Setting Down the Pen

I have been reading. I have. Its just, like I knew it would be, difficult in the midst of all that I do in mothering and wiving(?). I have been reading Anna Karenina, but not as often as I should be. I have been doing a helicopter-hover in a few chapters lately (after a great beginning before school started) and I'm okay with it.

I am on page 356 of 808. Not bad for about 6 weeks, in my opinion, considering all the other things I have accomplished in the past month and a half.

In school and in teaching, I couldn't read without a pen in my hand. All of the countless words I've underlined and passages I have starred, notes I've made in margins - all of these could make up their own set of books. But in reading Anna, I've set the pen down. Understand that there a probably hundreds of underline-worthy passages, but this masterpiece, I am reading for pleasure. I'm not taking a test on it, I'm not writing a paper or thesis, and I am surely not going to be teaching it to anyone. So, down goes the pen. And in go the words, the beauty, and the magnificent prose without an underline.

Except for one. I've only underlined one part of one sentence.

In the beginning of the book when a despondent Levin travels home to his country house from Moscow (after propsosing to Kitty and then being refused), Tolstoy describes Levin's happiness at being away from the city. Levin was "...at home, and at home the very walls are a great help" (184).

For whatever reason, this fragment, this portion of a thought - it resounds with me. Possibly it is due to my stage of life: the love I have for my girls and my attempt at making their HOME a safe and comfortable place. Perhaps its just how I feel - home is the best place, a sanctuary from the entire world, a place that I can somewhat control and keep things in order. My walls, these walls, as scuffed and stained as they might be at times, these walls are always a great help to me. I really love being home.

To My Best Friend

Happy birthday to my very best friend.

Happy birthday to the man who gets up at 4:50 every morning when our obese CAT cries and whines to be let over the child gate (she's too big to get through the bars and too large to heave herself over). He stumbles back to bed for another hour.

Happy birthday to the man who gently puts our daughters to bed every night, with sweetness and a soft touch; who reads the classics to Hope faithfully and is as excited as her to find out what happens to Buck in The Call of the Wild.

Happy birthday to the man who has loved me and cared for me and protected me; to the man who has given up his own pride for the sake of his wife. Happy birthday to the man who found the gem inside me, deep inside a hardened heart, and who loved me even so.

Happy birthday to my friend who works hard each day and always carries his own weight and ours on his shoulders; to the man who has gotten up countless times in the dark of night and changed a baby's diaper, who has held that baby and sang to her.

Happy birthday to the boy who shares the same heart and memories as I do for the past 15 years. I love you!

Well Begun is Half Done

In the beginning, I put Hope in gymnastics because it is physically active and mentally focused and I hoped it would help her in the area of following directions and listening. So, she's been with the same gym for 3 years and received her anniversary trophy today. Three years --- she's been in gymnastics longer than she hasn't been in it!

I have always known that she will never be an Olympic athlete (nor do I have the stomach as a mother to push her toward anything like that), but for the discipline, the stamina, the strength and the getting-the-wiggles-out aspect of it, the one hour a week classes are worth it. The pride and excitement on her face when she got her trophy today makes the 60 minutes of chasing a toddler worthwhile.

She likes it, but doesn't love it. She isn't turning cartwheels on the weekends or watching movies about gymnastics (that is taken up with the horse-love). When she turned 5, I gave her the choice to quit and begin something else. She wanted to stay. We've had our difficulties with not listening to her coaches, lack of attention, keeping her hands to herself, and all of these many, many times in three years.

This makes me think. So, what have I stuck with consistently for THREE years? Or proportionately-speaking, more than half of my life...let's see, I'm 32 (that's 16 years!). Hmmm. Obviously, I am encouraging her to go, driving her, telling her she must when she is whiny, but nonetheless, she has accomplished what I really can't say that I have: Completing something she has begun.

What a good lesson! Simply finish what I start. Can it get easier than that? When I look around at all of my uncompleted projects and things I haven't even started, I somehow feel disheveled and out-of-sorts. Apparently beginning something is a prerequisite for finishing it.

So, again, lesson learned from a child: Begin something and then follow through. Or as Mary Poppins would say, "Well begun is half done".

Studies in Toddlerhood, Part Two

• Fall asleep early and wake up happy.
• Always, always stop and breathe in the roses.
• Forget quickly when someone has hurt you.
• Get up when someone pushes you down.
• Say "HI!" to everyone who passes.
• Let eating blueberry pancakes be the highlight of your morning!
• Cuddle often and long with those who love you best.
• Give fierce hugs, sloppy kisses and free grins!
• Stare at the harvest moon like you've never seen it before.
• Whatever you choose to do, do that thing with ALL of your energy.
• Feel safe and live well, because you are cared for by Someone BIG who has your best interests in His mind.

Studies in Toddlerhood, Part One

• Always sleep when you can.
• Try to wear fancy shoes whenever possible.
• Attempt the climb because, after all, you really don't have far to fall!
• Make good use of things at your disposal, because a roll of wrapping paper can be an boat's oar and a table can certainly be a hidden fort.
• When you learn a new word, use it over an over again so you never forget its meaning.
• Sing while you play (or work).
• Drink milk, not soda, and eat fruit, not chips.
• Always smile for the camera, no matter what you look like.
• Dirt under your fingernails is merely a sign of an afternoon of digging in the garden.
• Watch shows on TV that will TEACH you something and read books with substance.
• Above all, laugh at EVERYTHING!

A Wise Word

"Life is the only real counselor; wisdom unfiltered through personal experience does not become a part of the moral tissue." E. Wharton

I decided about three years ago that I would get off of any high-horse I sat on and and stop giving advice. Especially advice that no one had asked for.


I decided, instead, to begin (trying, at very least) to only advise people based on lessons learned from my own experiences. Any wisdom that I had been blessed with was because I had actually weathered my own storm, or rode out my own wave; these are the nuggets I would share.


If I have failed in this, I truly apologize. Because (ironically, as a lesson learned), I don't know. I simply don't know. The older I get, the more I realize how utterly senseless and unwise I actually am. God has taught me many things, I have made a ton of mistakes, and I have given some bad advice in my life. So now, I hesitate, but I try to share wisdom only gained through my own poor choices (or the random good ones) and personal experience.


Like the Wharton quotation so eloquently states, why would anyone listen to any word, wise or not, that has not been purified through the fire of personal triumph or failure.


So, Lisa wants to know what my "word" is.

WISDOM.

Curing Adulthood

Its the end of September and the third official full week of school. The weeks are concise, formulaic and have routine bred in them - they have innate cadence. The days, weeks are racing by like the pages of a flipbook and I am beginning to see my life and my kids' lives accelerate. It is as if I am watching in time-lapsed motion speed.

Life does this, speed by, as I age, I am finding. Everything gets, well, fast.

Time stretches as a child. A little girl can live a day within an hour and a lifetime in an afternoon. This child wakes up in the morning and knows that there is an entire world of possibilities laid out for the day. But this little girl also yearns to grow up, make her own choices and be in charge of her time. Life begins to pick up its pace, like a runner in her last mile of a race.

Right now, for me, time is beginning to quicken. I know it in all surety. This is adulthood.

Last week, on the stairmill at the gym (the ones that look like escalators), I realized that when I paid attention to the step, step, step of my feet, my time went unbearably slow. I was counting the minutes and portions of minutes down until I was done. But I realized, that with anything, when I let my mind wander (planning our trip to England, writing my blog in my head), the time jetisoned by, zooming through the minutes.

So this is it, to live in each step, step, step, like a baby girl. I should live my lifetimes in an afternoon and pay detailed attention to the placement of my feet, what I do and what I say; playing with my children, cooking for my husband, spending good time with a friend, taking care of the things that God has placed in front of me - joying in this life. I shouldn't yearn for life to move on, I shouldn't wait for the next day or month to happen. I cannot change time or the way I age, but I can alter how I see each day. Living in my today-step: this is the only cure for adulthood.

Jungle Gym

We took two cars to the soccer game and it began to rain as we drove home. Hope was in another car, and with a my mother's too-big sweatshirt on her, she looked out of the window, lost in a big hood, and waved, smiled and we saw (not heard) the subsequent giggle.

My mother said, "Sometimes she looks so big, but then sometimes she looks so little." She looks big when she wears her school uniform with the tartan jumpers and skirts, but then at other times, she is so tiny, hidden by a hooded sweatshirt slipping over her eyes.

So grown-up, but then so like a baby. She towers over other small children and I wonder in my heart if she ever was a baby. But then, she cries in the middle of her game because the other team has made a goal. She isn't mad, but she's hurt.

I imagine she feels this dichotomy as often as she has an outburst. Like she has all of a huge adult emotion inside her tiny heart, and really doesn't know what to do with it: anger, embarrassment, joy, disappointment. These are things I don't even know how to express half the time.

The same is true with the baby (see, I still call her the baby, but then again, what mother doesn't call her youngest "the baby" even when they are much older). Sometimes she is still the searching, crying infant to me, the one who wants to be held tightly. This is the one who wants the pacifier and blankie. But then, as she runs away and scrambles up the jungle gym, pacifier long forgotten, she seems old and tall and little-girl-like. One look at her bulky diaper bottom and I am reminded of how tiny she really is. She's beginning to recognize shapes and colors and I soon forget the nursing baby with sleepy eyes.

I think that's it...allowing them the jungle gym: the fenced-in, padded playground with the safety it provides; the small, easy slides, as well as the monkey bars representing that one more thing they need to learn. I watch, help when I am needed, and marvel at how big and little they are at the same time.

Rain Tonight

Close your eyes. Breathe in the change of season...they say it will rain tonight. This time, I think they are right. The soil, desert-dry, needs the watering. The cool wind has begun this afternoon, through the canyons, and on to the hills. Not at all warm like the Santa Anas we often get, but cool, even coldish wind, beginning to clean, to make way for the rain. We are exposed up here on the side of the hill. But I sit, somewhat protected by new trees, and breathe in the change, the scent of the pre-rain. Even the world has begun to turn-over...


Its time to simplify, to cinch-in, to bring to rest. Its time to slide gently into a routine and rhythm. It is time for reasonable discipline, for decisions-to-complete tasks that have been waiting. Its time to try a new pound cake recipe and to finally buy the reusable grocery bags that I have been meaning to purchase.


Time to smell moist eucalyptus trees and wood-smoke mixed on the breeze. Its time to close my eyes and listen to the wind through the leaves.

You Are My I Love You

Today, not my words, but someone elses'.

You are My I Love You by Maryann K Cusimano.

"I am your parent; you are my child.

I am your quiet place; you are my wild.

"I am your calm face; you are my giggle.

I am your wait; you are my wiggle.

"...I am your carrot sticks; you are my licorice.

I am your dandelion; you are my first wish

"...I am your way home; you are my new path.

I am your dry towel; you are my wet bath.

"I am your dinner; you are my chocolate cake.

I am your bedtime; you are my wide awake.

"...I am your lullaby, you are my peekaboo.

I am your good-night kiss; you are my I love you.

And After Hope, Grace

There is Hope and there is Grace in my home.

Naomi is Naomi Grace and she truly fills this name. She came after a rebirth in our family, after the heart-pain and the soul-aches.

Since she's been with us, I've walked in GRACE. When I carried her inside me, I prayed for her and asked God what we should name her...Grace...Beautiful Grace.

Grace is receiving that which I do not deserve, and in my second daughter, I know this is true. I surely do not deserve this amazing, affectionate child who climbs into my lap and wants me to read. I don't deserve this this bubbly baby who says "hello" and "goodbye" to the airplane and giggles as I push her on the swing. Nothing in me warrants my daughter, with an old-soul look in her eyes, throwing her baby-arms around my leg wanting a kiss, a hug and simple reassurance I am here.

I walk in GRACE, yet I do not deserve it. She sleeps calmly and safely upstairs in her room right now, and I can't help but feel that I don't deserve her love. Yet, GRACE gives this love freely. And MY Grace gives her love gently and wholly and perfectly.

Something Wonderful

Naomi means "beauty" or "delight", and Hope means..."hope". Simply and openly. Her name means exactly what it says, just like the transparent truth and openness I see in her face everyday.

She asks me if her name is in the Bible, because she recognizes that Naomi's is in the story of Ruth. I tell her that her name is all over the Bible. I tell her that her name means, "Something good is about to happen." Something great is right around the corner. Something beautiful, something grand, something wonderful, something perfect...

I came across a proverb: Were it not for HOPE the heart would break.

Mine would have. Hope was not quite two years old when our marriage hit a wall at 70 miles an hour, and almost died. She was there. I knew that something wonderful would happen. And something did: something perfect...

I had walked away and HOPE helped me find my home again. Not only did something beautiful happen, but I was found, inside my broken heart. Something grand was able to happen.

I stand here to say that HOPE is never lost, it is never gone. Even in despair, friend, HOPE is forever close, eternally near.

And MY Hope, she is here and beautiful and a constant reminder to me that HOPE is always just around the corner. She shows me that life is good and grand.

I Can Pretend

I have to live knowing that in the region I call home, I will never see the fire-blaze of orange and red autumn trees. But I can pretend.


In Southern California, I take what I can get. Maybe we are the converse of Alaskans wearing shorts and bathing suits when the mercury hits 50 degrees or above. I'm not sure. But I like to pretend a little. We turn the heaters on in our cars when we feel the bite in the air.


I can close the windows and doors (because when I got up Monday, it WAS truly chilly). I can burn the cinnamon candle and steep the tea in now-darker afternoon. I can pull out my sweaters and long-sleeved shirts, and my cold-weather running jerseys. I can pretend a little.


I can panic because I don't have any sweaters for the baby, because who wants to buy bulky things in the 105 degree heatwave of a couple weeks ago. But really, there is no reason to panic; it hardly ever dips below 60 in September. And I look for boots on sale.


I can hang the fall wreath and take the kids to the pumpkin patch the weekend it opens. Unlike my celebration of summer (which is born out of necessity), I can celebrate this season out of sheer desire and joy.


Yesterday was the first day that I could feel the crispness of the fall approach, and I love it. I know that to some it is merely the precursor to the Christmas holiday, but to me, autumn is something to be enjoyed by itself.


I know all of you snow-shovellers are lauging at me right now. And I guess technically the autumn equniox isn't for a few more days. So, for today, I will drink my tea and light my candle, and pretend.

Naomi Sunshine

"You are so much SUNSHINE to the square inch!" (Walt Whitman)

Naomi is sunshine - even on a cloudy day. Her eyes speak it and her voice sings it. Her laugh, it giggles sunshine. I hope that when her storms do come someday, they are momentary, only long enough for her to understand what life is like without the sun. Until then and even then, she is my sunshine.

Short Memory

Naomi is so tolerant. I know we are really on the cusp of a potential future of sisterhood-abuses, however, Hope likes to use Naomi constantly in her endless imaginary games. In these, Naomi usually ends up being a horse (hence the saddle picture - I didn't do this; Hope got her to sit still for the saddling by herself) or a "student" in any of a number of different "schools" or "camps" she cooks up.

But Naomi truly is tolerant, and her memory is short. She's also probably too little to fight back yet (I'm sure that will change). If her sister becomes mean, pushes her over, or doesn't let her ride the One-Eared-Puppy-boat (don't ask), she squawks for a minute, then moves on to something else. In their playing together, I've seen Naomi squirt in the face with a garden hose, closed up in a cardboard box to play "closet", tripped, chased to exhuastion, moved over, moved out, and more.

Naomi usually doesn't react, and if her feelings are truly hurt, she usually forgets after half-a-minute.

As I am scrubbing the sink this morning, I am watching them play "boat" that Hope has named the One Eared Puppy, and as they are rowing across the dining room floor, I am witnessing sisterhood (or Relationship) in action: Hope has her imaginary world in mind (WATCH OUT FOR THE FEROCIOUS CROCODILES!), and is rowing her sister to safety. Naomi apparently does not want to be saved, just free, but no hard feelings: she just gets out and does something else. No one is upset, and everyone understands this exchange. Its normal.

I want an open heart, a forgiving soul and a short memory. If someone hurts me (as inevitably life will do this), I want to openly forgive, and quickly forget, for good. If Naomi were to carry around every sister-abuse that has befallen her, she would buckle under the pressure. She forgets. How often do I carry even smallish things around with me, and allow them to rule. My prayer this morning is that I may forget quickly and forgive always.

Dragonfly United

Whatever you want to call AYSO U6 Girl's Soccer, it is less soccer, and much more like watching eight-short-multicolored-little-bees around a hive. Watching their coordinating hair bows flapping in the wind, and their no more than 2 inches of knees running around the field (because the XS soccer shorts are big and long on their little legs) is extremely rewarding after a long week.

This season is Hope's second (she is the oldest and tallest on her team) and Chad's first for coaching. After a rough first practice a couple weeks ago, he coached his first game on Saturday. They are the Dragonflies, complete with orange smiles at halftime.

At this level, there is no score kept and no real referee...just 8 little girls who can sometimes kick the ball, but more often kick each other. There are no goalies, and no positions played. Swarm-ball, Bumblebee-ball, whatever name fits best, this is it. The coaches can actually be on the field, and there are many times-out for shoe-tying, high-fiving, and gentle reminders of which way they are going. It usually takes a full quarter after the goal switch at halftime for the girls to remember which goal is theirs.

But a lot can happen in a year. Last year, we called Hope a Twirley-Bird (she liked more to pick the clover on the field and dance in a circle than chase the ball). This year, (without even a spring ball season) she is fast, strong and possibly the most focused player on our team. She made our team's only goal this morning. I am proud of her young athleticism, something I was unable to be a part of when I was young. She might even be overcoming the whole dad/coach confusion issue as well.

And, today she had a good day: obedient, affectionate and cooperative. Maybe it was due in part to the fact that she played well and felt successful. But she is still our Hopey: this afternoon as I was showing her pictures of the game played just hours before, I pointed to one with her teammates. "Look Hopey, there you all are!". She looks at me and says,

"What's her name again?" Oh boy.

Refocusing

This week really kicked my butt.

It was the first full week of all-things-Kindergarten (including the 90 minutes I spent in the classroom on Monday helping) and many-things-toddler. I won't go into the details because painful memories can be hard for everyone.

Friday morning I was in a frenzy - a whipped-up, frothy mother running around with drippy hair, making lunches, stuffing breakfasts in little mouths, hair-brushes (SCREAMS!!!), socks on, diaper changed...trip to the car (did the baby walk out the door too? Uh...where is she? Found her, strap her in...) Full-blown frenzy. The funny thing is, I AM a planner (I lay out clothes and pack bags the night before), but somehow the morning craziness usually ensues. It made me tired just thinking about all that I had to get done. Me...Me...Me...Hmm.

As I was trying to get everyone in their proper places and everything in the car for my mighty day of who-knows-what, I used my scary-mommy voice on Hope. She begins to cry, a little whimper, and I knew. She says to me, crying,

"Mama, I can't hold all your words in!"

Ouch. Wow. I closed my mouth and my heart changed immediately (as did my focus). Children can say things so wisely. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I love you and I'm done talking. Let's go to school."

I talk too much, I realize. And I'm not really a talker. I am not the talk-on-the-phone-for-hours girl, and never have been. I married a talker so I didn't really have to, but with my little girl, I was using way too many words and using them harshly. I SAY a lot and often don't allow her adequate time to answer. I get scared just thinking about my scary-mommy voice and I know that they must hate it too. The frenzy, I may not be able to change (hopefully we will get into a better rhythm), but I can change my attitude and my voice. While remaining firm, I know I can use soft words to my girls. And on top of it all, I had been so focused on the DOING of it all, I pretty much forgot the WHY - for these beautiful girls.

Looking for the Poem

Keeping up a discipline of writing each day has affected me.

It has caused me to search out the lyric in my daughters' words. It has helped me to see their hearts and glance past mistakes. I find myself watching for their amazement at something (the carousel), and try not to allow my vision to glaze over at all. I want to see it all. And I want to write about it. Writing has caused me to look for the depth in all parts of life, look for the INSIDE of things that rumble just underneath the surface. I've realized that there is music in all of the sound and there is poetry in all of the overlapping-words.

I look at the girls' faces, at the faces of my friends, of my sister and I look for the poem. Because there is one - in everyone. In everything. I look for it and hope I find it - I desperately hope I can see them, see the person they each know they are.

Writing is not merely a way to put into words the phrases that bounce around in my head hourly and the emotions that (sometimes) burst from my heart. I do that...now keeping little journals and scraps of paper in purses, diaper bags and pockets. This discipline of writing is actually depositing words and poems IN me, giving existence to the life that swirls around me, the lives of my children, my husband and everyone I love.

Rainbow Sprinkle Days

Needless to say, Hope is a firecracker. She has her own way of doing just about everything, so one can only imagine (even after 2 years of part-time preschool), Kindergarten is an adjustment for her.


Friday she was "talked to", and Monday had a Kindergarten Discipline Notice sent home to be signed....BIG SIGH by me. I knew this would happen, just wasn't quite sure when. She is a complex little girl and even I have difficulty understanding her. And I pray, and I pray and pray, for her and her willingness and desire to obey. And I pray for her teacher and the classroom... It seems like I am in constant prayer about this lately.


I know its only a week into school, and there is transition, and adjustment and finding your place and getting to know everyone, but I know her. I know how she operates. This might be a hard year.


It is interesting being on the other side of the parent/teacher coin now. I understand what it is to be a teacher, and all of the pressure there is in that role. Now, I am just a humble parent, with my ultimate prayer that Hope's teacher see her, and see past the emotional meltdowns, and love her.


I hate it when Hope misbehaves because I hate to discipline her. But I know I must. I really want her to hit a home run so that I can reward her, take her to frozen yogurt and let her choose the rainbow sprinkles. I know I can't do this on days she acts out in class, on the days she is "talked to". I can't applaud her misbehavior by allowing her a treat.


When she feels successful in her world, by listening and controlling her 5 year old self, everyone at our house is a little happier. Her self-control at school breeds more obedience at home, and so goes the cycle. So, to sum it up, I now pray for rainbow-sprinkle-days, days that she obeys her teachers and me, because these are they days that are all-around good.

Dr. Two Brains

It makes me laugh that, because I can't find a pen in my house to save my life, I usually write my market lists in peach or grey crayon. But somehow my toddler can find the wide-tipped-RED-sharpie right before church...

It makes me laugh, that the "game" Hope plays at Kindergarten recess she's dubbed DR-TWO-BRAINS. Really. I didn't teach her that. Whatever that is...I think it involves three girls chasing one (lucky) boy they name Dr. Two Brains.

It makes me laugh that my dining room table is piled with all the different projects' paperwork, both for household and church, but I somehow keep it all straight in my mind. I'm really not a piler, but I think I learned it from my dad. (this laugh is more of an ironic laugh)

It makes me laugh that often, when Chad and I are both working on the laptops after the kids have gone to bed, we will sometimes communicate by instant messaging. This is how I know we are both nerds, just of a different sort!

I laugh because although our toddler has actually a very large vocabulary for a child her age, her favorite word is "COOOOKIE"....all the time, she's looking for a "COOOOKIE" everywhere she goes.

I have to laugh that Chad is Hope's soccer coach. Just thinking about watching him try to wrangle 5 four and five year olds for an hour-long practice makes me giggle. Welcome to my life.

God seriously has a sense of humor and I see this everyday.

An Excuse for Silliness

A lesser known Shel Silverstein poem, "Put Something In":

"Draw a crazy picture,

Write a nutty poem,

Sing a mumble-gumble song,

Whistle through your comb.

Do a loony-goony dance

'Cross the kitchen floor,

Put something silly in the world

That ain't been there before."

I don't want to let my kids get un-silly. There is a time for quiet and discipline; there is a time for making beds and putting away toys. There is surely a time for unquestioning obedience and work...

But there is also a time for dancing in the living room and playing nothing-songs on the piano. I want to encourage tickle-fests after naptime and unconventional drawings with purple suns and blue grass. There is a time for swinging with squealing-abandon at the playground. I hope that in my life as a mother, I can maintain this balance in my home.

I hope I also never forget how to be silly. In a way, being a mother is like an excuse to be a little girl again, once in awhile. I can play with dolls, pet horses and sing too loudly in the car; I'm not strange, I'm just playing with my girls.

We are born silly, I think, and then it gets squeezed out of us somewhere along the way. I don't want to squish out the silliness in my girls and maybe together, we can put something silly back into the world.

Classroom of Two

I used to be a teacher. When I have to fill in a blank somewhere asking for my occupation, I usually write Mother or Homemaker. Occasionally I say Former Educator. This really isn't true and it feels funny to write the word "former".

I taught 7th and 8th grade Language Arts in a public middle school in a pretty good school district in our county. I might have even been on my way to becoming a teacher of note in that disctrict had I not quit to have my babies. I loved it and I loved my students. I developed some very deep relationships during those years.

Even then, when I became a teacher of ONE and my only student was a wailing, red-faced, colicky, acid-reflux-impaired infant, I knew that I would never be done teaching. So now, my classroom consists of a 5 1/2 year old and a 19 month old, and my job is to teach them how to LIVE. I don't get paid for it, but I am still an educator of the most important kind. (Stacia says that she gets paid in hugs and kisses! I agree).

I teach them to speak kindly and listen with big ears. I teach them how to clean up after themselves and try to stay neat and organized (how can you play with your toys if you don't know where they are?). I try to teach them to share and play together without making each other angry (sounds strangely like middle school so far...).

I try to teach them to choose healthy snacks to eat and how to take care of their bodies. ("Yes, you do need to brush your teeth every day. I know you did it yesterday and they don't feel dirty, but trust me, you need to brush them."). I teach them that becoming a strong person also means staying active and eating the right foods to give you energy ("No, even if it says 100-calorie-snack-pack on it, it still may not be healthy).

By speaking to their father affectionately, I teach them how to love a man someday. They way I love my own mother teaches them to treat me thus when they are in my stage of life. By caring for my friends, I help them learn how to be a good friend and choose people to surround themselves with that will be beneficial to them.

My normal spoken words and even more importantly, my actions, teach them things I will never be able to verbalize. My love for them including my discipline teaches them how to be mothers someday.

Interestingly, even though I no longer stand and teach in a classroom, I know that I teach every day. I love my classroom of two; it sure beats trying to learn 180 names each September.

Heavy Hearts

My heart has been a little heavy today. This past week I learned of a couple who lost their twins in the mother's 23rd week of pregnancy. A much-too-early labor and infection led to the deaths of the two tiny babies. This is a woman I don't even know, yet my heart grieves for her.

I've written in the past about the importance of stories, that we all have them, and that listening is important. I am realizing this morning actually how much pain and grief there is even in my small circle of influence. Never for a minute should I take for granted that someone I know or someone I meet does not have a lengthy, valid and perhaps painful story. We often hide our problems well.

We are sick. Some of us live in illness each day so much that taking a step out of bed every morning is an accomplishment.

We've lost people. Some of us have lost parents, or spouses, even children. Some of us have lost babies. I forget these details often about those I know, but I know they never forget. This pain lives in them daily.

Some of us raise children with special needs. I can never claim to understand the constant trials (joys and heartaches) that these families undergo.

We've miscarried or struggled with infertility.

We are depressed. There are thoughts of leaving or of suicide. I forget that there are people I love dearly that have to work through the abyss of depression every hour.

We've done things that we are ashamed of. Some of us live in heart-commanding fear that someone, someday will find out who we REALLY are, what we've done..... We've hurt others and done despicable things.

Perhaps we are simply waiting. We've been waiting for what seems like years for something to happen that maybe never will.

Today, really, this is only meant to be a reminder to me: When loving somebody, I must always take into account the WHOLE of that person. There is as much of a complex background and set of hurts or joys to them as there is to me. Each of our past or current wounds, any healing that has happened, these make up the sum of who we are. I understand that now and I must keep remembering this as I seek to understand each person in my life.


Who knows who will cross our paths and what pain they carry with them. If I ever meet that woman who lost her twins, I hope that I can tell her that I grieved for her and prayed for her when I didn't know her; that her story affected me and helped me understand some significant things.

Hero

Sometimes I don't realize that amazing friend I have in you, perhaps, maybe because you have become so familiar to me. As if we were in some strange way, the same person. No book I could ever right would be able to put the things that have happened in proper words. So our words are shared between us in silence, and in laughter and in eyes that have no need for speaking.

You captured my heart even before you became a father. So, because of the way you love our daughters, you are my hero.

My grandfather has been quoted to say that he was "outnumbered and outvoted" in his house of women. Because of the burdens you bear for your three girls (four if you count the cat), you are my hero.

Because of the way you have continued to love me, even when it has been close to impossible, you are my hero.

Because of your spontaneous-soul and your wild-humor, I love you. And you are my hero.

Heroes are hard to come by, and I have found mine.

Sacredness

Denise posted yesterday about sacredness in mothering, sacred moments we have at home. Holy moments.

This has me thinking more than most posts I read. So, Denise, this is my answer to your question.


Miracles are here, everyday. Sacred, practical, normal miracles. When I create a sanctuary in my home for my family, there is sacredness here.


I came across a quotation by Willa Cather: "The miracles of the church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always. " (from Death Comes for the Archbishop). Maybe miracles are not "miraculous", but perhaps just a more intentional view of what we are in the midst of; the concentrated seeing of my own family and life (or to overuse a cliche: to see what is in my own backyard).


When I open my eyes to see past the fly that keeps buzzing around the dining room, and look over the pile of unfolded laundry (we all have these - mine just happens to be a clean pile), and beyond the disorganized toy room...this is when I see the miracles. The sacred in my own home.


The small giggle from the living room. The soft, squishy baby foot that rests on my leg. The tired eyes after a long day of so much fun. The sweet conversations between a 5 year old and her baby sister...the longing in her I see for her sister to look up to her. The wide eyes of a toddler seeing something and naming it with her new words for the first time. A kiss goodbye on the palm of my hand...


Everything, it all is sacred. My husband saying to me words I barely hear because I am busy making lunches...but I should stop, stare at him, and take in his words. This is a sacred moment.


The job of being a mother, a daughter, a sister, a wife - these are sacred. Sacred means holy or consecrated. Because of Who I belong to, and the deepness of my daily job (raising PEOPLE), possibly all of what I do is sacred.

Holding Hands

My friend Janna said something very sweet this morning. She observed that one of the first things a newborn infant can do is grasp his mother or father's finger with his whole little hand. She said that this was one her favorite things about her sons.

What is interesting is that almost as soon as my babies grabbed my finger, they somehow grabbed a part of me on the inside that I really didn't know was there. They made me feel my purpose, to raise and protect and love them. In mysterious ways, these girls have intertwined their little souls with mine and it feels so natural; like this is how I was always supposed to feel.

Naomi doesn't want to hold my hand a lot of the time now. She is in the middle a phase of look-at-me, see-what-I-can-do-by-myself! Hand-holding doesn't go well with that, in her little mind.

Last year when she was small enough to fall asleep in a bouncy seat for an after-dinner nap, she grabbed my own father's hand as she closed her eyes. She felt full, loved and safe. So she held on. Strangely, as I venture further into motherhood, I am realizing that holding on to them allows me to feel safe also. It is as if my job as protector somehow protects me too.

Advice for Day One

Go with your eyes open and your smile wide.

Be grown-up when you must but hold on to the morning of your life; it will be yesterday soon.

Read better so that you can explore the world.

Write well so others will understand you.

Learn to love to know.

Study well your numbers so that someday you can count the stars for me.

Be strong, but teachable. Be loyal and obedient.

Love fiercely, laugh deeply, listen intently and walk bravely.

Never forget Who made you and Whose daughter you are.

Happy Kindergarten, Hope! I am so proud of you.

Helping Her Find Her Words

In our home, the time after the baby goes to bed is usually a quiet hour that we can spend with our oldest. Tonight she was working on a "letter" to a friend of hers, a boy that she's known since they were in the nursery at church together.

Chad was reading a book, I was (of course) working on my laptop and Hope was vigorously coloring, stickering and concentrating intently on getting a picture of a train for him just perfect.

"Mama, will you help me with my words?" Of course I will, because I know that to a five year old whose reading capability far overshadows her writing just yet, writing an entire letter can be a daunting task. She has always been one to verbally lavish affection on most people she knows and often tells people how she feels about them in that unabashed, unashamed way of a child.

She dictates and I write, in marker: "I love you. And, I am so happy to see you on Wednesday and on Sunday"...she pauses...."and I love you." You already said that, Hope. She knows that, but wants to say it again so that he won't forget.

"What else do I say, Mama?" I ask her what else is in her heart. She doesn't know...but he is her friend. I write, "I am glad you are my friend." Another, "I love you" and then her name. For a second, I reflect on how I will be able to help her find her words in life, help her to give words to the feelings she will have. Maybe I will be able to help to walk her through some of the heart-wrenching times she will have (that all girls have) for which there are no words.

Her openness, her transparency convicts me. I realize then, sitting so close to her I can smell the damp hair from her bath, that she is helping me find my own words. I don't unabashedly tell my friends and my family "I LOVE YOU!!!" over and over again, like she often does. (The best gift from her five-year-old lips comes when she expresses her love for me out of the blue - "I love you to the moon and back, Mama!"). Why don't I love my friends like she does?

I'm glad you are my friend.
I love you.
I will draw a train for you simply because you like it.

This is my girl. She is helping me find my words even now as I write this: my silence, my inwardness in writing for the past 10 years. I've only now blossomed and found my footing in writing because, I think, of my children. They inspire me. They help me find my own words in this life.

Country Girl

I am really just a country girl at heart. True, I was born here, in California. But I guess if you consider California the West, and America my country, there has always been quite a bit of Country Western in my soul.

Brought up in the suburbs visiting the no-burbs...I have always longed for wide-open-spaces.

Which is why last night was so fun. We went to a Randy Travis concert a few miles away. I guess I've been a Country music fan for a long time; back to high school when it really wasn't cool to like people like Randy, Alan Jackson and Trisha Yearwood. If you haven't followed Randy lately, along with his traditional country sound, his music is peppered with old hymns and new worship songs. Of course there is always, "Deeper than the Holler" and "Forever and Ever, Amen". Last night, I felt young and something resonated inside me as I sang and listened and clapped. Maybe it was only because I was surrounded by 71-year-old women, but something in the music brought me back to a time when I was actually young. My husband is even a closet country fan. He enjoyed the excellent musical talents of Randy's band (his mandolin player is amazing!).

My mother was born in Tennessee, so I think I get a few points for that. So, really, in my heart, despite the Orange County exterior, I am a country girl inside.

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