the thing.

I am sick with anticipation and gratitude. In turn my heart pounds with fear and rests in gratitude for unspeakable blessings. This dichotomy renders me a little moody and in need of lots of grace from my sweet and stable husband.

I am not a master at handling the unknown or what is otherwise outside of my control. The illusion of control entices me like a fabulous pair of shoes I would know not how to wear. Should these shoes show up in my closet I would surely wear them with everything I own and ruin them post haste. I want control, but I recognize that it just isn't something that suits my wardrobe. Unfortunately.

"Dave, are you stressed out?" I ask him about the Thing that has caffeinated my nights and monopolized my thoughts. He shrugs, "It's going as we thought." He's sleeping well, I can tell. He's not eyeing shoes that can't be his. I am immediately furious at his calm and also soothed by it. "I guess." I can only mutter, furrowing my worried eyebrows back into place.

At once I am consumed with the Thing and I am growing in gratitude, patience, hope. I feel my chest intake a deeper breath and I feel my teeth close over my tongue when it wants to snap something unhelpful. I worry and I stress. I take in the beauty of my son's smile even when sick with the flu. Then I am distracted by anxiety. I inhale the scent of my daughter when she and her little-pink-blanks cuddle to me. I make hollow plans. I memorize the way my baby's eyebrows briefly lift when he catches my eye, mid-crawl-race and he smiles. I pace. I let my heart flood with gratitude for the consistent and unrelenting love of my husband. I worry. These moments are yoga; they are resting in an uncomfortable position and learning to embrace it.

You want to know what the Thing is. You are scanning the words until I get to some kind of big reveal. It doesn't matter here. You have a Thing too. There is something that could weigh you down so low that you can't see the majesty in your life. I think of the beautiful promise Jesus made, "Come to me, all you who are weary ... and I will give you rest." I can think of this and I can loosen my grip on elusive control. What I need more than certainty, really, is rest. I need calm. I need this moment now. I need teething and tantrums and phone calls and sweeping the floor again and rewashing laundry that sat in the washer too long. I need my life here and now. This beautiful, messy, sticky, unnerving gift is all mine. A fabulous pair of shoes would be much easier.

Three. Tres. Trois.

I am a mother of three. I have three children. THREE?! Evidently three is a number that tips the scale from sane and typical to outrageous and adventurous around here. Or so it seems from the comments I've heard. Clearly I am not surrounded by people who grew up in the Christian homeschooling community that I did, in which three kids means you are just getting started.

My third baby was born 10 weeks ago. We named him Tristan Samuel within an hour of his birth. We arrived at the hospital knowing neither his gender nor his name. When the doctor showed me that beautiful scrunched up face, I thought he looked like a Tristan. Then, while in the recovery room I asked Dave to look up the meaning of Tristan and we heard him wailing from down the hall. Dave laughed and said "It means the loud one." That settled it. Well, that settled it for the birth certificate. When Maiya met Tristan she asked that we change his name to Tyler. She asked a few more times after that. I love a girl with an opinion.

Tristan is a dream. It could be that this time I was confident I would get less sleep, have more to do than could be done and have the occasional emotional meltdown. So it's less of a shock and consequently less overwhelming. Not to say that I am underwhelmed. Or bored. Or catching up on soaps. I am just a half a notch under totally overwhelmed, but the difference is that I know that at 10 weeks out, that isn't too bad.

While reveling in Tristan's infancy, I am also preparing for my first baby to go to kindergarten in the Fall. I am managing my anxiety about kindergarten by learning about things like PTA and summer reading. Neither of these are terms homeschoolers need or use as parents are the teachers and thus have no Association and reading is never an "extra" assignment; it's a basic part of life in every season. Haven is looking forward to kindergarten as he is excited to learn to read. And the line of shiny computers he saw in the library at orientation did nothing to hurt his ideals.  

The preciousness of my time with my kids is real to me. It is a luxury to spend my days with them. It is not a luxury in the classical sense, but that in which you work harder, get paid less and love your life more. Is there a word for that? It is waking up in the morning and showering poop off of another person before you get the chance to sit on the toilet for thirty-five seconds, then having company when you do. It is getting covered with kisses because you put five stitches in a doll stroller, rendering the flimsy thing functional. It is the pride in your child's face when, after years of singing the ABC's he suddenly sounds out a tiny word. It is fastening a dry diaper around tiny hips and looking up to see a beautiful face beaming at you. It is a lot of crappy moments too - like when your children press playdough into the cracks of your ancient wood floor and you just sit down and cry because you have no idea how to remove the helldough - and thus we move along. Things change. Even the crappy moments become funny in retrospect, making even some of them precious. Times three.

Happily.

Eleven months have passed since my last post. In that time my 2- and 3-year-olds turned to 3- and 4-year-olds. Maiya mastered potty training in about a second and timidly started preschool several months later. Haven started to clearly write his name and started his second year of preschool. They are both dancers, and they are best friends. Haven sings almost nonstop, his feature hit is the Lion King theme over and over. And over. And over again. Maiya is confident about what she wants in almost every situation. Haven has an unbiased love for all electronics and Maiya has an equally liberal love for puppies. I could write facts about these two forever. You might stop reading, but I wouldn't even notice.

There are two new members in our family. One is about 9 months old, one is unborn. One has ears that hang low, the other has ears which are developing. This time last year Dave and I were deciding if we would add a puppy or a baby to our family. We decided on both. We like to live on the wild side. What's a little chaos when there's plenty of love, right? It turns out that it's still chaos. But not the worst kind.

Nobody mentioned to me exactly how different a third pregnancy would be. I not longer believe that certain pregnancy experiences indicate a girl or a boy. I've had both and this is a whole new experience. Perhaps God is fashioning just the third child I planned. The one with the easiest traits from Haven and Maiya plus sleeps like a champ. No? You don't think that God is creating a human being based on what is easiest for me, the mother? It's not all about me?

Anyway. I wasn't really expecting my body to find new and exciting ways to surprise me. After an emergency c-section in which the epidural failed and then getting pregnant with Maiya about a breath (or 7 months) after Haven's birth, I thought my body had offered me enough stories to tell. Most things with this pregnancy are for girls nights only (or for endlessly complaining to my husband while he patiently smiles and nods), but I will share that the doc recommended a maternity belt to help hold my belly in a normal place. You see, nobody suggests a maternity belt when your tummy muscles are being stretched for just the first time. Or the second. I mean really. I need a belt to hold up my belly? Awesome. Good thing I did all that abdominal strength work last year. T-o-t-a-l-l-y worth it. Unfortunately and fortunately the maternity belt does make me more comfortable. God bless those of you with four, five and six children. Really. No sarcasm. May God bless you.

That is the snapshot of our now. It is lovely. Well, at least it is lovely right now. At night. When the loudest members of the family are sleeping. We watched Cinderella tonight and I remember the first time I saw it. I was captured with the idea of true love and happily ever after. I really couldn't wear glass slippers at this point, but I like what my happily looks like.

Bedtime

Yesterday my little boy turned 4 years old. At his bedtime tonight, I read Oh the Places You'll Go! as he fell asleep. His head was on my shoulder and he pressed the Xbox Lego Batman game case to his chest.

"I'm going to cuddle with Lego Batman tonight," He explained, as we curled up in his bed.

I have never read Oh the Places You'll Go!, nor have I ever cried myself through a children's book quite so much. Haven was tired from partying late into his birthday night yesterday, so he was asleep before I read "...except when you don't, because sadly you won't, I'm sorry to say so but sadly, it's true that bang-ups and hang-ups can happen to you" which is good. Because all I could think about was how this book is often a graduation gift. One day my boy will be turning 18 and not 4. He will trot out into the world and sometimes things will go well for him and sometimes they will not. One day there will be bigger successes, but there will also be bigger disappointments. I gulped back tears as I finished the book.

I remember after our many talks during my childhood my Dad would often sum up with, "I just really love you, hon" as his eyes welled with tears. At the time I thought crying was a strange reaction to telling me he loved me. But I get it now.

So, here's to ups and downs and supporting one another. And a little happy dance that Haven turned 4 (and not 18) yesterday.

Few thoughts...

I love reading this blog. It might have something to do with the two main characters. I'm a little bit in love with them. My favorite times with them are reading before bed and having dance parties. I also really love the moment Haven sees Maiya and I when we pick him up from preschool. He runs to us, hugs and kisses us.

Life is a little busy, but I spend my days with a 2 and 3 year old, so they have a way of slowing life down. It takes a half hour to get shoes and coats on and walk to the car. In the few hours a week that I'm not with them, I have two part time jobs: therapist and teacher. Both of these jobs are hauntingly similar to motherhood in that they require a level of patience and insight that I am constantly reaching deeper into myself to find.

Efficiency is sort of the theme of my life. Instead of trying to get more of everything, I'm trying to better manage what I already have. The reality is that we have enough for right now. Enough money. Enough space in our house. Enough time. And yes, enough kids. Could we enjoy more of all that? Sure. But I understand now why God wants us to manage small things before we have more.

More soon.

Just another day in para ... oh gotta go!

It didn't seem crazy straighten Haven's room. Several nigths in a row I had shoved piles of plastic toys to the side so to avoid punctured feet when he got out of bed. Those piles were growing and climbing my to-do list.

In a frenzy I divided plastic food, plastic pots, potato head appendages and matchbox cars into various baskets. These kids aren't getting this stuff back until they ask, are well supervised and immediately clean it up! I decided idealistically.

Halfway through my reorganization of Haven's toys, I called out, "Maiya, what are you doing?"

"I'm wiping Boots' heinie." Her monkey, Boots, often needs extensive hienie wiping after Maiya herself needs the same.

"Haven, where are you?"

"I'm painting my nails."

Halt to-do list. I ran around until I found my 3-three-old hunched over his white toe nails with a bottle of white-out in hand.

At this point I will note that I have decided that yelling, screaming or raising my voice is not the type of parental practice I wish to further perfect. Like 911, it is to be use strictly in emergency situations and not for general chit chatting. In other words, just the day before I had decided that I would not yell anymore. It's not nice. Nobody likes to be yelled at. I am trying my hand at talking in a calm, cool voice. Should be interesting.

So, instead of letting out the, "what are you doing?!" that was raising in my throat, I smiled, took a breath, and grabbed the camera. I then extracted the white out from Haven's hand and returned it to the junk drawer from which it came (you know, in case he needs to touch up at a later date). Then Haven and I learned that white out does not come out with soap and water.

This is why, when over coffee Danna told me she recently spent four uninterupted hours cleaning her house, I could be nothing but envious (I mean, happy for her).

I never considered the great luxury of completing a to-do list until I became a mom.

Two Maiya Stories

We made a horrible mistake. We let Maiya watch Chicken Run. Well, we let her watch about 10 minutes of Chicken Run, until she was puckering her lips, whimpering, "It's kinda scary, it's kinda scary" in a high-pitched voice. We turned it off, but she still remembers.

She found the Chicken Run case and was walking around the house with it. Processing. I heard her say, "It's kinda scary ... guy not nice ... say stupid ... " and in the most gentle, compassionate voice, "hurt somebody's feelings."

(I told Haven once that stupid is not a nice word and it could hurt somebody's feelings. He has made it his personal mission to correct anyone who uses the word. Maiya has joined the mission.)

So, last night we watched Toy Story 2. As soon as I said, "it's movie night!" Maiya looked at me with a quivering lip and said, "We watch Chicken Run?" No, Maiya, no, you will never have to watch Chicken Run again. We talked about Toy Story 2. She asked "where's Daddy?" I told her he was grilling some chicken. Whoops.

"Chicken Run?!"

So ... would anyone like our copy of Chicken Run?

On to the second story, which exemplifies our parenting skills a little better. Or at least Dave's.

Since she was born, Maiya has had a favorite blankie. She sleeps with it, she chews on it, she adores it. She loves it so much that even though I do sneak it into the laundry, it has a lingering smell. The corners turned colors, so we cut them off. Still, it is much more nasty than cuddly to the outside viewer.

Enter Dave. He found the same blankie on ebay and promptly ordered it. When it arrived I was sure it was the wrong one, as bright pink and soft as it was. But it had the same white edge I vaguely remembered from Maiya's infancy and the same "Thank heaven for little girls" message embroided on a satin square in the middle. I put it in the laundry.

When Dave got home we slipped her original blankie into a good hiding spot and put fluffy blankie on the couch. When she found it she immediately put it in her mouth, backed up, tasted it again, backed up, straighted it out to see the design and said, "What's that?" We told her that was her blankie. She stuffed her face into it, picked it up, and off she went. Success!

Spring Fever

It seems as if I've abandoned this space, but I have always liked abandoned spaces so here I am. In the five months since I last posted, I survived winter. I showed my children how to survive it. On a few, select days, we even enjoyed it. However, winter is a space in time which I am happy to have abandoned.

As beautiful as our neighborhood is in the summer, it is desolate in the winter. There is some beauty in the desolation, but as a stay at home mom (yes, I've accepted the term), loneliness is always lurking. I cannot say that I did not spare a few tears over the mounds of snow we had piled on our little street. I cannot say that there were not a few days we went out when should have stayed home. Strange how Target can become a refuge.

But Spring is here and Hallelujah! Just today Haven and I had peppermint tea and chocolate on the deck. He then played in the sandbox while I reclined in a chair, remembering that I love my life.

I was hired as a therapist. My first interview was in December. I cannot start until "The Board" (read the meanies at the state of New Jersey, one of whom yelled at me just yesterday) approves my "Plan of Supervision" which could take another month, or two, or three. All of that mumbo jumbo to say that it takes a lot of red tape to be a therapist. What I have actually earned is a Masters in Paper Work. So, it could be 6 months from my first interview to my first client.

Maiya has begun to talk to me constantly. Her voice is raspy and she ends most statements with, "right?" like a true Jersey Girl. For example, "That's mine, right?" or "It's time to eat, right?" She can make the tree shake when she screams 'no' and she would spend an entire day throwing rocks into the lake if I had the patience to sit there.

The most significant accomplishment of winter, aside from sheer survival, was potty training. Haven is now a proud user of the potty. We started on New Year's day and were pretty much done - I define success loosely - by Valentine's Day. Be skeptical of anyone who tells you that potty training can take 2 or 3 days. Haven was a good sport and I was too - again defining success loosely. During the process I shed a few tears, but none of them were sentimental for diapers. Haven learned to pee and poop in the toilet and I learned that his successes and failures are not mine.

I have felt rather gleeful on days with nice weather. I will wrap up with a short conversation Haven and I had at dinner:

Me: I had fun with you guys today! I had fun getting you dressed, I had fun going for a walk, I had fun eating lunch, I had fun playing with you [on and on and on] and I'm having fun right now!

Haven, watching me like I'm crazy: ... I not that happy.