I Am Thankful: Four {A Bigger Picture Moment}

Last month was technically the month for being Thankful, but those weeks were taken up with meditations on the glory of my kids. And my husband is really deserving of a Thankful post of his very own. This is it. I am thankful for Justin.  Amen. 



For whatever reason, Justin is sitting at the very back of the van.  Every seat is filled except the passenger seat, so I'm alone in the cockpit, conveying my cargo across town.  It's only noon, but the sun seems to be falling toward the southwest already.  Pulled by a wintertime schedule.  The light is hot on my face, though, bright in my eyes.  I find my sunglasses in the cupholder and in putting them on, guard myself against the piercedness of the day. 

If I don't have a headache yet, it's not for lack of  trying.  Holiday shopping with three kids in-tow makes me twitchy and sharp.  They are not silent robots, following in my wake as I'd dreamed; they are darting mice, easily lost in crowds.  They are chattering chickadees, interrupting my thoughts. 

Oh, and I need my thoughts while shopping.  The thick crawl of people and lights and motion overwhelms me.  Can you imagine me somewhere like Disney World?  I would just freeze up and die from a purity of over stimulation.  If I can't think straight, a coil of tension wraps itself around my spine and reaches up to my neck and then the day just has to be done.  I quit.  Here is my white flag of surrender, wadded up in my clenched fist.

That's a pretty fair representation of my physical and mental state while driving through traffic with Justin in the back row.  One girl is probably singing, one girl is probably complaining (I suspect her coil of tension follows the same path as my own), and the baby boy is probably yelling at the top of his lungs about the indecency of rear-facing carseats. 

But Justin, he's leaning forward into the wildness.  He's drumming a rhythm to match one girl's tune, and tickling another girl into gigglehood.  He's offering funny faces and toe-rubs to the baby.  He's the ringmaster, and his performers are also his audience: rapt and adoring. 

I catch his eye in the rearview mirror, and he's bobbing his head to a song that I haven't bothered to hear.  The music is on, but it's just one more noise I'm trying to tune out.  His lips move with the lyrics, though, and I'm curious.  I turn up the volume.  I've never heard the song before -- not even once -- and right there, in holiday traffic, in piercing sunlight, in a full minivan, in the wilds of mid-parenting, tears gather in the corners of my eyes. 

Justin is singing now, full force, holding my gaze in the mirror, strumming his air guitar.  He grins at me like he wrote the song, or at the very least, goaded the radio station to play it at this very moment.

I take what I can get.  And what I get is to belong to him.  I get to be his sweetheart. 

A cloud overtakes the sun and just like that --

the day is no longer piercing. 









Every Thursday, we come together to share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimpse of the Bigger Picture through a simple moment. Join the Bigger Picture Community at Melissa's place today! Reflect upon something simple — or simply magical — that’s resonated with you this week, then share it with us!

I Am Thankful: Third {A Bigger Picture Moment}

The Light

We clean my bedroom together, Landon and I.  I lift a towel from the pile on the bed; he plants himself under its floating body; squeals as he's hidden beneath its tent.  And repeat.  Once the towels are in a stack, I move onto daddy's tshirts, and the game doesn't skip a beat.  Landon could be hidden and found from here to eternity, never losing his smile.   

When the piles are deconstructed, Landon wanders across the carpet in pursuit of his next diversion.  His legs aren't steady in the least; his steps look altogether unlikely.  Balance is precarious and fickle; a shadow threatens his gait. 

He stops at the edge of a trapezoid of sunshine stabbing in from the window, and studies the light.  It is warm and sharp and not unwelcome, but unexpected.  The room is usually all pillows and cuddles and softness.  He puts a toe into the heat, and stops, throwing his arms up for compensation.  The light has compromised his balance.  All at once, his bottom lands on the carpet, arms still overhead.  His crash has awoken a colony of particles and they fly in swirls and motes in the shaft of sunlight before him.  He is enchanted.  Or mesmerized.  Or maybe disgusted (let's not dwell on the myriad inhabitants of my carpet fibers...).  His arms slowly paddle through the air, disturbing the twinkling bits.  He stills, and points one finger into the melee.  A needle piercing the stardust.

Then, while I melt in the proximity of his innocence, he squeals and flaps his arms and stands back up again.  Chasing the next bits of wonder and light.

The Shadow

I didn't dare remove Landon from the shopping cart before getting all of the groceries loaded into the car.  He would have been the most inexpressibly unhappy baby since the last time I made him inexpressibly unhappy.  Like earlier in the day when I tried to wipe his face?  It's all better forgotten now, but just know that he threatened to never lay his head on my shoulder ever again, and I counter-bribed with the promise of an extra midnight snuggle.  An uneasy truce ensued.  I wasn't about to break it with a carseat infraction. 

He watches my every move, as usual.  He can be glued on my hip for the duration of dinner prep, and not utter a syllable of impatience.  Not shift for a millimeter of boredom.  When mama is working, Landon is watching.  When mama is standing still, though, Landon is squirming.  It holds true for most things, and the grocery-loading process -- riveting -- is no exception. 

In go the apples.  In go the cheeses.  In go the donuts (because, I mean...right?). 

A long, narrow shadow pokes its head into our space on the sunlit parking lot.  I follow it to its zenith.  It is a fellow shopper, angling her way toward us with an apparent mission in mind.  Is she going to spout advice about keeping the baby in the cold?  Might she point out something I've dropped?  I narrow my eyes and steel my spine for spontaneous interaction: the most terrifying sort.

She smiles.  Her skin is leather and mocha, warm and rich.  Her shadow covers us from the sun, and we are in a stripe of intimacy.  She reaches one hand toward my son, and when she gets close enough for me to notice that her eyes are an arresting, glittering black, she speaks.

"May I touch your baby?"

It's a beseech, not an ask.  A bless, not an impose.

"Absolutely!" I say, off-guard.  I put my hand on Landon's leg as she puts her own across the crown of his head.  Just where his baby hair is starting to whorl and sway.  I know exactly what she must be feeling: silk and warmth and the beginning of a whole, entire life, right under her bent and knobbed palm.

Then she steps back, her smile still perfectly unmoved.  "Thank you.  Babies have a way of making everything right again, don't they?"

I stare after her as she walks away, her shadow glancing off cars and shoppers and carts.  I must be a statue.  Because Landon strains and grunts and reaches for me, unwilling to let the moment linger, anxious to be moving again, or at least watch me get moving again. 

And I think my days must be one run-on sentence of rightness, if the shadowy stranger is correct.  So I load my things and kiss my baby and hum a little song that has come into my mind from nowhere.  Landon hums too.  A shadow of sound.

 

 

The Truth

 

I am thankful for my baby boy.  Every second of every day.

 

 

 

 

We're gathering our harvest of blessings and naming them one by one, sharing the gratitude in our hearts every Thursday through the end of November. Won't you join us today at Hyacynth's place? Share a picture, words, creation, or list; just come to the table with thanksgiving in your heart.

A Short List of Thankfuls

1.  I am thankful for hiding places and sunlight and silly kids. 

 

 

2.  I am thankful for hand lotion and humidifiers and steaming cups of hot tea. 

3.  I am thankful for kisses goodnight on early bedtime evenings.

4.  I am thankful for new books.

5.  I am thankful for cheap lipstick.  And plentiful makeup remover.

 

6.  I am thankful for freckled brown bananas and fresh-baked loaves.

 

7.  I am thankful for exclamations of wonder at the first star sighting.

 

8.  I am thankful for the familiar rowdiness of  neighborhood kids.

 

9.  I am thankful for Pioneer Woman's Pasta alla Vodka, and I am thankful for a high metabolism.

 

10.  I am thankful for the impossible colors of autumn.

 

 

11.  I am thankful for in-laws and extendeds and might-as-well-be-families.  I am thankful for hugs.

 

12.  I am thankful for a patient God, who allows me to question and falter and downright ignore, all in a quest for understanding.

 

13.  I am thankful for love.

 

14.  I am thankful for belly-laughs and tickle-monsters and chasing naked babies.  I am thankful for playing.

 

15.  I am thankful for blue skies and black skies.  I am thankful for white clouds and no clouds.  I am thankful for wind advisories and utter stillness.

 

16.  I am thankful for flying.

 

17.  I am thankful for history lessons and comic relief.

 

18.  I am thankful for jeans (and not skirts) and flats (and not heels). 

 

19.  I am thankful for tangled feet under extra blankets.

 

20.   I am thankful for slow motion memories.

I Am Thankful: Second {A Bigger Picture Moment}

I am trying to be anything but involved with her as she marches back and forth from the bookshelves to the couch.  It's naptime, see, or what should be naptime, but isn't because Lauren no longer naps in the middle of the day.  Landon, though, is sleeping, so we claim the hour for 'quiet' and 'rest'.  That is, I claim it; she refutes it. 

She catches my eye as I glance up from my own book.  She has the sweetest smile today.  Just a hint of a plan is forming, I can see it.  I bury my nose, releasing a hint to flap its way across the room: Mama's resting.  Do not disturb.

The winged hint fails.  Roosts.  I now have a couch-partner, and she's grabbing my free hand, but I keep my eyes on the page before me.  Resolute.  I will have this moment to myself.  But her palm is contracting, squeezing against my own.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  I glance at her and she's having trouble containing her joy.  It pulls on the corners of her lips and presses against her eyelids, and before I know it I'm smiling, too, and she's laughing, and I'm squeezing her hand in return.  I. Love. You.

She's pulled me out of rest and into love.  And it's more restful in that moment than my book would have been in any case. 

It's like this with Lauren.  She reminds me about life.  She fills empty spaces with idyllic light, throwing extraneous affairs into smudgy shadows; they don't matter as much as feeling the sweetness of the world matters. 

Maybe it's something middle-child-ish.  I have a completely different relationship with Lauren than I do (so far) with Mia or Landon.  Mia is my first -- I make most of my mistakes on her; I butt heads with her; I anticipate milestones and accomplishments of hers.  Landon is the baby -- I snuggle him, mostly, and dream about the scent of his skin, and exhaust myself chasing after him.  But Lauren...she is like a burst of freedom sandwiched snugly in-between. 

It's not easy freedom.  She kind of forces the freedom, like rose-colored blackmail.  I cannot resist those big blue eyes or the flower petal mouth.  She requires butterfly kisses and painted fingernails and hold-you hugs.  She enforces (so softly) extra stories and extra painting and extra tickling.  She demands conversation and attention...but not too much attention. 

She's so aware of it -- who's watching her and how they interpret her.  She doesn't want to stand out or be noticed, but when she lets her guard down, she explodes with grandiosity.  She runs with limbs flying and mouth wide open to catch the perfection in the air.  I imagine her ingesting it -- the world -- like a frosted cupcake, sprinkles first, because the dang thing is just so sweet.  

On the couch, we're giggling in whispers, and her teeth clench with each squeeze of my hand.  She doesn't stop at three squeezes, this time.  She keeps going, hiccuping with suppressed glee, squeezing into infinity.  And when she's done, she asks:

"Mama, did you feel that?!  I was pushing all of my love into you!"

I felt it, babydoll.  I absolutely did.  It filled me with gratitude.

Which is pretty much just thanksgiving covered in sprinkles.




We're gathering our harvest of blessings and naming them one by one, sharing the gratitude in our hearts every Thursday through the end of November. Won't you join us today at Corinne's place? Share a picture, words, creation, or list; just come to the table with thanksgiving in your heart.

I Am Thankful: First {A Bigger Picture Moment}

Mia is telling a story and it goes like this:

 

"Ryan is the fastest boy in first grade -- except maybe for Enoch -- and he can never catch me!  He chases me EVERY day, mom, but I'm faster than him and I keep getting away.  He can get thisclose, and I zoom away.  I don't want him to catch me!  But I do like being chased.  It's so exciting!  And sometimes, he gets his whole TEAM of boys to chase me and then I get a little bit scared but it's still so much fun!  I always, always have to wear my fastest running shoes to school, okay mom?  The more I run, the faster I can get!"

 

 

And I look at her like, who are you?  You're getting chased?  By boys?  And you LIKE it?

 

It boggles.  She is so different than I am, top to toe.  She is graceful and free-flowing.  I lurch and stub.  She is excited and ready.  I am standoffish and halting.  If she came from my body, it was only because she was planted there by somebody who is better than me. 

 

 

I look at her and I cannot breathe.  It's not beauty, necessarily, although she is stunning.  It is everything; her particles and cells and motion and air displacement are magical to me.  You can toss your explanations in here any time: my hormones or my mother's heart force me into irrational, spewing adoration.  Seeing my first mirror image growing into herself is intoxicating, though, and I don't care to explain it away.  

 

 

 

We have a staring contest on a regular basis.  Mia sits within a foot of my face, and we trade stares for as long as we can manage.  It's tricky the first couple of times to make sure she wins, because I want the game to continue. She masks her face into an unsmiling seriousness: the better to win. I relax my cheeks and get down to business.  I want to fall into her eyes and live there for a few minutes, a few decades. 

Her eyes are exactly the same color as mine.  Grey-blue and marbled.  Rich and deep at sunrise, icy and thin at dusk.  In there somewhere is a fully-formed soul, and it is hers alone, but I reach for it.

While I watch, her pupils grow and melt into her irises.  I feel swallowed whole.   

 

To say I am thankful for my daughter feels silly.  It isn't the whole truth. It would be better to say that I am completely consumed by gratitude for her place in this world.  I fall apart at the generosity of her life.  The fact of her presence.  The truth of her heart.  The sound of her laughter.  The challenges of her being my first attempt at mothering.  The strength of her legs.  The scope of her mind.  The curl of her body into my own as I sing her a song before bed.  The sweetness of her spirit.

 

But pared down to its most basic meaning, yes: I am thankful for Mia. 

 

 

 

 

We're gathering our harvest of blessings and naming them one by one, sharing the gratitude in our hearts every Thursday through the end of November. Won't you join us today at Jade's place? Share a picture, words, creation, or list; just come to the table with thanksgiving in your heart.

Halloween 2012: I Am Thankful

I started writing this last Thursday, on Bigger Picture day, and THIS is how long it's taken me to finish!  But I still had to share it :)

 

 

I'm usually lamenting our holidays in retrospect to some degree.  I blame the temper of an overtired toddler or the noise of an oversugared preschooler or the manners of an overindulged big kid. 

 

 

It all leaves me feeling like either my planning isn't good enough or my kids are too difficult.  I want it all to be perfect, because It's a holiday, dangit.  And holidays are where memories are captured.  THESE days will be remembered and laughed about and cherished.

 

 

Unless mama loses her cool, which has been happening with frustrating regularity. 

 

 

So I don't know what happened this year.  I really don't. 

 

There were frantic, irritated moments and the usual meltdowns about not being allowed to eat ALL THE CANDY.  There was a costume malfunction.  There was a refusal to wear the headpiece or carry the parasol (which cost an extra ten and twenty dollars each and were therefore representative of the crown jewels of Halloween).

 

Oddly enough, none of that really mattered.  It registered as normal and acceptable and right on my sliding scale of holiday magic. 

 

 

So when it came time to blow out the jack-o-lanterns and turn off the porch lights and revel in the craziness that was our neighborhood on Halloween night...

 

 

we were only left with thankfulness.  We ran out of candy after two hundred trick-or-treaters, our kids stayed up too late and ate too much sugar and were too shy to say thank you on more than one occasion.  There was an angry little boy who stomped away from our empty candy bowl.  There were late-night doorbell ringings past bedtime.  There was much, much, exhaustion. 

 

And it was all just right.  As it should be.

 

 

A holiday chock full of imperfections, that didn't measure up in all the right places, actually turned out to be cherishable after all.  It was amazing.  It was a relief. 

 

The only expectation I had was that it would be a wild ride.  Bumpy, curvy, sometimes speeding, sometimes crawling, and unquestionably wild.  And that made it perfect after all. 

An Open Letter to The Parking Lot Bully

When you tore off that scrap of junk mail and scrawled hateful words to me, you couldn't have known the true effect you'd have.

I do imagine you were going for something effectual, or else you wouldn't have taken the time to call me a bitch, among other things.  I won't get into the silliness behind calling someone you don't even know, who did no harm to you or your property, a derogatory name, but I will say that I think your vocabulary could use some embellishment.  At a certain level of maturity, the phrase dumb ass becomes less explanatory and more laughable.  I suppose you haven't reached that level yet, though, so I can forgive your choice of words.  Or maybe you are old enough to know better, and truly DID just feel the need to laugh.  I understand: sometimes you need to laugh. 

But I will never understand laughing at somebody else's expense.  For not parking as straight as you wished I would, you found it necessary to passive-aggressively berate me.  In this age of cyber-bullying and online-personality-boosting, I had forgotten that people use the same methods in real life: placing rude notes on windshields, calling out taunting words behind the protection of a crowd, building themselves up by bringing others down. 

I also forgot it was possible in this town.  Joplin has been open-hearted and generous for so long that I never would have imagined a crooked parking job could incite such hatred.  Even if I'd been outside of my designated lines -- which I wasn't -- I'd have been surprised by your anger at such an ugly level.  I did know I was parked less-than straight.  I also made sure I wasn't in anybody's way.  We exited our vehicle without any problems, and left plenty of room for you to do the same. 

But the effect you might have been trying to achieve -- proving your importance?  making me question my parking skills?  displaying your shining knowledge of cuss words? -- fell flat.  Well, mostly.  You did succeed in making me feel embarrassed and sad for several upsetting minutes.  Congratulations. 

The cool part, though, if one chooses to see it (and I do), is that your words helped remind me that the world isn't very nice.  I know the thought is neither new nor hopeful, but I am an admitted idealist, and I sometimes forget (or willfully ignore) the harsh parts of life. 

I watched my kids all weekend, making mistakes and having accidents and at times doing things every way but the right way.  I saw them trying so hard to learn life.  And where I might have grown frustrated or angry with them, I stopped.  I remembered your rudeness.  I remembered that my children are going to experience plenty of angry individuals in life and that I never want to contribute to their accumulation of negativity.  As if it could build up in their hearts like a slow leak of radiation. 

I know they'll be rocked by hatred at some point.  But I want them to remember the encompassing grip of acceptance and love more than the meanness.  I want their hearts to be so full of light that they are not harmed by dark words or shadowy intolerance.

So while you only meant to cause bad feelings and harm with your hatefulness?  I choose to contort your rudeness into something I can use for good.  I choose to forgive your act of intolerance.  I would even hug you if I were to see you again, because our days since your note have been so full of love, silliness, and joy. 

Thanks, bully.  I guess there's a place for you, after all.  Just not as you might have wished. 

Happy Parking!


The Perpetually Positive and Cheerfully Optimistic Lady Who Irritates Your Sense of Parking Lot Superiority,
Sarah The Heavenly

Bigger Picture Moment: Thankful for The Pause

This is the loveliest time of the whole year.  Maybe even the loveliest day of the whole year. 

The sky is full of wispy white clouds that blend invisibly into the endless blue, and the wind falls down in gusts.  Nothing is standing still; everything shudders and rattles to the thrill of autumn’s rhythm.

On the blacktop road lies every color of leaf.  They are, allegedly, dead.  But to be alive with such color makes up for a shortcoming as insurmountable as death.  Even the brown leaves, dull when still clinging to a branch, are infused with brilliance as they mingle with golden ochre, ginger, and ruby on the ground. 

A burst of air kicks up a cluster of leaves where they rest.  But they don’t simply scatter away with incoherence; they move in tandem.  Maybe one or two started it, and the others in close proximity joined in the swirl.  They become a whirlwind.  A cyclone.  A burnt and crumbling rainbow of color, marking a path of what might be destruction.  Chaos, perhaps. 

But the circularity of their dance seems too inevitable for chaos.  It has to swirl.  It has to gain momentum.  What choice does it have?  The wind is its only master, and nothing can stop the wind once its mind has been made up.

Except a brick wall.  Or a parked car on the roadside.  Or even, innocently, a child’s foot, placed within the circumference of the windy swirl. 

Then suddenly, everything stops.  The cyclone melts away into a carpet of leaves once more.  Gusts may disturb them again, but never will the same group of neighbors make up that exact whirlwind.  It’s disbanded. 

The leaves can rest.

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

I'm bounding through the house in past-our-bedtime mode:

Pick out pajamas, gather tomorrow’s clothes, pick up those toys, the baby’s crying, the girls are being too loud in the bath tub, my eyes are burning, what time is it?, find the blankie, grab some towels, he’ll need a diaper, the phone is ringing, I forgot the laundry, Mia’s backpack!, ‘I’ll be right there’, the baby’s still crying, OUCH! (I stubbed my toe), please hurry, let’s go let’s go let’s go.

Then, in the hallway, my husband blocks my path.  He stares down at me without saying a word.  I try to move past him into the bedroom where there are things that need to be done before bedtime can happen, but he stretches one arm out to the wall, and I’m pinned.  I can feel the momentum building inside my chest – I have to move because I’m tired and the baby’s crying and the girls are up too late.  I need to keep going.  It’s a compulsion that I can’t control.  To slow down or (good Lord – don’t even think it -) stop my forward motion is almost painful. 

I sigh and raise my brow with irritation.  “What?”

But I already know what he’ll say, and he knows that I know.  So he says nothing.  Instead, he pulls me to his chest – trapped – and forces me to pause. 

I’m angry.  I hate it when he does this.  It’s a brick wall that I cannot escape.  A foot in my whirlwind, messing up my perfect circle of purpose.

But I turn my head and rest it on his heart.  He drops his face to my hair and I go limp inside, wrapping my restless arms around his waist.  I breathe in the scent of his skin; even under his shirt, even after a long day, even with the smell of soap and chaos still swirling around us, even then – the scent of his skin is enough to make me calm.

My eyes close.

The baby is still crying.  Someone is splashing with too much gusto in the bath tub.  Tomorrow’s clothes are still unchosen.

But I am still.  I have paused.  He has made me pause. 

When we move away from one another, towards our mutual but separate tasks, the carpet of necessary work is still under our feet.  There are still gusts of disturbance and motion, but I know – I promise –

that I will not become a whirlwind again.  Not tonight.  I will rest.  Things will get done. 

They always do.

And this might be the loveliest time of our whole lives.  Maybe even the loveliest day of our whole lives. 

So while our family shudders and rattles to the thrill of this season’s rhythm, I’m thankful for the chance to experience it.

I’m thankful for the pause.

Bigger Picture Moments this month are all about Gratitude. What simple things -- big or small -- are you thankful for? Write about them -- photograph them -- poeticize them -- list them -- and share them with us at Alita's place today. Grab the button and enjoy this time of thanksgiving as we encourage each other to experience life's blessings!

Bigger Picture Moment: Thankful for 'Unconditional'

Dust flirted with carpet fibers and cracker crumbs in multiple locations on our floor.  Diapers and hair accessories and colored pencils and yesterday's worksheet and a novel and batteries competed for space on the coffee table.  The scent of spit-up milk permeated the air thanks to a cast-off and forgotten burp cloth slung over the back of the couch. 

Nothing was perfect.

My five-year-old was also slung across a couch.  One long leg, wrapped in three-day-old jeans and a favorite, dirty tennis-shoe, was swinging with more than latent energy.  It kicked and pumped as if she were trying to swing the couch up into the gray and dull skies above our rooftop.  One hand with delicate, slender fingers dipped into a cup of snacks absently as she hummed to herself.  I'm certain she wasn't even aware of the sounds she was making.

My three-year-old was sprawled on the carpet, arms and legs at odd angles.  Because if there is a way to arrange oneself on the floor artfully, she will find it.  Her waist folded sideways on itself and her hips wiggled.  From the side, her round cheek -- smooth as marble, but soft as satin -- formed new shapes of its own as she moved her face to match her cartoon-watching emotions.  There was apparently much need for consternation, surprise, and amusement to be expressed in turns.

My one-month old hugged me belly to belly.  His lips splayed confidently around my skin as he suckled and gulped -- greedy and frantic at first, calm and satisfied in the end.  His eyes were wide.  The only thing in his line of newborn vision was my face, and I could imagine its appearance.  Tired, unwashed, and smiling into his expectant eyes.  One clenched fist bumped against my chest methodically.  Like he was keeping rhythm.  Without warning, he unlatched and reared his head back against my arm.  He made a wet, pursed o with his lips before breaking into a huge grin, cooing and gasping at the sound of his own voice.

I met the eyes of my oldest as she heard her brother.  We smiled together. 

And none of them mind that I'm not perfectly groomed or sweet-smelling on this day.  None of them mind that we've watched far too much tv in the past month.  None of them mind that we've been off-schedule and on-edge and messy and disordered. 

None of them mind the crazy.

The feeling of being unconditionally loved and accepted saturated me.  Sopping and soothing my tired and ragged edges with warmth that was both undeserved and unbegged. 

I am thankful for being loved unconditionally.  And for the knowledge that I love these children

in exactly

the same

way.

Bigger Picture Moments this month are all about Gratitude. What simple things -- big or small -- are you thankful for? Write about them -- photograph them -- poeticize them -- list them -- and share them with us here today. Grab the button and enjoy this time of thanksgiving as we encourage each other to experience life's blessings!

Bigger Picture Moment: Thankful for Imagination

I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, in what is very apparently intended to be a Doctor's office.  There are Fisher-Price-colored tools and implements strategically placed and readily available for the next examination.  My examination, it seems. 

A three-year-old physician enters the room on feet that march with purpose.  She tosses her hair over one shoulder and purses her lips.  Her stethoscope is plugged into the space just between her earlobes and her neck, and she approaches me diligently.  She places her flower-shaped tool on my clavicle, and declares my heart to be in perfect condition. 

That sounds juuuust, right.  Now -- we need to take your 'pretenture'.  Don't. Move.

The thermometer is jabbed under my right armpit, then my left.  She tries her very best not to tickle me, but I, as a patient, am uncooperative this morning.  I jiggle and squirm and laugh until she loses her professional composure and laughs with me.  Her head is thrown back with abandon, and her throat rumbles with joy.  Her bedside manner is somewhat relaxed -- a trait I find to be adorably perfect, if somewhat unorthodox.  After our laughter abates, we settle in for the next part of my examination. 

The ear check. 

Oh, the ear check.  The part of any Doctor mappointnest that strikes fear and loathing into the heart of my children.  I resolve to show no fear, though.  I will be stalwart when faced with the ear-probe, just to show my Doctor/Daughter how easy it can be.

Ohh, I moan, my ears huuuuuurt.  She composes her face admirably and assures me that she will find the cause of my pain.  The scope is aimed at my eardrums and....there.  She's found the problem.

Sigh.  You CAN'T put candy corns into your ears, mama.  They're shoved in there and get all crumbly and falling apart and...she reaches in with tiny fingers to fish out my misplaced candy.  I nod with relief.  Thank goodness she's well-trained to identify such maladies as these.

The other ear is relieved of its candy corn crumbles, and she shows me the proper way to proceed.  Candy corn can ONLY go into your mouth, okay?  Without warning, she places two giant handfuls of imaginary candy corn into my waiting mouth.  I am somewhat startled that the Doctor advises her patient to consume candy -- no matter how delicious -- that once occupied the same space as earwax, but...

She knows what she is doing; who am I to question her authority?  I chew obediently.

We move on to more important things.  Eyes are checked and declared blue.  Bandages are cut off and medicine is applied without regard for either mess or pain.  She is thorough.  Something every Doctor should be.

Am I all better now?  I ask hopefully.

She nods and considers my arm.  You're good to go.  Just...remember, okay?  For your NEXT Doctor's mappointnest, we'll take out all of your splinters.  I'll use my pink scissors.  That will be a GOOD mappointnest.  I'll see you later.

And with that cryptic promise, she marches away into the distance.  Perhaps to another patient's room.

Perhaps, though, she'll switch games altogether and become something else entirely before she reaches her bedroom.  She has no limits.  The world is full of ill-placed candy corn for her.  She has only to consider where she'd like to go next.

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

I am thankful for play.  I am thankful for pretend.  I am thankful for Doctor's mappointnests.  I am thankful for imagination.  And I am thankful for being treated by the sweetest physician in the world. 

Bigger Picture Moments this month are all about Gratitude.  What simple things -- big or small -- are you thankful for?  Write about them -- photograph them -- poeticize them -- list them -- and share them with us at Lenae's place today.  Grab the button and enjoy this time of thanksgiving!

Rerun: Gratitude in Frustration

Originally published November 25, 2009.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!  I hope your day was wonderful!



If I am grateful for the wonders of motherhood, I am equally grateful for patience in handling motherhood. When I am driven thisclose to losing my temper, stopping to be grateful for the chance to practice patience is sometimes the furthest thought from my mind. But, to live in gratitude means that I must seek out ways to experience its beauty.

When the box of broken and tattered crayons is spilled (dumped?) for the 5th time in an afternoon, sending bits of waxy crumbs all over the kitchen floor, I am grateful for the chance to illustrate a life lesson: dump the crayons, and coloring is over.

When my 19-month old scales the bistro-table-height chairs before climbing to the edge of the even-taller kitchen table to do a dance which will knock over a glass of juice, I am grateful that she is strong and able. I am grateful that she did not fall -- this time. I am grateful for the industrial sized jug of juice that is waiting in the wings, and the drawer full of towels to clean up the mess. I am grateful that she has such great dance moves; I hear those are handy.

When my big girl tells me she doesn't love me anymore, she only loves daddy now instead, I am thankful that she has such a wonderful father to love. Perhaps even more (selfishly so), I am thankful that I have a husband who will quickly enumerate for Mia all the reasons she should be thankful for me. I am thankful for her comfort in speaking her feelings, even when they aren't what I want to hear. I am thankful that she will most certainly change her allegiance again tomorrow.

When there is toddler poop under my fingernails after an energetic diaper-changing session, I am grateful for warm water and foaming soap. I am grateful that potty training is just around the corner. I am grateful that my child has enough healthy food to keep her body working regularly. I am grateful for my cold which prevents me from smelling the disastrous diaper.

When eating out at a restaurant and Mia is fascinated enough by a woman with generous proportions to say (loudly): "I think she ate too much food, her belly is FULL!" I am thankful for Lauren's impatient yelling which has hopefully obscured her sister's insult. I am thankful for Mia's inquiring mind and imaginative thoughts. I am thankful that our budget limits our ability to dine out on a regular basis, therefore Mia's highly descriptive words aren't set upon the general public very often.

When my daughters wreck a room with spilled snacks, scattered toys, and screaming chaos, I am grateful that we are able to provide them with a safe place to mess up at all. I am grateful that they can entertain themselves. I am grateful that they are unbearably cute, because sometimes they can behave SO unattractively that the cuteness seems to be their only redeeming quality.

When it has been a long day filled with some combination of all of the above instances, I am filled with profound gratitude that my husband is no longer a road-warrior; he will be home soon. All I have to do is find a small measure of patience to sustain me until he arrives. Or until bedtime -- the point at which we can look back on the wonder of another day spent raising children and laugh at the antics of our darling daughters. Because, strangely enough, the time they spend sleeping seems to be the time when our gratitude is downright overflowing.

Go figure.

In what unpredictably messy moments do you experience gratitude? (Even if it's forced...)

Rerun: Grateful Mothering

Originally published November 24, 2009. 


Being a mother has been one of the most gratitude-fraught experiences of my life thus far. Yes, 'fraught'; sometimes the thankfulness is so deep and broad that it sucks everything else into its sphere. Sometimes the simple fact of my own motherhood terrifies me and forces me into places I'd never dreamed of before. But there is grace in that terror, as well. For without my children, I fear I'd be missing out on learning true gratitude.

I've experienced grace in the willingness of my body to support life. The process of assisting in the creation of a new soul is pure magic and adventure, filling my own old, cynical soul with wonder and gratitude. I am grateful that I've had the chance to be filled with such innocent and untouched life, feeling the tumbles and stretches, the kicks and prods, from the inside out. Perhaps the most shockingly grace-filled moments were when I first laid eyes on my children; learning their faces only to watch them change instantly.

Being able to provide every ounce of nourishment for them from within myself is something for which I will forever be thankful. It amazes me -- AMAZES ME --that everything they needed as infants was available within my hopeful embrace...sustaining them, sustaining me. I can't even express the joy that came with snuggling a warm, round body against my own and knowing that she was benefiting even more than I was. I am thankful for the helpful guidance I received while learning the art of breastfeeding. I am thankful that I had the opportunity to stay at home with them -- not having to worry about pumping enough milk or weaning to bottles before I was ready. Which turned out to be never, so, I am also thankful that the cost and time-consuming qualities of bottle feeding weren't ever a necessity.

As these girls have grown, I have been filled with gratitude at their wonderfully different personalities. Two unique individuals, two people with whom I can relate differently, two ways to experience gratitude in innumerable moments every day. Two separately beautiful, yet stunningly unified ways to teach me grace and humility at each new experience.

But those things are all based upon my experiences; the truly gratitude-worthy items are centered around the experiences of my daughters. It is wonderful to realize that I am thankful for their benefit.

I am thankful for the chances they have in life, for the unfolding stories in which they are unknowingly participating. I am thankful for the family surrounding them: grandparents, aunts & uncles, cousins, church friends, and friends for life. All of these people are ensuring that my children will never know loneliness or uncertainty in being cared for. I am so grateful that my children will always be loved and wanted.

I am grateful for the simple things they have access to, which so many children do not: warm beds, warm clothing, warm food, warm arms.

My gratitude turns into hope for their futures. I hope they know how much they are loved and appreciated. I hope they trust in their dreams. I hope they trust in God. I hope they find endless ways to practice gratitude in their growing-up lives.

And I hope I will never fail to be aware of all the ways that these children bless me -- fill me with gratitude -- with their very existence.

Rerun: Sensations of Gratitude

Originally posted on November 23, 2009; I liked my Thanksgiving series so much that I'm rerunning it this year!

I am grateful for the ability to feel, to be touched by this beautiful world in millions of tangible ways: I am grateful for sensations.

The smooth and tight coolness of fresh sheets waiting to envelop me at the end of a back-breaking day: I feel rest.

The warmth of a tear, either in a single drop or in a torrent of moisture, as it courses down my cheek: I feel memories.

The grasp of a miniature hand at my thigh, reaching up, up, for a mother's cradle: I feel love.

The rumble of a cat's purr under her silken coat, delighting in my wayward touch: I feel compassion.

The rounded swishing of dried beans as they're being rinsed in cool water, agitated by my capable hands and prepared for a simple meal: I feel security.

The crinkled sheets of artwork made with concentration by my darling girls, rustling and misaligned: I feel creativity.

The mindless caress of my husband's strong hand over my skin: I feel adoration.

The crushing chop of a sharp knife through raw vegetables; the wooden board confidently matching the metal edge: I feel contrast.

The delicate softness of a recipe card as it's being pulled from its hiding place, covered with my Grandmother's handwriting, and inscribed with family tradition: I feel sadness.

The slippery scalp of a child at bathtime, bubbled and squeaking after a day of messy imagination: I feel care.

The floating emptiness that surrounds me -- transports me -- as I pray my deepest thoughts to my Lord: I feel God.

I am so thankful to have the ability to feel and to notice sensations as they happen. What a remarkable gift it is to feel, and in feeling, to evoke emotional sensation as well.

What sensations are you grateful for, at this very moment?

We Were A Family Of Foreign Travelers

The music boomed out the front doors of the shop and into the hallway where we were seated. Around us, strangers, families, and individuals strolled through the mall, darting into stores and lugging plastic bags on their arms. We sat on an upholstered bench, eating a vending machine ice cream cone: just one to share between the girls and I -- Justin wasn't interested in the frozen pink and blue, bubblegum-flavored treat. Tattling crystals of frozen condensation sprinkled to the ground as we'd opened the package, melting on the industrial tiles of the mall floor, confessing the truth of the ice cream's long wait at the bottom of the machine's frozen stockpile.

The storefront before us was darkened, but not for lack of life inside. A deep bassline thrummed out around scantily clad mannequins and shoppers, all of the young and hip variety. This was the kind of store I'd always wanted to shop at when I was a teenager. A store full of fool-proof fashion, instant popularity, and automatic acceptance into the in-crowd. If I'd worn those faded and machine-frayed clothes, I'd have been in. I just knew it.

In what I considered to be a dramatic and unfair twist of life, I also knew I would never shop from that store. Looking at a single price tag on a should-be affordable piece of clothing once made my adolescent jaw drop in wonder. People paid this much for that?! I understood then that I wasn't going to ever fit into that crowd: my clothing was cheaper and less fashionable. Less tattered. Less baring. Far less expensive.

But with my family beside me, my dreams and hopes having drastically changed in the past decade, I just giggled at the thought of people -- slaves and followers -- spending so much money on such worthless clothing. Justin looked at me over our bubblegum-flavored little girls. "I think I'm going to head in there. Check out some new clothes," he declared with a twinkle in his chocolate brown eyes.

I lifted one brow in disbelief. "Sure thing," I joked. We'd be just about as welcome in that store -- with our sticky, pastel-colored children -- as a family of monkeys into Martha Stewart's living room. Despite my disbelief, when the ice cream was finished, he grabbed Mia by the hand and strolled confidently into the darkened store. Peeking back over her shoulder, Mia squealed in excitement: this was suddenly an adventure into a dark and noisy cave. After cleaning Lauren up, I followed, pushing the stroller into the abyss.

We were suddenly one with the store. Clothing piled in haphazard arrangements were our companions. Thumping music and shadowed corners were our heartbeat and lifeblood. Sweet, cologne-fragranced air was our...air. It was unsettling.

I couldn't see Justin or Mia anywhere; the store was a maze of walls and tables, lying in wait. Carefully, I navigated the aisles, cursing the choice to bring the stroller in the first place. But, I reasoned, trying to keep Lauren's curious hands away from the piles of clothing and displays of cologne would have been just as nerve-wracking. I pushed on, hoping to stumble across the rest of my family so we could be on our way. Circling around near the back of the store, we cut across a few labyrinthine rows to head back to the front. I was just about to turn the corner, squeezing between two tables, when the inevitable happened: I got stuck.

The stroller was wedged tightly between a table of cologne bottles and a one of properly tattered undergarments.

The store had apparently asserted its dislike of our messy, cumbersome family in favor of its more civilized customers. I carefully backed out from the tables, reversing the way I came, all the while under the superior gaze of the cashier. She was carelessly dressed in the same hip, tight clothing as the store mannequins, with posture just as brazenly confident. In contrast to her, I in my comfortable shoes and cardigan looked downright old.

Near the front of the store, I found Justin and Mia, looking for all the world like buried treasure in that darkened cave. Justin's handsome, loving face. Mia's glowing smile and flying hair. Lauren's laughing voice and waving hands greeting them.

This was my family.

We left the store -- that other world -- and eased back into the mall's traffic.

I was never so glad to be old. Unfashionable. Comfortable. Loved.

Gratitude In Frustration

In honor of Thanksgiving, I'm doing a small series on Gratitude. (Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here.) I'm thankful for so many blessings in life, many of which get overlooked on a daily -- hourly -- basis. In hopes that I'll remember to be more in touch with gratitude in tiny ways each day, I am turning my blessings loose to the internets. May you, also, find gratitude in the minutiae of life this Thanksgiving season.




If I am grateful for the wonders of motherhood, I am equally grateful for patience in handling motherhood. When I am driven thisclose to losing my temper, stopping to be grateful for the chance to practice patience is sometimes the furthest thought from my mind. But, to live in gratitude means that I must seek out ways to experience its beauty.

When the box of broken and tattered crayons is spilled (dumped?) for the 5th time in an afternoon, sending bits of waxy crumbs all over the kitchen floor, I am grateful for the chance to illustrate a life lesson: dump the crayons, and coloring is over.

When my 19-month old scales the bistro-table-height chairs before climbing to the edge of the even-taller kitchen table to do a dance which will knock over a glass of juice, I am grateful that she is strong and able. I am grateful that she did not fall -- this time. I am grateful for the industrial sized jug of juice that is waiting in the wings, and the drawer full of towels to clean up the mess. I am grateful that she has such great dance moves; I hear those are handy.

When my big girl tells me she doesn't love me anymore, she only loves daddy now instead, I am thankful that she has such a wonderful father to love. Perhaps even more (selfishly so), I am thankful that I have a husband who will quickly enumerate for Mia all the reasons she should be thankful for me. I am thankful for her comfort in speaking her feelings, even when they aren't what I want to hear. I am thankful that she will most certainly change her allegiance again tomorrow.

When there is toddler poop under my fingernails after an energetic diaper-changing session, I am grateful for warm water and foaming soap. I am grateful that potty training is just around the corner. I am grateful that my child has enough healthy food to keep her body working regularly. I am grateful for my cold which prevents me from smelling the disastrous diaper.

When eating out at a restaurant and Mia is fascinated enough by a woman with generous proportions to say (loudly): "I think she ate too much food, her belly is FULL!" I am thankful for Lauren's impatient yelling which has hopefully obscured her sister's insult. I am thankful for Mia's inquiring mind and imaginative thoughts. I am thankful that our budget limits our ability to dine out on a regular basis, therefore Mia's highly descriptive words aren't set upon the general public very often.

When my daughters wreck a room with spilled snacks, scattered toys, and screaming chaos, I am grateful that we are able to provide them with a safe place to mess up at all. I am grateful that they can entertain themselves. I am grateful that they are unbearably cute, because sometimes they can behave SO unattractively that the cuteness seems to be their only redeeming quality.

When it has been a long day filled with some combination of all of the above instances, I am filled with profound gratitude that my husband is no longer a road-warrior; he will be home soon. All I have to do is find a small measure of patience to sustain me until he arrives. Or until bedtime -- the point at which we can look back on the wonder of another day spent raising children and laugh at the antics of our darling daughters. Because, strangely enough, the time they spend sleeping seems to be the time when our gratitude is downright overflowing.

Go figure.

In what unpredictably messy moments do you experience gratitude? (Even if it's forced...)

Grateful Mothering

In honor of Thanksgiving, I'm doing a small series on Gratitude. (Part 1 is here.) I'm thankful for so many blessings in life, many of which get overlooked on a daily -- hourly -- basis. In hopes that I'll remember to be more in touch with gratitude in tiny ways each day, I am turning my blessings loose to the internets. May you, also, find gratitude in the minutiae of life this Thanksgiving season.

Being a mother has been one of the most gratitude-fraught experiences of my life thus far. Yes, 'fraught'; sometimes the thankfulness is so deep and broad that it sucks everything else into its sphere. Sometimes the simple fact of my own motherhood terrifies me and forces me into places I'd never dreamed of before. But there is grace in that terror, as well. For without my children, I fear I'd be missing out on learning true gratitude.

I've experienced grace in the willingness of my body to support life. The process of assisting in the creation of a new soul is pure magic and adventure, filling my own old, cynical soul with wonder and gratitude. I am grateful that I've had the chance to be filled with such innocent and untouched life, feeling the tumbles and stretches, the kicks and prods, from the inside out. Perhaps the most shockingly grace-filled moments were when I first laid eyes on my children; learning their faces only to watch them change instantly.

Being able to provide every ounce of nourishment for them from within myself is something for which I will forever be thankful. It amazes me -- AMAZES ME --that everything they needed as infants was available within my hopeful embrace...sustaining them, sustaining me. I can't even express the joy that came with snuggling a warm, round body against my own and knowing that she was benefiting even more than I was. I am thankful for the helpful guidance I received while learning the art of breastfeeding. I am thankful that I had the opportunity to stay at home with them -- not having to worry about pumping enough milk or weaning to bottles before I was ready. Which turned out to be never, so, I am also thankful that the cost and time-consuming qualities of bottle feeding weren't ever a necessity.

As these girls have grown, I have been filled with gratitude at their wonderfully different personalities. Two unique individuals, two people with whom I can relate differently, two ways to experience gratitude in innumerable moments every day. Two separately beautiful, yet stunningly unified ways to teach me grace and humility at each new experience.

But those things are all based upon my experiences; the truly gratitude-worthy items are centered around the experiences of my daughters. It is wonderful to realize that I am thankful for their benefit.

I am thankful for the chances they have in life, for the unfolding stories in which they are unknowingly participating. I am thankful for the family surrounding them: grandparents, aunts & uncles, cousins, church friends, and friends for life. All of these people are ensuring that my children will never know loneliness or uncertainty in being cared for. I am so grateful that my children will always be loved and wanted.

I am grateful for the simple things they have access to, which so many children do not: warm beds, warm clothing, warm food, warm arms.

My gratitude turns into hope for their futures. I hope they know how much they are loved and appreciated. I hope they trust in their dreams. I hope they trust in God. I hope they find endless ways to practice gratitude in their growing-up lives.

And I hope I will never fail to be aware of all the ways that these children bless me -- fill me with gratitude -- with their very existence.

Sensations Of Gratitude

In honor of Thanksgiving, I'm doing a small series on Gratitude. I'm thankful for so many blessings in life, many of which get overlooked on a daily -- hourly -- basis. In hopes that I'll remember to be more in touch with gratitude in tiny ways each day, I am turning my blessings loose to the internets. May you, also, find gratitude in the minutiae of life this Thanksgiving season.


I am grateful for the ability to feel, to be touched by this beautiful world in millions of tangible ways: I am grateful for sensations.

The smooth and tight coolness of fresh sheets waiting to envelop me at the end of a back-breaking day: I feel rest.

The warmth of a tear, either in a single drop or in a torrent of moisture, as it courses down my cheek: I feel memories.

The grasp of a miniature hand at my thigh, reaching up, up, for a mother's cradle: I feel love.

The rumble of a cat's purr under her silken coat, delighting in my wayward touch: I feel compassion.

The rounded swishing of dried beans as they're being rinsed in cool water, agitated by my capable hands and prepared for a simple meal: I feel security.

The crinkled sheets of artwork made with concentration by my darling girls, rustling and misaligned: I feel creativity.

The mindless caress of my husband's strong hand over my skin: I feel adoration.

The crushing chop of a sharp knife through raw vegetables; the wooden board confidently matching the metal edge: I feel contrast.

The delicate softness of a recipe card as it's being pulled from its hiding place, covered with my Grandmother's handwriting, and inscribed with family tradition: I feel sadness.

The slippery scalp of a child at bathtime, bubbled and squeaking after a day of messy imagination: I feel care.

The floating emptiness that surrounds me -- transports me -- as I pray my deepest thoughts to my Lord: I feel God.

I am so thankful to have the ability to feel and to notice sensations as they happen. What a remarkable gift it is to feel, and in feeling, to evoke emotional sensation as well.

What sensations are you grateful for, at this very moment?