The Day I Lied to My Son {On Squeezing Ideals into Reality}

Over a month before his big 7th birthday and my son was already counting down the days on the calendar- jumping, big eyes wide with anticipation- antzy to his very core. “How many more days, Daddy? Can we wake up and spend the whole day as ‘the boys’? Can we go to the museum? Can we go to ice cream?” My husband is Even Steven, Steady Eddy, Mr. Cool under pressure, always- but I could see his face take on a strain as he asnswered that he wasn’t sure what the day would hold, but he knew it would be wonderful.

As Jones ran out of the room daydreaming, Josh turned to me with a straight face to let me know an unavoidable business trip was going to keep him away until the day after our little guy’s birthday. Heartbreak.

I wish I could say my intitial response was one of understanding, that I embraced my man and saw the ache it created in him. I wish I had acted wisely right out of the gate and been calm, loving…wifely. You can probably guess I didn’t go that route. My anger started bubbling right up to the surface, quick. Words flew like darts at this man I love. I questioned how he could let this happen, how we had become so wrapped up in Our crazy life that work trumped little boy birthdays… Was this what our family was headed towards more of? I got some good jabs in about priorities as tears began to flow and I huffed away, already embarrassed by my behavior. I just wanted out. Just get me out of this city, out of the busy, out of the traffic and this hectic pace that is eating away at my family. (I know you're all shocked at my level of high drama here)

Ideas of escape become my cozy friends when I feel I just can’t keep going, when my ideals don’t seem to fit into nice little boxes of birthday parties and family dinners and peaceful mornings and organic everything. I always want to run. No thought to where I might go, but just escape. Just ease. Just not something to work through. I’m thankful I have a husband who sticks with me through all my rough places.

Apparently, there really is a benefit to actually talking about things. We got creative. Out of the ashes and my bad attitude, we crafted a plan that included a white lie and a little re-jiggering of the calendar. We decided to just wait and celebrate Jones’ birthday the day after his actual birthday,but because we tend to go big with celebrations around here, and to avoid crushing his tender dreams of a birthday spent with dad, we wouldn’t tell him ….The 11th would just become 10th. Ba dum bum. We joked that all of society’s fears of homeschoolers brainwashing their children were realized in our home as I lied about the date on the calendar for a solid week. I phoned grandparents and asked them to bump the date for breakfast shout outs and Birthday Song singing skype calls. I bribed the older girls with candy for helping to keep our secret. Only one of them called me out on being deceptive, which I considered a win.

I did spend a teeny bit of time feeling guilty before I realized how awesome this all was. The day went off without a hitch, we were together celebrating as a family, Jones spent his day just as he envisioned with his daddy, out on the town and feeling beyond loved on and I supported Josh in the process.

I snapped the picture above of Jones on his actual birthday and now its one of my favorites. He had just asked me how many hours until Daddy would arrive home and how many hours until he would be seven before walking me through his plans for the next day- he was so happy and so oblivious to the fact that he was already standing tall in seven year old skin. This picture was for me- my own momento of the day my boy started to stretch into being big.

I’m certainly not advocating that anyone lie to their children. I’m not even sure if its something I’m proud of or just really thankful  that I got away with, but here’s the thing: I realized there will be many times that I will have to squeeze my ideals into reality, into my limitations. And every single time, I will be faced with the choice to do so with grace or in a huff, with creative saavy or growing bitterness.

We all have our own calendars to stretch and tender hearts to preserve. Somehow, someway, wherever we live, whatever the context of our families, each of us will be forced to adjust. We adjust mealtimes, schools, cities where we live, friends we link arms with-we bend our lives in ways that can make us dizzy so that it can all squeeze. We might not have it just as we please or envisioned, but we make it fit- like a birthday the day after, we work with what we have before us.

We can't escape this work if we seek to truly find our way. There have always been and will always be spaces that must bend to create the moments that truly matter, to craft the kinds of homes we want our children to be anchored in and that we ourselves want to return to each evening and put to bed each night.

So, what do you adjust to make life ‘work’ around your place? What do you give up or change to find a fit with your crew? What have you let go of or stretched until its felt worn out?

Childhood Nostalgia, Sparkles, Plaids and a Great Cause {Annie on Broadway!}

Growing up in a small town and not being one to excel in athletics (ahem), I fell in love with the theatre at a young age. There was just nothing like being backstage, butterflies all swirly in your stomach, mom, dad and grandparents waiting to see you on stage- so many hours of commraderie and silliness and really hard work coming together to tell a story for the packed house.

I was a newly minted eight year old when I sang and danced in the chorus for my first show- Annie. I knew every line, loved every minute and day-dreamed of New York in the 30s. My own kids have of course seen the movie (Singing It’s a Hard Knock Life is pretty much how they make through chore time!), but I never dreamed they’d be able to see it live on Broadway! 

What a treat when I learned it was being revived and that we were invited to see it in preview by our friends, The Moms. It was magical. My children loved seeing the story they knew so well brought to life in front of them- the scenes of New York, particularly, were excellent and a wonderful display for the coming holidays. We likely won’t make the Rockettes show this year, but felt that we’d been able to celebrate just the same with the festive atmosphere Annie provided.

My whole family agreed that Ms. Hannegan is still our favorite character (so full of life and sass!)- but the dog who played “Sandy” came in a close second! The show did run a bit long, so for very young children who would certainly love the show too, a matinee might be a good option unless you can sleep in the next day! There aren’t a lot of surprises or new twists, but for parents wanting to share the magic of a show they loved as children with their own kids, Annie is a must see. 

We were also so thrilled to be able to partner with The Children’s Place who were so kind to deck out the kids in some of their great new holiday fashions (think sparkles and plaids!) for the show!! It was all to bring attention to a cause The Children’s Place, The Moms and Annie on Broadway are investing in: The Pajama Program, an initiative to support and provide pajamas to underpriveldged children in our city. Theatre go-ers can take part in this program as well by bringing new pajamas with them to the show and using the drop off box in the lobby. What better way to respond to the “Annie’s” in our own city that to help them feel warm and cozy at bedtime this holiday?  All the information about the Pajama Program, Annie on Broadway and the newest holiday line from The Children’s Place can be seen in the reel above (including cameos by my own fab- four!)

Disclaimer:I was not paid for this post, however I was provided with tickets to Annie for review purposes and outfits for each of my children compliments of The Children’s Place. As always, all opinions are my own.

On Pulling Weeds

July is here. This is the month when I was planning to be fully immersed in the smell of new baby and bliss out nursing and snuggling and counting teeny toes. Instead, I drove my kids up to the cemetary on the hill to see where their baby sister is buried. 

We walk slow, across sweet pavers laid in a line by some kind soul.  The stones guide through the graves of young children. Reading the names and dates makes my stomach churn. Three months…three years… all these markers tell a story. Some of these stories I know, I remember. Others go back and back before my time or my family’s time in this town. Mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters hearts are wrapped up in this earth. My eight year old begins to read the names, one by one. I feel like I could be sick, but I somehow manage a smile for my other babes, new to this place. I want them to be comfortable here. The walk leads us to a small flowerbead. It is pure grace. It was purchased as a gift to families, to hold small children who never took their first breath. 

I can’t walk there without wondering who possessed the thoughtfulness to create this space. It seems inspired to know that mamas holding tight to hope and promise and affection so hard inside their swollen bellies would need a place to grieve when inside of a day their babies are gone from them.

Who tilled this earth and laid the stones here? Did they know it would bring healing like this when they wiped away sweat as they labored? When dirt rubbed into calluses and worked its way deep under fingernails? I hope they know. I hope they know this ground is sacred.

I found myself starring, taking in the feeling of the place. Watching my girls run a circle around the flowerbed, giggling, full of life. One can not help but observe the paradox. As my eyes wander I see it. Right by the purple flowers my baby girl is burried beneath is a giant weed. Tears flood over me, half unexpected, and I stomp over and just yank it…hard! I am practically shaking, as more weeds around the blooms crowd my sight and I start hacking. There is a lump in my throat and all I want is to punch and beat something silly.

My fingers are muddy, I’m just tearing now, faster… I am almost manic and the ruddy roots don’t stand a chance. I’m not afraid to bleed from the prickles and pokes, I just want them gone. I want there to be one less killer of life in this place, one less piece of ugly that takes the sunshine away from the vulnerable. Protecting these flowers, the sentrys of all these departed children, suddenly feels like the most important undertaking I could throw myself into. I want to just scream at the devil,

You will not choke out one more ounce of life today! Not while I am here! Do you hear me?!

The rest of the story today is at Mom Heart Online

11 Beautiful Books to Read With Your Children

“Charge! Die you horrible dragon!” My son was screaming, shrieking really, chasing our dog with sheer delight as he catapulted his body down our narrow hallway, nearly toppling over his baby sister {ahem}.

“ I did it, Mom! I really got him, and there was fire and his teeth were really pointy and he was trying to bite me…but I GOT him!”

Five-year old antics aside, my son’s heart was alive- light and pride nearly bursting through his wide eyes and giant grin. He has conquered, he was the hero- he was St. George, victorious in battle, the epic scene so palpable to him after our afternoon story.

Good books will awaken you like that. They make you believe you can conquer and soar and be more than you ever thought possible before.  Good books reflect ourselves idealized, and a part of something big…something great…We become woven into an epic story that our whole being longs to have be a reality.

Because our real selves, the ones knit together by the God of the Universe, redeemed and clothed in alabaster grace, truly are a part of an epic story- and an epic battle.

The spark that lights up my boy’s heart as he imagines himself as St. George, when kindled and flamed, can grow along with his frame, along with his heart and mind, helping to ready him for all that our King calls him to be mighty for in his own life. Stories inspire- words and ideas sustain us….

Join me for the rest of the story at The Better Mom today.

Thank you to Lifesong Photography for the lovely photo!

The Legacy of Their Own True Selves

After the final kisses, the final prayers…after the last story book is closed and toes are tucked tightly beneath quilts- I sip my tea. Every night I drink it in, leaning with one ear bent toward the hall- hoping tonight might be just the one where bed time goes off without resistance.  But the creak in the wood below my feet betrays one of my babes headed my direction. 

Up. Again. Deep Breath. 

Peeking from around the corner, almost whispering…"Mom? Will you pray for me again?” 

I can see the look in her eyes, the questioning behind the pools of brown sugar staring through me. She’s aching…wondering if my answer will be an embrace or if I’ll send her back to bed in frustration.

Right there- those eyes- they startle me. I am earnestly shaken by my own eagerness to send her on her way- to speed through the sacred and deny the giving of a blessing.

I’m stung by the memory of being a wide eyed child, still awake, longing for assurance, to be held and wanted. My mind wanders further…How many times have I longed for the goodness of God himself, for all the gifts the Scriptures tell us he longs to give his children and how many times have I wondered, as my sweet girl is now, if I’d interrupted him by taking too many trips down the hall after lights out to be worthy of favor? Too many.

And yet, God gives so freely. So generously. He waits for me to want him and delights in my coming. 

I’m guilty of forgetting this. I have lived too many moments acting like I am still something old and not my own true self. The real me is redeemed and reconciled and made new.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” – 2 Corinthians 2:17 

And this is what I want to give, this is what I want to leave to my sweet, wide eyed girl, what I want to leave to all my children: Something new: the announcement and reminder of their own true selves. 

The real me lives out of a place where I know I am family. The real me knows that I am a beloved daughter, a child of God he loves to lavishly care for.

“The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs- heirs with Christ.” -Romans 8 :18-17a

And right there in my hallway, walking my girl back to her bed, I can see clearly that the love I freely give, right this minute, the blessing I bestow on my child, the delight I take in holding her hand pours into who she knows she is: Beloved Daughter.  My love for her is what God is using right now to reveal His love for her, to display his glory to her young heart, to generously meet her needs and comfort her soul. And the sheer pleasure I show in being  with her pales in comparison to the delight over her that comes from God alone. 

“The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with singing.” – Zephaniah 3: 17

My sweet child- right in my arms, gently asking for a blessing…what an honor to be the one to bear it unto her. I cup her chin and kiss her head and we bow and I can feel her small body relax. Restful assurance of being loved fills her soul,  deep breaths overtake her, and she falls asleep.

Hope for Reality

**Disclaimer** All photos displayed in this post were taken when I was trying to get our day moving along, with chores, school work and general hygiene. Please note the messy hair, faces and pajama clad children making me feel a little out of control. 

Reality lives here.

Most mornings, we are ragamuffins. We could easily lay about all day with our tousseled hair, sleepy eyes; still in jammies and rolling on the carpet. Running a tight ship, so to speak, is an absolute chore for me. I long to look in the eyes of my babes and cuddle and read and not rush all. day. long. Rushing to get things done overwhelms me, makes me feel like I have to catch up, that I am already behind, not cut out for this, not good enough to keep it all together. And when I stop to really love and listen and put aside the things that have to be done…then the four souls in my apartment spin messes in their separate corners that overwhelm me even more. Do you all ever feel this way?

 I long for things to be in order, to get it all done well, and to love much all at once. And, I can even talk a good game. But, here’s the thing you need to know about me: I feel undone a lot of the time. I depend on heaps of grace to even make this life of home learning and loving and community function. I collapse into bed utterly exhausted a lot.  I seek everyday to remember that my identity comes from being hidden with Christ, not in what I can control. The letting go of control is really hard for me. I dance to the same rhythm each day in my home, releasing my control, my comfort, my wanting to be perfect to be accepted. I must remember that the Lord longs to pick up my messy piles of brokenness so that I can be free to live with full force beauty and grace. Somedays I dance well and other days I fumble through the steps or forget them all together.

 I know I need to grow in the area of how to balance stewarding the space I dwell in while loving my kids well. There is a fair ammount of training and working together in our home regarding household chores, but there are some things that ultimately fall to me alone.

I heard another writer once say, “Your life is pretty much over when your children stop napping” and at the time I thought it was a little sad. Now, I get it. I used to leave the housework for nap times…I made myself available to play and be silly and engage well until that magical time of quiet in the afternoon. I even had time to read and have some tea when the work was done. But no more. Quiet hour exists here, but I have learned it has to be quiet hour for me too. All I can squeeze in now is the reading and tea. I’m far too prone to crumple without it. So now there is a question of when to get it all done?

And there is a lot to be done around this place where all six of us need to wear clean clothes everyday, eat nourishing food on (preferably) clean dishes, take baths in shiny tubs and make paper and glue and yarn and glitter creations to nurture budding artistry. Have you seen what Elmer’s glue can do to a dining table?! 

I’m asking myself a lot lately about how to remain intentional about loving and delighting in these people I am living life with, pouring my heart and soul into without becoming consumed with controlling their messes.

 Which is why I am embarking on the 31 Day Homemaker’s Challenge, reading through and applying the lessons from an e-book written by Sarah Mae over at Like a Warm Cup of Coffee. She is a woman who gets grace. Who gets holding to ideals and the reality of living with small people and messes. Each day there are challenges for your heart as well as your home. I’m anticipating refreshment and spring cleaning like never before around here. Would you consider joining me? I’d love to hear your comments about how you keep things together around your house (or try to!) and what works and what doesn’t in your family.  You can also click the button below to learn more about the challenge and to purchase the e-book. Here’s to hope for the reality we are all faced with!

31 Day Challenge

Writing Grief

Our first blurry shot of our little Peanut November 2011

This new year, I had planned to tell you I was pregnant with our fifth child. I was waiting, for the first time ever, to share the news only after I was out of my first trimester. I was waiting because even though we want to welcome as many sweet babes as the Lord gives us into our family, I was scared and in shock,  processing about what life would look like having five children in the city (read: freaking out about how crazy it was all going to get!). I needed a sense of quiet to bond and attach and begin to ready myself for this new little person.

The journey to welcome this child was a deep one inside my heart. I think in a way my fears about logistics and stares and the “can I really do it all with five?”  kind of questions that came allowed me to embrace this baby with added sweetness. Because, to be honest, it wasn’t natural for me. It was something I fought for, intentioned in my life. Welcoming this sweet one was, in many ways, a battle wrought in my heart to trust God fully, to receive the gift of a life and to choose joy.

And it changed me. I experienced such peace and expectant longing for this sweet baby. I started having dreams of holding a newborn close on my chest. I began shopping for the latest technology in cloth diapers…

But, today I am not writing to tell you that I am pregnant. I am writing to tell you of our loss, at 15 weeks , of this sweet child. I really don’t want to be writing this here. Some days, I don’t want to engage or write at all. I would rather go on not talking and going slow; staying home and relying on the comfort of my family and a few good friends for times when the tears flow. But, writers…we annoy even ourselves with the compulsion to tell a story.

And, I think this is a story that needs to be told. Because of the mamas I have met in the last few weeks that have honored me with their own stories, with their own wounds, some never feeling they could say out loud that they grieve still… I know I can not be silent. 

So for the next few days, I’m sharing the story of my miscarriage here. Boldly, earnestly, and above all with hope. Hope that those of you who need more space to reflect and grieve might carve it into your regular life somehow, that those who want to love alongside a hurting mother will be further equipped, and that in sharing my story, it will prompt you to share your own. My greatest hope is that as we trust one another with our words that we will love and listen well and bring honor to the memory of our little ones.

I would love for you to join me.

Writing Grief Part 2- Discovering a True Christmas

Writing Grief Part 3- An Education