To See a Darling

"Lauren, you ate all the strawberries!  Moooommmmm -- she ate the strawberries without saving any for me!"  According to Mia's voice, this is an impossibly remedied offense.  Lauren runs, bare feet slapping on the floor, to find me where I'm resting.  She looks ready to defend or argue or just use the whiny voice of the irreproachably blameless.  I cut her off at the pass. 

"Sweetie, there are more berries on the kitchen counter.  Just grab a couple and rinse them off."

More slapping feet.  No whining voice.  Mommy rests. 

But the baby cries, so I jog down the hallway and up the stairs and into the darkened nursery and replace the pacifier and the baby quiets.  On the retraced steps by the bathroom door, I pause at the sound of running water to peek through the cracked door.  Lauren is perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, swirling her hands in the sink.  She is singing softly, the water is running, and the drain is stoppered.

There is no way I can walk past this room, I think, as she turns to me with a smile on her face.  I imagine her to be hiding something from me -- a filled sink means tomfoolery.  A filled sink means buffoonery.  A filled sink means a task of housecleanery, with mama as slave. 

"Lauren, what...?"  I smell sweet hibiscus, or the closest approximation possible by a soap dispenser, and the sink water is covered in foamy bubbles.  Lauren's hand swishes through the suds, swirling figure-eights.  The sink's built-in overflow hole is about to be overflown; I stop the water.

"Hey!  Mama, I need that water!"

"I see that, but it was getting too high.  What are you doing in here -- did you finish your movie?"

"No, I...but you said...and I'm just...I'm washing the berries, see?"

And yes, bobbing under the bubbles, I see them now.  Soapy red berries are spinning in the sink, marinating in antibacterial iridescence.  It's a shame, I think, because our strawberries are almost gone and we're in the middle of an ice-storm, and we can't just skate out to the grocery store for more.  The bobbing berries are tainted and perfumed now. 

But she twists her lips hopefully and I see the glint of the globe lights over the mirror reflecting in her wide blue eyes.  She swirls the berries and I see it better, the scrim of residue swept away from my party-pooper eyes.  Red berries swimming in a bath of foam, sweetness in a champagne eddy. 

It's no good.  I lose my will to correct -- the one that has seen me through so many dreary days.  It slips down the drain as she rinses the berries in fresh water.  She's pulled the green stems off one by one, pride apparent in each pluck. 

She dries the strawberries on the bathroom towel, but it's impossible to remove their new soapy shine, and I think it's not necessary after all, because at that moment, Lauren is smiling and proud and so full of joy that neither the sweetness of the berries nor their new, floral scent can overcome her magnificence. 

Lauren hasn't washed the fruit, she's annointed it.  She's conferred her blessing upon the strawberries and made them instead into something glorious.  It's possible only in childhood, and only for a few years at that; the magic dissipates as we get taller and more boring.

But I see it. 

I want to tell her that I see it, but she wouldn't understand, and I'd just be a sobbing mother(deplorable) by the end of my speech.  I swoop her down from the counter and kiss her forehead instead.  It's an anointing of my own, and no less magnificently bestowed. 

She runs again, feet slapping again, bringing a bowlful of berries to her sister. 

And I see it all.

Yesterday: A Horror

I should have known it would be a terrible day when I knocked over a display of canned chicken broth at the grocery store.  When cans are rolling across aisles and under carts, people are staring and you cannot get a grip on the domino effect, you really should just go straight to the exit. Bad luck scores one for the dark side.  Canned goods as storm troopers.

Silly me, though, I soldiered on.  All the way to the parking lot where the loading of the goods commenced as usual: Landon in the cart, watching me work.  I turned around to rearrange a bag of bread (probably so it wouldn't be smashed by the evil canned chicken broth).

That was when Landon and the traitor shopping cart began to roll down the hill behind my unseeing back.  Rightfully, there should have been oncoming traffic, according to the Luck Of The Day, but fate must have been a little off, timing-wise.  A helpful gentleman saw what was happening before I did and wrangled the cart into submission, returning my smiling boy to my side.  An unwilling jockey on a runaway steed.  I offered the best known cure for embarrassment: self-deprecation.  "Ohmigoodness, thank you so much.  There goes my shot at the mother-of-the-year award, right?" 

Ha. 

Ha.

Ha! said the universe, with her storm troopers marching along to the next event.  They gave me plenty of respite, but still I was unprepared.

After school, Mia and her friend collided in the hallway -- a forehead met a mouth -- and the thunder echoed through the living room.  Mia's lip was pierced by her two front teeth, and her mouth was filled with blood.  We applied pressure and rinsed teeth and sipped water.  We dried tears and made bad jokes.  We even began to smile again.  Which only provoked the bad luck train into chugging forth.

Thump, I heard. 

Then thump-thump.

And as moms often do, I knew the thumping was my baby's head, and that he was falling down the staircase, and I was horrified and certain all at once that this would be a terrible, terrible thing.  I could feel the expression on my face freeze into one of terror and confusion: how had he gotten up the stairs?  The gate was closed...

But there he was, rolling over one last time as I rounded the corner, and he was screaming and red and he was in my arms without me even knowing how. 

Baby, baby, I've got you.  Baby, baby, how did you get up there?  Baby, baby, please be okay.

I searched his body and eyes for damage, looking to Lauren for explanations: how did this happen?  But she was scared and wouldn't answer.  I placed Landon down on the floor to see if he would walk, and I watched as he toddled back to the staircase, to the edge of the closed gate.  He looked at me and pushed it aside with all his strength, far enough to squeeze through the gap to the other side. 

So.  That's how it happened. 

The nurse's hotline said that if he seemed fine, he probably was fine, so we relaxed.  Oh, there were sit-down talks with the girls -- ALL of the girls: neighbors and sisters alike -- about babies not being allowed on the staircase, and if it happens, mama needs to know RIGHTNOW.  It's an emergency, not an entertaining spectacle to be watched with popcorn and giggles. 

Yes, ma'am.  We understand.

But it wasn't their fault.  It was the cloud of bad luck, hovering, ready to spill more acid rain on our day.  It's raining cans and babies.

So he was fine until he wasn't, and an hour later when he wouldn't stop crying, the emergency room seemed like the best place to be.  It was his inconsolability that frightened me the most; that, and his auto-closing eyes.  Noting something about brain injuries and sleep being terrifying, we went in search of doctors.  Landon cried for the next two hours, until he fell asleep in my arms in a triage room. 

We woke him for x-rays and CAT scans. 

He is fine.  Sore and tired and fine.

Also, he has bronchitis.  Which you cannot get from a tumble down 14 hardwood stairs, no matter how hard you try.

And that was the end of the no good, very unfortunate, series of bad, bad things day.  Justin and I ate dinner at ten o'clock like city-dwelling hipsters and fell asleep fast like bed-ridden geriatrics.  I noticed as I blinked my eyes one last time that the moon outside our window was bright and full and so, so white. 

I dreamed of its dark side, though.  The place where bad luck is stored up and doled out to unwitting mothers and their innocent children, one savory can at a time.

How Do You Motivate Your Kids?

One super-duper awesome benefit of being married to a graduate student was getting to be first in line to proofread scores of graduate papers during his studies.  There’s nothing as exciting as a Tuesday night spent slogging through a twenty-page report on international business models, especially when your usual reading fare is more related to Beezus and Ramona.

But it was during a proofreading session on motivation and employee management that I had a parenting epiphany.  My husband’s research paper outlined the differences between extrinsic and intrinsic motivation.  Extrinsic motivation included things like monetary bonuses, praise, and promotions: things that rely upon external forces.  Intrinsic motivation was based within the employee: pride in work, satisfaction from overcoming a challenge, fulfillment of personal goals.  His paper reached the conclusion that employers would have a happier workforce if they could enable their employees to tap into those intrinsic forces. 

Everyone knows that a happy workforce is a productive workforce, and I began thinking about how much this matched up with what I knew about kids.  When kids are happy, they’re easy to manage.  They’re fun and interesting and willing to try new things.  When they’re bossed and bribed and forced into submission, they grow bitter and resentful. 

Sure, you can tempt a child to clean his room in response to the promise of a reward, but the motivation to work vanishes when the external force is removed.  He might require ever-increasing rewards in order to complete the same job, erasing any gains in personal responsibility.

The need for internal motivation carries over into the rest of their lives, too.  We’re raising kids who will be responsible for finishing homework, making it to school on time, and setting and completing personal goals to further their lives.  How can they prepare for the world if all they know is extrinsic motivation at home?  Sometimes there’s no other reward for taking care of boring bits of business than the relief of knowing you’ve finished the job. 

Our goal should be to teach our kids satisfaction within themselves, not dependent upon how their parents, friends, or teachers reward them, whether it’s with words of praise or acceptance into the cool clique.

In the business world, this means granting employees more responsibility and finding ways for them to feel necessary and useful.  But how does it translate with families? 

Intrinsic motivation can be founded in an environment of acceptance.  Parents sometimes fall into the habit of seeing our children for who we want them to be, rather than for who they actually are.  By noticing their quirks and traits and building them into strengths, instead of hacking away at their burgeoning personalities, we teach our kids that they’re worthy of notice.  That their decisions have merit and their capabilities are valid. 

Next, we can add a second vital element: praise.  I don’t mean a constant stream of reassurance or worthless ‘Good job!’ exclamations.  I mean deep, thoughtful attention to detail.  Start noticing the specific ways your child worked towards a goal, and mention them.  Use big words like perseverance, teamwork, and dedication; it will open up a new avenue of showing our kids that their achievements are meaningful. 

When our kids recognize their personal values and passions as important, they’ll start tapping into their intrinsic motivators.  They’ll feel empowered to be productive, creative, and curious.  You’ll have laid the foundations for a human being who won’t require ever-increasing returns in order to feel motivated to tackle the work of life. 

Heritage {A Bigger Picture Moment}

"I don't have any idea where all my time goes," I tell her, shaking my head.  My shoulders scoot towards my ears, and I look around the kitchen.  A basket of harvest decorations is overflowing on the dining table.  Miniature gourds and pumpkins spill from the sides where Mia and Lauren left it all last night. I didn't have the heart to stop them from 'decorating' for Landon's party this weekend. Or maybe I didn't have the energy.

"I mean, what do I do all day?  It feels like I get nothing done, and still, I'm scrambling." I say it like she doesn't understand.

She leans against the counter with a secret, indulgent smile. 

If I could burrow deep into her thoughts, I know they'd be thick and warm right now.  But I would also feel the memory of her baby-raising years, pulling at her like sandbags on ropes that chafe across her shoulders.  If I paid attention, I might hear the clanging of pots and pans banged against the floor by my toddler-self or the rush of a shopping cart's rickety wheels through a grocery store while she hastily fills a cart before the kids start crying.  I would be filled with joy and dueling dismay at the thought of so many mothering years ahead.

She doesn't say anything.  In the blur of background that is my house on a school morning, I look into her eyes, the same color as my own, and I see it all there.  Blue-grey and simple, honest and happy:  there's nothing new under the sun, she says. 

But she says it wordlessly, and I hear it soul-deep. 

And despite the fact that she hasn't told me the secret of how to solve the problem, my mom has shown me the truth.  There is nothing new under the sun. 

It makes the day easier, somehow. 





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 Jade's place today! Reflect upon something simple — or simply magical — that’s resonated with you this week, then share it with us!

Bruises {A Bigger Picture Moment}

The cold apples numb my hands as I peel them over the sink. 

Strips of red and pink and gold fall away, and the perfect whiteness of apple pulp appears.  I'm using these for applesauce, to be stirred with cinnamon: a invitation for autumn.  This wholesome task might be in reparation for the raised voices from this morning. For the angry feelings towards a little girl who refused to budge. (Well, I wasn't budging, either.)

I rinse an apple under clear water.  Spare peels slip down among puddles.  But there, on the white flesh, is a deep brown spot.  A bruise, softening and breaking the sugars down into something dark and melted.  Pulpy.  My first instinct is to gouge it away with my knife.  It's not pretty; it's not fresh; it's not perfect. 

It's ugly.

I push the apple under the stream of water again.  Coldness rushes over my hands again.  I cannot feel the bruise under my fingertips. 

But it will cook just the same.  It will mash just the same.  It will sweeten just the same.

Across the room, Landon is using a pan lid as drum, cymbal, and hat.  He growls when the noise surprises him.  He grunts when the hat falls sideways.  He looks to me and lifts his arms, like a raised flag: here sits the boy, the one who makes all the noise.  His sister follows the racket, brings a wooden spoon, adds volume and rhythm.  They smile at each other and my heart flips over.

I chop apples -- bruised and mushed, white and crisp -- into a pot.  The whole is enough to absorb a bit of forgettable imperfection.  The juices are made more bold by some added flaws.  It will all cook down, I tell myself.  It will all come together in the end. 

It will all cook down, I chant, watching the little ones.  It will all cook down.

She meets my eyes and shoots me a thumbs-up while her brother squeals.  I think I'm forgiven for being the mean mom, the bruised one, leaking sweetness from ugly blemishes.  I think I'm forgiven for not being fresh and white under my grumpy morning.  It will all come together in the end. 






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!

Summer Boredom Busters

While summer isn’t exactly drawing to a close, we’re already feeling the effects of the long, unstructured days.  We’ve gone swimming as much as we can stand, read chapters for hours on end, emptied all the toys from the toy boxes, and declared ‘I’m bored’ enough times to make a mother’s ears bleed.    

Boredom isn’t a bad thing, truly; kids need time to stretch their brains into solving the problem of boredom.  Letting them wander around without particular plans allows children to come up with creative outlets and oddball solutions that will keep them entertained.  And that means more than turning on a movie to pass the time.  If you’ve used the television as a backup plan all summer long like we have, you’re probably to the point where even movies are leaving your kids bored and cranky.   

If it weren’t so miserably hot and dry outside, I’d give my usual advice when things get dull: go out and play.  Nature always seems to be the best babysitter when it comes to inspiring imaginative play.  But if I’m not willing to go out much myself in this weather, I can hardly require it of my children.

To get our little ones out of the funk of summer boredom, it can be helpful to provide a stockpile of ideas.  Hopefully, one good boredom-busting idea will spur others.  Once kids have had time to reawaken their imaginations, they’ll be more able to come up with their own creative solutions.  Until then, keep this quick list of fun options nearby to offer as inspiration when the summer days begin to drag.

Use stuffed animals to turn your bedroom into a zoo.

Play hide and seek.

Cut out and glue magazine pictures to create a collage.

Make homemade ice cream.

Draw a picture of an imaginary creature.

Skate around the kitchen in Dad’s socks.

Take a bubble bath.

Make a fort under the kitchen table.

Write a story about the best day of the year.

Build a bedroom-city with blocks and toy houses.

Paint.

Set up a living room lunch picnic.

Make paper bag puppets.

Look at family photo albums.

Invite friends over for a cupcake decorating party.

Make homemade play dough.

Fill a tray with dried beans or rice to scoop and pour.

Blow bubbles.

Make play money to use for grocery shopping in the kitchen pantry.

Melt old crayon bits in muffin tins.

Cut apple and potato halves into paint stamps.

And when possible, get down on the floor to simply play with your kids.  Adding an extra imagination to the mix ensures that boredom will be a distant memory in no time.

[Originally published in The Joplin Globe.]

Unforgettable {A Bigger Picture Moment}

It's not like we haven't done this a million times: up the stairs to the preschool classroom, over to the table full of markers and paper, backpack on the hook, blankie in her arms.  I could do this in my sleep, and I'm pretty sure -- on the nights I can't fall asleep because my brain is running in the same-old circles -- that's exactly what's happening.  I'm reliving the monotony of a day.  A series of moments.  Looped on repeat.  With accompanying soundtracks and requisite second-guessing.

But every preschool morning -- or summer preschool morning, as it were -- the process kind of falls apart at the end.  The steps are all supposed to lead to me walking out the door, leaving Lauren to play and learn for a few hours.  Just long enough for me to take Landon home and let him take a nap before heading back into town.  Instead, the steps lead to Lauren hugging my legs, clinging to my neck, refusing the classroom. 
I will say that it's not terrible; she's usually hiding a shy smile while begging me to stay.  She loves her teacher and the activities.  But every time, while her hands are tangled around some receding body part of mine, I feel bad about going. 

Why are you sad when it's time for school to start, sweetie?

Because I miss mama. 

Miss mama!?!  But there's so much cool stuff to do at school!  Soon, you won't miss me at all, I'm certain.  You'll forget all about me, because you'll be too busy having fun! 

No.  I'll always miss mama, even if I'm having fun.

So I give a dozen last kisses and squeeze a dozen last hugs and carefully extricate myself from her grasp.  She gathers her blankie to her chest like it will hold her together.  Thermal duct tape for the soul. 

Then the day comes.  You know the one? 

How was your morning, sweetheart?

It was great!  We had chapel, and art, and Miss J sang a song about a bear hunt and it was so funny, and...mama?  I FORGOT about you!  I forgot ALL about you!

She keeps discussing the morning's details, probably outlining the distribution and temperature of the snacks; the time she saw her big sister in the bathroom and gave her a hug; the way she wishes her best friend could be in her class.  She talks, as usual.

But I am only half listening.

Because she's finally learned how to forget about me.

And I have a sudden urge to run backwards in time -- limbs flailing with graceless desperation -- and replace her soft arms around my neck.  I would beg her not to forget about me after all.  I would carry her -- my babyest girl in a 4-year-old's disguise -- off into the sunset and we would live happily ever after, mama and baby, never to be parted by evil (wonderful) preschool teachers or evil (wonderful) independence. 

Instead, I smile right through all of my lying teeth. 

You did?!  I'm so happy, baby!  I KNEW you would forget about me! I KNEW you would. 






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 here today! Reflect upon something simple — or simply magical — that’s resonated with you this week, then share it with us!

Dichotomy {A Bigger Picture Moment}

There is something about being alone, without children and noise and clamor.  Something about silence.  Something about muffled needs and deep breaths.  There's something about relief and relaxation and unbundling that comes with being alone. 

The way a thought is allowed to begin -- a flake of dust settles onto a shelf --

and grow -- a hand sweeps over the dust, scattering it --

and move forward into something else entirely -- a puff of twinkling motes swirling in the light --

without ever once being interrupted.

There is just something about being alone.

Walking up the front steps, I hug it tight to my skin before releasing it into the sunset.  I open the door and let myself in where the children are racing and yelling and being gloriously noisy.

It's mama! 

Oh, MAMA!!  Mama's home!!

The arms surround my legs and waist pulling me down, erasing the last, clinging breaths of solitude. 

Each voice is telling a story about games or songs or snacks or all of them at the same time.  If a speck of thought-dust were to fall in the vicinity of my soul at this very moment, it would be buffeted about without ever reaching the ground.  There is no silence.  There is no stillness. 

But there are kisses.  There is joy.  There is a flailing, smiling baby, reaching for my arms.  There is a husband who has already cleared the dinner dishes.  There is bedtime.  There is craziness from all sides and it feels like slow heat, seeping into my skin.

There is something about being surrounded.




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 today at Melissa's place. Reflect upon something simple — or simply magical — that’s resonated with you this week, then share it with us!

Broken Teacups, Not Broken Children

I raised the tiny teacup to admire the sunlight flowing through the translucent white china.  Delicate blue flowers danced around the rim and down the s-curved handle.  This cup was part of a set I had owned as a girl.  Now it was my children’s turn to play. 

My four-year-old fed her baby doll a sip of tea while her six-year-old sister poured air-filled cream and sugar into a cup.  The scene was just as I had always dreamed it: perfect and calm and glowing around the edges. 

The first time a teacup clattered into a saucer, I gently reminded the girls about being careful with these treasures.  They nodded, eyes solemn and true; of course they would be careful. 

My old tea set provided the opportunity I’d been waiting for to complete some chores, so I put the time to good use.  I changed the baby’s diaper, switched a load of laundry, and made the bed.  In short, I made myself scarce. 

The girls chattered in the kitchen, happy with their successful tea party right up until there was a crash and a shatter.  You knew there would be a crash and a shatter, right?  Isn’t there always a crash and a shatter where handed-down tea sets are concerned? 

From the back of the house, I closed my eyes and willed it untrue, but my four-year-old broke the spell before it could take hold, racing down the hallway to speak her mind.

“Mama, I wasn’t the one who did that.  I was just watching and she dropped it and it broke ALL OVER THE FLOOR.”  Her hands were on her hips, daring me to oppose her innocence.  I shook my head, feeling frustration bubble up from my chest to choke at my throat. 

I was immediately angry.  My six-year-old must have been excessively careless and wild for such a thing to have happened, I was sure.  And though I hadn’t decided on a disciplinary strategy yet, she would certainly have consequences for her carelessness. 

In the kitchen, my oldest daughter looked up at me with tears trembling on her lower eyelids as she tried to gather tiny, porcelain pieces.  “It just slipped, mom.  I was being careful and I wanted to bring you a cup of tea and it slipped but I’ll try to fix it and I’m sorry!”  As her testament grew so did her emotion.  By the end of the speech she was crying outright. 

I surveyed the damage.  One shattered, irreparable tea cup; one messy, shard-covered floor; one broken-hearted, distraught little girl. 

On the tip of my tongue were the admonitions I’d carried with me into the kitchen.  Statements about her being old enough to know better, smart enough to think better, and careful enough to do better.  They died on my lips. 

In that moment, I knew that she was already suffering the consequences of carelessness.  She was already sad about the broken cup, worried about my feelings, and probably angry at herself for dropping the cup.  The last thing she needed was for fear of punishment to be added to the list. 

I stooped down and began sweeping the broken glass into a pile.  She helped me throw away the pieces. It was apparent that the natural consequences were enough and that she would never forget mom’s broken teacup. 

All that was left was for me to swallow my frustration and learn a lesson of my own: never turn your back on a tea party.

[Originally published in The Joplin Globe.]

Going Under {A Bigger Picture Moment}

There are children flopping around on my bed.  A foot kicks into my thigh, and I grunt, irritated but too sleepy to produce a reprimand.  I simply shift further from the tangle of legs and arms that won't be still.  My slice of mattress is dwindling.  Worse, the floppy, tangled children aren't joyful on this early morning.  They are fighty.  Shouty.  Make-mama-screamy.  I contemplate lifting my head from the pillow to address a rude voice, but deem it unworthy.  I will get nowhere -- there is nowhere to go, unless it's to fall off the edge.  Didn't I say the same thing yesterday?  Last month?  Last year?  I am drowning under the day, and it's only just begun. 

The baby monitor crackles to life; the baby is babbling and scooting.  Awake. 

I open my eyes and try to breathe, but the air isn't air at all.  It is dark water, and I'm going under.

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

A recurring dream floats around in my subconscious, waiting for uncertainty in my daily life before striking at night.  It's a lurker.  It never quite dissipates. 

There is a fast-flowing creek.  The water is clear and cold, running over slippy rocks and tangled roots before pooling under an outcropping of trees.  There, the rush and flow stills.  This place is dark and murky, clouded with just-disturbed mud.  Despite the nearness of clear water, I always, always choose the muddy pool.  I wade in slowly, digging my toes into the earth, seeking....the right place.  Or the right moment.

I lean forward and ease my chest down into the water -- so cold -- gasping for one last breath of air before going under, eyes open.  I search the darkness, watching the way an arm of sunlight allows its bones to be broken by the rippling surface.  Down here, I float and twist, looking for something that's hiding just beyond my memory. 

It's taking too long, though ,and my lungs are seizing up; I need oxygen.  I turn back to the surface but even before I do, I already know: the surface is gone.  There is only water -- miles and miles of water -- and the pool isn't in a shallow creek, it's at the cold bottom of a lake.  Reckless now, I use precious energy to find a source of air.  I scream and thrash.  Finally, my lungs are empty.  Imploding.  Shadows creep in around the edges of my vision and my fingers go numb. 

There is only one option left, and I'm too tired to resist it.  Stilling my arms and legs, I inhale.  One tiny sip of water after another, I breathe in, waiting for it to sear and burn. 

But it's the strangest thing: the water is breathable.  I frown and try for more, feeling desperately hopeful.  Gulps won't work -- I'll drown if I try anything more than a small sip, but those are precious and I don't mind.  The water is still over my head, the sunlight is still jagged and blue, the pressure is still crushing, and whatever I'm searching for is still nowhere to be seen. 

But I am alive.  I can breathe.  I can do this.

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

I roll towards the children and see: hair that is the same color as my own, eyes that frown in a mirror of my own.  They have nowhere to go but here, and the thought tugs at my blood: of course they don't.  They are part of me.  They belong right here. 

I take a sip of the day -- something tiny and vital -- and find that I can breathe without drowning.  I sit up and kiss each girl on the forehead (sip) before getting out of bed (sip) and speaking about kindness and expectations (sip).  I open the baby's door and he squeals in delight (sip).  The girls rush in behind me to smother him with kisses (sip) before tumble-weeding out to the kitchen. 

I open the shades (sip).  The sun shines in (sip). 

I can do 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 Jade's place today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they find the fullness in the simple. 

Tuesdays Around the World: Evening Shade

After the sun, after the water, after the splashes and squeals and kicks...

He is ready to lay still in the evening shade for one, precious moment.  The water was cool but the air is warm.  A soft cloth against damp goosebumps.

But this boy -- this tiny, quiet, beautiful boy -- will not be still for long.

He flips and rolls, discovering the prickles of grass, a fallen leaf, an expanse of lawn...

and he is off.  On his own.  For the very first time and for the millionth time, it just keeps happening.  Children were born to crawl away. 

And mothers were born to watch them go.  We hold our arms limp at our sides, waiting for our embodied hearts -- those children who fill us up -- to turn back, just for a piece of a moment, from their onward adventures.  To need us again.

 

 

Tuesdays Around the World is hosted by Communal Global -- go visit to take a quick globe-trot and make some new friends!

Also linking with Heather's Just Write -- another place to make new friends and share yourself with words.

Bigger Picture Moments: Rainbow Hunting

I thought it was only the nighttime bugs still grinding their noises into the sunrise.  Crickets and cicadas and katydids making a chorus of zeezerts in the forest.  They'd maybe forgotten the hour and had been so caught up in the joy of making music that they continued to carry on as the sky grew light. 

But the window light was too bright.  And too watery.  The music wasn't of insects, but of rainfall, pounding on the house in a sleepy drone.  Either way, I thought, the hmmmming was welcome.  The better to sing me back to sleep before the kids would wake for the day.  I rolled over and breathed deeply, throwing out a leg from under the quilt.  I love summertime typed itself behind my eyelids.  And then I was asleep again.

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

Breakfast is finished.  The dishes are scattered in unlikely places around the middle of the house.  An empty plate smeared with peanut butter and sprinkled with crushed toast crumbs is on the couch.  A cup of water sits beside a licked-clean bowl of yogurt on the tv cabinet. 

Rain still pelts the windows and I don't mind; the grass is already turning brown.  I whisper to the earth -- soak and savor -- but I know how hard it is to hold onto the freshness.  How quickly a hot wind can make one forget the cool drink that came only hours before.   

There have already been three arguments and it's not even 9 o'clock in the morning.  I might have already soaked and savored the best part of this day while I slept with one leg kicked free.  But that thought is sticky and gritty.  I wipe it away, flicking the leftover bits of negativity into the rain. 

At the patio door, a slanted sword of sunlight pierces the floor.  A sunny rain.  A rainy sun. 

"Girls!"  I am breathless.  "There's sunshine with the rain!  Hurry -- let's go see if we can find a rainbow!"  I am wearing swishy black pajama pants and a too-tight tank-top.  The girls are in their bathing suits, ready for everything summer might require.  They run to the hallway and shove their feet into rainboots.  I find my silver flip flops.  We are out the door in the wet air, startling a chickadee on the porch railing. 

We tromp into glittering grass, searching the skies.  Blue in the west, cloudy in the east where the sun climbs.  We are on the wrong side of it, I think.  But the girls race around the house, flinging the last of the raindrops off of their arms and legs as they fly. 

I watch them, tall and expectant and so ready to hunt a rainbow.  As if it weren't the most simple thing in the world -- refracted light through raining prisms.  As if a rainbow is their only desire on this summer morning, and would fulfill their every ideal.

It's only beautiful, I think.  Only colors.

But it's the fleeting surprise of the colors that make them worth hunting.  I watch my daughters hold hands and choose vantage points and laugh at preposterisms, and though there is no rainbow for us today, I see colors.  I see beautiful.

I see the fleeting surprise and I whisper to myself as they dash around the corner of the house--

Soak and savor it, Sarah.  Don't let the next hot wind erase the freshness of this moment.

And as I say it, the rain stops completely.  The clouds are wiped beyond the ring of trees, and there is nothing but a wide, jewel-blue sky to hear my promise. 



We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Alita's place today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they find the fullness in the simple. 

Bigger Picture Moments: In With the Sweetness

I will admit that I did not crawl out of the right side of the bed today.  Instead, it was the we'll be bored and irritable today side of the bed.  The keeping the girls busy without making messes because we need to sell the house side.  And maybe a little bit of when can I do something just for ME? side of the bed. 

Part of it is me feeling inadequate: it seems like the girls are arguing more than ever, leaving me to wonder.  How do I fix this?  Or at least not make it worse?  How much bickering should be allowed, versus how quickly I step in and cry uncle? 

Another part is my reaction to my energy-filled four-year-old.  Lauren is wild this summer, blooming into a big girl but still using little girl tactics, and it's not bringing out the best in me.  I'm losing my temper daily, which will only pave the way towards losing my temper hourly.  I don't want this.

I don't want to be angry with their learning how to be or with Lauren's exuberance, but when it's directed at an overwhelmed brother or used (loudly) when I'm trying to rock that brother to sleep... I just get so frustrated.  And the whining...and the hurt feelings...

So I woke up dreading the new day.

When Lauren came into the kitchen before breakfast, I kissed the top of her head, breathing in her sleepy scent.  In with the sweetness, out with yesterday's frustrations.  She stood at the back door, looking up at the bird feeder and to the shrubs beyond.  I tensed, waiting for her demand.  I'm hungry!  I need a drink!  What can we do today?  I knew what I would do; I would encourage her to think for herself.  I would remind her that she's capable.  I would smile and trust.  But still, I was tense.

Instead, she kept silent.  She squinted into the bright sky and unlocked the door.  Stealthily, she tiptoed onto the patio, crunching bare feet over discarded sunflower seed hulls.  The birds flapped away from the feeder noisily, disturbed.  I waited for her irritation; I thought the birds were what she wanted to get close to. 

She stepped to the shrub, lifted her arm, and plucked a flower.  It fell to the ground.  Again, I expected irritation.  Again, she kept moving.  She squatted down with her nightgown brushing the concrete, and smiled when she reached her treasure.  She stood and lifted it to her nose.  She came back inside the door, closed it, and locked it.

And handed the flower to me. 

I was ashamed of myself.  If each moment has the capacity to be something special -- either in a grand, spectacular way, or in a mundane, plodding way -- and I ruin it with horrible expectations, what is left?  I held Lauren's hand to my lips, kissing her generosity and innocence, and whispered a new incantation: in with the sweetness, out with the expectations.

The flower sits on the windowsill above my sink.  Admonishing with an open face.  Guiding with a bright smile.  Showing me what to see, serene in its observation.






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 find the fullness in the simple

Just Write

They are arguing again. 

They are arguing again, and it's over nothing important.  Something stupidly inane enough to make me want to claw at my chest with irritation.  What is it about bickering that makes me so crazy?

I step out of my body in those moments and see a second Sarah.  One who is trapped in a dark, bricked box.  She pounds her fists and elbows against the walls, scratching at the corners.  Sparks fly from her fingers and toes, finding no tinder, dying on the floor.  She screams with her head thrown back and rips at her scalp with torn and bloodied fingers.  There is simply no escape, though, and nobody to hear her. 

She sinks to the floor, leans into a corner, and takes a shaky breath.  Whispers a threatening curse.

When I step back into my body, I feel better.  The steam is evaporating and all I am left with are two little girls, irritated girls, and I wonder:

are they trapped and clawing and yelling within their own boxes?

And relying on me to unhinge their walls? 

But no, the box for me is my patience.  It is where I keep my outbursts.  It is my secret place, where nobody can see me as I fall apart and apart and apart, swirling sand in a leftover tidepool. 

So the sisters aren't in boxes at all.  They are spinning wildly in free air, throwing scowls instead of disguising them.  Stomping on sibling toes instead of kicking against unmoving walls. 

For a minute, I envy them that freedom. 

And then I feel my throat, tight from a held-in scream, burning from a not-released cry, and it grounds me.  Like a lightning rod grounds a bolt of electric fire: it takes the heat and current, and moves it along to somewhere it cannot cause harm.

I bury the lightning in my belly, and move forward. 

They are sisters, and this is normal, and I carry the lightning so we don't all burn the house down with our feelings.





I'm linking up today with Heather for Just Write.  Because I just needed to write.  Sometimes it's my lightning pole...

Go check out all the people who are Just Writing at The Extraordinary Ordinary!  It's a veritable party of thought.  Good stuff.

Remember the Golden Rule?

The day we found out we’d be having a second daughter, I began filling my head with rose-colored dreams.  Never having had a sister of my own, I spun sugared webs camaraderie for my daughters’ future relationship.  These girls would be the very best of friends. 

And some days, they really are.  They can entertain themselves for hours with a companionship that feels easy and comfortable. 

Then, there are the other days.  The days that make me wonder if it wouldn’t be better to lock them in separate rooms just to get some relief from all the bickering.  My daughters – those lovable, tender souls born of the same family and held by the same hearts – are capable of volleying angry accusations back and forth as if they were sworn enemies. 

I step into their disagreements mostly unprepared; all I can think about in the heat of the moment is making it stop.  Stop the yelling, stop the meanness, stop the petty tattling.  I dole out consequences and take away items of conflict, all in the name of immediate peace.

But the heart of the matter isn’t about resolving that single issue.  Consequential peace is only external; it sloughs off at each new altercation.  The solution can’t be for one girl to grant an apology or one girl to lose her turn.  While those things work once (repeated into infinity), they don’t teach my daughters to get along independently of my involvement.  What is needed is some inherent, internal force of understanding.

Half the time, though, the instructions I give one sister are at direct odds with those I give the other.  I’ll tell the irritated kindergartner that it isn’t okay to demand silence from the preschooler who is happily singing a made-up song.  And then I’ll turn around and tell the preschooler that it’s important to sing quietly or privately, so as not to bother those around us. 

I even confuse myself with these solutions.  I don’t want my older daughter to be intolerant of a bit of joyful – if grating – noise from her sister, but I also don’t want to encourage my younger daughter to be irritating at the expense of other people’s comfort. 

So the arguments escalate while I ponder the correct course. 

Only recently has the solution hit me square in my spun-sugared mind: invoke the power of the golden rule.  ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ works like a gem in sibling disagreements, because almost every altercation needs dual solutions.  One sibling should have been more considerate and the other should have been more patient.  One sister should have spoken more kindly, and the other should have been slower to judge. 

Using the golden rule also has the added benefit of instilling an inherent understanding of consideration for others.  Deep commitment to treating others as you’d wish to be treated helps children learn how to get along without a parent needing to step in at each argument.  Even better, if learned early, application of the golden rule should stop the arguments from occurring in the first place.

Admittedly, this is beginning to sound as rose-colored as the dreams I was trying to blink away in the first place.  Call me a die-hard Pollyanna if you will, but teaching consideration for others is never wrong.  I feel confident that adopting the golden rule as our family’s most vital reminder will only help our daughters get along more peacefully in the future. 

[Originally published in The Joplin Globe.]

Bigger Picture Moments: The Moment of Inconvenience

Of course it never happens when your phone is fully charged or there's someone free to babysit or you aren't in the middle of grocery shopping with a cart coming shockingly close to collapsing under the weight of its contents.

No, when it happens -- when you get a phone call that alerts you to the fact of your child's distressingly worrisome symptoms -- you'll be in the middle of a busy, messy day.  Your kitchen deserves immediate attention.  Your towels need to be thrown in the dryer.  Your baby is ready for a nap.  The frozen food in the trunk is in a perilously warm state. Your t-shirt is spouting the underarm evidence of a harried dash through a hot parking lot, and your arms ache from the effort of keeping that evidence under wraps. 

You'll rush to the child's side and the little voice in your head that whispers I'm sure it's actually nothing; the teacher was just being cautious will be stomped out by the truth.  She's sick.  She clings to her teacher (that lovely soul) with arms gone limp and a melted look in her watery eyes.  She oozes into your arms and you'll know: she is sick.  Suddenly, feverishly, worryingly sick.  Acute onset filters into your thoughts, a remembered remnant that cannot be explained.

So you'll forget about the dairy products in the back of the car and you'll pull your husband away from his work and you'll abandon dinner plans.  You'll stare at her face in the rearview mirror, worrying about the way her head lolls to one side and the way her breathing hitches in the middle like a bellows that's grown stiff with age.  You'll say I'd like for the Doctor to see her instead of we'll wait and see how she feels tomorrow.  Because to think of her like this for anything more than the next few hours...

Your eyes will well with tears for her pain as she strains against its grip.

And in the doctor's office, when they speak kindly about lungs and bacteria and pneumonia and shots and x-rays and admittance, you'll wonder why you didn't charge your cell phone last night like you always do, because shouldn't you be able to call your mom in a time like this?  But the red line of battery is razor-thin and blinking.  You shouldn't have snapped that superfluous photo, but the moment has passed.

You'll panic that the baby needs to nurse but he's home with daddy.  You'll fret about the inability to be everywhere at once.  You'll manage to arrange a breastfeeding session at the doctor's office, and you'll marvel at the way it somehow all became simple when narrowed down to its essence: do what needs to be done.

It never happens when it would be easy.  It never happens on a dull week.  It never happens when you're capable or ready or organized.  It happens on the last week of school, the first day of class, the night of the party, the weekend of the graduation, the hour of the meeting, the moment of inconvenience.

But it's heartening, isn't it?  The way your world rearranges and becomes just wide enough to accommodate the hand you've been dealt?  The way the clutter gets pushed aside, and all there is, all there ever will be, stares back at you with gloriously blue eyes and blazing pink cheeks, and wraps her hot hand around your weary fingers....

And you take care of your love. 

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful.  Please join us at Alita's place today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they find the fullness in the simple.

Bigger Picture Moments: I Am Alone

Mama, do you see this?

It's our secret place.  There's moss on the floor, and a little clearing with a stump. 

Okay, I promise.  We won't go any further in -- you'll be able to see us the whole time.

But we have to be alone, okay?  It's our fortress...



And I am alone. 

The baby is asleep in a curtained room, the sisters are spinning adventures in their canopied glade, and I am alone.  A wind pushes at my eyelashes, daring me to blink.  Trying to force my eyes into letting go.

It's what I've been chasing all day, I think: silence.  The lack of being needed or called or required.  I've tried to create it with coordinated rest times and strategically placed videos, but it's been elusive.  Busyness crashed around my edges willfully.  Defiantly.

But the silence is here now, stuffing into my ears like a twist of squeaky cotton; instead of comforting, it irritates.  I want to step forward into the wildflowers and push aside the boughs of young trees to hear the secret world of sisters.  I want to lay a blanket in the winking sunshine as it drops behind the forest and lie next to a giggling baby boy.  I want to discuss nothing with my husband, focus on the timbre of his voice filling the sky.

The wind shifts and I am assaulted with honeysuckle.  Or lilac.  Or both.  A superhigh falsetto reaches me from the forest -- a wood fairy, maybe.  A slender wisp of loneliness curls around my neck, sending shivers dancing along my arms.  I know I should be enjoying this moment, backing away to the porch with a book or a sweating glass of iced lemonade.  I should be smiling at my luck: I've achieved solitude at last.

Instead, I stand rooted to the grass -- bonded to this moment as solidly as I am excluded from it -- watching and waiting for the neediness to return, when I will probably bristle at its touch.  I am inconstant and full of my own neediness. 

I am a mother.

I rest my hands on my hips and turn my back on the mossy fortress and the secrets of sisters.  I face the honeysuckle.  Or the lilac. 

And I am alone.





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 find the fullness in the simple.

The Beheaded Peacock

She sits at the table, rotating her paper in loops and swirls as she colors.  A peacock is taking shape in bold crayon strokes: a much more colorful example than nature can provide.  It will be a masterpiece.

With her mouth propped open as an infallible aide to perfection, my daughter puts the finishing touches on her peacock.  Her pride billows up, making her stand straight and tall: she is an artist. 

She retrieves the scissors and carefully begins cutting.  As a budding artist, she’s very new at the practice of cutting shapes from paper.  She is slow and precise and imperfect in her skill.  Soon, scraps of paper are falling away from the peacock, freeing the bird from its white cage.

But tragedy strikes: some misapplied pressure (or maybe a feisty pair of blunt-nosed scissors, bent on wreaking havoc) makes a dangerous cut.  The peacock’s rainbowed neck is severed, lopped off almost entirely. 

The artist wails.  She is enraged.  She drops the entire endeavor in a pile on the floor, and smashes her fists against her eyes.  The peacock is lost.  Her hard work, for naught. 

It is my sudden instinct to quell the outburst.  My adult mind recoils from such dramatic tears over an inconsequential mistake.  It seems obvious to me that the project can be salvaged with a bit of tape or glue, and the peacock would go on to a long and happy life. 

I step forward to shush her irrational outburst.  Make her stop crying.  Force her to see reason.  Which will probably only encourage more anger.

Instead, I pause to remember a different route.  One that will affirm her emotion while offering consolation for her sadness.  A wave of understanding washes over me as I consider her effort: the time and care she put into her paper peacock, and her pride in her work.  Haven’t I been angry when a recipe was ruined by overbaking?  Haven’t I roared in frustration when my homemade Halloween costume came out too small for its intended wearer?

Instead of correcting her anger, I offer something else instead.  Something intended to show her that her emotion is valid and understandable, while leading her to discover a solution.

“You seem very angry about your peacock.  I’m sorry, sweetie.  It’s frustrating when things go wrong.”

She peels her chin off of her chest and sniffs in my direction.  I take this as a cue that she’s listening.  “I saw how hard you were working on it, and I wonder…do you think there’s any way we can fix it?”

She shakes her head and sobs again, negativity rolling off her shoulders in waves. 

I rub her back and tell her a story about a time I accidentally ripped right through the page of a library book, how mad I was, and how I carefully taped it back together.  “It wasn’t perfect,” I admit, “but it was still pretty.”

My four-year-old wipes her face.  She walks to the junk drawer and digs around for a roll of clear tape.  Then, we fix the peacock’s broken neck while salvaging a little girl’s broken heart. 

Now she knows that anger and frustration have names and that they can sometimes be overcome with a bit of thought.  She knows that her emotions aren’t only worthy of being shushed and stoppered.  

And she knows that emotions aren’t the end of the story: there can still be beauty after we’re done feeling angry.

{Originally Published at The Joplin Globe.}

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.