Temporary

When I was in high school, our church had a revival.  A really great evangelist came to speak, though unfortunately now all I can remember is that his name was Tommy.  Tommy the super speaker was really inspirational to me and my favorite thing that I walked away with was the ‘temporary’ stamp.

I ordered one immediately.

Or maybe my parents ordered it for me since I was still sponging off of them at that point.

Either way, we went home and found a stamp-ordering place and ordered a lovely, self-inking rubber stamp.  I still have it to this day (of course I do, since high school was just a few short years ago. Ahem.) It bears only one word.

Tommy said that we should all have a ‘temporary’ stamp, and we should be marking everything we see with it.  Being right in the middle of my angst-y youth, that really had an impact on me.  And I’ve carried that with me into the, um, older years of my youth.  Or adulthood. Whatever.

I think it’s a good reminder that applies to everything in life.  Sort of a ‘this too shall pass’ but more succinct and less annoying.

When Carrie Underwood released her Temporary Home song, I was thrilled.  So glad to know that I’m not the only one with this philosophy.

That’s it – that’s all I’ve got.  Short, sweet, and simple today.

Have a good one.

True Love

My young daughters have already begun to choose their future husbands.  I find it a bit odd since who I was going to marry was pretty much the farthest thing from my mind in  preschool, but this seems to be a common practice now.  I’ve found it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might, likely because I breathe a sigh of relief at all of their choices.

Lilly proudly declares, “I get married with Luke.”  Luke being a boy from our church.  He’s a very appropriate 2 years older, one of the cutest little boys I’ve ever seen, and just the right amount of ornery.  He makes me laugh just to look at him, and he comes from a good family.  And it just so happens that the girls are all good friends with his twin sister, so the families could just merge seamlessly.  Good choice Lilly.  Please remember this in high school.

Catie picked Carter, the son of some friends of ours.  Or possibly Isaac, their other son.  Either way, I’m good with it.  Another great family, great kids, super cute.  She & Isaac might be too similar to make it work, but thankfully they have a few years to iron out the details.  Thumbs up.

And then there’s Annie.  She is 7 and going into 2nd grade, and she wants to marry her best friend.  So far, a very solid plan.

What makes Annie’s choice so special is who her best friend is – a little boy from her class who is severely autistic.  They sit beside each other, and from day one Annie has adored him.

She never noticed that their skin is a different color.  She never cared that he is largely non-verbal.  Instead, she began checking books out of the library on sign language.  It wasn’t for 5 months that I realized she was doing this so she could learn to communicate with him.

She never cared that he throws fits of frustration.  She didn’t mind recently when he hit her on one such occasion.  In fact, she dismissed it immediately when I asked her about it, afraid he would get into trouble.  “It’s okay mom, he didn’t mean it!”

She carries tissues in her backpack so that she can use one of those if the need arises, because he doesn’t like everyone to use the tissue box.  He wants it to be his personal tissue box, and Annie is happy to comply.

She’s even gone so far as to re-arrange her bathroom schedule, because he doesn’t like it when she goes to the bathroom right after lunch.  She never questioned why this bothered him, she just accepted it.  And she loves him enough to change even that, just to ensure his happiness.

The first week of school, she told Catie about her new best friend.  “He has autism” I heard her say, and my ears perked up. 

“What’s that?” Catie asked.

“It’s just part of him, like you have blue eyes, and Lilly has big feet.  It’s part of what makes him him.  He’s really cool Catie, I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

And that was all she ever said about it – she’s never mentioned his autism since.  But him?  He gets discussed every day.

Their desks are together.  They line up together.  She holds his hand in the hallway, and she likes to sit with him at lunch so she can open his milk.  Sometimes they make swaps with their food, which works out particularly well for him since Annie eats like a bird.

She loves him with a heart that is pure, and she loves him from a place that is deeper than most adults I know. 

She has a completely normal, ordinary, everyday friendship with him, and I love this about her.  That she overlooks all that is different and notices only what is alike.

Recently I accompanied her class on a field trip, and I was pleased to see how kind she was to him.  She didn’t run off and leave him because things were new and exciting and he couldn’t keep up.  She still held his hand.  She still opened his drink.  She still looked after her buddy.

In fact she ditched me on the bus so she could ride with him instead, and she helped him do Mad Libs on the way.  That he didn’t understand ‘adjective’ or ‘adverb’ was no deterrent at all – she just found a way to make it work.  When he got out of his seat, she showed him the sign for ‘sit’.  When he was restless, she gave him my phone to watch cartoons.  And mostly, she gave him hugs.  Lots and lots of hugs.

I was so proud of her, and I told her that evening that I was happy to see how nicely she treated him, and what a good friend she was being.  At this she screwed up her little face, gave me a strange look and said, “I’m not his friend to be nice to him.  I just love him.”

And she does.  She just loves him.

I wonder how many times in his life he will experience that kind of blind, unconditional love.  I wonder how many times I will. 

I wonder how many times I offer that same selfless love to others.  Especially to those who aren’t family, to those who are different, to those who lash out at me in frustration. 

How often do I love purely, without expectation? 

How often do I overlook everything that makes someone different or difficult, and just. love. them.?

My daughter has the most amazing spirit I believe I have ever encountered, and praise God for it, because certainly it comes in spite of all the ways I fail her.  I very often feel she is the one setting the example for me. 

Today, I will strive to love like Annie.  It’s a lofty goal, but I have a great Teacher – in more ways than one.

The one where I go all Mom-crazy

There comes a time in every child’s life when they have to deal with a meanie. A bully. An unpleasant, difficult peer.

An 8-year-old jerkface, if you will.

Apparently for Annie, that time is now.

I. am. not. happy.

I’m kind of a warrior when it comes to my kids.  I can’t help it – I come by this naturally. In high school, our principal referred to my mom as ‘The Big Guns’ on more than one occasion.  Because if anyone so much as looked at one of her babies sideways, she’d have their head on a platter.

You might think that this would be embarrassing to a teenager.  I, however, was not embarrassed.  It felt fantastic to know that my mom had my back.  Also, I had more than one teacher with documented mental illness that seriously needed to find a new career path, so if my mom had to be the one to point that out, so be it.

[I hope that my daughters will appreciate this about me as well, since there's not a chance I'll stop any time soon.]

So enter the little punk that needs a good spanking girl who does not have nice manners. 

Honestly, Annie is a Pollyanna.  And overly dramatic. And often sensitive.

I take full responsibility for the Pollyanna thing. The melodrama comes from her father. Sensitivity? Not a clue.

So she’s never had to deal with a  mean girl before, and she’s ill-equipped.  She’s probably also more easily hurt than your average 7 year old who hasn’t been kicked in the gut before.

<sigh>

It doesn’t help that Annie is off-the-charts small for her age.  And this girl is more than a head taller, and bigger, and intimidating.  And when Annie tries to talk to her, the girl tells her she’s stupid.  She tells her to shut up.  She tells her she doesn’t care about her loose tooth. 

She tells her she doesn’t like her.

I’d like to tell the little girl exactly how I feel about her.  But that would be wrong.  And I’m supposed to be an adult.  And in theory, I should be ‘mature’ and ‘above that kind of behavior.’

I’m working on it.

In the meantime, I have no idea how to deal with this.  I’m torn between:

1. Helping Annie understand that you encounter mean people in life and you have to pray for them and find a way to toughen up and work through it
2. Leaving the extra-curricular activity where we encounter said girl, because Annie shouldn’t have to be anyone’s verbal punching bag in a supposedly fun activity
3. Telling the girl’s parents that they suck and their child is a mean, mean, mean little brat

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You don’t even need to tell me.

But I still want to.

And frankly, if I don’t get a favorable response from them when I address my concerns, I might just stoop that low.

Hopelessly Flawed – I warned you up front.

The Table

All great change in America begins at the dinner table.  -Ronald Reagan

I am a person with guilt.  Often over little things, like the time I threw a fit because my mom bought be the wrong clippie stuffed animal.  I believe I was 4 at the time.  I still have guilt over that.

I’m also a person with regret.  I don’t generally dwell on things, but there are a few that I can’t let go of, and my grandparents’ table is one of them.  Or rather, the table they used to have.  They are both gone now, making that long-lost table seem all the more precious.

Many years ago they moved from their lifelong home and auctioned off many of their possessions.  I knew at the time that I wanted that table, but I was a college student with a small apartment and no space for a second table.  Like an idiot I kept mine (from Value City Furniture – good call Heather) and let theirs go, and to this day I feel sick to my stomach when I think of it.  It’s no antique; in fact, it was a cheap table in mediocre condition with absolutely no monetary value.  But if I had any way of knowing where that table was now, I’d pay top dollar to have it back.

I’m thinking of it tonight because I found a paper I wrote in college.  The assignment was to write one page about a perfectly ordinary, inanimate object and make the reader care.  And to this day, I care very deeply about that table.

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The Table

There is a table at my grandparents’ house.  This plain, brown, worn-out old table is a treasure to the two beautiful people who own it.  No one in the world means more to me than them, and no thing in the world means more to them than that table.

The furniture itself is not the treasure; the table is a symbol of love and family.  The backs of the chairs are worn and faded from years of heavy use.  On hot summer days their finish softens, and shirts cling to the moist varnish.  The arms of the chairs are worn down from years of rough treatment and not-so-gentle hands pushing them back under the table.  The table’s legs are nicked and scratched, and it is by no means considered beautiful.   Appearances aren’t everything, though.  Few material possessions could hold more beauty than does the table in Grama’s kitchen.

Pap doesn’t fully understand why she won’t let it go.  The table, or half of the other furniture that Grama loves so dearly.  To this day I can hear them bickering over the old ironing board, so well-worn that it must be propped up on the counter to be used.  My father’s clothes were ironed on that same board forty-odd years ago.  Pap says that they should buy a new one, but Grama refuses.  “For memory’s sake,” I can hear her explaining over and over again, but Pap just shakes his head.  No one really understands like Grama.

For every aging piece of furniture that she clings to there is a story.  There is a story that makes the ironing board worth putting up with, and the ugly table worth holding on to.  I can remember when Grama decided to put a new cover on the stool in the kitchen – the one that sits in front of the paper plate drawer.  It always sits in front of the paper plate drawer, most inconveniently, and for no reason other than that’s where it’s always been.  For years, every time their decor changed, the stool cover changed, one layer on top of another.  Not so long ago the covers all came off.  Everyone laughed at the dozen or so different layers of material, but not Grama.  No one else quite understands.  A new cover went on, and the stool is now at home in a new corner of the kitchen.  It’s just not the same.

The table is the most talked about, though.  Everyone laughs, and they say they can appreciate her sentiment, but no one really does.  No one knows like Grama.

Twenty years ago, two beautiful little girls crawled underneath that table and decorated.  There are still pencil scratchings bearing the names of Amy and Beth, joined years later by the artwork of their little sister.  The family laughs at the mischief and moves on.  No one understands.

Two other little girls have joined the family since then, and I wonder where their names are.  Some may call it destruction, but to Grama it’s making memories.  Maybe we should show them where to write.

Maybe no one understands, but there is no denying the love in my Grama’s treasures.  What some look at as just ordinary furniture are some of her most prized possessions.

And to tell the truth, I think Pap does understand.  Sure, he’s not as vocal, not as teary-eyed or sentimental as Grama, but he also overestimates his ability to hide his emotions.  For all of his harassment, I know that Pap must understand or new things would have moved in long ago.

But still…no one understands like Grama.

We all appreciate that someone cares for us so deeply.  We love the comfortable, homey feeling of Grama’s house.  But no one really understands like she does.

I want to.  I want desperately to understand, to have the same memories and the same sentiments that my Grama does.  My parents told me once that I inherited her heart, and there is no bigger compliment that they could pay me.

Just thinking about Saturday mornings with Pap and Grama, Coco Wheats and bacon, riding through Seven Creeks in the back of Pap’s pickup, playing Trouble, sneaking into Pap’s Twinkies, and falling asleep on their shaggy brown carpet can make me cry.  I know nothing better in the world.

There are a million moments with my grandparents that I treasure, a million memories and a million hugs that I could never forget.  But nothing feels as good as going ‘home’ to their house, and no thing will ever be as precious as that old kitchen table.

————————————————————-

I ache with longing to see them again.  To sit at that long-gone table and share one more meal, play one more game.  I would give almost anything to have that table today.  But I don’t, and I can’t change that.

The only thing left to do is create a table of my own, one memory at a time.  And today, that is exactly what we did.

What I wish I could teach my husband

A man is not where he lives, but where he loves.  ~Latin Proverb

I have, quite clearly, the best job in the world.

The pay is lousy.  Nonexistent, one might say.

I’ll grant you that.  But there is nothing more wonderful than being a mom.  And I have some fantastic little girls.

Before we had kids, I worked outside the home.  The house was tidy, I cooked all of our meals, and we had free time.  And money.  Now many of those things have disappeared.  But my happiness has multiplied, and is found in unexpected places.  I’ve always said that my mini-van is my status symbol – it screams success every time I see it.  A tangible reminder that I have what I wanted my whole life.  But there are other reminders as well. 

Napkins that never quite stay in place,

doors that are never without little fingerprints,

drywall with nicks.

When I see this

it doesn’t look like a mess, it looks like art.

I’ve learned lessons along the way.  Like when you wipe down handrails, don’t forget to do the underside.

I’ve learned not to bother sweeping the floor until the kids are tucked into bed.

And I’ve learned that a table’s beauty is not found in its perfection, but rather in its wear.  The traces of glitter glue and marker add character.  The scratches and dents are reflections of our life.  Every groove, every missing bit of finish, every imperfection is part of our story.

I’ve also learned not to panic when someone ‘accidentally’ glues their craft to the table.  It comes off.

When Catie took a crayon to the wall, I left it there.  The days of scribbling on walls will be gone all too soon.  I will spend many years of my life fondly missing the crayon years – another day or two on the wall won’t hurt.

It even helps.  Reminds me of what is important (my girl) and what isn’t (my wall).  That little red alien drawing in the basement stairwell made me smile every time I walked past it.  Until yesterday, when it vanished.

You see, my husband is a neat freak.

6 years ago I bought this for our wall.

I treasure it.  He is not amused.

He’s always straightening, organizing, cleaning, re-arranging.  He never sits still.

While we’re stopping to smell the roses, he’s pulling weeds and planning to re-mulch.

If the girls want to play a game, I wipe off the table and spread it out. 

He sweeps the floor under the table, washes the seat cushions, decides to remove the leaves from the table and clean between them, and then runs out of time to play a game because the kids have to go to bed.

It breaks my heart.

He’s missing out in a huge way, and I don’t know how to make him see that.  The saying, ‘Can’t see the forest through the trees’ – well he isn’t living because he’s caught up in the details of life.

Is it possible to change someone?  To give someone the gift of a new perspective?  Is it possible for a control freak to let go of the reins?

I’m concerned about him.  About how this affects the kids.  About what it teaches them.

I’m concerned about the prospect of him going through life as an obligation instead of a blessing.  And I don’t know how to help him.

For years I felt this was my own shortcoming.  I readily admit I’m not a good housekeeper, so I believed that if only I did better, he’d be happier.  One day my mom kept the kids so that I could clean the house from top to bottom.  I worked my tail off for 10 hours and the place was spotless.  I was beyond excited about it, and how happy I knew he’d be. 

When he came home, he started scrubbing the inside of the kitchen cabinets.

I’ve told him since then that this was the day that I gave up.  I accepted that I would never be good enough.  I will never be able to make everything just right.  I’ll never be able to make him happy.

We control our own happiness – I firmly believe that.  Happiness is a choice.  I wish I could teach him that.

I wish I could show him how to dance in the rain.  How to count your blessings even when your world is crumbling.  How to take joy in a messy car, because it’s a by-product of child rearing.  How to love little socks scattered about, and muddy shoes on the porch.  How to relax, even if the house is messy.  How to relax, period.

We’re not romantic people, and Valentine’s Day, especially, is a day that means little to me.  A bouquet of flowers today means less than it would the other 364 days of the year.  We don’t typically exchange presents.  But today, this is a gift I’d like to give him. 

I’d like to teach my husband how to be happy.

Following My Bliss

I’ve been really bummed about not being able to go to Blissdom. I’ve actually never gone to a blogging conference (Although after hearing about BlogHer last summer, I wasn’t so disappointed that I missed out on all that drama).  Besides all of the learning opportunities (Getting Published workshop, I’m looking at you), Harry Connick, Jr. will be there.  Harry!  Y’all know how much I adore Harry.  And my dear friend Darcie will be there.  Since we live on opposite sides of the country, our chances to meet up are few and far between (Namely, WDW every October).  And on top of all of those good reasons to go, the conference is right in my backyard!  It’s in Nashville, city that I love, and oh-so-conveniently located for me.  So close, and yet so far. 

Alas, because of some unexpected bumps in the road of life, our disposable income is, um, less-than-plentiful these days.  We’re more in trip cancellation mode than trip planning mode.  I’m not bitter about it, but I am disappointed.  So when I heard that Mom in the City was giving away a Blissdom pass, I decided to give the dream of Blissdom one more shot.  As such, this is my entry in her giveaway – wish me luck!

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The theme of Blissdom 2010 is “Follow Your Bliss.”

2009 was a year full of challenges for me.  Unfortunately the year began with my beloved grandmother’s death.  We were very close – she was like a second mother to me – so this was an emotionally devastating event.  I am very fortunate to know that she was a Christian, and that she is in heaven with my grandfather right now, so my profound grief is also mingled with joy.  After her death I blogged about her, and about choosing happiness.  Because I do believe that happiness is a choice.  You don’t always feel it; sometimes you have to deliberately choose to be happy.  Over and over again. 

I spent a lot of last year choosing to be happy, in spite of my sense of loss.  In spite of the Grama shaped hole in my heart.  And then last fall, another devastating blow came in the form of a medical prognosis for my husband.  A very overwhelming diagnosis, and a future that is very uncertain. 

I will be happy, I will be happy. 

Fake it ’till you feel it.

I wish I could say that I’m feeling it.  That I’m not still faking.  But I’d be lying.

I’m an optimist by nature.  When I have a few pounds to lose, I appreciate living in a country where food is so plentiful.  When the kids are sick, I’m thankful that it’s pneumonia and not cancer.  As the medical bills pile up, I’m grateful that we are alive and here to worry about them. 

And worry isn’t the right word, really.  I’m not a worrier.  One of my favorites quotes is, “You can tell the size of your God by the length of your worry list.  The longer your list, the smaller your God.” 

I serve a big God.

And I know that God’s hand is in our situation, just as it always is.  I know that God is watching over us and providing for us, in good times and bad.  I know that others have it far worse than we do.

I am trying to be faithful.  But it’s hard not to be fearful.  It’s hard not to think about what the future might hold. This is a constant struggle.

2009 was largely spent choosing to be happy.  Choosing to find Bliss, even when it was lurking in the shadows.  Choosing to accept the flicker of candlelight, when a spotlight on my path would have been easier.  Choosing to believe that true Bliss will come again one day, and faking Bliss until it does.

I do not know what 2010 will hold.  I wish I could say that something has changed, but it hasn’t.  My husband’s medical condition remains the same.  I write this on the 1-year anniversary of my Grama’s passing.  Maybe that’s significant.  Maybe this is a day that, down the road, I will look back on as a turning point.  I hope so. 

For now, the future is uncertain.  I am grateful to know that whatever it holds, I have a Savior who will carry me through it all. 

And that’s enough. 

That’s where my Bliss lies.  Today and forever, in Him.

Jesus, bring the rain.

Water Safety

My dear friend Darcie just posted something that you absolutely must read.  I have no words more profound than hers, and nothing to add to what she said.  Please visit her site and take her warning to heart, so it will not happen to your family – your child.

Never be too nice to the dentist

My husband is switching jobs next week, which means a change in insurance and a short-term policy for 90 days.  In a scramble to have everyone checked out before then, the girls and I have all had dentist appointments.  When Catie and I went last week, they found a sugar bug in each of our mouths.  They said that both were minor, just barely anything, and we could watch and wait.  But being reluctant to allow a cavity to form, I made appointments to get us fixed. 

When we went in yesterday, Catie went first.  Her total time was 12 minutes, including getting the moon gas, allowing it time to take effect before they began the work, and her picking out a prize after they were done.  12 minutes.

My total time was 2 hours and 3 minutes.

Yes.

My tiny little doesn’t-even-need-to-be-fixed-now spot became a huge ordeal.  Why? you might be wondering.  Because unbeknownst to me, I was given a student or a resident or whatever you call them when they are not a real dentist. 

Now I understand that everyone needs to learn at some point. And I’m a pretty easygoing gal.  But this is not what I signed up for.  I do not go to a dental school for our work to be done, we have a regular practice.  I did not know when I made the appointment that this is who would be doing the work.  (Because guess who would have been doing the watch-and-see then?)  And I our insurance is not being billed a discounted rate for having the student do the work.  All of these things add up to me not being a happy camper.

The other problem is that I didn’t know she wasn’t a dentist until she started working.  On the wrong tooth. 

Yup.

Numbed and drilled the. wrong. tooth.

Oopsie!

So then when we’re finally all on the same page about exactly which tooth needs attention, she begins to drill.  And drill.  And drill some more.  Apparently that microscopic little possible problem was nearly impossible for her to reach.  After 40 minutes of drilling I was fantasizing about smacking her in the face.

I’d already run through all of the Presidents in order (as best as I could recollect), the Gettysburg address, Hamlet’s big speech, and the words to every Joshua Kadison song I could remember (thanks, dentist office Muzak!).  Clearly there was nothing left to think about but how much I dislike this student. 

Don’t get me wrong, she seemed very sweet.  And an hour previous I’d have been just fine with her. Heck, 20 minutes previous I might have been more generous.  But at that point, I was really seriously done.

She, unfortunately, was far from done.  She called in a Real Dentist to look at her work, and he (of course) proclaimed that she was not done, so he drilled himself for less than a minute.  Upon his departure, I guess the student felt she was smarter than the master, because she started drilling again.

Yeah.

She finally finished and got out her tools to fix the damage she’d done, but accidentally slipped and cut my mouth.  The blood was too much to easily suction away so they had to stop for a few minutes and let that clear out before proceeding.  To her credit, at this point she was smart enough to leave the room while I waited.  I’m guessing she was afraid to stay in a small room with me and sharp objects.

She did the actual filling relatively quickly at that point.  But then of course that filling needed to be filed.  For approximately 45 minutes.  Now I was over being angry and just wanted to cry and/or fall asleep.  But I couldn’t sleep, because I had to do that whole bite/grind thing over and over and over again so she could figure out where to sand.  I think it was a crap shoot for her, because she was all over the place in there.  The normal two-time bite and grind became a 12 time procedure.  Twelve.

By the time we left my leg had fallen asleep, my lower face was puffy, and even the second round of numbing had begun to wear off.  Catie had fallen asleep in her chair while watching cartoons.  And the pseudo-dentist declared that her hands were tired.  Yeah, so is my jaw, lady.

I should have asked for another dentist.  A real dentist.

I should have made her stop.

At the very least, I should have complained on the way out.  Or with a phone call today.

But I’m reminded of that line from Fried Green Tomatoes.  “Assertiveness Training for Southern Women.  Now that’s a contradiction in terms.”

And it is.

So I shall be a very sweet southern lady and suffer in silence at the dentist.

But learn from my experience, my friends.  The dentist’s office is no place to be polite.

You’ve been warned.

Warning – pictures aren’t for the weak stomached

In fact, my husband couldn’t believe I was going to share these with you, but hey, the story was too good for me to pass up. And the visuals just help it along.

Back in December, I was slaving away over Christmas gifts for the girls, sewing round the clock. For the first time in my life, like a complete idiot, I sewed my finger. The needle broke off, actually.

Chris wasn’t home yet (of course – don’t these things always happen when you’re home alone?). I wasn’t sure what would happen as I was still in shock, so I immediately wrote down my parents’ phone number and told Annie to call them if I fainted. Quick thinking, huh?

Then I went upstairs to prepare to deal with the situation. I got the peroxide, the rubbing alcohol, the tweezers…huddled over the kitchen sink, and then a glance to my right told me that my camera was nearby. I mean, it’s not everyday that a girl has a needle broken off in her finger, right? I mean, it went clear through and everything! I had you all in mind even in my time of crisis. I whipped out the camera, struggling to remove the lens cap without getting blood on anything, and managed to take a couple of quick pics for the blog. Which is right about the time my dear husband walked in and nearly fainted. He’s not good with blood. Or crises.

Anywho… he thinks this is totally disgusting and inappropriate to share, but to me it’s just fodder for the blog, baby. Of course it’s gross – in a really cool kinda way.

Needle protruding pictures to follow – you’ve been warned.

PS) I don’t know why I said ‘anywho’ up there – please forgive me. It even annoys me when people say that…somehow it just slipped out.

and an addendum…

Here is my contribution to The Mother Letter project…

Dear Mother,

Today was so much fun. With three children 5 and under, you can imagine how much fun each and every day is, but of course some are more fun than others. Often because some days the kids are more helpful than they are on others. And really, who could possibly make dinner without the help of a 3 year old? Or clean up a playroom without a toddler following right behind you – ‘helping’, of course.

Today was especially fun because it involved a trip to the store. A trip to the store to pick up 3 – exactly 3 – items. A trip to the store which took an hour and 20 minutes, in which time I said ‘no’ roughly 397 times, followed very closely by the ever popular ‘stop it’, ‘put that down’, ‘don’t touch anything’, and (my personal favorite) – ‘Mommy’s going to cry’. By the time we reached the checkout – self-checkout of course, so the kids could ‘help’…mommy really was about to cry. At which point the 3 year old whined “Can we pleeease go? I need a drink!” noyoudidnotjustsaythatareyoukiddingme? “Um… yeah honey, Mommy needs a drink too.”

Trip home (“I wanna listen to High School Musical”), rush through dinner, rush to bed, rush through prayers. Now that’s a proud moment right there, rushing young impressionable minds through their prayers. Way to go mom. So now on top of exhaustion and frustration, I can add guilt to my plate for the night. Brilliant.

Go downstairs, pick up toys, clean up dinner, occasionally yell vague threats up the stairs – “You’d better stop talking and go to sleep or else you’ll be in big trouble young lady!” Finally finished and alone – ah, the solitude. The peace. The quiet. 8:30 on a Friday night and I’m exhausted, ready for bed. I bask in that for a few minutes.

And then I feel lonely.
I miss them.
They look like such angels when they sleep.
Nothing in the world could be more beautiful than the sight of your own sleeping child.

Days like this are part of motherhood – a right of passage. And I am grateful to the core of my being that I get to experience these exhausting, patience-trying moments. I adore my carpool minivan and my mom uniform (sweats) and my forever ponytailed hair. They are my status symbols. That van shouts to the world that I have arrived, and I am exactly where I want to be.

On your most trying, most exhausting days, may you always have the minivan of your dreams to remind you that it’s all temporary, that dreams do come true, and that God does answer prayers. It’s not always easy, but it is always worth it. Here’s to you mom, for making the world a better place, one baby at a time.

Love, Heather

PS) A glass of wine now and then helps, too.