Certainty

"Mama, you can just drop me off this morning..."

Really? You want me to drop you off? I always walk you in, but you want me to drive through the drop off line and just let you out?

She seems confident and secure. She knows where her room is and where she leaves her backpack. In fact, her dad sometimes drops her off.

Something in my heart drops a little and something in the back of my throat catches. She wants this independence. She wants to be trusted in this, however small.

I pull around to the back, toward the drop off line, and begin peppering her with questions. You know where to walk? You know you aren't going straight to the yard because of the rain? Are you going to go directly there? Are you sure?? The question behind all of this is am I sure?

I drive into the line, and stop. She says, "Thank you, Mama. See you after school!" She jumps out and I can't stay to wait. I can't wait to see if she gets in okay. The line is moving and I must join.

She walks across the wet playground toward the daycare modular, alone. She looks so little in its emptiness. She adjusts her backpack and throws me one more smile. In her eyes I can read her certainty. And that's it. I have to turn the corner. I don't see if she gets into her room. I don't even see her finish her journey across the play yard.

I drive home, with Naomi in the back, and I cry - only a little. What perplexes me is that I am so proud of how she is growing up and beginning to understand the world. Proud of her confidence. But, I am also saddened by the stages of childhood flying by me.

I have to trust. I have to trust that my little girl has a Creator who is much more certain than I am that she will make it across the wet play yard to her warm classroom. I have to rely on that certainty, and not on my own.

Choosing Laughter

How I wish that a toddler's joy of life could be easily transferred to her adults! The reason she leaks delight from every pore is that she doesn't have to worry or care about anything. Everything in her life is taken care of; her every need is met. Her nose is wiped, her hands are washed, her tummy is full and her bed is warm. Her parents take care of her and protect her. She has no need to be troubled or distressed.

But then, I guess, neither do I. I don't have to worry. Its a choice I make.

Her ease at laughter, her wake-up-smile, her pure glee: it is all attainable. Joy isn't simply born of freedom of responsibility, but of freedom of worry. And worry, again, is a choice.

So, today, I want to choose joy over distress, smiles over exasperation, and laughter over worry.

Memory-Building

I wonder if relationships forged at such a young age last. They will always be cousins, but will they always share secrets by nightlight? Do these early bonding experiences, these days and hours spent next to each other, do they prove to be the glue of adulthood?

They will have to take responsibility for their own friendship in a few short years, and though their parents might encourage it, ultimately their love is their own. They choose to love and to be hurt or not hurt; they will each choose to hold the other in her heart. Or not.

My hope, my prayer, is that these 5 and 6 year old experiences will be a foundation for a mature relationship someday; that they will as young mothers, someday, smile about memories of long car rides and falling asleep on each other. I trust that they will use these visits as a base for the future.

New memories. New laughter. Many new smiles. Memory-building is a good thing.

Sunshine

The clouds are high and wide this morning. The sunrise today makes them silver, stretching from horizon to horizon, typical of a California morning in late fall.

Last week I met a woman who said the Cambridgeshire skies were the best in England because of the low-profile landscape, without hills or mountains. She also said that the sky in the States is most likely more beautiful because of our wide expanses of land and prairie.

But as we drove to the airport on Sunday morning, we saw the sun rise over England, late now nearing winter at about 7am. We saw the sun rise, and create huge pink and orange brush strokes in the open Cambridge sky. No variation in the earth, just farmland and a brilliant sky above.

Its the same sun, shining on the same clouds, over different land. I don't know which sky is more beautiful. I do know that I am the same girl, now on my own continent, and I've left England behind (and with it, our family).

I miss it and I miss them this morning.

What Satisfies

Naomi screams. She yells. She thrashes around and screams again. She kicks and throws things. She is almost 2, and she's been stuck on an airplane for almost 10 hours.

In her tears, she says "BINKY". She takes her pacifier and throws it. She yells for it again, and throws it again. She yells "NIGHT NIGHT" wanting her blanket. I hand it to her and she throws it off. "DRINK!" I give her a sippy cup with milk and she tries to throw that (so glad she didn't hit the guy in 25E because she has kicked him enough on this flight).

I figure 25E is okay, he's a dad. But his middle-school aged kids sitting next to him have been doing their homework quietly for hours. I know someday that will be us, but I also know I don't want to rush it. The days of play dough and stickers will be gone forever, it seems.

Everything I give her, this whirlwind of energy in the body of a toddler, everything she asks for, she decides she doesn't want. I am trying desperately to understand her little mind, her heart. She gets what she asks for, but it doesn't satisfy whatever is fueling her fire. She is unhappy, evidently, and as her mother, my inside desire is to soothe and calm her. My words are nothing to her when she is in the midst of a tantrum, and nothing said or sung offers any salve.

She just doesn't know what she wants.

And even though her vocabulary has grown exponentially in the past weeks and month, she still does not have enough words or self-knowledge to express herself adequately. She doesn't know so, neither do I.

So today, there are more tantrums. But they are in the comfort of my living room or backyard. She is free from her car seat and stroller, for today at least. I look at her, try to figure out what exactly it is she wants, and try to provide the right boundaries for her.

I sincerely want to be able to see inside her, deep inside the complexities of this baby. I know there is a lesson to learn here, in her: to ask for things carefully and to thoughtfully consider what satisfies. And also, of course, what does not.

And not to throw the binky when someone gives it to you.

Our Last Adventure

Adjustment.

Adaptability.

I am learning how easy it is to adapt. To change. To get used to something new. Like driving on the other side of the road. I've only been here for a week, but already it seems half-way normal. Even on the pavement when passing somebody, it seems polite to walk to the left rather than the right as we are used to in America.

Even in my runs here, I've began to jog hugging the left and not the right side of the path. I did it without thinking this morning when I passed another woman jogger (the ONLY one I have seen since I've been here): she ran to the right and I the left. It just seemed to work; and it also worked in my brain.

The baby eventually got used to the time difference (just in time for us to go home) and both of the girls have adjusted well to travelling (being on a train or in a car or plane for long stretches of time). There have been some whines, but for the most part, they seem to have adapted well.

It makes me wonder if there are other habits in my life I could easily drop if I just tried; things that I could live without if I merely made the effort. I could adapt. I surely could adjust.

I am packed up. We are ready to go. Our last adventure begins tomorrow morning as we travel home. Door-to-door our trip will begin at 7am Cambridge time and end at 7pm California time, roughly 20 hours of different legs of our journey. I know that once again, tomorrow will be a day of adjustment, some tantrums, but an adventure nonetheless.

London is...

London in November is, to me...the train from Waterbeach to Kings Cross, with runny noses and the eastern sun beating on our warming faces.

London is Naomi yelling/screaming the entire way from the train station to Parlaiment Square in a cab (we tipped the cabbie 8 pounds because we felt so bad for him) because she simply didn't want to sit down. London is ducking into Westminster Abbey and paying anything they would charge us because of frozen fingers and cold ears.

London, for me, today is my amazement at the Poet's Corner (Chaucer!!) and the tombs of Elizabeth I, Mary Tudor and Mary Queen of Scots.

It is taking a short wave at Big Ben and then jumping into the first cab that would stop for a painfully obvious American family. London is letting Naomi "stand" in the cab toward the museum so she wouldn't scream. Some fights I am going to just choose not to fight.

London is the Subway sandwich shop that sold something familiar for the kids to eat (sort of).

London is savoring the British Museum while Naomi napped in the stroller and watching my older daughter take her first look at the ancient world. It is then whisking the family through the Roman Brittain section because, after her nap, she wanted OUT of her stroller confinement.

London is catching our train home only to find the rest of work-week-weary city headed to our same destination. We stood for the 60 minute train ride and Hope fell asleep on the floor sitting on her father's feet.

London, for me, in November, is way too big and amazing to see with two wonderfully adaptive, but young children. But, we did jump into this freezing pool with both feet and had a glorious time.

Patchwork

We patchworked the dinner today, but I am thankful. Its wildly difficult translating European metric cooking temperatures and amounts into what I know... the jury is still out on the pumpkin pie.

We are going into London tomorrow (with a stroller and the baby) and I am not sure how it will turn out, but I am thankful. All I know is I can't miss the opportunity: sometimes you just have to jump in with both feet even though you know the pool will be freezing.

We celebrated Thanksgiving today in a country with people who are most likely thankful for what they have been given, but don't set aside a day like we do. I am thankful for being with family today, and for being one of four adults with five hyper children.

We've been passing around a cold in this house and now I am sick, but I am thankful even so. It slows me down and lets me shrug off a little of the stress.

I'm thankful for taking a walk late yesterday afternoon pushing Naomi in the stroller. We walked the little streets of Canterbury by ourselves and we bought some things together in a tea shop and in a little Catholic store. I'm thankful for quieter times.

I'm thankful that Hope seems to "get it" on our visits to the cathedrals and the old sections of the towns. She watches, she touches the walls and she seems to be ingesting it. It's more than I had hoped for. She's not even six years old.

Today is Thanksgiving and in some ways I feel thousands of miles away from most people I know. But I am also in the middle of a loud house full of love and kindness and the voices of kids singing (fighting sometimes). I am thankful for that.

I am also thankful that even as our dinner was a little patchworked today, it was hot and filling and tasted good. And it was shared by people who love each other dearly.

Happy Thanksgiving from England!

Starbucks

Its odd. This country. I've studied its history, read its literature, taught students its plays, and it has always been romanticized in my mind. Films, both current and historic, picture England in a way that seems other-worldly to me:

Beautiful. Ancient. Deep. Romantic.

Nothing like my life in California. Nothing like driving to dance class or working out on the treadmill. Nothing like my normal me.

But walking down the streets of Canterbury today, (after having had my first and hopefully only stress breakdown of the week) I was struck with how normal and wonderful it is here. English people are nice and normal. Burger King and KFC are the same (except for a few diffrences here and there). School kids walk down the pedestrian streets after being let out of school looking for the candy shops. It seems the English are in awe and appreciation of their heritage just as I am, however their castles and cathedrals slide in between cooking shops and juice bars in the shopping districts.

And there are electronic keypads on doors hewn in the fourteenth century.

The gate to the courtyard of Canterbury Cathedral is literally adjacent to a Starbucks. From the Starbucks windows you can see the actually entryway to the impressive building. Its a little strange.

England still is romantic and medieval and mysterious to my California mind, but now it also seems homey and comfortable and familiar. It still is a bit foreign to me (I am reminded when I see bags of frozen minced lamb and beef and kidney pies in the local supermarket), however I see England now in the faces of the girls who work at the coffee counters or behind the bread shop window. I can see it not just as a world I've created in my mind, but as it is.

Castle Churches

My oldest little girl seems to be growing up even more on this trip. I can almost see her gains, and leaps, and strides as they are happening.

She is having trouble sleeping in the middle of the night because of the time difference still. She doesn't get upset, she doesn't whine...she just quietly walks over to my room, knocks on my door and whispers: I can't sleep, Mama.

I go into tuck her in, to make sure she's warm and safe in an unfamiliar house, and she asks me to sing. I tell her it will have to be a whisper-song, and I sing to her. When I leave, she is still wide awake, but I don't hear from her again the rest of the night. She is making some adult-sized choices.

Today we went to Ely to see the cathedral. It is beautiful and big and it is the first time Hope has seen anything like it at all. She calls them Castle-Churches. They have a childrens' map and the older girls took off looking in the corners and among the statues and stained glass for the clues. They found the shrine of St. Ethelreda from 674 AD and they also found the tomb of a beheaded bishop from 991 AD.

For a minute I couldn't find Hope, and then I saw her, by herself, staring at the art at the altar in a small chapel. She was alone and quiet and studying what she saw. I walked up behind her and asked her about what she saw. She said, "This is AMAZING, Mama".

She reminded me of myself. Not at that age, but of me now: searching for art in the mundane, seeing beauty for beauty, being awed by the ancient.

It is truly beautiful to witness her grow up in this way.

English Blessings

What a blessing to have a cozy house with warm smiles and soft beds when it's cold outside.

How amazing to take a run by myself along the Cam River, by the barges and the willows, watching the train on one side and fields of sheep on the other. What a blessing to break a sweat after a blurry two days.

What blessings are there from packing all five children in the car last night, driving into the Cambridge city center and completely missing the Christmas parade we meant to see. We were 1 hour too late but right on time for the rain that came. We wound through the Kings College alleys and walked along the University "Backs" in the rain...and in the dark.

What a blessing to return to the city today, strolling through the open air market and the courtyards of the medieval colleges, talking and laughing and trying to distract whining children.

What a blessing watching my girls and their cousins play together, feeding them their lunch together and cooking with my sister-in-law in her kitchen.

How amazing to take Hope into the chapel in the Trinity College courtyard, and see the statues of Tenneyson, Newton and Bacon lining the entry way. I whisper in her ear, "Remember this".

There are new blessings every hour here.

Adjustment

The past 24 or 36 or 48 hours (I have sort of lost count) have been all about adjustment. Adults adjust more easily to changes in time, weather, sleep habits by mentally preparing and telling ourselves what we need to do in order to make it work ("It is 2am, I need to go back to sleep even though it really only feels like 7pm" - and then I close my eyes, and fall asleep).

Not so with children.

They did adjust to the plane ride, somewhat (each sleeping for about 5 hours), and they have adjusted to being with their cousins (hopefully getting the crazy, screaming play out of the way last night). However, the eight hour time difference is really tough on Naomi.

After getting a small amount of sleep Friday night, she fell asleep two more times during the day on Saturday. Last night when it was time for all to go to bed, she did, but then woke up two hours later, her little brain making the assumption that that was her afternoon nap.

She was up from 1am until 5:30am when she finally passed out in front of the downstairs TV. So of course, I was up until 5:30am as well. I took her little limp body up to bed about an hour before it got light this morning. She slept, so tired and so done with fighting. I slept too, also done with the fight.

Today we went to the neighborhood park for awhile, where she ran and ran and made up for lost time strapped into her carseat on the plane. It was so cold, almost snow weather, but the kids didn't care. As soon as we reached the edge of the lawn, four little, bundled bodies took off for the four corners of the park, picking up twigs with mittened hands and laughing together.

Hopefully tonight and tomorrow will be a little better and her little body rhythms will begin to move in sync with the rest of us. Hopefully we'll be ready to get out, brave the cold, and see a little bit of this beautiful country.

Adventure

Our adventure begins today. I could call myself courageous, or easygoing or "together", but none of these would describe my current state. Taking two small children halfway across the world might seem brave to some, but I think that it more likely will be evidence for those who would try to prove me insane someday.

I don't know. We will soon find out. There are always the horror stories of people sitting for 6 hours on the tarmack, entire families being searched by security, or the normal woes and hardships of airport and plane travel. LAX is never a fun place, for me, for my kids, for anyone.

So, I will rest simply on "adventurous", sliding somewhere between stupid and brave. I will take what comes with courage and excitement. I will try to make 11 hours in a plane seat fun for my girls. I will only bring one book onboard because I know that I will not really have time to read.

England had better get ready because I take the circus with me wherever I go. And I'm not sure they are ready for the Pacific, level 5 hurricane that I am bringing with me to this little island. Surely American Airlines isn't ready for us.

But, nonetheless, England, here we come!

Honesty

I know that someday my children will lose their faith in me. I am not perfect. I am not even that great most of the time: I yell, I succumb to laziness, I want things a certain way, I worry and get scared for no reason.

My girls will look at me, the real me all laid out in front of them, and they will be saddened because I am not what they thought I was. Aren't mothers supposed to be strong? Unmovable? Aren't mother's supposed to look fear in the eye and make it back down? Aren't mothers supposed to be the protectors and anchors of their families?

I do things every day that scream my imperfection, that emblazon my wimpiness. When they are old enough, they will see through to the core of me and know that I am not strong and not immovable; I get scared often. I also know that someday, I will have to look in a young face and explain the mistakes I've made in my life. I will have to share with them all the ways in which I am NOT perfect, in fact, I've acted despicably at times. They will know the real me someday.

Sometimes that puts fear into my heart: my children knowing all of my mistakes. Complete and utter honesty, I guess, is the root of it. Most of the time, I don't worry about this. I know that they will understand, someday, because they love me. I am their mother and I have never claimed perfection. I've only claimed forgiveness.

Strength comes in honesty. It comes from having nothing to hide. My life is open and readable for the world, and I know that someday my children will read my story as well.

And perhaps, maybe, they will learn.

Simple Me

I've been created simply, so I can take joy in simple things. If I was any more complex, the simpleness of life would just bore me.

I take joy in watching the field taking it first drink of sunlight after the night. There is beauty in running in the hills and feeling the warmth of the canyons compete with the coolness of the hills. I take joy in the sunrise that only I see over my eastern hils.

I take joy in a warm and clean house, with room to play; and in my girls knowing that they are loved and can go barefoot here.

I take joy in looking forward to seeing my husband hug his baby sister this weekend after a year apart. There is simple joy in the adventure of the unknown.

I am not complicated. The tiniest things make me happy: my daughter's toothless smile and soft face, my baby's mimicked singing with her sister, my husband's hand on my waist. These are the simplest of smiles and perhaps the most meaningful.

I am a simpleton, I guess, in every good sense of the word. My little joy-givers are new and fresh-faced every day. My desire is to simply, purely and completely drink my fill of them as often as I am able.

Picking up Leaves

On Wednesdays, at the end of the school day, Hope's Kindergarten class walks from chapel to music to where the cars pick up. On the way to the car from the music room is a maple tree, now becoming bare and raining orange, curly autumn leaves onto the pavement. The kids walk through them and Hope always arrives at the car with a leaf in hand.

"I pick one up every Wednesday, Mama. I always do."

This time, she hands it to me rather than stuffing it in her backpack. I put it on my dashboard like I do all the flowers she picks for me. They find a home there for awhile and then somehow they disappear with the car washes. I look at it on the drive home and it makes me think of her little heart and the purposes she claims: the reasons why she does things, so obscure to an adult mind. These reasons are even hidden to a mind such as mine which searches so intently to understand the ebb and flow of my daughter.

She's not even six and already she is creating traditions in her world. She has to have her horses and dolls a certain way before she can sleep, and her music on each night. She must eat her pancakes with butter, but her waffles without and she resists change.

I don't want to quench the things she is beginning to grasp, the things she is starting to stake out as hers in this giant world. Even now, on this stiff-with-newness journey she has begun, my little girl is creating her future self. She is making little decisions outside of me; her wants and desires are her own, sometimes influenced by me, but she owns them.

I don't know when she'll stop picking up autumn leaves. I don't remember when I did. Maybe she never will. But I hope that she will continue, nonetheless, to unknowingly create meaningful traditions for herself, ones that are natural to only her.

Reflection

I really don't need to witness the parade or the hillarity of the movie or even hear the joke being told. I simply would like to see it reflected on her face, watch her laughter and see the light in her eyes. Her reaction is what is important.

Like the moon holds its own beauty, different from the sun, it is measured by its reflection.

I watched her tonight. I watched her watch the world. All I need to see sometimes, I can find in her wide blue eyes.

Spicy Goodness

Sometimes decisions are almost impossible. Visibly distressing. Horribly difficult to decipher...

Like the choice between the Rio Citrus Salad and the Pumpkin Scone at Starbucks this morning. I will say now that I did choose the fruit salad, but it was heart-rending. I wavered. I whined. I stood in line with Chad until the last possible minute when I plunked the small salad on the counter with an angry look in my eye. How can one possibly compare oranges slices, grapefruit quarters and pineapple chunks with the spicy goodness of the Pumpkin (in season only now!) scone?

I knew the pleasure of the scone would be temporary (and Starbucks' baked items are never as good as they look). The pumpkiny-beauty on my tongue would be fleeting, lasting only for seconds as the orange-hued bread would eventually sit in the pit of my stomach like a heavily frosted rock.

I wait at the table. Waiting for my no-fun fruit to arrive....as my husband with his lightening-quick male metabolism returns with my fruit salad and, of course, a Pumpkin Scone for himself. Ouch. I would have to consume my grapefruit directly across from him licking the sweet scone-crumbs off his own fingers.

Interestingly enough, as I eat the almost too-tart fruit cup and watch my husband eat his breakfast, I don't even want it any longer. Something in the grapefruit and orange mix seems to curb my desire for the scone. I'm fine now and all my whining seems so long ago and so far away.

Not that highly sugared baked goods are inherently evil, but I knew what I SHOULD choose, what would be healthier and what would make me feel the best afterward.

Somehow I am vindicated when Chad looks at me over the paper and says, "I should have gotten the fruit".

Unfinished

When I was a little girl, on a whim, my parents bought a puppy from a pet store for us to bring home and love. She was a mutt: a hairy, medium-sized Australian Shepherd/Sheltie mix with the sweetest face that loved to run circles in the backyard chasing my sister.

After we'd had her for awhile, she got out of the fence in our yard and ran away. She never came home and no one ever found her, that we knew. We lived on the urban side of a suburban area and I know in my adult mind now that she most likely got hit by a car, but 25 years ago, I just hoped she found a good home somewhere. A good home with other kids to play with her and that she could chase.

My grandmother, who frequently said strange and nonsensical things, would say that she saw Muffy running out on the main street near our house. It was just enough to give me a tiny hope, but then wonder at the truth of her words. It was enough to make me think about it and give me an unfinished feeling. My love for this dog had been cut short because she had left.

She would never come home and I would never know what happened to her. This was completely out of my control but it felt like a loose end nonetheless. Something was undone, unfinished, left wanting.

I still think about her sometimes. Unfinished and out of my sphere of control.

I know that there are things WITHIN my control that are unfinished: things and friendships I can change, things that need tied up and put to rest.

There are people I should call and there are a few that should hear my story. They don't necessarily need to hear, but I need the catharsis. I would like to tie up loose, unfinished things in my life that are within my power to affect. I don't want to leave any love cut short. I want the different, sensible peace that rumbles just under the surface, so close to touch. I want to finish things, love people and tie things closed that should be shut.

Napping

When I was a new mom with this sweet, albeit colicky, baby, my life was built around her tender schedule and I would nap with her.

Every morning from around her 4th month to her 9th month, I would hold her on my chest, heart to heart, and she would fall asleep. Every morning. We'd put on the Today show and for about an hour, I would sleep and so would she. It was healing and bonding and a short, but beautiful stage in my life. Her breath would even out and her body would sink into mine, even if she was fighting it. Her baby cheeks would be so close to my own sometimes and her arms would fall gently over my shoulders. I would close my eyes only when I was confident she had given up to sleep.

A part of me knew she'd probably sleep longer and sounder in her own crib, but I wasn't ready to give up this special time. If I ever napped without her, I would feel naked. I knew it would end someday and I would move from napping with my baby to doing chores around my house when she slept by herself.

Let me clarify that she didn't NEED me to sleep (like some babies need rocking or just being held to fall asleep) - she would have done fine on her own in her crib. I needed the time, the bond, the closeness. At that time in my life, it was one of the most intimate things I possessed.

Eventually, she ended up in her room for her morning nap and I ended up doing the dishes. It was the end of a brief era.

Last week, during Naomi's afternoon nap, Hope crawled her almost-six-year-old body up onto mine on the sofa. We lay there, heart to heart, as when she was so tiny. But this time, her long girl legs extended so far and her feet almost reached mine. She was so exhausted from her day and week that she quickly fell asleep. Her breath evened out and her body (much heavier now) sunk with trust into mine. When I was confident she was asleep, I closed my eyes to rest.

That might have been her last nap with me in that position, breath to breath and heartbeat upon beat, I don't know for sure. But I do know that children grow, and they grow fast, and sometimes I feel like I can't take it all in quickly enough.

Five years, blink.

Ten years, blink.

Blink.

Little Storms

Sometimes I feel like I stand still and my personal storm swirls around me.

My husband, at the kitchen table, had to laugh last week as I sat at my computer, continued to type, as both kids yelled different things from different rooms. The baby grabbed my arm and whined and Hope had a melt-down in the living room. I typed, wrote, stone-faced at the screen. And he laughed. He said I was like a rock and he thought it was funny.

It swirls, even pounds, but some days I am stronger than others.

Lately the baby has begun to toddler-tantrum. I'm not quite sure if it is the true terrible-two-tantrum yet (fingers crossed). And also lately, she's been doing it in the middle of Gymboree class. New moms, with beautifully calm lives with their beautifully calm babies, look at me. I really don't think there is judgment, just curiosity. Naomi tantrums, rolls and thrashes around on the mat (good place to throw yourself down on the ground, she's discovered). She screams and I make sure she's safe during her hysterics, and then I sit down and watch.

I watch my little storm as she swirls, and I wait for her to subside.

And I am there, at the end, to clear her face of tears and to wipe her nose and to pick her up again to engage her in the new activity. I am there, unruffled (today, at least), and she knows I am this wall she can pound her storm against. I can't help but thinking that this is a small snapshot of my future when my two girls begin to grow closer to womanhood; when they reach the monumental emotions of being teenagers and swing dreadfully from elation to despair. I feel like this is practice, perhaps the high school football game compared with the NFL.

I do recognize that my little storms, their little storms, will someday become big ones, with adult-sized consequences and hurts. I still have to be that wall that they can pound against, the tear-wiper and hand-holder. I will help to pick them up and together we will wait for time to quiet the storms.

Yoda, aka Naomi

Vanity (Confession)

Vanity.

Honestly I used to be much more vain than I am now. Truly. A lot has changed in the past 4 years.

But I am vain. I am. I wore the cute new running shoes to the gym yesterday morning.


I left my old, (but not too old), dusty and stained, road-tested Asics at home. I wanted the cute ones, the ones that matched my pants. My old running shoes would look so, well, brown, in the gym. My new ones are crisp, not-broken-in and bouncy.


And I ran 6 miles on the treadmill in Nikes (I swore I would never run in Nikes).


Three blisters and 2.5 miles of pain later (the first 3.5 weren't bad), I decided that I needed my trusted, sad Asics. The ones sitting on my porch at home, waiting for my next outdoor, no-judgment, puddle-splashing run.


So, here, I confess my silly vanity. I won't do it again, I promise. I have to walk around (and run around) for the next week with three new tender spots on my feet because of my vanity. I will feel my pain and my vanity every time I take a step.

Well-Loved War

Clean kitchen or Candyland on the living room floor?

Folded laundry or snuggles on the sofa, holding hands unintentionally?

A crumb-free floor or pictures colored together?

Dragging the baby to the market or coming home so she can spend the morning in her bare feet playing with her toys?

Paperwork filed and off of my dining room table or her favorite craft completed?

A long workout without time constraints or errands run before school is out?

Dinner cooked at home, well-done and thoughtful or one more gymnastics or dance class?

The dishes unloaded and put away or a slow walk outside, stopping whenever they want to look at whatever they want?

Write my post or dance a silly-dance to a sillier song in my socks just to make them laugh?

My battle continues, but it is a well-loved war, a chosen fight for balance and moderation. Everyday this struggle contends for my heart and my time and I feel myself pulled and stretched tenuously. But this battle, this fight I choose to engage is fought because I both love my babies and want to provide a safe and calm home for them in which to dwell.

The answer might be compromise: staying up late at night to work in my home and still getting up at dark-thirty to run; bringing my laptop into the room they are in just so we can breathe the same air. I have chosen this; so even though I feel drawn so thinly at times, the balance usually comes by the hour: not planning too much for each day and alternating times of playing directly with them with times of self-engagement so I can accomplish something.

Simple Needs

I'd forgotten how healing the ocean can be. And simple. Everything near the sea is simple, straightforward and empty on a November Saturday.

At early evening before sunset, the sand is cold and smooth. The girls don't need the playground. All they need is the wide, open beach, some shovels and pails and room to run.

They merely need to be let go: let out of carseats, strollers, just simply let out of doors. The need the space to yell and chase each other, run after their father. They need to laugh at simple things like sand castles and seagulls.

Then they need their little tummies filled with good food from the diner down the street.

Clarity

Fog can be blinding. It is comfortable and cool, but there is no depth of sight or experience. Everything that can be witnessed is close by and quiet.

I ran this morning, not early, after I was satisfied that my family was adequately fed with pancakes. It was foggy and clammy outside. The clouds were thick and I felt comfortable in my long sleeves and pants.

Music on, the slow jog has a way of making stiff muscles a little looser but not enough to move quicker. Especially not in the fog. Especially when I cannot see or hear the cars coming down the hill, surprising me as I round the corner. It was then I realized that I was quite close to the top of the cloud; I was going to emerge from the murkiness the closer I came to the hilltop.

Up and out. Clarity. I could see and hear...

I understand that right now I am in a metaphoric fog, close to the top of the hill. My too-close emotions somehow persuade my mind to believe things that are only believable in the fog. Once I run up and out of the cloud, to the clarity from the summit, everything will be much more certain and simpler.

I need to wait, to hold my tongue, to be patient for the hilltop and the lucidity received there.

Affection

Having my girls four years apart, I had made the assumption that they would live separate lives given their age gap.

They do, for the most part, their own things. There are a few television shows they enjoy together, but their interests are distinct.

Affection.

It breaks all age gaps. Love grows between sisters and develops feet. It spreads, like honey spilled on a counter, slowly. It sticks and stays.

There are hugs in the morning and kisses at night. There are tears when they've been separated and laughs shared behind closed doors.

I am witnessing them beginning to nurture each other and fill the gap I will leave. They are learning from me how to express this love, the love that will turn into their adult sister-love for each other.

Before Hope left with her father for soccer practice this evening, Naomi came up to her and put her little head on Hope's little lap. She knew her sister was leaving and she needed the hug. Hope smiled and hugged her and held her for a minute. They sat there, calmly and held each other for a few moments.

Just like I would. Just like I would hold them. They drew from each other what they normally draw from me. I saw it happening and it gave me sincere joy. I felt nothing taken from me, only given back in the form of love for one another.

It was a sweet, perfect, burned-in-my-mind instant. I know there will be many more of these age-transcending shows of affection, these memory-making times when they know they have each other. I love that I was able to give my girls the gift of each other and that now, even at a tender age, they are beginning to own that relationship for themselves. They are owning it with their personal God-given, self-created love.

Poor November

Poor November.

Sandwiched between the candy-glory of October and the purchasing-power of December, November stands sadly and meekly by, somehow waiting for Christmas. It isn't the popular Autumn month, it isn't the celebrated one filled with pumpkin patches (those have usually closed up shop by the first), it isn't our first anticipated venture into cooler weather.

November sits there as the eleventh month, supported by the more fashionable ones, waiting calmly and thankfully for December. There really aren't many songs about November or television commercials about Thanksgiving. It is as if November is a doorway from October to December...just walk through to to the other side.

November is short and quiet and humble. It doesn't scream "Santa" like December does, and the Christmas decorations that find their way into malls and onto our neighbors' lawns somehow seem out of place during this unassuming month. Everyone waits for Christmas, for more excuses to be self-indulgent, so November, calm or stormy, is forgotten.

Loving November is a bit like rooting for the underdog: you really want him to win, to be counted, to show everyone what he really is. You really want everyone to sit around the Thanksgiving table and thank God really for their family and their sustenance.

November is beautiful, our first real savory holiday of the fall season. It is reason for large families, small ones, groups of friends to come together and eat and argue and laugh. November is cause for shopping casually for gifts without the tremors and frenzy of the coming weeks. Thanksgiving offers much less pressure and expectation than Christmas.

So thankfully, without worry about Christmas gifts or trips to Europe or memories of Halloween, I will cherish November, root for him. I will delight in this month and thank God for all.