Connor's Song

It has been 365 days
 -  Plus a few -
Since you were unwrapped
From my tight, stretched tummy.

A gift -
Surprisingly fair and red and blond
So unlike your
Dark-skinned brother.

The Sandal's wedding song
played over the surgeon's
Pandora station
As you were plucked from inside me
And taken to be weighed and
baby-tortured in your first few
oxygen-breathing moments.

What went through my mind?
Thoughts of joy and exhaustion and
Tingly-pain,
Mingled with randomness:
That is a good song.
I'm glad he was born to that.

The next few days were full of
Morphine and marveling
My heart over-saturated
Tired
Processing
A veteran mother,
but a rookie again
to you and your cries,
wants, needs.

In the tradition of all new mothers,
the thought-question-challenge
slipped in and out, out and in
as I fingered your hands,
cradled your head,
traced your nose:
Am I up to this task?

365 days later
 - Plus a few -
The question still hangs
And, will, always, I think.
A good question:
One that reminds me of
My mission,
My limits,
My dependency on the divine.

I could write
For a year and some days
About this tension:
the impossible task
of raising a person
to be better than me -
isn't that every parent's dream?

But - just now
I hear you waking
Your tiny yawn,
Your sleepy stirring.

You jolt up - startled,
scared
But then you see me
Typing here on the floor.

Your face relaxes
As you settle back in
To dream a little more.
It's not that complicated,
You seem to say.

You are just glad
That the bed is soft,
Your belly is full,
And Mama is here.

Beautiful Mommy

Yesterday, I needed to calm my two year old down before supper, so we went to his room and sat on his bed. 

"Tell me a story," I said.

"O.K.!" he agreed, and launched into a tale.  I only remember the first three sentences, which went as follows:

"Once upon a time there was a girl.  And the girl's name was . . . p- p- p- MOMMY.  And Mommy was a beautiful girl . . ."

Doesn't your heart just melt?  I know mine did.  I mean, in the 34 months that this kid has been alive, I have:

• gone up and down 56 pounds - TWICE;
• felt the need to create a 48 hour rule --- as in, it's been 48 hours, you must now take a shower;
• have publicly "cracked a smile" multiple times because my ill fitting jeans can't stay up over my too tiny hiney and too big waist; and
• have gone WEEKS without makeup.

This may be acceptable in other parts of the world, but I live in the South.  Down here, we equate beautiful with made up and put together.  Woe to the new mother who confronts this standard . . . or at least this new mother.  I'm a hopeless, lost cause.

So, imagine my surprise when my two year old, with no coaching, called me beautiful.  He may not know the meaning of the word yet, but I don't really care that he doesn't know.  If he thinks me beautiful, then I am.  After all, don't I think MY mommy is beautiful?  Really - I do.  And not just when she is fixed up and on display at church or (because this is the South) the grocery store . . . but when she is tired at night after helping me for three weeks with my new baby, or when she is sipping her Gatorade while she cooks dinner for our family, or when she is watching Entertainment Tonight for her latest celeb gossip.

Do you know what makes my mom beautiful?  The fact that she is always actively loving me, even when I don't know it, even when she can't say it.  I know this now in a way that I didn't know it before I had two children of my own.  As I make my own mistakes along the way, she becomes more beautiful because I see just how hard it can be, and just how tenacious she is to love me 33 years long --- more than she loves herself.

So mommy, this one is for you.  Because once upon a time, there was a girl.  And her name was mommy.  And Mommy was a beautiful girl.

I love you!

Little Bird Takes a Nap (A Bedtime Story for Collin)

Little Bird was a beautiful bird with long, purple feathers.  He had an orange beak, orange feet, and little red stripes going up and down his legs.

One day Little Bird was flying over a field of flowers.  The flowers were beautiful and were all sorts of different colors:  red, orange, blue, pink, purple, white, and green.  Little Bird swooped up and down, over and around the flowers until he was all tired out.  He really needed a nap.

He spotted a tall tree with a nice, fat branch and he headed towards it, thinking that it would be a good place to settle in for a bit.  But - just as he swooped in towards the branch, he saw that the tree was in front of a little brown house with an open upstairs window.  Cheery yellow curtains were rustling in the breeze. 

Little Bird was a curious little bird and he couldn't resist the temptation to see what was inside that house.  He flew right past the tree branch and through the open window.

Inside, the yellow curtains rested against pleasant blue walls.  He hopped forward a bit more, and he saw a brown dresser, lots of books, and a little orange bed.  The bed had a happy blue bedspread with little monkeys dancing on it.  At the top of the bed, there was a brown and white giraffe pillow next to a black and white panda bear.

Little Bird was still very tired, and the bed looked so inviting.  He looked around the room and could see that no one was home, so he decided it was safe to take a nap.  He hopped over to the bed, used his beak to lift up the covers, and scooted under them for a cozy afternoon snooze. 

He slept for a long, long time. 

Do you know where Little Bird is now?

He just woke up! (Tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle)

Evidence

My eight month old is not a great sleeper.

On a good night, he wakes up once or twice.  Those nights aren't so bad because he can be a little charming in the middle of the night.  When he realizes that we are there to help him, his smile radiates through the dark. "I missed you, Mama and Daddy!"  he seems to say.

On a not-so-good-night, that sweet baby greeting loses its appeal around wake ups three and four.  And by wake ups five and six, there is nothing charming and dear about him.  Or me.  I am generally just angry.

Every parent knows that tired angry is not good.  Exhausted angry is worse.  It's actually a little scary.

Fortunately, my husband and I have developed an unspoken language that enables us to deal with our irrational, sleep-deprived emotions.  We each have a distinct "rescue-me-from-this-baby" grunt.  When we hear it, it is a non-negotiable call to action.

95% of the time, this system works out well for us.  Unfortunately, last night was one of those nights where we both hit the grunting stage at the same time.  At around 5:30 am, I flipped on the lights and took my infant downstairs to the play zone to preserve his well-being.  As he happily gnawed on a wooden giraffe, I popped open a Vanilla Coke Zero and jumped up and down in the kitchen until I was awake enough to function. 

How, I wondered, was I going to survive this day?  This month?  This year? 

If this sounds dramatic to you, I urge you to take the midnight to 5 a.m. shift at my house for a few nights. 

A couple of groggy hours later, the kids and I were on the way to daycare and work.  I was still on a woe-as-me thought trajectory when we turned off of the main street onto a little cut-through road.

There, in front of us, was a rainbow.  We paused at a railroad crossing, and my two-year-old and I both admired it.  "Whoa!" he exclaimed over and over again.  "A rainbow!"

Chill bumps rose up on my arm as I thought about the meaning of a rainbow: about its message of hope and mercy; about its representation of love; about its visible reminder that God is with us even during the storms.

Some days I can acquire perspective if I am intentional about it, but this was not one of those days.  I believe God heard my grunting and understood what I needed.

Proof.

Thank you, Father, for evidence that you love me and meet me in my trials - both big and small.

  

Sweet sleeping Connor.

Answered Prayer

About a year ago, I was walking my dog and pondering my plight as a non-property owning parent.  It had been a long Saturday, one in which my suddenly speedy one year old ran circles around and around and around the stairs.  We lived in a small rented condo with no yard, and my soon to be second born pressed too heavy on my bladder to make a park outing feasible for any length of time.

As my one year old giggled and galloped around the living room, I had cruelly condemned myself for failing to adequately provide for him.  My husband and I had given ourselves until the third trimester of my second pregnancy to find a suitable home for our little boys, and it was becoming clear that we were not going to meet our goal.  The condo was going to remain home sweet home.

My child, exhausted from his afternoon, was sleeping soundly when I ventured out for a walk.  As my dog and I meandered down the hill, I began to pray --- unsure why this God who professed to love me and my family would lead us into this situation with no back yard.  It wasn't a very good prayer because I interrupted it every few minutes to (1) rehash the life decisions that necessitated the condo; and (2) beat myself up for my lack of gratitude.

Suffocating from these toxic thoughts, I looked up at the night sky.  It was a beautiful, clear night --- one of those where every star in the heavens seemed to be visible.  I admired the starscape:  its vastness, its splendor, its timelessness.  In the stillness, I heard my soul breathe: 

Who owns the stars? 

And who owns the heavens?

Through these umprompted questions, it was suddenly evident how temporary my concept of property was.  Was the earth really mine to own anyway?  My life was so small . . . long after I was gone, whose property would my homestead be?

In that quiet moment, I realized that God was answering the prayer of my heart as opposed to the petitions of my lips.  Although I prayed for a home that I owned with a big backyard and lots of friendly neighbors, what my heart uttered was a plea for edification as a mother.  Please God, I subconsciously murmured, help me give my boys what they need. 

And in his perfect way, he did just that by reminding me of the insignificance of this thing I believed my children required.  My job as a mother, he seemed to say, was to cultivate in my children values of eternal worth. This home ownership hangup was a distractor.

Trust in me, I could hear him whisper to me, around me, over me.

It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was the message I needed.  Thanks and glory to a God who ministers to my thirsty soul.

Twinkle, Twinkle

On the night before Halloween, my family headed to a fall festival downtown.  As we strolled down the sidewalk, we spotted the first Christmas lights of the season twinkling in front of a neighborhood business. 

I rolled my eyes, dismayed that consumer madness was inching into October.

My two year old hasn't had a chance to become similarly jaded.  He smiled, pointed at the lights and innocently asked, "Is it Christmas in there, Mommy?"

His simple question went straight to my heart.

In recent years, I have begun to dislike the holidays.  My job is busy; my life is busy; my capacity for extra to-do items is low.  The lights, the decor, the presents:  all of these things seem to be more about keeping up with my Facebook friends than anything holy or pure or good.  It all just makes me tired.

And then I hear this question from my two year old, who knows nothing about Pottery Barn Christmas versus K-Mart Christmas.  He just sees lights and knows they indicate that Christmas is going on inside.

His comments reminded me that it isn't bad to celebrate.  It isn't bad to give gifts.  It isn't bad to put out lights.  It's only when those things become disconnected to what is going on inside that they become burdensome and heavy.

I made up my mind to check my focus this holiday season.  It is a time of joy.  It is a time to celebrate giving.  It is a time to celebrate love.  And it is okay to share that message with the world. 

Where is Baby?

Where is baby?
Fast asleep.
Nestled on mommy
Hand on her cheek.

Mommy is sleepy.
Too much to do!
She closes her eyes . . .

Baby is two.

Where is baby?
Climbing the stairs.
"I do it myself!"
Baby declares.

Mommy is running
Childcare and chores!
She pauses to breathe . . .

Baby is four.

Where is baby?
Starting Pre-K.
"I'll walk in alone.
You'll be okay."

Mommy is watching
Baby and time.
She turns to the car . . .

Baby is nine.

Where is baby?
Home with a friend.
Board games and soda.
Games of pretend.

Mommy is nearby.
On call to help.
She sets out a snack . . .

Baby is twelve.

Where is baby?
At a school dance.
Still watching Disney.
Wanting real-life romance.

Mommy smiles - knowing.
As baby preens.
She looks in the mirror. . .

Baby's fifteen.

Where is baby?
Alone in her bed.
Lonely, heartbroken.
"I wish I were dead!"

Mommy is waiting.
Should she intervene?
She knocks on the door. . .

Baby's eighteen.

Where is baby?
Off on her own.
On Mommy's bankroll.
Thinking she's grown.

Mommy is praying.
"Just keep her alive."
She opens her eyes . . .

Baby's twenty five.

Where is baby?
Traveling the globe.
New husband, big job.
She calls to unload.

Mommy is listening;
Glad that she called.
And then baby says
The best thing of all.

Where is baby?
He's on mommy's chest
Grandma is cooking.
You know the rest.