I want to like my kids

I was walking briskly through the mall on my way into Target, because you can do that now - speed-walk your way through one huge building and into another  - when I saw the three of them.  A mother strolling happily beside her teenage son and his girlfriend.  They flowed like a trio of friends, all eating warm salted pretzels and laughing.  

I didn't slow my stride to consider it deeply, but I felt a pang.  Like a static-electric shock-to-my-heart-fear that maybe that wouldn't be me and my boy with his girlfriend dipping our pretzels into the same cup of velveeta.  Even with all the good love we share in our home, maybe he wouldn't want me involved in his teenaged life.  And so I wondered why as I pushed my way through the store to get socks and hamburger buns.

Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful.  Colossians 4:2

You know that I pray for my kids, and I know you do too.  And watchful defines us both.  But thankful... does thankful define the words that spill over my parental lips?  I thank God at breakfast for each one of them and the many aspects of each blessed day, and I write lists of what I'm grateful for down in my journal, but do I act like I'm Thankful for this kid?  Toward this kid?  For the moments I spend with this kid?

Watchful and critical is often more like it.

And I thought of the way I constantly correct.  Pushing for him to be this, do that, and become so much more...  And that mother walked in step with her child, and seemed to enjoy him right where he was.  Of course I can't look into their home, or into years past when she had a prepubescent boy who didn't want to shower or eat vegetables or do homework.  But regardless of the boy he is today, or the son she raised yesterday, or the child I'm raising, the picture stuck:

He needs me to like him.

He needs me to like him, if he's ever going to like me back.

He needs me to be likable, if he's ever going to share his grown up self with me.

 

Later that day we went on a family date out for ice cream and a movie.  We saw Dolphin Tale 2, in which the two main kids from the original film three years ago are now practically grown.  They spend much of the story fighting for their independence, as their parents struggle graciously to give them the support they need to find it.  Over and over again one of the parental characters in the story keeps relinquishing responsibilities to these two young people, encouraging and praising them along the way.  At one point he jokes, "When did you get so bossy?" to Sawyer, who wasn't really bossing, just leading his team beautifully.  Everyone knew it was a joke, that he was actually saying, "When did you grow up?"

And they are... growing up.  My oldest is doing it so fast.  And I want to slow down my pace today, so that I can be part of his fun life tomorrow.  One of my favorite mothers who blogs joyfully through the testosterone haze of raising her four boys from preschool to high school (all at the same time) is Monica Swanson. She recently wrote a series of posts that have helped illuminate the road before me, on what teenaged boys need.  I'm reading them faithfully, that they might cast light on the patch of ground I'm speed-walking my way into.  You can find one of her popular posts here, but the others in her series on what boys really need from their moms can be found on her sidebar.

I'm heading to bed now with the alarm set early, because I want to like my kids fresh tomorrow and that takes rest.  And so here's to a good night's sleep and a calm, grace-filled morning... enjoying them, that they might grow up to enjoy us right back.

My favorite child

His lips spread thin in a smile, the twinkle in his eye made me laugh.  "HaHa!!  Mama loves me most!" He boasted. A brother muscled passed him with a playful jar, dipped me for a kiss, then wiggled his eyebrows at the family.  Which made us all howl.

Then when the testosterone game between the two was done, their third brother locked eyes with me privately and nodded - like we shared a secret.

All of my sons think I love them most.

That they're my favorite child.

And I don't do anything to dissuade their confidence.

Sometimes... I even fan the flames!

It's not like I'm building their foundation on the Tooth Fairy, or Leprechauns making mischief in March, I'm talking that deep down, no one can steal it heart-happiness that comes from knowing to our toes that we are LOVED.

Loved.

To solidify the knowledge I've been known to whisper into a velvet ear, "I couldn't love you more if my life depended on it!"   Sure shootin' that son would prop up on his elbows, eyes wide open.  "You love me the most, don't you?"  I never really give the answer, but I threaten him dearly,  "If you tell anyone, I'll deny it to their face!"

A deep and solemn nod.

So I don't really tell them that I love them more than their brothers, but they each think they've got the innermost place in my heart.  Like they're sitting on Jesus' lap, right there on the throne of my heart.  That's where they each see themselves.

I imagine the day they bury me.  Laying my body down and lifting up shared memories.  How the brothers will sit around a table, and raise a glass of Martinellis in my honor.  One of them, probably the boastful third born, will break the silence.  "You know guys, I really was her favorite."  They'll laugh together then, and share the stories of all the back rubs and all the threats, and all the knowing winks when the other two weren't looking.

Each day I'm writing my own eulogy, with words and with hugs and with smiles that all communicate the best of my love.

Yeah.

Each day I'm writing my own eulogy.

Just curious:

Are my kids the only ones who do this?  Or do yours muscle for the throne seat of your heart too?

It's time to fit Mom back in

I'm burning a lot of food these days. Burned bacon is especially painful, because it's such a treasure for the boys. And burnt granola is just like burning money, with all those dried cherries and pecan pieces. I burned four packs of hot dogs all at once, on a summer day with so many kids jumping like cannonballs into the pool.  Because I dared talk with another mom, turning my back on the barbecue.  Then a child yelled, "The hot dogs are on fire!"  Turns out none of the children like their dogs "black".  So we filled their bellies on empty buns, carrots and watermelon.

Its collateral damage, this burnt food, as I try to master the fine-art of fitting me in again.  I've never multitasked well, and everything seems to be another task on top of mothering these little people; talk time with other women, exercise, a trip to the doctor, a stop at the store for a package of strawberries, a walk through the late summer rose garden, and a trip to get my hair cut.

Practicing the fine art of who I am is like practicing scales on the piano.  Practicing me.  Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do...

So I'm burning a lot of food these days.

But better a few dogs and a batch of granola, charred, than my soul.  Because my soul gets all shriveled up and dead when I forget about her.  Like rolls in the oven, forgotten and hard as hockey-pucks.  I don't want those words to define my soft heart; "forgotten and hard as a hockey-puck!"

I've tried hard to flourish in this intense season of mothering, by turning to the Lord for His strength.  And He's honored my surrendered heart by growing me up as I've persevered.

However, in these last few months I've felt Him whisper new dreams to my heart.  Or maybe very old dreams, laid down for a time.  Calling me to pick them up again now that the boys are growing tall and strong.  That whispering voice sings, and the boundary lines expand just a bit.  Like tent walls widening and my lungs expanding and my old dreams all flooding back in and making their home within my heart again.

Here I am, just a few steps past the constant days of mothering young.  As my kids grow more independent, I'm experiencing a taste of independence as well.  Not entirely, but just enough to start fitting me back in.

Today they're just slivers; silver slivers of stolen time, sequestered, sanctified, and set apart.  But one day, a blink or two from now, the boys will be grown and gone, and the time will be all mine again.  I'm not wishing for those long days today.  They will overtake me before I know it.  But I am practicing me, their mother, his wife, in the interim.  Because she's valuable and needed.

Though we know it's right and good to lay ourselves fully down, it's ironically our family who needs us ALIVE most of all.  Alive and not sacrificed.

And your family needs you too.  They need all of you; every fearfully and wonderfully designed part you've laid down, that you might pick up that little swaddled person.  But a time is coming, for those of you who struggle to multitask yourself back into life;  a time is coming quick upon you like a crashing wave, when your boundary lines will stretch to the east and to the west, widening to the northern territories and those to the southern parts as well.  A time is coming.

But until then, it's a dance.  So keep on dancing.  Dance with your children each day.  Dance with your husband each night.  Dance with the One who whispers love and returns dreams long laid down.  And dance your way into stollen spaces of quiet time to find your pulse again.

Tell me now...

Tell me, how you fit unique and wonderful you into your busy life.  How do you fit yourself in amidst the folding, caravanning, teaching, holding, soothing, healing, cooking, cleaning, going, coming home, and tucking them all in with a kiss?

I'm a teachable woman, so share with me now:  How and when have you learned to fit mom back in without burning down the kitchen?

Labor Day Rest - for moms

It's Labor Day Weekend, Y'all!   Time to turn up the music, open wide the windows and enjoy perfectly temperate days!  BBQ some ribs, make a peach cobbler, float in the pool, and drink homemade lemonade.  Then wake up early and pack up the car for a sandy day at the beach.  Don't forget the surfboard and shovels, or the cooler heavy laden with drinks and grapes and sandwich meat.  Then Monday let's go for a bike ride as a family and peddle till our muscles ache and our brows drip health and happiness. At least  that's our relaxing agenda this long weekend before school starts up Tuesday.

Here's the nitty gritty truth about "LABOR DAY"...

It's a laborious prospect for Moms!

All this eating and going and sand ground into the seams of our hardwood floors.  Just getting ready sends my head to spinning.  In preparation I'm cleaning house today, making sure all the laundry is done, and planning fun meals and holiday snacks!  Out I go into the garden to gather late summer roses for each table, and hang the water colors our boys have painted over this long season of fun.

Ironically, this day that celebrates REST takes a whole lot of work!  Can I get an Amen from the choir heading to the grocery store this afternoon ?

Be Still and Know that I am God.

Psalm 46:10

Personally I wonder if this spiritual challenge was ever intended for Moms' hearts!  But there's the spin:  The heart not the hands.  The heart, not the serving and the loving and the moving.  That can't always stop.  It's the heart.

The Heart

The heart that learns to rest in the whirling dervish we call motherhood, in the chaotic fun of holidays, in the constant roll of summertime's Yes, is the heart that gets to actually enjoy God amidst it all.  For our hands and our feet can't always be still, though stopping is so very good for us, but our meditating hearts that keep constant communication with a loving God allow our souls to rest... In Him.  Even as we prep another meal, and bring poolside a fresh picture of iced tea.

And so I offer you today, this challenge:

Be Still Your Soul!  

Let the strains of the ancient hymn lift up and renew your heart, when your hands are full of fresh towels.  Let the cease from striving message of God's Gospel rest, be manifested in your quiet heart and your joyful demeanor whilst you put graham crackers and marshmallows and chocolate squares together on a platter as the sun dips low.  And in the quiet spaces you literally find, or carefully make and take, breath in and out slowly and fully.  Right.  Where.  You.  Are.  Amidst the ones you are laboring for in love.  And lift up your heart.

It's a continual feast, this life.  I know.

And so, I leave you today with one of my favorite summertime salad dishes, received via text message from a friend of mine last Labor Day.  I share it with you here today.

Quinoa Salad

Mix together:

4 cups Rainbow Quinoa (cooked and cooled)

1 bell pepper; yellow, orange, &/or red (chopped into small pieces)

1 bunch green onions (finely sliced)

2/3 cup feta cheese crumbles

2/3 cup tomatoes (chopped)

1 avocado (either chopped and mixed in, or sliced and served op top)

Mix together for the dressing:

4 TBS Olive Oil

2 TBS Red Wine Vinegar

1 tsp dijon mustard

1 tsp minced garlic

Add the dressing to the salad and mix it gently.  Personally, I don't use all of the dressing.

I often serve this alongside a medley of other salads, but it also goes wonderfully well with bbq chicken!

It is seriously the best!

And Best Rhymes with Rest!

So go and be Blessed!

My Out of the Box Child - part 3 of "knowing our children"

Driving to Grandma's house listening to the classical radio station, with all three boys in the back of the car.  The oldest, with nose in a book.  The youngest, unsnapping his buckle to wiggle out of a sweaty tee-shirt.  And that middle child of mine listening to the throbbing rhythm of something by Vivaldi, Lego mini-figures in his lap.  I watch him in the rearview mirror throughout the first movement; his face scrunched up, intent. "If this song were a story, what would be happening right now?"  I ask.

It's a familiar game and doesn't take him more than a moment to reply.

"There's this old man, all alone, dying in the desert.  He hasn't had water in days and he knows the end is near.  Now, right here, you hear how the music is getting so slow and sad?  Well, right now he's reaching up to heaven, and the sun's beating down.  He takes his last breath, and falls to the ground."

My first-born stops reading, looks up at me and smiles.  He smiles the way I smile at their Dad when I see the youngest hauling branches up the hill; the way I smile when I hear him play his harmonica.  All this smiling because we're knowing one another.  That's what makes our ragamuffin group of individuals a family, like the intricate melodies in Vivaldi's Four Seasons.  Knowing one another so well.

And it's happening in your home too.  With the unique personalities you call children.  Waking up to their individuality; more completely who they are than who they were the day before.  As they grow into their skin.  And you're there watching the magic work its way out.

Of all my children, this one is the most captivating to watch. Because he's working it out in such creative ways, with scotch tape and costumes. Crying over the boxes he stacked together, so sure that when he added paint the cardboard would magically become a living robot.

But boxes are just boxes.

The problem is that this child of mine doesn't know about boxes. The kind of boxes people live inside of.  The sort that confines our thinking. Those we can't step out of because we like things comfortable, predictable.  But this middle-miracle I call my son, doesn't just live outside of the box... he's never known a box!  And the most gorgeous part of all is that he's perfectly happy with who he is!  Out of the box, creative, middle him!

My husband and I are daily growing more comfortable with who he is as well.  Because for a long time we tried to fit him into the boxes our culture values.  Sports.  Cool clothes.  Pushing him to be comfortable within the four walls of a school house, when walls are so like boxes.  But we're learning together.  By God's grace and our child's stubborn commitment to be who he is, we're slowly coming out of our own box to enjoy him there.  The way he is.  Fearfully and wonderfully made.  My out of the box child.  With all his glorious confident uniqueness.

Today I am wrapping up this short series on knowing our children, and hope that you've found yourself inspired to delight in the unique people God has given you, there in your home.  I'm not perfect, I fail miserably as I mother these three.  Often.  But they are the souls I get to wake up to new mercies with each day.

I wish this blog were more than a blog, but a play-date where we could sit poolside as the children play together.

Wouldn't that be something?

Wouldn't that be something!