don't look down

Just keep walking.  Just keep walking.  Baby steps.  Slowly.  Keep moving.  And whatever you do, don't look down

As is evident in a few recent posts, I am in a rather emotional and transitional season of life.

I have this vision of myself walking, one slow, shaky step at a time, along a narrow, windy, cliffside path - mountains towering on my left and a two thousand foot drop to my immediate right.  Holding my breath and forcing my eyes to look ahead, I carefully lower my body weight into each step before committing to the next forward movement.

No need to pity me. 

This is a cliff I've chosen, one I've expected and have even been looking forward to. No one has forced me here or dared me into an act of stupidity.  This isn't an example of uncontrollable life circumstances that have suddenly flipped my world upside down.  I am a willing participant. 

So far this journey has been alright.  I'm still pretty motivated and energized, but I can feel reality starting to creep in.  I have suddenly become very aware of the fact that this cliff could go on longer than expected and my composure is wearing thin.

This is life right now.

For months - maybe years - I've been eagerly awaiting the thrill of change, and oh boy, it has arrived. The well traveled, clearly marked trails have disappeared, the path has narrowed, and it is just me, the rocks, and a long way down.  

I have wanted to take a pause from a twelve-year career to stay home full time with my young children.  Check.

I have wanted to live in an actual house, not a landominium (and yes, that is a real word despite that red, squiggly line Microsoft Word insists upon) but an actual house with a yard, a garage, and enough rooms that my son's Pack-n-Play won't need to be set up in the bathroom. Check.

I have wanted Stephen home by five rather than commuting an hour plus each night. Check.

And it's happening. It's all happening - like right now, at the same time. And as thrilling as these changes are, this path is dangerously narrow, and I am very aware of the potential to plummet to an untimely insane asylum. In less poetic terms, I am very aware of the potential to freak out, scream the f-word, and start throwing everything we own into the trash. I could so easily be overwhelmed and scared, and rightly so. I've got a lot on my plate.

In my moments of greatest clarity (AKA - when the children are sleeping and the dishes are done),  I would also describe this terrifying, narrow edge as a sweet spot. There is a rush in knowing I cannot do this on my own. I know I will never make it past this cliff to the other side of this transition with even a shred of grace and dignity left if not for my Jesus. Oh, and I mean it. If left on my own, I would literally be a heap on the floor crying over every detail that turns into a unexpected bump.

Moving truck not in Oxford the day I scheduled it to be? Me. Floor. Tears.

Hot water heater not working? Me. Floor. Tears.

20-month-old not napping? Me. Floor. Tears.

Screen door on the new house breaks during move in day? Me. Floor. Tears.

You get the idea.

Oh, thank you Jesus for being a God of details. I believe you can move mountains, but so often I don't need mountains moved, I need details to fall into place. I need the moving truck in the right city. I need friends available on moving day. I need a babysitter on closing day. I need the screen door fixed so I can get some natural light into this new house. I need to find the damn peanut butter aisle in a new grocery store that was clearly designed by someone who has never shopped with children. I need energy to be productive in the evening. I need creativity to engage my children. I need a friend. I need a nap.

It's terrifying. It's exciting. It's exhausting. It's challenging. It's refining. It's revealing.

But I am determined to not look down, to not focus on the potential for failure. I'll keep moving along this sweet spot, even on the days it doesn't seem so sweet.

I want to love it. I want to be a woman who thrives on the adventure, the unknown, the possibilities that come with change. But today, I look forward to the other side, to a bit more breathing room to stop and take in the view.

Until I get there, I just can't look down. 

she wanted the last piece of cake?

It didn't seem to matter the circumstance - the bigger piece of pizza, the last piece of cake, the Friday night movie selection, the Sunday lunch destination, or the college I wanted to attend - almost as if automatic, my mom would graciously let her preferences slip into the background saying "No thanks, you can have it" or "It doesn't matter to me, you pick."

As a child, I was blissfully unaware of the constant sacrifices my mom was making for me. It never occurred to me that she didn't want to watch Father of the Bride (again) or eat at Chili's (again), and frankly, it hadn't crossed my mind  until recently that she really would have liked that last piece of cake.

*****

"Is there more of that cake, mom?" my daughter asked.

Just keep washing dishes and pretend you don't hear. 

"Mom. Is there cake?"

Start singing to yourself.  Put something away in the pantry.  Head to bathroom.  Anything to avoid the question.

"Mom!!!  Is there cake?"

Ugh. She's so persistent.  I'm probably not supposed to lie.

"Yep, but only one piece left."

"If I eat all da tings dat are good for my body, can I pease hab it?"

Shoot. She even said please.

Stephen and I often joke that our greatest display of sacrificial love for our children doesn't come in the form of 3 AM feedings, cleaning up puke, or playing Candy Land for the zillionth time.  It comes in the sharing of our food.  For Stephen this means handing over large wedges of blue cheese or breakfast meat.  For me, it is dessert.

I begrudgingly scooped that last piece of cake - chocolate coconut cake with buttercream frosting, mind you - onto a Minnie Mouse plate.  I opened the fridge to grab the milk, and that's when I saw it - my saving grace - a small Tupperware with leftover frosting.  There had only been a small amount of unused frosting left; I'd almost thrown it away.  Fool.  But there it was, to cheer me up as a mediocre substitute for that last piece of cake.

I was taking no chances.  As soon as Charlotte got started on her cake, I grabbed that Tupperware and a spoon and headed straight for the bathroom.  I shamelessly closed and locked the door, and enjoyed every bite of that chocolate coconut buttercream while sitting on the edge of the tub. It seems I should be embarrassed - I mean, I wasn't even eating an actually dessert, just frosting from a container - but instead, I was rather proud of myself.

I was proud of myself for sneaking away so casually, arranging the circumstances to give me at least four minutes alone with my frosting. And proud of myself for reaching a new level of motherhood, a level where shame slips away because silence and dessert are just that wonderful.  At that moment, I felt a sense of comradery with all the mothers of the world - knowing I fall in a long line of mothers who have eaten dessert in the bathroom to avoid sharing with their child.

It took three years, but I had been officially initiated into motherhood.

As I sat in the bathroom, I began thinking about my ridiculous behavior over the past few years (all in the name of motherhood, of course).  Some of it out of intense head-over-heels love; some out of sheer exhaustion, the kind where I'd offer up my kidney for five minute without a baby on my hip and a toddler on my leg. And I soon started to wonder about my own mother's ridiculous displays of love and exhaustion.

Did my mom ever eat dessert in the bathroom?

Did my mom ever sit on the floor of my room staring through the bars of my crib to watch me sleep?

Did she constantly squeeze my chubby cheeks?

Did she announce to my brother and me that she was putting herself in timeout?

Did she try to imitate my laugh or purposely get me to say words I mispronounced just to laugh at me?

Did she negotiate deals where I could watch one more episode of Daniel the Tiger (previously known as Mr. Roger's Neighborhood) but only if I promised to cuddle and not talk?

Did she skip pages in the really long, boring stories?

Wait, did she really want that last piece of cake?

Far too often I succumb to a good old-fashioned pity party, allowing pride and selfishness to shine through in all its ugly glory.  I go all crazy mom, ranting and raving about all I do for my kids - the meals I prepare, the toys I pick up, the poop and puke I wiped off myself, the sleep I don't get.

Certainly all that earns me the last piece of cake.

In my best moments, it is so easy to give, almost as if the Lord has been rewiring my gut response to willingly (perhaps even happily) give up my preferences for my children without a second thought.  But just when I start thinking too highly of myself and my sacrificial ways, I find myself hiding in the bathroom with a bowl of frosting, bitter about the cake that's probably been devoured (and not nearly appreciated as much as it should be) by a three-year-old sweet tooth.  Oh, I'm such a mess.

But Jesus tends to remind me of truth in my messiest moments, and today He is reminding me that He never stops giving His best to me; His constant, gut response is to give me the best, over and over.  He never tires of giving, and in fact, I think He finds great joy in it!

Isn't that one of the best parts of motherhood? We begin to grasp just how crazy Christ is about us, and we begin this transformation process where we find joy in giving our best, over and over.

So to all the moms who have read Brown Bear, Brown Bear no less than 53,482 times -

To all the mom who play hide-and-seek every day, pretending you can't find your child even though they hide in the same spot every dog-gone time (it was cute the first dozen times, but seriously, how are you gonna make it out in the real world with those kind of survival skills?!?!) -

To all the moms who give happily without thinking twice -

To all the moms who grit their teeth and give anyways -

To all the moms who have ever found themselves eating dessert in the bathroom because good grief, we're human and sometimes we just don't want to share!

And to my mom, who constantly said "No thanks, you can have it" or "It doesn't matter to me, you pick."

Keep doing what you're doing.

Keep allowing the grace of God to teach you what it means to love like crazy.

You have children who are watching and learning a lesson they might not realize for another thirty years.  You are showing them how head-over-heels in love Jesus is with them.

Well done, and happy Mother's Day.

P.S.  Sorry it took thirty years, Mom.  I owe you some cake. 

P.P.S.  In case you need some cake (or a bowl of frosting) this weekend,  here's the recipe from one of my favorite food blogs!

just be their mom

My to-do list was looming. I can't even remember what all was on it, but I don't want to dismiss whatever it was because it must have been important and in need of my attention.

The juggling act of motherhood was in full swing.

I was rocking my three-day-old yoga pants while refilling sippy cups, tackling breakfast dishes from two hours ago, and picking Cheerios off the bottom of my feet.

The newborn needed holding and the toddler needed a playmate.  My half-hearted attempt to comfort the baby while building a tower with the two-year-old was not well received, and the neediness quickly reached new heights.

I grabbed the Moby Wrap (as if I'd ever be able to get that mile of fabric wrapped around myself correctly), scattered crayons on the kitchen table, and glanced at my to do list, searching for an item that required minimal focused attention and could possibly be completed in under twenty seconds.

"Mommy, color with me."

I leaned over the table, drew a quick rainbow and gave a fake oooo and ahhh over Charlotte's artwork.

At this point, I'd tangled Andrew onto my chest (seriously, can people really wrap a child to their body without the assistance of at least seven friends?!?!) and was hoping the massive knot I'd created would secure him to my body.  I discretely set down my crayon and moved to the counter to write the check for our homeowners association dues which was just hours away from a late fee.

Yes. Check written. Cross one item off the list.

When the crayons got boring and the Moby Wrap too loose to be considered safe, I moved us all onto the floor, a play-mat on my left, puzzles on my right, and a basket of clean laundry in front of me.

I frantically folded a few items while talking in an overly pleasant voice to compensate for my lack of enthusiasm and help keep everyone (mostly myself) from sinking further into complete melt down mode.  Within half a minute, the puzzle Charlotte had completed independently a dozen times before was suddenly too hard, and Andrew's face was red from screaming.

The neediness had reached its peak, but for whatever reason, my heels were dug so far into my to-do list, I couldn't stop and just be mom.

I don't claim to have audible heard the voice of the Lord at any time in my life, but there certainly have been a handful of times when the Holy Spirit has spoken so clearly and so aptly to my heart, I undoubtedly know truth and wisdom were just revealed to me.

This was one of those moments.

Right there, on the carpet that hadn't seen a vacuum in weeks, surrounded by laundry, blocks, puzzle pieces, baby rattles, and two crying children, God knew I needed some truth.

Joy, stop.  Stop what you're doing and just be their mom.

Just be their mom.

There really will be time to complete those to-do list items, but right now my children needed me.  And not just half of me as I try to do a dozen other things at the same time. They needed my undivided attention - to sit, play, and be all in on this mom thing.

And truth be told, when I just give in, when I allow myself to be all in on this mom thing, motherhood becomes immensely more enjoyable.

Since that day, so many mornings have started with this prayer.

Lord, if I do nothing else today but be their mom, remind me that I've done enough.  If not one item on my list gets crossed off, remind me it was still a day well spent.  

Help me today to just be their mom. 

rebuilding our village

Today I enter a new public writing territory -- motherhood.  It is a territory I have thoroughly explored in my private writing, but not one I have ventured out to publicly.

Motherhood is a tricky topic, and this is certainly not due to lack of material.  Moms are a wealth of stories to suit any crowd and any mood.  We're ready at any moment with the tear-jerkers, the tender moments, the terrifying, the hilarious, the disgusting, the melt-your-heart, the weird, the confusing, and the "so-cute-I-could-just-scream" stories.

But writing about mama life is very different than living mama life.  

A couple months ago, I wrote about surviving in our landominium that had long exceeded maximum capacity.  In this post, I explained that my perspective about overflowing out of our home gains much clarity when I'm writing in the early morning hours and all the darlings are still sleeping.  In those calm moments, I can find humor in the cozy chaos, but there are many moments I find no humor. The struggle is real and ugly.

The same goes for motherhood.

Days after our nine hour road trip with minimal napping, dozens of "I have to go potty" claims, whining, seat kicking, and no less than 247 requests for a snack, the rough edges have softened.  I can chuckle, turning that nightmare into an amusing story that would prompt any parent to nod along and feel my pain.  But there is no chuckling in that car; there is frustration, crabbiness, self doubt, and even tears, wondering how to pull myself up from the current exhausting moment and move into the next.

This is the balance of writing about motherhood.

It is my hope to bring out the humor, absurdity, and joy in it all, while carefully giving full weight to the struggles, questions, fears, and doubts.

And it is for that reason I have steered cleared.  But Andrew turned one a couple weeks ago, so my maternal walk down memory lane is in full stride as I recall exactly what we were doing one year ago today. The transition to two children was much more difficult than either Stephen or myself expected.  This wasn't due to lack of sleep or an extra needy big sister (well, not entirely), but because welcoming our second child were some of my loneliest days.

Our first child, Charlotte, had been born two years earlier, and within hours of her arrival, our hospital room was filled with at least a dozen friends, all of whom were bubbling over with love and excitement for our new daughter.  During our two-day stay in that room, there was a steady stream of visitors with lattes, cupcakes, Jimmy John's, and pink onesies in hand.  We arrived home to pink balloons decorating the porch and meals lined up for weeks.  There was hardly a day someone didn't stop by to just chat, check in, and keep us company.

I recognize that for many new moms, I have just described your worst nightmare. But for Stephen and me, this village of people celebrating with us was a showing of love that we will always treasure.

Two years later, nearly every detail surrounding Andrew's arrival differed from his sister's, but the most impactful difference was the absence of that village.  It was a harsh reminder that so many of our dear friends, as if almost on cue, moved away from Oxford over that past year.  This mass exiting from Oxford spread our closest friends all over the country from California to New York to Florida to Hawaii.  But this is the nature of a college town.  Very few people, particularly those in their twenties and early thirties, expect to stay more than five or six years, ourselves included. 

I remember sitting on the couch nursing Andrew and thinking about how I'd possibly survive the upcoming cold months of maternity leave with limited friends.  Who would I talk to?  Who would Charlotte play with?  Where would we go?  What if we didn't leave the house for weeks?  Would anyone check in on us?  My tremendous joy was being overshadowed with an intense state of loneliness.

I wasn't looking for someone to watch Charlotte or hold Andrew or fold my laundry.  I didn't need someone to relieve me so I could nap or shower or spring for a latte.  I was just looking for friends.  Friends to patiently listen to every boring detail of how my new baby spent the past twenty-four hours. Friends to scold me for trying on regular jeans far too soon.  Friends to remind me that the outside world was still in motion, and I would rejoin it again someday.

I slowly lowered myself to the ground and asked Jesus for friends, and more specifically, mom friends.  Not just mom friends to make small talk with, but mom friends I could really connect with, laugh with and be real with during this season.  I prayed God would slowly rebuild that village we missed so dearly.

I have prayed dozens of prayers on that living room floor.  There are requests I have been laying before the Lord for years, pleading with Him and waiting to see how He will work. But there have also been times God fulfills an immediate need almost before I've picked myself up off the floor.

This was one of those times. 

Within days, I received an invite to come over to a friend's house for a pancake breakfast, yoga pants expected.

A few days later, a young mom from our church invited Charlotte to join her and her girls at the library story hour so I could have time with just Andrew.  Her kindness led to multiple doughnut dates and a few day trips to the children's museum.

A month later I connected with another mom during Charlotte's toddler gymnastics class. This friendship led to playdates, some great conversation, and of course, doughnut dates. (Should I be embarrassed about all the doughnut dates I schedule?)

Those winter months chugged along, and I soon found myself laying out those work clothes I hadn't seen in months. I sat with Stephen on the couch processing the jumbled mess of emotions every mom feels at the end of maternity leave. 

God had been so faithful.

Andrew's arrival didn't come with the crowds and balloons that his sister's had.  The enormous community we had surrounding us at that time was unique, a precious season of our lives.  A village would have been great.  I always prefer a house full of people,  but what I learned so deeply in those months after Andrew's birth was that I didn't need an entire community.  God didn't rebuild that village of friends we'd lost, but instead He taught me the simply beauty of someone who would just say "come eat pancakes at my house," or "let's meet for doughnuts."

After all, no one, especially a new mom, is saying no to pancakes or doughnuts.

And in honor of Andrew Boston...

"I'm one!"