window is open to allow a cleansing breeze -- so cool and fresh on this September evening.  I look around and smile.  Then I worry....

With only three weeks left, I wonder when my nesting instinct will kick in?  Because so far...I've gotten nothing done.

Bigger Picture Moment: I Pulled This Car Right Over

The drive was too long and the air conditioner was forced to be blasting too loudly because of the sun's hot angle.  I could hardly hear a word the girls were saying from the back seat.  Something about somebody being less than sisterly, most likely.  Something about arguing.  Something about irritation. 

And then, I could hear: yelling and bickering and crying about little nothings.  I couldn't squeeze a word in between the simultaneously flung outrage. 

The only solution my feeble mind could find was to join in the fray.

GIRLS!!  If you don't stop this RIGHT NOW, I promise I will PULL THIS CAR OVER!!  We will just...STOP DRIVING!!

Mia screwed up her brows and nose and mouth into a concentrated thought.  What will that mean?

It will mean you're in TROUBLE!  THAT'S what.

So there it is.  I have no control while driving.  There is nothing I can do to keep the peace when everything bursts at the seams.  And that's not all: I am clueless about much of motherhood.  I make it up as I go, and I step backwards into failure on a daily basis.  There is trial and error and more error. 

And I wonder when the trial will result in success?

And I wonder what success is?

But there are things I do know how to do as a parent to these kids.

I know that I need to give Mia time to wake up in the morning before rushing her into the day.  I know that her favorite shoes are not negotiable, but her favorite color is.  I understand why she suppresses a grin when classmates are watching, and I know what will happen if she isn't granted time to blow every single tuft of seed from a dandelion's head.  I know that she needs a hug when she's mad.  I can correctly identify THE cold-blankie that is her lifeline, when compared with two other identical blankies.  I hear the waver of an embarrassed voice.  I can feel ripples bouncing away from her proud moments and implosions from her shamed moments.

I know that Lauren will declare herself un-shy before a big day, and then proceed to hide behind my leg.  I know that she'll answer 'grapes' to the favorite fruit question, but then refuse grapes.  Because strawberries are the real answer.  I can tell when she's about to meltdown and I know that her biggest meltdowns happen when she thinks somebody is about to blame her for something she didn't do.  I know that she needs to be listened to, no matter how long the sentence -- or single word -- takes to travel from her brain to her mouth.  I can hear what she means when she says I had fish sticks for breakfast.  (She means french toast sticks.)

I see where these sisters are mirror-images of each other.  I see how strikingly opposite they are, as well.  I embrace them for all they are.  I respect them as valuable people and love them as precious souls deserve to be loved. 

I do those things.  I know those things.

And sometimes, like when I have to pull this car right over, because I can't see my way through the crazy way our lives are unfolding, it's good to know.  It's good to have reminders of all the things I DO know about these particular, gorgeous, wildly sensitive, immeasurably fascinating daughters. 

That way, when I do pull the car over, I can giggle at their startled faces in the rear view mirror instead of wondering where I've gone wrong.  I can give myself some slack instead of seeing this as my backwards step for the day. 

I can own my lack of knowledge because it's offset by a wealth of hope and love and trust.

And we can be on the road again in no time.  Figuring each other out as we drive.

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 at Alita's place! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

Between the Two of Them

Between the two of them, they are cream and pink and black and golden all over.

They are pieces of my heart, glowing with pride.

Between the two of them, they are piggy-tailed and braided and lycra'd into readiness.

They are melting into big girls.  Fading from toddlers and preschoolers into ballerinas.

Between the two of them are bundles of nerves and excitement, uncertainty and comfort.
They are quivering blooms on floating winds, twisting and rising unexpectedly.

Between the two of them, they prance and stretch and spin and laugh.

They are matching feathered birds.

Between the two of them are those pieces of my heart, stretched and swollen and aching around the edges.

With love, of course.  And that bittersweet tang of watching them grow.

Sunken Treasure and Lost Marbles

One of the hardest parts about Mia being in Kindergarten all day is that she's in kindergarten ALL day.  I don't get to see her reactions or hear her answers or experience her excitement or notice her shyness.  I can't watch her in that place and it's crazy-making. 

I don't just want to be a fly on the wall, I want to be an embedded camera with emotion-detecting sensors and voice-enhancing recorders. 

I want to know everything that happens, and is that too much to ask?

So when she comes home each afternoon, besides pestering her to TALK TO ME for pity's sake, one of my favorite activities is to empty her backpack.  The folder that travels from teacher to parent is full of golden nuggets which explain to me, in some small part, how Mia's day went.  There are activity sheets and notes and projects and reminders....it's a veritable sunken treasure.  Only it's dry.  And mostly worthless in a worldly way. 

But, oh, to see a worksheet with her drawings and numbers and carefully written M-i-a in the upper corner...bliss.  A shot of almost-interaction at the end of a missing-you sort of day. 

Only, one day last week, her backpack came home extra-heavy.  It was weighted down and bulging.  There's never been that much material in her take-home folder, and I was intrigued. 

"Mia, what's in this backpack today?" I asked.  "It's so big."

"Yeah," she tossed out with indifference, "it's because I have homework."  She turned her attention back to a bowl of grapes and a coloring page while I began an internal dialogue that can only be described as CRAZY.

Homework?!  But...but...this is kindergarten!  Isn't it too soon for that?  And what on EARTH could qualify for homework at this age -- this is terrible!  Sure, I'll be able to help her with whatever's in the bag today, but come on!  Before long, she'll be doing long-division (do they even have such a thing anymore?!) and geometric equations and I WON'T know how to help her then!  We'll have long, frustrating nights around the kitchen table with her feeling fed up with her parents' lack of useful knowledge, while we secretly curse the school-system for requiring something as irrelevant as trigonometry to be taught!  And to kindergartners!  Because I just heard the other day that now they're not so interested in knowing about circles and squares -- oh, no.  The shapes to KNOW by 6 years old are trapezoids and parallelograms!  I can't even spell those things, for pete's sake!  And if they're too advanced for the unassuming circle, they'll probably be too advanced for simple addition!  WHICH WILL PROBABLY BE THE EXTENT OF MY HELPFUL ABILITIES!!

Worn out and fretful, I gingerly placed the unopened backpack by the back door, and stepped away.  I turned my back on it.  I made dinner.  Mia and Lauren played while we chatted.  My calm veneer was cracked, but still mostly in place. 

But after dinner, I knew it was time for the inevitable: the backpack's contents must be examined.  I could handle whatever was in that bag.  I'm an adult, after all.  I'm not afraid of a little homework, am I?

Pfshaw.

Once on my knees, the bag felt like it held a ton of homework-bricks.  Surely it was filled with all manner of nonsensical work to be completed by my darling kindergartner.  Her innocence would be lost.  Her playful joy in attending school, shattered.

But there was nothing for it.

Ziiiiiiiip.  I peeked inside.  Pulled out her lunchbox.  Jacket.  Naptime teddy bear.  Yellow folder.  And...

A library book?

A library book!  Of course, I thought!  That makes perfect sense as a type of homework!  Reading together as a family IS one of the best indicators of high test-scores later in life, right?  Of COURSE!!

I showed it to Mia who became excited right away.  "Oh yeah!  Today was library day, and every kid got to pick their very own book to bring home!  My teacher says it has to live in my backpack until next week's library day, but we get to read it whenever we want!  Can it be our bedtime story?!"

"Absolutely!" I was overjoyed.  Library books are my forte, if I do say so.  "This is an awesome kind of homework, isn't it sweetie?"

Mia tilted her head.  "Well THAT'S not my homework, silly!"

I tilted my head (the better to dump all the crazy out...).  "Wh...what's your homework, then?"

"Here," she said, grabbing the take-home folder and rifling through its pockets.  She pulled out a zippered-baggie with carefully stapled sheets of colored paper inside.  "This book is one I MADE and I have to read it to you."

More pride and gushing from me, but thankfully, not of the crazy sort.  (I don't think so anyway.)  She read the short story, catching sight words and remembering picture clues, smiling the whole time. 

"I can walk to school."

"I can ride to school."

"I can drive to school."

She read it.  And she was proud of it.

And maybe that's the point of kindergarten homework, after all. 

Because it's probably not intended to make mama lose her carefully contained marbles.  Not to say it won't happen again...

The Correction Stops Here

There’s a tricky little trip-up that’s been happening more and more often in our house.  It seems that my oldest daughter has a very pressing urge to always be correct, and to assert her correctness whenever necessary.

The girls could be playing happily together, dancing to a pretend soundtrack when things go awry.  The three-year-old might be rocking out with her best twitching and stomping and shaking, but if her big sister has a different idea for how their imaginary dance-party should proceed, she’ll make sure to voice that opinion.

“No, no, no; this is beautiful, soft music,” she sighs.  “You’re supposed to be dancing like THIS.”  Stepping lightly, she demonstrates an elegant swoop and twirl, while her sister frowns in confusion: she was just dancing.  What could be wrong with that?

And it happens in all areas of daily life.  If my 3-year-old is singing her ABC’s and mixes up the order of a few letters, she gets corrected by big sister.  If she fails to arrange her toys in the exact right position, big sister makes it known.  If she colors outside the lines, she’s given a lecture by big sister.  The ways in which she is incorrect are innumerable, and I’m starting to worry that my youngest daughter will develop a lack of confidence where her sister’s opinion is concerned. 

Gently, I remind my five-year-old that when she was three, she also used words in silly ways or mixed up song lyrics.  I try to impress upon her that she doesn’t have to correct other peoples’ actions; we all do things differently, and that’s okay.

But either she doesn’t believe me, or she enjoys being right too much to abandon it.

I’d almost given up hope on ever helping her through this phase until one day in the car when my husband was singing along with the radio.  He was enthusiastic and pitch-perfect.  He loved the band and the song was an old favorite.  And then, he sang the wrong words.  The syllables didn’t even work out correctly, and it made my ears prickle in dismay.  When he did it again, I immediately had to let him know: he was messing it up.  The words were wrong, and for that matter, his timing was off.  I sang a few bars to show him the difference.

He looked at me sideways and kept on singing it the way he meant to: incorrectly.  He liked it like that.  And though it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up to let go of being right, I realized that I had to.  Not only for the sake of my much-abused husband, although that would be reason enough, but for the sake of my kids.

I understood what my daughter is so often exposed to: a parent correcting things that aren’t of any importance at all.  Why shouldn’t she do the same thing?  Even if kids of her age seem to be hardwired towards thinking they’re always right, I have to admit that my influence has probably had a hand in her tendency towards uber-correctness.

Until I, as a parent, can maintain a better grip on my own struggle with this issue of needing to be right, there’s not much chance of helping my child with the same thing. 

So here’s to correcting myself before correcting others, and to hoping it’s not too late to teach tolerance with tolerance.

[Originally published here.]

Open Call: Your Birth Stories!

So you know there's about to be a new baby at Heavenly House, right? 

I mean, I think I've waxed both poetically (or at least emotionally) and fearfully enough to let you all know that we only have FOUR WEEKS left until the due date.  And with that date fast approaching, I've been thinking about ways to keep this space worthy of your time while I'm on a babymoon. 

And here's what I think makes this space worthy: you guys!  If I haven't told you before, interacting with you, my friends, is what keeps me coming back over and over.  That, and, possibly, the compulsion I have to plaster my thoughts far and wide.

So here's what I'm hoping: that some of you lovelies would be willing to guest post while I take it easy for a few days!  And by 'take it easy', of course I mean 'wander around like a sleep-deprived zombie-mama smelling of old milk and new poo.'

Right now I'm thinking that I'd REALLY love to share your birth stories, whether they be dreamy and magical or unexpected and wild.  So what do you say?!  Will you share a guest post here with my friends and readers? 

Please say you will!  Your stories will surely serve to keep me entertained and motivated while we welcome a new sweet little one into our family.

Plus, and this is always important: I'll love you forever!

So leave a comment or send an email or poke me on Facebook...whatever that means...but let me know in any case!  Thank you so much!

Welcome, Lenae!

What's particularly exciting about this day -- besides the fact that I'm wearing a shirt that manages to cover my entire belly -- is that it's a special day.  It's the day we get to welcome Lenae into our Bigger Picture Blogs community as a contributing writer and organizer!  You should know by now that she's our newest collaborating member, and you should also know Where She's From.  You should know about her beautiful mothering heart....

And also?  You totally need to know that

Lenae

makes

me

laugh. 

This post about cockroaches is just one example of hundreds, really.

Oh yes, she's a fantastically expressive writer who wows me with the beauty of a mere sentence, but the ability to make me laugh?  It's a valuable, rare trait, and it's one of the first things that drew me to her blog....how many?....3 years ago? 

If I can't exactly remember how long she's been making me think and laugh and cry and smile and wonder, you'll have to forgive me.  You'll understand once you head over there and get comfortable in her archives.  Lenae is a wonder and a friend, and I'm SO EXCITED to shout her accolades to the internet's rafters. 

So, WELCOME, Lenae!  We love you!

Bigger Picture Moment: The Unveiling

For her entire life, she's been the baby.  The rosebud-lipped, sweet-cheeked baby; the darling littlest one.  The girl who holds hands as if it's a lifeline to continued closeness.  The girl who would snuggle for hours if busyness didn't intervene.  There is still that special smell at the very top of her head that makes me remember her when she actually was a baby.  And the curve of her cheek is still sweet...

But now that I have her to myself for so many more hours each week, uninterrupted by an (inadvertent) attention-stealing older sister, I see clearly.  The gauzy curtains over my eyes are swept away and I see this little girl who is not a baby but will forever be my baby.  I see her, so tall and strong and imaginative. 

When I look at her now, it is not always against the backdrop of a big sister and it is not shadowed by babyish expectations.  She carries her own weight.  She speaks thoughtfully and with freedom.  She is a big girl, and a force to be understood without preconceived expectations.

Because the expectations -- quiet, reserved, yielding, passive, tiny, scattered -- are giving way to much more visible truths, now that I can see her.  Enthusiastic, expressive, decisive, growing, fluttery, feminine, thinking, loving, carefree, creative; THESE are the true shades of Lauren that had been hiding behind baby. 

These are the pieces that sometimes got lost in the shuffle.  In the conversations dominated by older topics.  In the games chosen by bigger kids.  In the life lived by tagging along.

And the reality is that there will always be this unveiling.  Years might pass during which I expect her to be one sort of person only to realize that she was changing all along.  Family dynamics will force me to see through lenses that are sometimes clouded.  Personalities will expand and contract moment by moment, day by day.

But the unveiling...it could become a daily ritual.  To look with eyes that will see, as soon as she comes into my view.  To look at my whole family with eyes that will see.  Because they're all too beautiful and colorful and dynamic to be categorized once, forever more. 

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 at Lenae's place! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

Pregnancy Update: The Drop-and-Squash Version

Since I know you're all dying to be privy to the condition of my uterus*...right?  Well come on over!  Let's discuss!  In bullets!

*Don't worry.  I don't think I'll use the word 'uterus' again.  My husband informs me that it is one of the most cringe-worthy words in the English language.  Vulgar, almost.  I'd hate to be vulgar.

:.:  Today marks 36 weeks.  Wonderfully exciting and also a bit frightening because Mia was born at 36 weeks.  Lauren made it all the way to her due date, so really it's anybody's guess what will happen from here.  But if you're a rooter, root for October, will ya?

:.:  In my second trimester, I was majorly uncomfortable on a daily basis with weird issues that make people squirm when I explain.  So I won't explain (again).  But the third trimester has really been a very comfortable time!  Sure, I'm huge and unable to pass easily through narrow spaces, but mostly comfortable. 

:.:  Until now, that is -- the braxton-hicks contractions are gaining in intensity.  Also, man is this belly beginning to weigh me down.  You know it's bad when I'd rather use my toes to pick something up from the floor than bend down to reach it.  Because there's no actual bending involved, just a drop-and-squash sort of technique that leaves me winded and sore.  Oh!  But it's great that I have two little darlings around who LOVE to pick up for me!  Swear it!  LOVE!  (Sense the sarcasm.)

:.:  On the up-side, emptying the dryer is nigh-on impossible.  I get to enlist the laundry-phobic husband's help, which he LOVES.  Swear it!  LOVES!

:.:  For my own records and to compare: With Mia, I gained 35 pounds.  With Lauren I gained 25 pounds, and lost a few pounds in the final weeks.  So far with the boy, I've added about 20 pounds. 

:.:  And because I need opinions to either help me freak out more efficiently or calm down more convincingly: Mia was 6lb 3oz at (36 wks) birth.  Lauren was 7lb 13oz at (full term) birth.  Everyone tells me that boys are bigger, and successive children are bigger.  Anybody feel like taking a gander at what this baby's birth weight will be?

:.:  Today is also the final ultrasound to give the doctor a measurement of how big the baby will be.  Really, I have trouble believing those estimates; I've heard too often about how far off they were, and it doesn't really change anything anyway, right?  I've got a...um...proven birth canal, right?  What will be will be.

:.:  No, I'm not really concerned with the baby's weight according to the ultrasound.  What I'm concerned about (and if you've talked to me in person during the past month, I apologize for being a broken record) is whether or not the baby is head-down and ready to go.  Mia was breech, and therefore c-section-born.  Lauren was allowed to be born naturally as long as her head was down and labor began spontaneously; this baby will have to follow the same protocol.  If he's breech, I'll have to have another c-section, and that possibility makes me worry for hours on end...I don't want another c-section.  So if you're looking for extra prayer concerns, I wouldn't mind a few 'head-down' intercessions winged up to heaven on my baby's behalf. 

:.:  Here's a fun bit: I'm down to two maternity shirts that will actually still cover the belly.  It's getting drafty over here.

:.:  Here's an overwhelming bit: We still haven't decorated the nursery.  I feel badly about it, because the girls' nurseries were all cute and bedecked long before this point, but it's not my fault.  (Swear it!)  Blame it on...something else.  I don't know what, exactly.  Let me know what you come up with...

:.:  I'm so excited to meet this little sweetheart-boy!  Still scared and nervous and yada-yada.  But excited!  We're in the home stretch!  Woot!

On Being Prepared

I was nervous and sweaty as I waited to speak with the nurse. 

Looking around the surgery center’s lobby full of cozy seating and serene paintings did little to ease my stress.  This place would be where my littlest daughter would have outpatient surgery in a few days, and my anxieties were overflowing. 

The surgery itself would be quick and easy, according to the doctor.  He’d done implanted thousands of ear-tubes over the course of his long career, and was confident that everything would go smoothly.  For that part of the equation, I felt confident as well; the surgery wasn’t my biggest concern.

What worried me was how my preschooler would handle the pre-surgery process.  My shy, clinging, blankie-toting daughter would have to be escorted away from her parents and into the operating room without us there to comfort her.  She’d be alone among strangers, and those strangers would be wearing masks under bright lights, surrounded by foreign walls.  I pictured her sobbing so forcefully that they couldn’t calm her down before placing a mask over her tear-drenched face…

On the advice of a good friend, I decided to scope out the surgery center ahead of time.  Her thinking was that if I had a clear idea of what to tell my daughter about the process, I’d feel better.  On the other hand, if I was disoriented and scatterbrained, my child would be more likely to pick up on those feelings and internalize them as fear.  It made sense; everything feels safer when we’re prepared, right?

So I waited in the lobby, imagining all the ways things could go badly on the morning in question.  When the head nurse joined me, it was all I could do to speak an intelligent thought.  I believe it went something like this:

“I was just hoping that maybe, it would be possible to get…I don’t know…maybe a tour of the pre-op area?  My daughter will be here in a few days, and I’m really nervous about it, and…is there any way I can go WITH her to the operating room?  Or at the very least, I don’t know…have her take a double dose of sedative so she’s not so scared?”

The poor nurse must have thought I’d come unhinged, but she sifted through my questions admirably.  She showed me around the center, introduced me to a few other nurses, assured me of their competence, and let me down gently: parents weren’t allowed in the operating room, and double doses of sedatives were ill-advised.  But her tone was helpful and encouraging.  After making sure my concerns were addressed, she walked me to the door and promised to take good care of my baby girl in a few days.

My jangling nerves had settled.  The place now felt familiar, and I felt better able to escort my daughter into the surgery center with calm assurance. 

“Thank you so much,” I told the nurse.  “I’m not sure how often you deal with nervous moms begging for help, but you made me feel much better.”

“Well,” she admitted, “you’re actually the first mom I’ve ever had request a tour…”

And with that, I started sweating again.  This time, from embarrassment. 

Oh, well.  Because of my pestering, I did, indeed, feel calm and collected on the morning of the surgery.  Everything went better than I had imagined possible. 

Which wasn’t difficult, really: my imagination is quite terrifying.

[Originally published here.]

Library Bag Treasure

Do you remember my What We Found at the Library posts?  They were fun, and I sometimes miss them.  Not on the weeks when our library bag contains mostly duds, but since that happens so rarely, I'm constantly thinking, I need to tell someone about this good book!  And with the end of summer here (Yay, Fall!), this is the perfect time to reflect upon some favorites that have made for a good season of reading.

Or, I just want to share these gems with you and needed an excuse to do so!  So here...for your blast-from-the-Heavenly-past pleasure, is our recent library bag treasure:


Ladybug Girl and Bumblebee Boy, by David Soman and Jacky Davis

You know about Ladybug Girl, right?  The energetic little girl whose imagination is MUCH bigger than her namesake?  In her latest adventure, she tackles the thorny issues of learning how to play with other kids while sharing (but not forcing) her creativity.  I love these stories for lots of reasons: they illustrate a healthy imagination in real-life situations, the main character is feisty, and my daughters adore her.  But I think the best part about Lulu, Ladybug Girl?  Is her ability to learn and grow with her imagination, letting her take on all sorts of new adventures.  From making friends to keeping busy...Ladybug Girl is my hero.  I can't wait to read the rest!



The Curious Garden, by Peter Brown

This book is just so, so pretty.  The artwork is clear and bright and detailed without being cluttered, and sometimes there are no words on a page -- just pictures.  The girls have spent plenty of time staring at this book (until Mama takes it away to stare, herself...).  But the story is the sweetest thing.  A boy lives in a dreary city with no color, but he still loves to explore.  When he happens upon a patch of an old, dying garden, he brings it back to life and it takes on a life of its own.  It travels the city, spilling onto sidewalks and staircases...and it beautifies the whole land.  Gorgeous story, gorgeous artwork.  Gorgeous.



Miss Hunnicutt's Hat, by Jeff Brumbeau and Gail Marcken

Now, this book is a little cluttered.  But it works.  The pages are filled with eye-catching scenes in which a sweet-hearted lady defies the bossiness of her neighbors.  She's got a new hat, you see -- and it includes all the usual trappings: ribbons, bows, feathers...only the feathers belong to a real, live chicken.  The townspeople badger her and create quite a fuss, but Miss Hunnicutt is only strengthened in her resolve to wear what she likes.  It's a darling, hilarious story about being an original no matter the naysayers' opinions, and my daughters soaked it up. 



So, um....did you find anything good at the library this summer?  And am I crazy for loving childrens' books like I do?  And will somebody please get me a hat with a chicken on top?

Bigger Picture Moment: Rewarding Love

We have a new plan at Heavenly House for encouraging good behavior. 

I KNOW it's hard to believe, but we do struggle with such boring tasks as doing something the first time mom or dad asks.  We have an even harder time remembering that the tone of voice we use is as important as the words we say.  So, in the line of positive reinforcement when a little girl's behavior manages to catch up to such lofty expectations as politeness and generosity and thoughtfulness, we have a plan. 

Something that's simpler than a sticker chart and easier to follow through with.  Something that has a pleasing sound attached to it:

A jar full of beads.

If I hear a kind word or an argument averted?  Plink plink into the jar.

If a sister listens the very first time I ask her to clean up the Barbie dolls?  Plink into the jar.

If sharing happens spontaneously?  Plink plink plink into the jar.

It can be purely subjective to my whims and therefore constantly teaching.  And when the jar is full of bright beads, there'll be a surprise!  What is it mama, what IS IT?!?  Well the truth is that I don't know yet.  I've got ideas, but that's the fun of this particular reward -- it's unknown and therefore magical.  So far, my ideas are a trip to the bouncy-house, an ice-cream date, a sleepover....something along those lines.

Of course, the downside is that when there is misbehavior, we lose a bead.  Or eight beads in a row, if the day is particularly fraught with tension.  Oh, the drama that ensues when a bead is lost...

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In the school cafeteria, I help herd Kindergartners into their places.  Some of them walk forward with heads turned sideways, the better to catch an eyefull of all the activity and movement in the large room.  Some of them bounce in place as if they've too much energy to waste on food.  Some of them shuffle nervously, wondering how to hide from all of this Kindergarten mayhem. 

As they settle into their seats, I help open cartons of milk or bottles of juice.  I retrieve napkins and encourage actual food consumption.  Sometimes, if there's a need, I sit next to a crying 5-year-old, hugging him and rubbing his back until his jolting sobs are spent.  The cafeteria is so very big and requires so very much, you see.  The classroom is bad enough, but the cafeteria?  Frightful. 

Across a few tables, Mia catches my eye.  She catches my eye no matter where she is, actually; she is like a glowing beacon in any room.  Bright and lovely and mine.  I wink at her as she smiles, and the wink incites a blur of motion from her assigned seat.  She bounces up and down, thrusting her arms in my direction as if she could stretch far enough to encircle me with a hug.  Go-go-gadget-daughter.

I wave and get back to the business of milk-opening.  I feel her eyes on me as I go.

Moving between the close tables is difficult; my belly bumps into the backs of heads as I turn, and children stare as I pass.  Some brave souls ask why I look this way, and I want to say, because I'm so full of love that it just has nowhere else to go.  I tell them that there's a baby in this belly, and they nod knowingly.

Finally, at Mia's table, her friends need help and I oblige.  My child-sized, snub-nosed scissors snip gogurt packages and beef jerky cellophane.  I try to move down the row diligently, but there's a tiny hand gripping my arm.  Mia's wrapping herself -- as bodily as possible -- around my forearm, anchoring me to her side.  She pulls me closer until I can nuzzle her hair with my nose, and we hug for a quick moment.  A moment of ownership and pride and love.  I disentangle myself; a girl across the row needs help with her chocolate milk. 

Mia bounces and reaches, still.  She smiles at the game of it.  I can reel her in with this smile...these eyes...these arms. 

And she can.  Throughout the whirlwind of lunch, I keep darting back to her, planting a kiss here, squeezing a hand there.  She kisses my arm before I move away. 

When it's over, she skips out the door to recess and I run/waddle to catch her.  She hugs me tightly and I sniff her hair one last time. 

In the cafeteria, I help to make sure kids have picked up their trash and are headed towards the playground.  I wash my hands and walk to the car.  The playground is teeming with darting, dashing, screaming life.  I can't spot Mia: she's one tiny girl in a sea of tiny people.

But I can still feel her tight grip and smell her hair if I close my eyes and concentrate.

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At home, the house is quiet and lonely.  I could get a lot done if I put my mind to it in the few minutes I have left before I need to go get Lauren from preschool.  Instead, I stare out the window at the way the pear tree's leaves are dancing on the wind.  My stare tends to fall out of focus until all I see are blurs of green and brown and blue.

I step over to the beads.  I gather up an indiscriminate handful of plastic pieces, and scatter them into the jar's mouth.  Plinkplinkplinkplinkplink....

Because if the beads are at my whim, I might as well distribute them for such tiny, immemorial, everyday things such as love.  Which I am so full of that I'm sure this is actually why my belly is so round.

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 here today! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.