Making Memories

The other day, I was doing laundry when Little Man called me to look at something he'd done. I was halfway up the steps with a basket full of clothes when I panted, "I'm busy, ok? *grumble* I'm always busy." (Not true, by the way.) 

I still don't know what he wanted me to see. My kids are always, "Hey, look at this," and, "Ha! Did you see that?" And sometimes I look, and sometimes I see. But not always.

Last week, I talked to a friend with a nine-month-old baby boy. I mentioned that earlier in the day, my son asked me to get something off a high shelf, and I couldn't reach it. I told him if he can't reach it, I probably can't, either. He's up to my cheekbones now.

My friend said she's afraid of that; time goes so fast. As it turns out, babies don't stay babies forever. Someday you'll give away your collection of cloth diapers or half a pack of disposables. Someday you won't own a single onesie. Someday you'll sleep through the night. And you won't wake up in a cold panic to check on your baby when he's slept past the midnight feeding.

I know because I'm there now.

But then, I do still have little ones. Even though my son is halfway to adulthood (*sniff*), he's got the second half to go.

And I think I'm pushing the limits of not being available lately. I want to be more present. I need to notice these days before they're gone, too. 

Now, sometimes I do. Sometimes I notice my kids can work together when they want to.
This is the puppet stage they made a few weeks ago. (Guess I wasn't doing laundry at the time.)

I notice Princess isn't just reading but also writing books now (with her name edited out here):

Princess wrote books and books and books. The end.

Today at church, I noticed she wrote a letter to God:

I love God and for the four cats. The end.

And then there was the day Little Man got into big trouble, the day he disappeared. He asked if he could go with a friend to look at a snow fort one street over. I told him he could go, look at it, turn around, and come right back home. And he did turn around and come back home. 

About 45 minutes later. By the time he got back, I'd bundled up Princess and myself, turned off the stove, grabbed the keys and headed out the door to hunt him down. When we walked outside, he was skipping down our street. He shouted, "Hey, Mommy! Where are you guys going?" 

So he was in a little trouble. I sent him to his room, and grounded him from leaving our yard for a few weeks. 

When he came downstairs from his room, he was penitent. And he gave me this: 

Supermom Statue. The work of a creative genius.

Before he went back to his room, I gave him a hug. And I noticed he was sorry.

Sometimes I do notice. Sometimes I don't. I'm not going to lay the shame on myself and say I always have to notice all the things all the time or else I have failed as a mother. (Name that show.) 

But I will say what I told my friend with her sweet, crawling son: 

Make memories. Make lots of them; they're the things you can hold when your son's too big to carry. I want to make memories, no matter how big my kids get.

And there's no way to make memories without paying attention, is there? 

Sounds like motivation to me. 

Opening up some time, 
Becki*

Introverts Like Me

Yesterday evening, we went to a potluck. My kids attacked the food like they hadn't eaten for weeks. Yet for some reason, the only way they grow is up. Ahh, the mysteries of life. 

Easter, of course, is a season for eating. (And what's a holiday without food?)

During this season, churches prepare to welcome visitors. Easter and Christmas are the two services everyone knows you can't miss. (What would your grandmother say?) So maybe your church is planning an Easter breakfast. Maybe an egg hunt's in the works. Or maybe you're having people over for your own Easter dinner. 

And maybe this is a time to invite people to join us at the table - a time to open our churches and homes and lives to others. 

But I'll admit it's hard for me. 

It's a cool sort of hipster thing now to say you're an introvert, but it was true of me long before it was cool. (Flashback to 1985: Who's that kid lost in a book while the other kids play kickball? Oh, that's me.) 

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But sometimes it's hard for introverts to befriend new people, especially in a new environment. I don't pretend to speak for everyone, of course.  But I will say I've never met an introvert who made close friends fast. Some people are built to make friends one step at a time.

Introductions are the first step in that journey. 

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If you're an extrovert who meets an introvert this season, there are lots of ways to connect. Maybe I'll get to some of them. But tonight, speaking strictly from my own experience, I'll just offer. . .

Five Things Not to Do When You Meet This Introvert for the First Time:

1) Try to read my mind. This is what shrinks call projection, and it's about you, not me. I've had people misinterpret my quiet for snobbery (because they feel rejected), anxiety (because they feel nervous when people are quiet), and even attraction (because - well, you tell me). Mind reading's a problem because you're likely to guess wrong. If you want to get to know me, try asking instead of guessing.

2) Ask me a question and answer it yourself. "You're a middle school teacher, right? Man, I always wanted to be a teacher. What's it like to be a teacher? I bet it's really fun. Do you play games with the kids in your class? My favorite teacher always played Cranium with us. . ."  

That's not a conversation, right? It's a soliloquy, and I'm now feeling stuck. That's why my head keeps bobbing like a sky dancer.  

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When I'm quiet after you've asked a question, I'm thinking. Just give me a sec. We'll have a great conversation if you do.  

3)  Say you used to be an introvert, but you grew out of it. That didn't happen, guys. You might've grown out of shyness or social anxiety because learning to communicate is part of growing up. But introversion isn't a maturity issue. 

You grew out of putting your shoes on backwards, sleeping with a security blanket, and drinking milk out of a bottle. And that's good. (I did, too!) What you didn't grow out of is your temperament. That's also good.

4) Hug me right away. I know it sounds rude, but please hear me out. Some of my best friends are huggers. Some of the greatest people I've ever known were huggers. But this is different. 

One Sunday on my way to a new church, I posted a status about not wanting strangers to hug me. And I miscommunicated to one of my friends. She thought I didn't want people hugging me at all. I understood her feelings, but strangers are different for me. I have boundaries around touch; if I've just learned your name, I'm not ready for a hug. Shake my hand, and let me go. Maybe I'll be ready to hug you later.

5) Talk about diapers, potty training, or bathroom mishaps. Unless I'm literally in the middle of changing my baby's diaper at the moment - please, let's not start there. It's possible we could be great friends someday even if we did start off like that. But it's not likely if I associate you with unpleasant topics.   

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And on that note, I'll put an end to the list for tonight. (You don't want to know where we were headed next, considering point 5.) But I will say this: Introverts like me love our friends. We like making friends, and we're loyal to those we love. And we want to get to know you. 

We just need to do it without being rushed. We'll take our time. 

But then time is how deep friendships grow anyway, isn't it? 

Grateful for my patient friends, 
Becki*  

About Time

So writing for Lent 
is like fasting half a night's sleep.

It's not that you can't do it. It's just that you get tired. It's just that it takes something out of you, and it feels like you're a little less you.

I can write, and live without free time in the evenings, without quiet and reading - 
like I could maybe survive on less sleep: 
for a time.

But tonight I'm exhausted. I wrote a parable and a fairy tale, and suddenly I'm just staring at the screen. I think it's just writer's block.

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But then again, maybe that's the power of Lent. Reaching the end of yourself, reaching the end of fancy ideas, reaching the end of neat and tidy and ending up with messy and raw. 

It's a time for increasing our hunger for Easter - for its release and comfort and joy (and chocolate, for some of you). 

It's like having friends stay in your house with you. For a month. They show up, and your home is pristine. They're impressed. They settle in. For a while, the house stays tidy. But by day 14, everything is chaos, and no one can find the bedroom floors for all the blankets and air mattresses. And no one really cares about it. Except you. 

And that's where I am tonight.

I'm tired, and my house is messy (figuratively and literally), and I don't want to spend 40 minutes editing. This is the third post I've wrestled with tonight, and Lent has emptied me out already, and I'm needing Easter. 

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So I'm giving myself grace tonight, and just leaving you with this: 

What is Lent emptying you of this year? 
How is it leaving you hungry for the Resurrection?
And, friend, what empty place will Jesus fill with more of Himself? 

This is the way He fills us with life - gently, one day at a time, one empty space at a time.

This year, He's emptying out my pride. (I usually call it "perfectionism.") He's a genius at it. He knows just what to do.

And I'm just going to let Him do it. 
It's about time.

Emptied and filled, 
Becki* 

Winter Brainstorm

(Fair warning: My mind is all over the place tonight. I'm writing anyway. There's a point at the end, but it's sharp. Don't cut your finger.)

So My husband just answered the phone, "What's up, Sparkles." Now I'm not naming any names, but I know who you are, and the next time I see you, you're totally keeping that nickname, "Sparrrrklllles." (Um, it's a man. Ha!) 

"Sparkler" by Gabriel Pollard - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons

So if you want a new nickname, just call the Preacher. He's got 'em in spades.

I've already told you what he called me the first time he. . . well, the first time he called me, right? It was nice. A lot nicer than being called "hot" or whatever the thing is now. 

Seriously, was Mona Lisa hot? No. Was she classically beautiful? Has she been admired for her mystique and dignity through the ages? Yep. So maybe hot's not so hot after all. 

Which reminds me, today on Good Morning America I noticed patterned leggings/tights/crazy pants are the new "hot" thing to work out in. Like, people sweat in them. In tights. Let me ask you this: Do you wear colorful leggings to work out? Do your legs turn hot pink to match them? (They never seem to answer my burning questions on GMA.) Let me know.

I don't wear leggings when I exercise. Maybe that's why I'm not a gym person - that, and the fact that I'm constantly grumbling, "I hate you, you sadistic freak," to the DVD instructor. (Oops! Full disclosure, folks.) Just imagine me at the gym. Are hecklers allowed in Zumba? I'd probably be arrested, and you'd have to bail me out of the slammer. 

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Speaking of the slammer, have you ever been there? You can tell me. I'll keep it a secret. I never have (um, knock on wood), but I wonder if it's like they show on TV. If you've been there, can you answer that? Is it a couple metal beds with a ratty sink and um, other things out in the open? Please advise. 

I really do want your advice on this. But I've noticed in life, most people aren't looking for advice, even when they ask for it. Most people are looking for support. Most people want to know they're not alone. 

When we know we're not alone, hope burns up despair.

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Yesterday, the Preacher told me despair was one of the seven deadly sins because it meant an absence of faith. Lack of faith or lack of hope - I'm not sure which despair is. Maybe both. But I do know the emptiness of wanting something I didn't have and feeling like I'd never have it.

But then hope's a stubborn little dandelion, isn't it? It tends to grow back. Courage overcomes despair like dawn breaks the night. In creation, time and movements change things. Seasons. Years. Even us.

Tertullian said, "Hope is patience with the lamp lit," and I feel it that way, too. Sometimes hope's the only thing that keeps us warm, the only light we have. And mostly it comes through people. It comes through you and me. We carry the spark of hope because we carry the Image. 

And even a small spark can build a blazing hope, 
if we open our lamps to receive it. 

Moving from Sparkles to Flame, 
Becki*

Pigtail Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, there lived a woman who never did her hair. And by never, I mean never. You see, she was cursed (or blessed, depending) with hair that did only one thing: It lay long and straight on her back. Never did it curl; never did it twist. (Well, except that time she got a body perm in 6th grade. But that's a tale for another day.)

At her wedding, the Straight-Haired Woman opted for an updo. It worked well, but she left a few strands loose in the front. The fairy hairdresser sprayed those locks with magical sticky spray and curled the strands. But the curse was stronger than the spray. The hair fell flat again. And again. And again and again and again. (You get the point.)

Several years later, the Straight-Haired Woman was blessed with a son. And she was content. The son had lots of hair, but he was a son, and she could cut it very short. He was not touched with the curse of the evil cowlick, and his hair was naturally under control. Mostly. 
 
The Straight-Haired Woman was pleased. 

Three years later, her life would forever change with the birth of a daughter - a beautiful daughter with lots of hair. 

Lots of fine, curly hair.

The Straight-Haired Woman was confused. "Curly hair is so cute!" she thought. "But curly hair is so much work."

She knew nothing of hair work. But she loved her daughter, so she learned to do the top ponytail. She invested in bows and headbands. She figured it out. 
Mostly. 

As the daughter grew, her curls disappeared, leaving behind fine blonde hair. It was always staticky. It was usually tangled. It was darn cute, but it was more work than curly hair.

And then one day the Fine-Haired Daughter saw a show called Team UmiZoomi. She became obsessed with Millie's pigtails. She wanted some of her own.

The Straight-Haired Woman tried to ignore her daughter's request. But the little girl hated having her hair brushed straight, even with detangler. 

She hated braids (which the mother couldn't really do anyway). 

She hated regular ponytails (which is the only thing her mother could do). 

She wanted pigtails. And she waited a long time for them.

But one Sunday morning, a miracle happened. The Straight-Haired Woman asked her daughter, "Would you like pigtails today?" and the Fine-Haired Daughter danced with joy. So the Straight-Haired Woman gathered her weapons: a brush, detangler, matching hair ties, and the last drops of the only hair product she owned: hairspray. 

And they accomplished the pigtails. The Straight-Haired Woman had never been so proud of a hairstyle. The Fine-Haired Daughter had never glowed with such joy. They were both content. 

They were both so excited they forgot to take a picture. Oops! 

But rest assured, the Fine-Haired Daughter looked just like a blonde Millie. 

And she felt loved. 

And that was the whole point anyway. 

Doing love during Lent, 
Becki*

Enough

Today we had some complications with insurance and orthodontists. The Preacher fixed it because he kept his cool. When I tried to fix it, I broke down crying. 

Last year, I changed our insurance policy to save a little money and to simplify things. It covered my preexisting condition, checkups were cheap, and prescriptions were almost free. Barring any ridiculous disasters, I knew we'd be ok.

Then I broke my wrist. By the time I healed, we owed thousands of dollars to hospitals and surgeons. So this year I was a little gun shy about changing the new plan, and I waited and thought about it too long. It was a knot the Preacher had to untangle, and he did.

But I was frustrated, so I cried. (Half the men just left. Sorry about that, fellas.)

The truth is, I keep doing that breakdown thing this week. My emotions are a dead goldfish, bobbing right up to the surface. (And now half the women just left. Sorry, girls. See you tomorrow!)

While the Preacher was solving problems, I was bullying myself. "Why do you always wait? Why can't you make decisions? Your kids deserve better than this. Your kids deserve better than you."
In my frustration, it seemed true enough. Sometimes I wonder whether my kids are better off with me than the Perfect Mom I've imagined for them.

The thing is, when I think about how brilliant my kids are, how special and awesome and ridiculously cool they've always been, I doubt myself. Most days I feel like I'm doing it all wrong. 

Much to my dismay, I'm not the Perfect Mom. A lot of the time, I'm struggling. And it's messy. I'm messy.   

I know it. 
The Preacher knows it,
and so do my kids. For me, that's the spider that bites when I'm least expecting it because they didn't choose to be here with me. They didn't choose to live their childhood under my roof.

And I know they're my kids for a reason, and I'm blessed by God to be their mama. I just wonder why He chose me for this. I feel like I'm flunking this class, and I wonder why they weren't given to some of my friends - the ones who have it all together. (I know they do because I've seen it on Facebook.)

After I calmed down today, I told Little Man I was sorry about the mix-up with his braces. Then I muttered (mostly to myself), "I hope we're doing an ok job with you guys." And my precious son, my firstborn kid the guru, my fiery grace-giver said, "Mommy, you guys do a great job. Don't worry about the braces. You broke your wrist, remember?" 

And he hugged me, and I realized he's right. We were on our way to consult with the orthodontist when I broke my wrist last year. Finally, we're on to the next thing. 

And he doesn't hold it against me. He says we're doing great. He gives me a hug. He releases me from shame. 

To my son, who loves me anyway, I'm enough. 

And it makes me think: If my kid, who takes after me just enough to be slightly imperfect, feels that way about his mom, maybe the God who wrote grace into the world is giving me a break, too.

The truth is I didn't want to write this at all tonight because it makes me sound weak and vulnerable and lame. But then I'm working on the vulnerable thing, and it's not really weak or lame to be honest, is it? 

The truth is, parents go through this.

We wonder if we're good enough, if we're doing it right, and what I'm learning is this: 
Even when it's not perfect, it is enough,
and so are we.

Love covers the rest.

Enough with the bullying, 
Becki * 

Ordinary Days

It's Monday! 

Again. 

The end of the weekend. The end of the Sabbath. Back to the grindstone. Monday.

Seems to happen every week.

Today (yesterday to you) was a typical Sunday. Our church celebrates Communion every week, and we went with the kids to receive as usual. It's still new enough to them that they're visibly excited, and I'm glad they are; it's easy to take routines for granted. 

A few years ago, the Princess got sick and ended up in the hospital. It was a hard week, our toddler lying in a big hospital bed with tubes sticking out of her hand. She burned with fever for days. 

I remember staring out the hospital window on the third day, drenched in tears. Worry was a river pulling me under. We ended up staying there five days, Princess with flushed cheeks and swollen eyes, and I thought I'd never forget it.

But the truth is I've forgotten so much. When Princess visited a new specialist a year later, the doctor probed me for details. She wondered about lymph nodes and liver involvement and CBCs and medications. I was shocked that I just did not remember.

The main things I remember about that week are the people: my toddler, who didn't cry at the vampire blood-draws; the Preacher beside me and Little Man watching Disney movies in a stupor; our church friends who visited; the pastor of another church, who brought us Starbucks; the friend who watched Little Man for us one day; and my parents, who showed up just in time to catch me before I collapsed. 

And I remember wanting nothing more than to go home with my family. 

I wanted a normal day. 

Isn't it funny how interruptions will do that? Sleeping in our own beds and eating our own food and sitting in our own living room and even cleaning up our own messes: Those were the things I wanted most that week. 

Turns out routines are a gift. Normal things are just what we need. 

Today on the ride home from church, I started thinking about the physical things we use for Communion. They're symbols, and they're simple: bread and wine (or grape juice). Those were the elements at the Last Supper, and they're still the things we use. 

By design, they're ordinary. 

The God who could've chosen any symbols for His death, who could've called for, y'know, caviar and truffles and the most elaborate specialty coffee drink at Starbucks, chose bread and wine. There may be a deep meaning behind those foods, and I'll leave that to the scholars.

But what strikes me is this:

Jesus chose regular food and drink to remind us of His death. On the Lord's Day, we remember Him with physical symbols - things we can hold in our hands and bring into our bodies. 

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And it makes me think: The Lord's Day is a regular day, too. Seems to happen every week. 

It's just an ordinary day with ordinary people, celebrating the truth of an extraordinary love. 

And that's what makes it so precious. 

Enjoying the ordinary, 
Becki*