This, Too...

But when life gives me rain --

It's best to go play in the puddles.  Splash and squelch and smile.

Because as my grandma always said:

This, too, shall pass.

Bigger Picture Moments: God as a Mother

I have red, swollen scratches on my chest from Landon's kneading fingertips.  He paws and pinches while he nurses.  A baby kitten with drunken eyes half-shuttered, pushing against his mother's softness.  Sometimes I pull his fist away to ease the sting.  Sometimes I let him claw.  His pushing is instinctual; my body, the cushion against which he can find his own strength.

But those inflamed lines don't really hurt me.  They are fleeting and sweet.  And Lauren's little-girl wildness doesn't hurt me.  She is still learning to reign in that fire for life which most of us have controlled into something (sad) like respectable stoicism. 

It's something else that's hurting me, and I feel powerless against it.  It is the attitude of a beautiful six-year-old girl. 

She is smack in the middle of childhood and there is so much to learn about life right now.  About society.  Friendship and respect and doubt.  About allowing others to be different.  And about trusting those around you to listen to simple words without devolving into demands to make yourself heard.  About love.

Six is hard for Mia right now.  Not every day; she is funny and smart and sweet in giant swaths and for days on end.  But the hard parts are overpowering in their negativity.  Part of it, I know, is just normal brain-stretch and soul-growth that every child travels through on the way to being big.  (Isn't it?  Please tell me it is...)  But oh -- the other part?  Seems inherent to this darling girl. 

She is fierce.  She is always right.  She does not hear the rudeness in her voice, nor does she understand how it makes others feel -- about themselves and about her. 

I could punish her into submission, but that would remove any spark of the beautiful strength that lies behind her force.  I could command, matching her tone with an anger of my own, but that would fill her with conviction: to be heard, it's okay to yell and demand and control.  I love her through it, but those moments of argument and stubbornness and anger -- they hurt.

And this, surely, must be what God feels for us.  We rail and stomp or ignore completely, and the mother-heart of God listens.  Hopes for our about-face.  Understands that life is a maze of external and internal, choices and obligations, love and hate.  Waits patiently while guiding us with an absolute fulfillment of love.

It hurts God, I'm sure.  Watching us turn away from truth and towards self-satisfaction.  Our mother God has birthed us into being and endured our scratching fingertips and set us into the world, where we must live and learn. 

And right now, I'm trying to learn that my own mother-heart is filled enough with God's grace to extend it to my child.  I can endure the fingernails that draw beads of blood over my heart.  I can endure the pinching words and angry faces that are flung carelessly in my direction.  I can embrace the beauty and accept the challenge. 

Because I have a mother God who does the same for me.  She endures my mess of disbelief and doubt and confusion, and sees the true me behind every expression of anger. 

Mia's pushing is instinctual.  So I will be her cushion.  Firm enough to resist a few puncture marks, tender enough to absorb her fierceness, soft enough to give it back as love. 

I will let her find her strength against me.  But I will not be so overcome as to be paralyzed with hurt.  I am tender, but I am not wilting.

And we will make it through this. 




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

Collected Rainbows

I hate being busy. 

The way things pile up around me, needing to be done.  They're stern-faced tasks, some of them.  But some are sweet, happy obligations.  No matter; I hate being busy.

And this week has been gutted of time.  I stepped one foot over the edge of last week, expecting to slowly wade into a gentle, ankle-lapping stream, but instead I've plunged, sprawling, into a hidden dropoff.  I can't feel the bottom, and I can't stop tumbling.

I should be making tonight's dinner right now -- at nine o'clock in the morning -- because my afternoon is sectioned off already into things that cannot be ignored. 

Oh, but I'm good at ignoring.  I procrastinate with insane dedication, until simple busyness becomes a frightful, stressful week.

Which is what has become of this week.

And at the coffee table, my Lauren is playing with tiny, pinkish dolls.  She is proud because she got dressed so quickly this morning in one of my favorite outfits -- a wide, swirling, fiesta skirt with a matching top.  The matching part is irregular; she usually chooses color with abandon.  Like she's collecting rainbows on her person.

She speaks under her breath to the dolls, making distinct voices for each.  Imbuing them with personality and intention and relationship.  I see the slope of tiny shoulders and the tips of tiny, busy fingers.  But they're suddenly huge.  Only in a flash, for one part of a second, I see her for what she is:

a little girl.  Growing.

And today is the last day I will ever call her three years old.  She'll be four in the wee hours of tomorrow morning, before we stretch away from our sleep.  I'll greet a four-year-old at breakfast. 

I don't see that she's been the better part of four for months now.  I don't see that days have all added up to a culmination; I only see that the number is flipping from little to big.

I've been so busy with making party preparations and meeting the nonstop needs of life that it takes me somewhat by surprise, today.

Three.

Four.

There is a flowering meadow between the two, opening into collected rainbows of color and reaching to the sun.  And I might have been too busy to notice.

We Will Read

I putter through the living room and kitchen, removing toys and clothes from their unlawful resting places while the kids splash in the bathtub.  It’s bound to be a slippery mess in there, but I savor the few minutes of space. 

Some nights, I claim victories that speak only to hygiene, and I fear this night will be one of them.  The girls will be washed, brushed, and dressed before I’ll rush them into their beds.  Anything frivolous will have to be tossed overboard so the day’s weight won’t capsize my barge.  Because ‘barging’ is exactly what I end up doing: plowing dutifully forward without slowing or noticing the beauty of the waves. 

In the hallway, I trip over a stack of books and actually smile at the toppled pile.  Having children who are both willing and able to read – alone – just might be my most hoped-for dream.  I look backwards into my own childhood and see adventures and emotions and discoveries that happened for me within the pages of books, and I want that for my own children, too.  Although she’s still some months away from being able to immerse herself in an exciting chapter book, my kindergartner is reading beginner stories with pride.  The stack of books is a happy reminder of her progress. 

But on this exhausted evening, the books also pester me with awareness: we need to take time to read.  Every night.  Yes, even the nights that find me counting the minutes until silence will fall around me.

I bend to straighten the picture books and hear my conscience harping: exposing my kids to books and stories daily is one of the most important ways I can help foster a love of reading.  It is one of the most important ways I can help my six-year-old practice her newfound skills.  It is one of the most important ways we can be close and connected without relying on technology or outings. 

Reading is not frivolous, it’s vital. 

Up until this point in my life as a parent, I’ve mostly approached children’s books with entertainment in mind.  While I absolutely want my kids to come away from our reading sessions with enjoyment being  central to their experience, it’s also becoming clear that it can’t be my only motivation to get us reading. 

It’s been strange to realize that although books and reading are some of the great loves of my life, I’m finding it necessary to force the time to read together as a family.  There is always something – some obligation or chore or tiring activity – that makes reading together seem like an extra instead of a must.  I have lists of novels – classic children’s literature that sets my reader’s heart racing – but if I plow towards the end of each day with nothing but personal relaxation in mind, we may never get to read them together.

And my children may still grow to love reading even without my perfect attention to daily stories, but I don’t want to fall off the wagon and forget how much it actually soothes us all. 

So I pick up the stack of books, choose several that have cadence and art and beauty, and place them directly in the middle of the bedroom floor.  After baths and pajamas, we will read. 

I never want to be so rushed that I forget to show my kids how perfectly a book can put a period at the end of a busy day.

[Orignally published at The Joplin Globe.]

Bigger Picture Moments: The Green

The water is gray as it falls, with no point of light coaxing it into prettiness.  And it's a quiet sort of dull -- if there is beauty, it's there in the shush of constant rainfall on sodden ground.  The quiet of a thousand falling drops meeting with finality on the grass.  It's not the falling that makes a sound -- it's the impact at the end.

I stand at the window, trying to distinguish the clouds from the rain.  Because surely there's a place where gray rain and gray clouds can accentuate one another.  Become separate and distinct.  But that place doesn't appear until it's too late: a darkened forest backdrop highlights the shape of rain just before it meets the ground.

Across the yard, across the street, the last of the white blossoms on a tree have given way to timid green.  The rest of the world is still shades of brown with lifelessness, but the tree is stretching out quietly.  And on its flimsy upper branches, a scarlet cardinal sits in silence.  He does not meld into the clouds.  He is not hidden within the leaves.  He is startling and impossible in the gloom of the day. His feathers must be entirely soaked.  A blanket of heaviness, forcing him to rest.

I look closer, squinting through sheets of clouded air.  I expect him to ruffle and bluster, to insulate himself against the wetness falling all around.  But he is upright and impervious.  Sleek. 

Then, I smile.  He has started singing. 

Who cheer! who cheer! whee, whee, whee, whee --

I would swear that he enjoys the gray rain.  He is still perched there when I become bored and walk away.  Back into the boisterous life of a house full of children.  Nothing gray about that.

------------

On the fourth day, I guard my eyes from the sunrise.  It peeks over the eastern hill, streaking a horizontal spotlight onto the trees behind my bedroom window.  At first, it is only the treetops that are bathed in the glow.  Slowly, the minutes pass and the glow falls, touching the high and the low alike -- the world is awake. 

But for all the beauty of the watery light, it is not the sky or the sun that has made me pause. 

It is the green. 

The clovered floor before the forest, the spring bulbs shooting blades high, the carpet of green speckled with tiny purple and white flowers, the blush of lime over all but the most stalwart of oaken varieties -- it is the green.

While I wallowed and moaned, the world was changing colors.

Perhaps the cardinal knew it.  Saw the beauty in the green-nourishing gray. 

I breathe in the lush promise of spring.  It is here.




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

A Break from Spring Break

If these photos had been taken during a spring break, they would have made perfect sense.  Sunny, bright, flowery, smiley -- all outdoors, soaking up the springness of the world. 

But, no -- they were taken last week.  A regular week of work and school.

Today -- and yesterday and the day before -- on our actual spring break, we are rained out.  A giant weathery, moisturey, cloudy system is lounging on top of us this week, so we're mostly indoor- bound. 

If not for a fun playdate yesterday and the hope of sunshine tomorrow, I'd probably be brooding.  Not only are we not off on a grand adventure, we're barred from exploring our own backyard which is a veritable quagmire at the moment.

But come to think of it...quagmires sound exciting.  Messy.  Maybe we should venture out...

A kind of 'see how muddy one little girl can become' adventure.

If the actual rainfall holds off for much longer, we might head out there.  Traipse through mud puddles.  Wallow in wetness.  Head back inside for a lunch picnic on the living room floor.

But in the meantime, I'm just going to give myself a little break from our cloudy spring break by gazing at sunshiney photos for a while.  It's like a vacation from the drear.

What are/were your family's spring break plans?  Loafing around muddy backyards?  Driving to sunny locales?  Visiting family?  And what are your best ideas for indoor adventures while we wait for the rain to blow away?

A Nighttime Tour

He smells like Switzerland, I think.  I press more deeply into my pillow and breathe the air from both sides: damp air blowing from the night beyond the window across the room and his mountain-tainted air billowing next to me.  Sweet and clean and fresh.

It's not Switzerland itself surrounding him, of course.  No glaciers or pines or wisteria or lakes or vineyards or lamb-studded meadows.  Just some perfect combination of after shave, deodorant, and his personal pheromones that invoke memories of the country.  We were sweet and fresh, ourselves, when we were there.  I pull the sheet further up over my shoulders and smile, tucking my legs into his. 

It was spring, then.  Tiny, perfect crocuses were pushing through stubborn clumps of snow in the lower Alps, and great, foggy clouds huddled around us as we wound through mountains.  Every other switchback, there was a gushing waterfall, emptying the peaks of their clear, snowy water. 

For as much as we loved the smoothness of the green countryside, the cities we visited were enchanting.  In Lausanne, our hotel room was charming and tiny with a brass bed and high ceilings.  Somehow, we always ended up in a room next to a trio of matronly English ladies with silver hair and flowered skirts.  They were on the same traveling schedule as us, and the way they tittered and smiled as we exited our rooms each morning made me blush.  They thought we were on our honeymoon, probably.  And we might as well have been.  We hadn't even been married for two years and were understandably clingy.  We walked places as a unit, arms and hands and bodies always touching.  We gazed with syrupy lust across lakeside tables and shared sips of warm, red wine from rustic stoneware cups.

Those little old ladies knew love when they saw it, I guess.

And though it was seven years ago, I wonder about those ladies.  Strange what I took away from that trip: the memory of proper English grandmothers and their sense of adventure.  Even they stopped the forward motion of a (presumed) simple life to travel across the continent on a grand expedition. 

But I don't know -- maybe this was their yearly habit.  Maybe they'd been knocking out European countries with their steely-eyed gazes for a few decades.  Maybe we were the umpteenth giddy lovers they'd witnessed traipsing arm-in-arm over old-city bridges and browsing city markets. 

Maybe they're still taking adventures together. 

Back in my own bed, I wonder, with the air blowing in waves of remembering, if I'll ever have adventures again. 

My brother and his family, right now, are traveling for a year.  Working in quarter-long stints at exciting locations: San Antonio; the Virgin Islands; Florida; DC.  They're seeing things.  Meeting people.  Walking arm-in-arm over historic paths and scenic beaches. 

My high-school friend and her husband sold almost everything they own, packed the rest into a rough-shod SUV, and are currently somewhere in Central America, driving the entire length of the continent with no agenda and no strings holding them in place.  They have each other, they have their vehicle, and they have whatever happens tomorrow. 

One of my bridesmaids invited us to share a house with them in Mexico this summer.  I can almost hear the laughter and stories that would unfold there -- the sunny heat, the sultry dark, the sandy sea.

Lenae has pinned her hope on a steadfast faith and is living with her family in Azerbaijan.  Emily has followed her husband to exotic locations year after year, ready to open her eyes and soul to new cultures each time; she's going to Australia in a few weeks. 

And those laughing English grandmas....

I take another deep breath and look towards the open window.  A gust of humid, cool air touches my face.  The world is out there, I think. 

And I am in here.

The Pink Slime Plague

Millions of American parents send their kids to school every day with high hopes.  They trust the school system to take care of their children’s minds, filling them with a relevant education, but that’s not all.  Many parents also place their trust in the school’s dietary program to serve nutritious meals. 

But last week, a large number of American parents had their hopes – and some of their trust in the school lunch program – dashed.  If you haven’t heard about it in the news, there’s a new substance making its way into our children’s lunches, and it bears the wholly disgusting moniker of ‘Pink Slime’. 

Pared down to its most nasty parts, ‘Pink Slime’ is just that: parts.  It is the leftover scraps swept up from the butchering floor, cleaned with an ammonia-hydroxide wash, and mushed into a sludge that can be mixed into real ground beef as a filler.  The beef industry calls it ‘Lean Beef Trimmings’, but I call it inedible.  I can’t imagine that I would knowingly feed my children connective tissue and floor-picked scraps instead of fresh, real meat. 

In fact, ‘Pink Slime’ has been banned for human consumption in the United Kingdom, and is usually sold to dog food companies, so lacking it is in real nutritive benefits.

But the USDA – who stands by the sludge’s safety if not its nutritive qualities – has plans to purchase 7 million pounds of ‘Pink Slime’ to distribute for use in school lunches across the country.  And, frustratingly, much ground beef in the grocery store contains this nasty substance without being listed on any labels to warn us.  Besides purchasing your own cuts of meat from local farmers and butchers and watching them grind it for you, there’s not much we can do to avoid ‘Pink Slime’ in our ground beef.

But we can avoid it in our children’s school lunches.  If you are as grossed-out as I am about ‘Pink Slime’ being fed to our kids – in any quantity – the only immediate solution is to pack lunches at home.  It means we have to take an extra ten minutes in the morning to throw some healthy food into a bag, but it also means we know what our kids are being exposed to: real food versus cutting-floor offal that no human should actually consume.

There’s no need to steer clear of school lunches as a whole.  I believe some of what our schools serve provides a healthy supplement to meals children receive at home.  But take a look at the cafeteria’s monthly menu.  Hang it up where you’ll notice the days advertising anything beefy, and get ready to pack a lunch instead.  I have no idea if our local schools are currently serving lunches containing ‘Pink Slime’, but I’m really not willing to take the chance. 

If, like me, you sometimes struggle to come up with variety for the lunch box, think of it this way: almost anything you pack will be more beneficial than ‘Pink Slime.’  Pour last night’s leftover soup into a thermos.  Pack chunks of cheese with grapes and crackers.  Spread some chicken salad onto whole wheat bread.  Cut up an apple and pair it with a scoop of peanut butter.  Wrap deli meat and cheese into a tortilla. 

The possibilities for homemade lunch are endless and diverse, though they do take a bit of planning.  And I’ll plan until my brain goes numb if it means my children will avoid accidentally eating ‘Pink Slime.’

[Originally published at The Joplin Globe.]

Brown Sugar Blondies with Chocolate Chips

Alternate title: The Most Delicious Thing I've Ever Baked

I mean it, ya'll.  These blondies are incredibly perfect: chewy, dense, soft, and sweet (oy).  I used chocolate chips because that's what I had on hand, but I think next time I'll try butterscotch chips instead and just lay myself out to swoon all nice and comfy on the floor so as to avoid any unsightly bumps or bruises from falling after the first bite. 

Oh, man. 

It'll have to be this weekend.  And I'll absolutely be doubling the recipe to fill a 9x13 instead of 9x9 pan.  I can kind of hardly concentrate from all the delicious remembering.  So here -- before I lapse into a fit of ecstasy and forget to give you the recipe -- is the recipe.

Oh, man....

Brown Sugar Blondies

(from allrecipes.com)

1 cup flour

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/8 tsp bakind soda

1/2 tsp salt

1/3 cup butter, melted

1 cup packed brown sugar

1 egg

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

2/3 cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees an line a 9x9 pan with parchment paper, leaving a few inches of overhang. 

In a small bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Set aside.

In a large bowl, stir melted butter and brown sugar until smooth.  Add egg and vanilla and stir until evenly combined.  Add flour mixture in three separate steps, stirring well after each addition.  Pour batter into prepared pan; it will be quite thick, so be sure to spread it completely to the edges of the pan.  Sprinkle chocolate chips on top.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of  the pan comes out clean. 

Cool completely before cutting.  And be sure to lay yourself out on the floor before taking the first bite.  It would be a complete shame to lose consciousness by hitting your head, mostly because it would probably be awhile before you could finish the blondie.

Oh, man...

Bigger Picture Moment: Making History

On television, the man stood tall.  Shoulders back, chin tilted, hands clasped with confidence.  His endeavor -- the one he'd bled passion into for years -- was ready to be seen, evaluated, loved.  The world was about to be changed, all with a simple unveiling. 

Under his breath, the man whispered: we're making history tonight.

And I always thought something else about that phrase.  I thought, something has been done that was good enough to MAKE it into history.  Worthy of being recorded somewhere and retold to generations.  Making history was equal to making the cut.  Making a goal.

But it echoes differently in my mind.  The television show blurs in the background.  My unfocused eyes watch hours-old memories while the noise of the world drifts into flatness.

------------

There's a deer in the woods, Lauren, come see! She exaggerates her tiptoes with deep swoops of shoulders and bent knees. Her head peeps up over the edge of the window, and we watch. The doe is glossy brown and still in the slanted morning sun. The edge of the forest is peppered with shadows and light, making patterns where there should be none, hiding others in tips of bare light. Where, mama? I can't see it. But the deer dips her head to the ground, nipping at something tender. Oh! There! She lifts her front leg to poise one hoof in the air: a delicate prelude. Then she melts into the forest, hiding in shadows and light.

.::.::.::.

Her fist grips the wooden spoon much too high as she stirs.  Brown sugar melts into butter, and she is immersed in her job.  Completely focused.  There is one bit of sugar that won't crumble: a hard bit of sugar that was perhaps too moist became a round pebble of surprising candy.  Lauren pokes a finger into the mixture.  Tests the resolve of the pebble.  She looks sideways at me and sees my the encouragement of my lips, smiling because her desire is so clear.  I nod: a conspirator against cleanliness and patience and a few other forgotten virtues.  She digs the pebble free and pops it into her mouth.  Her eyes widen as she savors the goodness of sugar melting into butter onto tongue. 

.::.::.::.

Last one to the car is a rotten egg!  We run across the parking lot, feet little and big stamping a rhythm into the night air.  Giggles and screams punctuate our beats, and -- breathless -- we fall into the open car doors in heaps.  Mama, YOU'RE THE ROTTEN EGG!  But I tickle them to release my rotten-ness in a burst of teasing love.  Oh, no! I shout, I better hurry and buckle in or I'll be a GIANT rotten egg!  They scream and scoot, backing away in a haste of feigned, joyful terror. 

.::.::.::.

Her finger traces a line of words, the words trace a line of thought, and she is reading.  We snuggle in our pajamas on Mia's top bunk with a book propped between the two of us -- a bridge promising hearty tries and gentle encouragement.  Mispronounced vowels bleed into the silences, but recognition comes a second later.  Deep in my belly, there is a dizzy flutter of excitement.  I wonder if she feels it, too?  Does it travel up to my arms, pour out my fingertips, ripple across the pages of the book?  Does it burrow under her fingernails, wiggle up to her shoulders, cascade into her heart?  She is reading.  A paragraph is as long as an entire chapter might be, but still: she is reading.

------------

We're making our history, and we're making it right now.  Every activity, every touch, every word and glance -- they're all going to be made into a history.  Woven into the past, trailing out behind us as we step forward to choose another thread.  It's happening as I sit writing, as they sit coloring, as he sits working, as we sit living. 

History is being made.  And I intend to enjoy the making of it, simple as it may be.




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

Guardian Boy, Guardian Moon

11:29 PM
The dark house is almost perfectly still.  The others have been asleep for hours and it's just me, alone, moving around.  Right hand out, left arm down, I graze touchpoints as I go. 

The refrigerator; three steps to the living room; four steps to the rocking chair;

I close my eyes, crushing eyelids together, creating a burst of stars behind them.  I pretend it's not dark, only that I've chosen to walk blindly as a game.

Because actually, I am afraid of the dark. 

Instinctively, I feel a pressure at my calves.  The warning of a presence.  I speed up as the pressure rises.  It's against my thighs, the small of my back.  It pushes with insistence: be afraid, because you cannot see me. 

There's a catch in my gut -- a flipped-over fear -- and I'm in the hallway.  Both arms are out now, spanning the width.  The closet door; one step to the bathroom; two steps to the bend; four steps to the nursery; I find the knob to turn it just-so to avoid the creaking snap of an old mechanism. 

I can hear him breathing from across the room.  He's snug in his bed, broken free of his swaddle, and then lifted heavily into my arms.  I pull him to myself and he opens his mouth without needing any guidance. 

I look around the room with adjusted eyes.  The full moon presses through curtains to highlight one slow curve of one perfect cheek, and my sleeping boy suckles.  The darkness isn't black anymore, it's just grey.  And the creeping presence was only the presence of my imagination, creating a whorling mess of grasping unknowns behind me. 

Erased by the real warmth and safety of this new baby in my arms, protecting me with his innocence.



4:03 AM
I am deeply under.  Sunken into sleep with a great weight pressing from above; immersed in a thick, stifling fullness.  Although the pressure is from above, there is a bulk of gravity below and something within it tugging at me.  I try to shake it off, but it tightens...

and suddenly dissolves -- the pressure, the fullness, the gravity -- leaving me weightless and startled and awake.  A floating mess of edge-less worry.

My jaws are clenched so hard that my teeth are individual bits of clay: moldable; smashed. 

A single shaft of moonlight has fallen across my face, glaring onto my closed eyes.  I blink, and lie still to test the weightlessness.  When I feel sure that I'll neither drift nor sink, I rise and cross the room. 

The window blinds are half-open: a moonlight concession from last night's phobia.  I intend to turn them the other direction -- block the piercing light -- but as I glance into the early morning darkness, the moon stabs at me and I recoil.  I squint against its intrusion.  It's not huge, soft, or yielding, but distant, sharp, and focused.

It is vigilant and possessive. 

I look back at my pillow and trace the line of blue light to where it ends over Justin's black hair.  I leave the window as it was and climb back into bed.  My head falls exactly where the moon can see it.

And I rest within the fierceness of the light.





This piece is one that I shared in a practice run of Bigger Picture Blogs' new Writing Circles, which are open to you all now!  Anyone is eligible join a writing circle, and we HOPE you will; they're an amazing way to give and receive feedback, support, and guidance as we try to hone our writing skills and realize the vision behind our expressed thoughts.  If you think sharing your work for constructive criticism by friends and peers sounds helpful, please give Writing Circles a try!

It's All About Control

Early childhood comes equipped with certain hallmark stages.  Many of them are endearing enough to keep us afloat during the other stages – the not-so-sweet kind.  But because we’re only human, and perhaps trained to remember the negatives above the positives, we focus on the irritations. 

The toddler’s tantrums. 

The preschooler’s meltdowns. 

The Kindergartner’s attitude. 

Something we fail to realize, more often than not, is that many of these so-called negative stages in child development can be traced back to a common motivator: control.

Basically, our kids are trying everything they can to gain control over their lives.  When they feel their desires aren’t being met: control.  When they see their hopes dashed: control.  When they’ve made a decision that is overridden: control. 

I don’t expect a little one to be allowed complete control at all times; they haven’t yet learned how to temper their desires with careful wisdom as a parent would hopefully do.  But I suspect that if we found ways to empower our children to feel more in control of their own bodies and actions, they’d exhibit less of the negative behaviors that are so frustrating.  A tantrum or meltdown could be avoided by allowing them a bit of freedom in their decisions.   And even more importantly, we’d be preparing our kids to enter a world that expects them to make their own decisions, and filling them with confidence because we’ve trusted them with the results.

Here are a few ideas – some specific, and some general – to begin transferring control to our young children:

Let them choose their own clothing each day.  If they become too cold in a tank-top on an early spring day, they’ll learn about the restrictions of weather, and learn to go find a jacket.  Unless you’ll be sitting for a professional photography session, don’t worry about mismatched patterns.  Hold your tongue and be proud that they did all the work themselves.

Place common items within their reach.   Many times, we say no simply because we don’t feel like retrieving a certain item.  But that doesn’t mean there’s any reason they shouldn’t have it.  Does your daughter always beg for the purple towel at bath time?  Let her know where to find it so she can get it herself before bathing begins.  Does your son prefer a specific cup at all meals?   Rearrange the cupboards to allow him to easily find it. 

Show them that you believe in their capability.  When they are challenged by a new task, like tying their shoes, encourage repeated attempts rather than stepping in immediately to save the day.  Say things like “I know you can do this, it just takes a little practice.”  Being in control is sometimes overwhelming; they need our obvious trust.

Use their input for rule-making.  The knowledge that they were included in decisions regarding their own actions is often helpful in smoothing out the enforcement. 

Allowing these short steps towards personal empowerment will work as long as they’re not done in reaction to the negative outbursts.  After a meltdown or outbreak of disrespectful attitude, they’ve lost the privilege of controlling that particular aspect for the moment.  But when done prior-to, as a style of parenting on an everyday basis, empowerment can help our kids get through the inevitable stages of control-seeking without becoming bogged down in bad habits.

[Originallly published here.]

InstaFriday

This was my week, in an Insta-nutshell:

Scudding clouds against a bright blue sky;

A glassy-eyed, feverish girl snuggling on the kitchen floor...

Then practicing some computing once the Tylenol kicked in;

A rolling-over boy, checking out the fluffy rug;

A banana-bread baker, helping mama stay focused;

A late-night snack based around the perfection of peanut butter.

 

More InstaFridays at Life Rearranged!  Follow me on Instagram -- my name (wait for it...) is Thisheavenlylife :)

Bigger Picture Moments: Eating Bon-Bons

There are a few specific times in my day that can, if I feel inclined to make them, be used solely for laziness. 

For instance, when Lauren is away to preschool, Landon's morning nap is the most glorious stretch of silence -- perfect for doing nothing.  To shatter the quiet with clanging dishes in the sink or shoving around in the laundry room would ruin the effect, and I do love to hoard silence.  It's such a rare, perfect thing.

So yesterday, I hoarded.  While Landon slept for two and a half hours, I burrowed into the couch.  A blanket was tucked around me, forbidding me from escape.  There was a pillow on my lap, propping up my novel.  I'm convinced that my body completely shut down in this time, only expelling enough energy to turn a page or allow my eyes to focus. 

It was wonderful.

But then, Landon woke up: he nursed; we retrieved Lauren from school; she went to her room to play quietly; Landon napped again; I ate lunch and checked email, and then looked around myself.

My house was a disaster.  I had plans to make some french bread for dinner later but there was no counter space on which to knead dough.  I went into my bedroom to find my shoes and saw instead three loads of laundry I'd meant to fold. 

The grumpies overcame me.  Instead of using my morning hours to knock out some nastiness around this place, I'd done NOTHING.  And when Mia came home from school, Landon would be mostly awake for the afternoon and I'd have my hands so full of chores that I'd have almost no time to play.  To do art projects with the girls.  To experience my kids. 

No, while they ran around outside in the soft and perfect, warm afternoon, I'd be stuck inside, sulking.  Slamming things around in the kitchen with clumsy speed, hoping to have dinner ready before bedtime. 

I was mad at my hoarded free-time.  I know it's not socially cool (something I've never claimed to be anyway) to announce that me-time is selfish, but that's exactly how I felt yesterday. 

By the time Justin and I went to bed, I had gotten almost nothing done.  It was as if I'd literally sat around all day eating bon-bons and watching soap operas: the banal stereotype of stay-at-home moms.  That was me.

I lamented.  "I'm so mad at myself," I told Justin.  He sat on the edge of the bed where I was crumpled in a heap at the foot.  "There was so much I needed to do today, and I just...skipped it all.  You know what I did?  I read.  That's all.  For over two hours -- enough time to clean the whole house -- I read my book.  Ugh!  Why am I so lazy?!"

He raised his eyebrows at my whining.  "Well...I mean...just put the book down next time?"

I rolled my eyes.  "But the thing is, I WANT to read.  I LOVE to read.  I'm ADDICTED to reading."

He shrugged.  Stepped over some dirty laundry on the floor.  Kissed my head on the way to brush his teeth. 

Later, we lay in bed.  Our lamps made the bed -- our hands, our faces -- warm and golden.  My feet were tucked under his calves and we both had books open on our tummies.  I closed the paperback cover, flipped the book over and glared at it.

"Finished?" he asked without looking up from his reading.

I sighed.  "Yep.  It's over now."

"See?"  He turned to face me.  "And you said you didn't get anything done today."  A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

I laughed; that tease of a smile filled me with promise.

Anyway, no bon-bons for me today.  Lauren and I are going to make banana bread.  I'm going to enlist her help to sort the laundry.  I'll let her play in the bubbles in the kitchen sink.  When Mia gets home, we'll read another few chapters of A Little Princess.

There are things to be done.  And motivation, too; a commodity. 

Let it be written: I will feel happy with this day at its end.  Then, I might search my shelves for a new book with which to reward myself.  Bon-bons before bed never hurt anyone.

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

A Failure

I once folded a pile of clean towels. 

Promptly, which was strange.  They usually sit in a heap on some unsuspecting surface -- couch; bed; bassinet -- until the surface is needed for a replacing load of darks or delicates.  But not this pile; it was folded while the towels still clung greedily to the dryer's warmth. 

And the way I fold towels is something to behold.  It takes a certain class of perfectionist to make sure no two blue towels are together, but that the growing tower of mismatched towels are in a sort of succession of color.  Blue, yellow, purple, white, blue, yellow, purple...

I'm very particular.  It's quite necessary.  I haven't figured out why, yet, but still. 

So this stack of warm, clean towels were folded.  On our love seat.  (Because if towels don't say love...)  Then, I did what any right-minded girl would do with such a stack.  I left them there.  Later in the afternoon, they were toppled during the daily seating-area-as-trampoline match-up: the preschooler in this corner, the kindergartner in this corner. 

Blame was placed.  Help was demanded.  Towels were fixed. 

I carried half of the stack to the front bathroom along with an assortment of fine washcloths.  The other half languished, cold and rumpled, in their regurgitated stack.  On the coffee table.  (Because if towels don't say kick your feet up...) 

The sun set.  The sun rose.  Twice.  (Then once more.)

The stack was in the way of a coloring sheet and plate of strawberries on the coffee table, and the linen closet was, perhaps, a few too many steps in the wrong direction.  So the stack was relocated, again.  To the back of the couch.  (Because if towels don't remind you of a stylish, knit throw on the sofa's rear...)

And as I sit here typing, the towels rebuke me.  They are growing flat with helplessness.  Any fluff of promise has departed along with my assertion of good housekeeping skills. 

If it weren't for the satisfaction of a nicely distributed color assortment (blue, yellow, blue, beige), I'd consider throwing the lot of them back into the dryer for another chance at perfection. 

As it is, I'll probably shuffle them to the ottoman.  That's at least seven steps closer to the linen closet. 

I certainly won't make any promises, though; I once folded a pile of clean towels, but the rest is up to fate.

Some Freshness

Oh, you guys!  Have you SEEN?!  There's a new interior design around This Heavenly Life, and I'm SO happy to open the curtains and let the light pour in! 

I've been needing something new for...oh...a couple of YEARS, and I finally gave up the hope of ever learning how to do it myself.  Something about the likelihood of me unleashing terror upon my blog's face which would then spill over into massively destructive code-warp over the internet as a whole...well it made me skittish.  No, I don't see myself as the center of the universe to be able to inflict such far-reaching damage.  But I DO have melodramatic tendencies.  They can be quite paralyzing, actually.

BUT!  There was a rescuer for my drama:

I'd like to thank Dorian Speed of Convolare Design for cleaning up around here and giving me some clean, bright space in which to dream up unlikely scenarios and emo-drivel.  I wanted more writing space, less frill around the edges, and several unknown -- yet picky -- elements that I couldn't really put into words.  So probably, I was a JOY of a client, I'm sure. 

Dorian has been beyond patient with my back-and-forthness, and mostly just...you know...my hero. 

So, thank you, Dorian! You took words like 'clean, simple, and open' and interpreted them into something I'm in love with. 

I now LIKE to look at my blog, and that's an enjoyable feeling.  So not only am I navel-gazing, I'm gazing at my navel-gazing.  With love.  A convolution of narcissism. 

I hope you like it!  We're still ironing out a few particulars, but it's here!

Now I need to go make some hot tea or something.  To soothe my smile-sore cheeks, you know.

What do you think?!

A Family of Spring Cleaners

Maybe it’s the lonely, irrelevant Santa statue that’s been perched on our TV stand since December.   Maybe it’s the overflow of toys that came from an abundant holiday season.  Maybe it’s my brain waking up after a winter’s worth of new-baby-distraction.

Whatever the inspiration, I’m telling you: our house is in need of spring cleaning. 

When our family keeps going and doing without looking too closely at our surroundings, glaring clutter becomes part of the landscape.  Somehow, an ancient pile of junk looks completely appropriate, because it’s been there too long for any of us to remember what the space is supposed to look like.

Yes, we need to buckle down and clean-up before spring. 

Only, the prospect of a weekend – a day, an hour – devoted to nothing but cleaning and organization fills me with doubt.  How can we possibly get anything worthwhile accomplished with three small children around?  Their playing, I imagine, will automatically undo any progress towards a fresh, clean house. 

Unless I embrace their energy and enlist their help to get the job done.

Very small children can actually be helpful with chores and cleaning, especially when the whole family is on board.  Here’s my plan for making use of the kids and their growing abilities as we approach spring cleaning together.  Maybe these easy ideas will help your family do the same.

We’ll make it playful.  There will certainly be upbeat music involved, as we dance our way through the chores.  Daddy’s socks on kindergarten-sized feet would make perfect dust-mops, and the background beats of our favorite music will keep us all motivated.  We’ll also add a little bit of friendly competition to keep the tasks entertaining.  Think, ‘Daddy and the preschooler against Mommy and the kindergartner in the battle of the sorted laundry.’ 

We’ll assign jobs that work with each child’s strengths.  One girl is very particular about things being just right, so she’ll be asked to carefully sweep every bit of floor debris into a small masking-taped square on the kitchen laminate.  She’ll have a child-sized broom to facilitate independence.  Another girl is especially enthusiastic about making faces in the mirror, so she’ll be given a vinegar-soaked rag and asked to wash all the mirrors.

The day will include breaks for the kids with no-mess activities like movies or coloring pages.  This will allow mom and dad time to tackle more labor-intensive work without worrying about new messes cropping up. 

We’ll modify chores that are typically out of their skill set.  Our preschooler, for example, is too small to push the heavy vacuum around, but she can definitely run the hand-held attachment over the couch cushions without much difficulty. 

We’ll expect distractions from our own tasks.  I have a bad habit of not being at my most gracious when my focus is interrupted.  So if I’m in the middle of sorting through a closet full of toddler clothes and a little one disturbs my flow, I’ll take a deep breath and show her how she can help. 

When the kids are included in our spring cleaning, my hope is that we’ll be able to get some work done while also learning the merits of teamwork.  Something I’ve realized while contemplating the state of our sloth is that if a thing is worth doing, it’s worth showing your children how to do, too.

[Originally published here.] 

In the Land of BFFs

Every day, Lauren asks Mia to play dress-up-dresses.  Her dramatic flair and love of everything magical are only satisfied by putting on something with shimmer or sparkle or ruffle, and she satisfies those needs daily.  Singing and dancing and prancing.  She is super willing to play by herself, as she so often does, but oh! -- the addition of a big sister seems to make her heart beat wildly. 

Only, Mia's heart doesn't beat to the same rhythm lately.  She's more about drawing or running or riding her scooter around the street with the little boy next door.  Dress-up-dresses are just not in the lineup of Mia's favorite things to do with a few spare minutes of playtime.  I blame kindergarten.

So yesterday when Lauren made her daily request for dress-ups, I sort of cringed inside.  Mia's learned to say no politely, but sweet little Lauren is still heartbroken with each negative answer.  To be fair to Mia, heartbroken is a common place for Lauren to go.  She's just so tender-souled.  Silly and wild, but so very tender. 

Despite the likelihood (great) of being turned down (again), Lauren presented her plea once more.

"Hey, Mia!  Do you wanna play dress-up-dresses with me?!"

 "Sure."  Mia, with her silvery-blue eyes and big kid pastimes, was casual.  She simply said sure. 

Lauren was beyond her sweet-hearted-self, and I spun around from the kitchen sink to witness the episode more closely.  Lauren froze with bent knees and arms akimbo.  Then she jumped for joy.  "Oh, MIA!!  You're going to play dress-up-dresses!!"

Next thing I knew, she had flung herself into Mia's arms, hugging and dancing around the kitchen.  They giggled until they were breathless and fell to the floor, a heap of sisters.

Mia caught her breath first -- "Lauren!  You are my very BEST friend!"

And that was the exact moment I melted into a puddle and seeped into the floorboards and under the house and became one with the earth: the beautiful, magnificent, nurturing earth. 

It kind of kills me how sweet my girls are. 

Bigger Picture Moments: Mean Girls Revisited

My mom and I had a winding, long conversation about Mean Girls the other day.  While she knew some of the stories I told, she hadn't been privy to all of them, and I could see the hurt on her face as we talked.  She felt like she'd let me down.  Like her reassurance and advice and consider the source, honey and this too, shall pass were all insignificant in the face of such adolescent heartbreak. 

I tried to explain: it wasn't something she could have fixed for me.  It was just, simply, the way life unfolds for some people.  And I suspect that some bit of cruel unfolding happens for more of us than not.  This is how humans operate, by and large, historically and emotionally: we need to feel bigger, better, and more important, which leads us, invariably, to crush those smaller than us under our heels as we stand taller.  We use each other to make ourselves feel more important. 

It is mind-blowingly easy to see now that the mean girls in my past had been used by someone bigger than themselves to augment status or self-importance.  Maybe an older sibling was hateful to them.  Maybe a trusted adult.  Maybe a group of self-conscious peers.  Whatever: they were made to feel small at some point and the only way they could, in their immaturity, find to grow stronger again was to repeat the cycle. 

Even I did it.  Knowing how badly it hurt to be hurt, I reciprocated in kind when I found someone who would fit easily under my heel.  I remember one sweet, slow girl...I'm too ashamed to spell it all out right now, but it happened.  Something I said made her face fall.  I can still see, exactly, the confusion when she creased her brow.  It was a first and a last for me, but I can never take it back.

I didn't have to explain to my mom how the meanness felt.  She knew already.  She was a junior high student once, too.  But more than that mere common denominator, she also had to wear a full-body cast for scoliosis.  She gets it.  Like I said, I don't believe many of us were immune to cruelty.

But what I tried to show her was that all of her words, her assurance and promises of character, they made a difference.

I might not have said the same thing when I was twelve.  I might have said, Thanks mom, but those words won't help the blaze recede from my face when a room full of 7th graders is laughing at me. 

Because her words weren't meant to make the meanness stop.  They were meant to bolster and enliven me over seasons and stages and years.  I doubt that even she knew her words were meant for the long-term.  (But maybe she did; she IS very wise.)  Her words did something better than solve the hurt-feelings problem at-hand. 

They burrowed deep into a secret shell and blossomed into truth that burned like fire in my self.  An unnoticed fire, a smolder, perhaps, but fire at any rate. 

The words -- the fire -- kept me. 

Though I was embarrassed about it, I still played the violin in the orchestra because I loved it.  Though I understood my habit of talking too much at awkward moments to be condemning, I didn't shut myself up because I had to speak.  Though I realized some of my friends would never catapult me into the cool crowd, I didn't abandon ship because they were my friends.  

What I mean is that my mom's words built themselves up like a shield around the person I was about to become.  Protecting me so I wouldn't forget who I was and what I loved about myself.

And today, I know who I am.  I am good.  I am worthwhile.  I am easily embarrassed.  I am compassionate.  I am awkward.  I am loved.  The mean girls didn't get the best of me, though I was sure at the time that they had.  Due in great measure to what my mother told me about myself and my worth,  I believe I got the best of me in the end.

I don't know what the mean girls got, if anything.  I kind of feel sorry for them.

So my daughters will enter this world of cruelty.  It's going to happen.  I fear it.  I won't know how to make it better.  I will speak words of encouragement and worth (and probably anger at the meanness of others) and it may fall on deaf, devastated ears.

But....

my words will burrow deep, blossoming someday into truth that burns like fire in their hearts. 

I'm no angel.  I just play one with crayons.

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 read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.