Happy Mother's Day, Moms!

Lately I am struck by the privilege it is to be on the journey of motherhood. With Mother's Day just three sleeps away, I feel it apropos to share my stricken state with you - my 3 remaining readers.

With five foster classes done, we've learned the importance of a child's connection with the biological family. We've learned skills to keep that connection even when a child enters foster care. I am reminded again of the great power of motherhood. It is power we are not entitled to, it just exists with the birth of a child. It is our privilege to be a parent and we fill a gap our child will always feel without us.

Motherhood is many things. It is work and exhaustion and too many days without a shower. Sometimes it is a gift someone dropped in the mud or forgot to wrap, but it is still, truly, a gift. I've had hard, add-a-wrinkle-to-my-forehead days but recently I've had beautiful moments with each of my children. These are the moments I think of when I say that I love being a mom.


Haven: When I tucked him in bed last night he talked to me about his book, he kissed my face many times, then as I left he watched me leave. I turned around and he was smiling at me.

Maiya: Yesterday she belted out: "our mom is an awesome mom" complete with hand motions.

Tristan: He had to "beep" (poop, for any non-Tristanese speakers among us). I asked if he wanted to sit on the toilet and when I perched his tiny hienie on the seat he threw his arms around my neck. We sat like that for a while, his arms clinging to me as he tried something new.

These little moments are set between the bickering about who got a larger scoop of ice cream. They are interspersed around the frustration I feel when I hear my 2-year-old yell, "You mean!" when he does not get what he wants. They insulate me in the mayhem of dinner prep and late-afternoon meltdowns.

My life as a mom is a privilege. It is not simple or easy or laughing all day in the sunshine. The responsibility is profound but the ability to shoulder that responsibility even more so.  There is so much that goes into my ability to sustain as a mom, and some of those things are outside of my control. The ability to enjoy the good moments and tolerate the bad ones takes an inner strength cultivated by the support of family and friends. My husband is loving and helpful and more than I could have predicted when I picked him out thirteen years ago. The education I chose prepared me cognitively for the task. I have an ongoing sense of hope because of my faith in God. I am blessed to (most days) have the physical and emotional resources to be the kind of mom I want to be.

I think of biological mothers who will some day know me as the woman who has custody of her child. I think of the support they might not have. I think of the deep loss of losing their child, even if only for a time.

Happy mother's day to the moms who have the resources to be the moms they want to be, and happy mother's day to the ones who don't. May we embrace our task. May we see these wild, beautiful creatures for the gifts they are and treat them as such.

Expecting Love

We are expecting, but not the way we did three times before. We are choosing the unknown to extend love outside of our biological family. I am excited and scared and hopeful and confident about the choice.

A new person or people will join our family sometime in the next several months. It could be a boy, a girl, two boys, two girls. It could be an infant, or it could be a preschooler. Or both. They could stay with us for days, or forever. In short, we are moving toward foster care/adoption.

Yesterday I taught Haven and Maiya the definitions of adopted, foster and biological children. I asked them why children go into foster care and their answers were clear and concise. We brainstormed about why fostering children might be fun and why it might be hard. One is more excited than the other, which is interesting. It was just that way when I was pregnant with Tristan. Once he was born, they swapped and one was more excited and the other more cautious until we adjusted to the change.

Part of our foster/adopt application included a family drawing by each of the kids. They were asked to include the foster child or children in the drawing and write something if they wanted to. Maiya drew a picture of Dave and Tristan in the house, me outside, and prominently, in the middle of the page, Haven, another little girl and herself walking on a huge rainbow. The little girl was jumping rope and smiling. Haven's drawing included 7 of us lined up, smiling. Tristan was tucked between Dave and me and Haven, Maiya and 2 foster children were lined up next to us. His caption read, "I will love to have a new part of the family." Tristan's picture was just as heartfelt, I'm sure, but more difficult to decipher.

So far Dave and I attended 2 foster parent classes. These classes are meant to educate and scare us. They are meant to bring the reality of foster care into focus. This week a class member asked the insightful question, "How do we love these children like they are our own with the knowledge they may not always be with us?" There is only one answer to this: prepare to be hurt.

Who would do this?! Who opts for pain? I see lots of people in history who gave up their comfort for the benefit of another, and our family is honored to learn from their remarkable legacies. When we lived in New Jersey we went to a church where the pastor reminded us over and over again, "If you are blessed, it is so that you can be a blessing." We now go to a church in New York and the pastor uses a long piece of rope as the church "mascot." In the center of the rope is about an inch of black electrical tape. This tape represents our life and the rope represents eternity. We spend so much time focusing on the life we have and spend little time thinking about what will happen after it ends.

Whether you believe in God and a spiritual eternity or not, we all know that how we live now impacts others after we are gone. I want to get to the end of my black tape and know that I was more than just happy, more than just comfortable.

This Easter I am thinking about sacrificial love. Love which stays and looks at a broken and selfish person (newsflash: that's all of us) and says, "I see you completely and I love you." That is the kind of love that revolutionizes. This is the way God loves us all. It is the kind of love that is worth sowing into a person, even if we don't get to see what it grows. So, we are expecting. We do not know who to expect, but know we can expect to learn a lot, we can expect to grow. Most of all, we can expect to love.

a note from the trenches

Children have a way of pushing you to the very edge of yourself then watching with bated breath to see if you hang on or fall. Lately I've been dangling, hoping my fingernails will hang on while I figure out how to throw myself back to the ledge. Not all time or every day, but more often than usual.

Each of our children has their beautiful moments, the memories of which I dig for while I'm hanging on the edge of myself. One of our children has been a little challenging lately. And to save him/her future embarrassment, I will leave it at that.

We had a hanging-off-the-edge morning, all of us tired and cranky and unhappy to eat any of the food in the refrigerator. We had one colossal meltdown and a few smaller, easy-to-squelch ones. I started making a list of all the things we need to change to avoid this kind of situation in the future. Dave reeled me in with a, "This is the kind of day we need to get through without any major damage, not the kind of day to make plans for the future." 

For some reason, my children behave better outside of the house than inside. Kids vary on this, but this happens to be how mine roll. So we set out to the Apple Fest, our town's annual celebration of the harvest of (drum roll please) apples. It is celebrated with local bands, $7 amusement park rides, and a smorgasbord of craft and food vendors and barely an apple in sight. We laid out clear expectations for behavior, snagged a sweet parking spot in Rebecca and Phil's driveway and headed toward the action.

We lasted several hours and found ourselves in line for a Jamaican dinner. The anticipated meltdown happened and Dave took the Melted Child to the car. When I got to the front of the line, I placed my order and asked if they'd been busy all day.

"Yes, all day." He paused, "It's a blessin'. The good Lord heard my prayer and let the rain hold."

He was so pleasant for a man standing on his feet, serving food to a constant line of people. So not entitled. After I gathered my food and settled myself and two remaining kids on the curb I wondered when when the last time was that I considered my long, hard days of work a blessing. I am one to count my blessings. I cry when I focus on the weight of the goodness that God put in my life. But the work that goes along with it? There is so much more to parenting than taking pictures and fun trips with my children. So much more to marriage than date night and sharing a home. So much more to living in a house I love than relaxing in it. Life is work; it is effort and commitment and doing what needs to be done.

According to the Jamaican man at the Apple Fest (the one who makes incredible fried plantains and beef patties), work is a blessin'. It is God keeping the rain from falling so that we can work all day. I would love to have this attitude. I would love to look at my responsibilities as a blessing, a gift. Especially the ones that involve the guidance of a child who will not behave well. And maybe the ones that involve cleaning it all again and again. And even the ones that are gross or rote or difficult. Can I just thank God that I have the opportunity to do this work? This reminds me of the verse in Colosians 3:23 "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters."

Tomorrow I start a new week. I have a lot to do, I imagine that you do too. Let's put on the sunglasses which allow us to see it all as a blessing. I imagine that will make for a more pleasant Monday.

Waves

     We spent a week by the ocean. We had a view of the sea from the fifth floor balcony of our hotel room. Most days the sea and sky matched in a grayish cloudy hue and the white crest of the waves defined the shore. The sun poked through the clouds enough to warm us and send us into the water for cool relief.

        Dave took a picture of me at the ocean a couple of years ago. My hands are on my hips, my back is toward him and I am looking out at the expanse of ocean. I remember that moment when I felt so small standing in a space so large. My concerns shrunk, my appreciation deepened.

        I love the ocean but I was terrified of waves as a child. And as an adult. I went out too far but not far enough. I was turned and choked by the crashing waves. It made me afraid and avoidant. I clung to the sand and the ankle-deep water. This fear dampened me as I watched my six-year-old enjoy the ocean last week.

     Haven was insatiably fearless with his boogie board. I watched him whirl inside a surprisingly big wave, sure he would come out crying and spitting. Instead, he pulled his body upright and screamed, in the highest- and loudest-pitched voice possible, "That was totally wicked!" and tugged his boogie board out to "catch" another wave. What makes one child terrified by waves and another empowered? I really didn't feel like encroaching on the depths of myself, but I decided it was time to quell my terror.

    That afternoon I spotted a gray-haired woman floated further than most of the swimmers. I pushed myself out into the water where she was. "Are you getting hit a lot out here?"

     "No, my hair isn't even wet."

     I nodded and floated on the swelling water. I watched the people with boogie boards and bravery allow the waves to crash them, turn them, rock them. Most of them squealed and laughed and return for more, as Haven had. I stayed in the calm.

     "I'm only staying out this far because you are." I told the woman who didn't realize she'd become my new friend. "I'm terrified of waves." 

     "Ok!" She wasn't much for conversation so I shut it until I saw the water begin to rise higher, higher, higher right near us. Higher than I was brave or knowledgeable enough to handle. Higher and higher. "Oh boy." I called out. A note of fear. A statement of helplessness. I thought to run to the shore.

     "Just turn your back to it and jump." Her voice was calm and confident and I clung to it like I would have clung to her arm had we actually been friends. I turned, I jumped, I was pulled up and let down. And it was over. Had I run to the shore, I would have gotten just far enough to be hit. 

     Isn't this what friendships are made of? I think of the many friends who have stood by me, promising they've done this, they can relate, and it actually turns out to be okay. I have made it through my life because of friends like this. I think of names that will always be blazoned on my heart for the beautiful souls they represent. Those voices which held me up in my weak moments and smiled gleefully in my triumphs. The promises that I was strong enough, beautiful enough, patient enough elevated me to meet my life without running. Just turn your back to it and jump. You totally got this. Or, if nothing else, I am here. 

    So now I can do the waves with my son. I will laugh and scream and love it. 

Grace.

Some days I look for grace and other days it is everywhere, like crumbs on the kitchen floor. Today, I had to look. But not too far and not too hard.

The weather lately is mid 70's and sunny. This is hardly typical for the East coast in August, but most of us  take it without comment and hope it doesn't change. This is the kind of weather that beckons me into it then riddles me with guilt if I have to stay inside.

Today began with a smear of diarrhea across my forearm before I had my first cup of coffee. Quickly I scrubbed my arm and then tackled my baby with half a container of wipes and new diaper. Maiya begged me to download another game to my iPhone while Haven asked to take a turn with the phone as I stumbled into the kitchen toward my coffee. Once again I stayed up too late last night, clinging to those precious quiet hours as long as I could keep my eyes open. When my alarm sounded, through the static of the baby monitor, I rethought that choice for about the millionth time.

I sipped my coffee on the front porch, my favorite place in the morning. Tristan usually runs around barefooted, back and forth. Haven and Maiya sometimes join us, rocking in the chair opposite me, asking when they can watch TV or see their friends. Tristan climbed down the steps into the wet grass this morning. I expected him to recoil at the dampness, but he trotted through with a big smile. He stumbled and soaked his pants, but stood up and carried on toward whatever discovery lie ahead. For Tristan, discomfort is not deterrent to adventure.

Grace. That glimmer of beauty in a toddler's determination. That moment I can see past the inconvenience of changing his clothes (again) and the miracle that he is moving forward toward improvement and growth. 

I spent almost two hours waiting in the department of motor vehicle today. I visited the one in New Jersey and the one in New York. With three children. Somehow I have managed to come up short with documentation or my husband's presence on my two prior visits to the DMV.

"It's his car too. He has to be here." She said it like I was a scam artist, trying to sneak something past my husband by way of getting a copy of the car title.

"I live an hour away. And this is my second time here."

"There's nothing I can do."

I took the quickest deep breath I could, thanked her for the smidge of help she'd provided and corralled my gang back to the car.

All I would be able to do today is change my NJ license to a NY license. I hoped to switch the car registrations too. I thought of the harried mess I was that morning, trying to gather my documents. I could not find my license anywhere. I had lost it previously, replaced it and the replacement was gone. My husband helped me search. I became more and more irate with myself and sent the kids to the car to wait. This is a practice my mother used to do. I hated it then but I get it now. She'd send us to the car and after a ten minute wait, we would see her finally emerge with her arms full of the gear she would need to get us through the next several hours.

My frustration with myself became paramount but as I drove between the DMVs later that day, I thought of my husband's gentle help. We never found the license and this was truly a silly mistake on my part. But he didn't criticize, he didn't ask how I could be so absentminded. He just helped me look then wished me luck when I set out to the DMV. I felt so bad, but he didn't push me down further. He accepted my error and helped me.

Grace. That moment my limitations frustrate me but don't define me.

Our final stop: motor vehicle in Middletown, NY. Heavenhelpus. The parking lot was full and guilt dripped down my back as we walked through the beautiful day into the dank, crowded state building. I took a number. They have a tricky number system, and I thought I was only fifth in line, but it turned out I was probably fiftieth. I compulsively fed Cheerios to Tristan and bit my nails, hoping the battery on my cell phone would hold out as long this line. Haven and Maiya sat quietly, passing my phone between them, trying to beat the Candy Crush level I've been stuck on for weeks. I followed Tristan around the room for a while, he was thrilled, walking up to strangers, tapping them higher on the thigh than they might like then bolting off to another new face. I said a lot of sorrys and offered tiny laughs. I got a few dirty looks, but not more than I could handle. Eventually I saw that the clock was closing in on an hour of wait time. My phone battery died and I became wary of walking around apologizing to every grumpy person in the waiting room. I scooped Tristan into my arms and tried to console him with water. Haven was suddenly intensely bored and I tried to amuse him with alphabet I Spy. We got to G and then he stopped responding. Tristan began to scream, maniacal screams like a person who is confined against their will. Which he was. I decided to let him scream. Interestingly, it was our turn in five minutes.

As I hurried through a vision test and photo -- in which I did not look as awful as I felt, I might add -- the kids ambled around me and Tristan continued to moan.

"Mom! Can I go say goodbye to my new friend?" Maiya asked. I nodded and she ran to the blonde four-year-old she was chatting with during the time I had worked to keep Tristan's voice and my blood pressure down. The girls had learned they live in the same town. They laughed when the other little girl said Maiya could drive to her house and Maiya said she couldn't drive yet. They discussed the designs on their shirts.

Grace. That moment I see my little girl created fun in the chaos of waiting. My little girl who is often shy made a "new friend" at the ugly, boring DMV. 

This was not the best day of our summer vacation. But I now have a New York driver's license. (Actually, I have a temporary license and the new one will come in the mail. What in the world?!) More than the state of my driver's license, I was reminded of the grace that is present in the humdrum moments of life. There is beauty and hope and perseverance. If there weren't, I'd consider finding a babysitter next time I have to go to the DMV.

Aftermath of Goodness.

I was not sure how to follow up that last post, so that is why it took a while. All I will say is that we have moved on from where we were in March. And by moved on I mean that we literally moved out of the little house in the big woods into a big house in a small town. I will share the details of our move with you if you would like, but in short, the whole process was a miracle to me. It was one of those things I will always reference when I am thinking of times in my life when I knew God helped us. And that just is what it is.

So here we are. Happy as busy little clams. Haven finished Kindergarten and can now read much better than I anticipated. He sounds out my texts messages and lists and mail. It's really ... wonderful. The most wonderful part, really, is seeing him read to Maiya or Tristan. And what tops that is when he writes notes with his developing spelling skills and 6-year-old imagination. We have so many written declaration of love for Dave and me, his dreams of what he will do as an adult and he has started a journal. I try not to ask what he writes in it. But sometimes I ask. Points because I always end my question with a quick, "youdon'thavetotellme." But he does anyway. For now.

Maiya will begin Kindergarten in the Fall. She carries a confidence I hope she can both maintain and manage. Every day this week, while leaving Vacation Bible School, a boy twice her age said goodbye to her and they high-fived. I arch my eye brow at him and Maiya can't ever remember his name, but I hope this isn't a sign of what's to come. She is the sweetest big sister, bias admitted and owned. Just the other day I caught her reaching out to catch Tristan, sing-songing to him, "Don't worry T-T, Mai-Mai is here." He was fully comforted by her presence. She is an artist and I am scrambling to give her little projects and ongoing encouragement, even in the wake of the shreds of art that scatter all corners of the house. Yesterday she set herself up with water colors and painted what I think are lovely pictures for her dear friends, Emily and Adrienne.

Tristan seems thrilled with his lot in life. Most days. The days in which he plays the roll of a big kid, laughing at Haven's jokes and walking around while gripping one of our hands, he is happy and proud. There are days he just wants to live on my hip. On those days, if I put him down he lays prostrate on the floor, screaming loud enough to shock the distant neighbors. So far, he says a few words: Dada, hot, this and Iya (Maiya). He called for Dave first. It is what it is. Yesterday, as I put him in the car he breathed out the word "hhhoootttt" like it was an experience and not a word. Which, in that case, it was. Typically he saves that word for steam rising from a boiling pot. Everything is "this," punctuated by an outstretched arm and chubby pointer finger. He uses the word instead of every other word in the English language (save for the all important Dada, Iya and hot). He yells for Maiya like they are both in a gang and he's got something major to discuss with her. His voice gets husky and serious and authoritative when he says, "Iya!" Haven and I are waiting to hear our names on his lips. He did crawl toward me crying, "Nonnie" and he looked at Haven and said "Iya" so we like to think he's reaching out to us with words as well.

That is my little update on my adorables. Life is great on a lot of days and super crazy on others. No matter what is happening, once everyone is tucked in bed and I have two seconds to reflect on the wonder that is my life, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Miracles are all around me. They're all around you too.

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.