Sometimes I forget to spit out the seeds…

Posts tagged ‘Children’

The Last First Loose Tooth

My husband thinks I’m a little crazy.  Maybe I am, but I’m fairly certain it’s the standard sort of crazy that comes with being a mom, or maybe just being a woman in general.  He thinks I’m crazy because I get emotional over things like giving away baby clothes, switching from a car seat to a booster, and long “baby” legs hanging off my lap.

My daughter’s loose tooth stirred up emotions in me that, surely, a tiny tooth is unworthy of.  That husband of mine looks at me with a cocked eyebrow and amused smirk whenever these things come up, but I can’t help it.  You see, this daughter….this 4-and-a-half-year-old daughter….she’s our baby.  She’s THE baby.

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It happens in every family.  It isn’t always the same story, but it’s the same ending.  Because childbearing comes to an end.  No one goes on having babies forever.  (Damn, you, menopause!)  Those babies grow, and they grow fast.  Mothers all over the world urge younger mothers to savor it, because it goes by so fast.

Some couples make a decision to be done with adding to their family, and so they know when the last is the last.  They savor every milestone, knowing they won’t observe it ever again.  Maybe that makes it easier, or maybe it makes everything bittersweet.

Some couples think they know when the last is the last, and then are surprised with a second (or third!) round of lasts.  I imagine that’s all kinds of emotional ups and downs.

Some couples don’t realize they are in the “last days” until they are well into them.  Perhaps secondary infertility comes upon them, or they had planned to have more but changed their mind.

I fall into this last camp, of being caught unaware.  My babies arrived at fairly regular intervals – every 18 months to two years – for twelve years.  My family grew steadily, and we rejoiced and thanked God for every blessing.  We knew He would plan our family perfectly!  And while I knew there would be an end, I didn’t know when it would be for us.

I still don’t know that it is the end, but as I mentioned before, my “baby” is going on five years old.  When that tiny tooth came out, in the middle of dinner, and I exclaimed and teared up and declared her to be “so old” yet “still my baby,” my family chimed in.

We listed all the things that are no longer part of our lives….nursing, diaper bags, pacifiers, sippy cups, strollers, and car seats.  And then my kids melted my heart when they expressed their desire for more siblings.

“I want a baby brother!”  My youngest boy is my number three child, with five sisters following him.  Since he was able to talk, he’s been wishing for a little brother, and as a teenager, he still feels that way.

“I want TWIN baby brothers!”  The idea of a baby boy is a novelty after the string of girls, so that sentiment is shared.  And of course…twins!  So much more exciting.

“Hey, maybe Baby Sawyer is already on the way.”  My oldest son, who is practically a man (sob!) chimed in with this comment, accompanied by a big grin.  We had the name Sawyer picked out for the last three pregnancies, and yes, it was due to our obsession with LOST.

I smiled through my mixed emotions and thought, “Wow.  God is so good!”

In January, I wrote about the sense of failure I struggle with, never feeling I am doing a good enough job with my family.  This night, though….the night of the Last First Loose Tooth….filled me with relief that something had gone right.  It was just a few minutes out of what might have been a difficult day, but to God be the glory!

There was no, and never is any, expression of, “Ugh, no!  No more babies!” from any of my children.  Sometimes you hear of kids from large families who grow up to renounce and detest the idea of many children.  My heart aches at that possibility, but so far, so good.

My children know family is important.

My children know babies are blessings.

My children know siblings are valuable.

Mama might be crazy, but she sure is blessed!

 

 

 

 

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New Year, Same Me

I admit it.  A brand new year gives me all kinds of glorious visions of a better me.  Technically, I don’t partake of the whole “New Year’s resolutions” thing.  I don’t write it down or make dramatic declarations, but if I’m completely honest, it’s there – almost as intoxicating as those rows of empty spiral notebooks, pretty binders, and new pens that make back-to-school time my absolute favorite.

As 2015 came to a close, I thought about how long it had been since I had blogged.  When I finally checked in here, I was surprised to find it had been seven months since I published anything.  My heart panged with guilt as I recalled the stone on a shelf above my desk, with the words “write every day” on it.

I didn’t keep that commitment, and I missed a lot of writing potential in the second half of the year.  Mundane summer “adventures.” A new doctor who offered hope and ultimately had some success in treating my whacked-out self. Home school struggles.  My grandma passing away.  A busy soccer season with three of my kids playing for a local Christian school.  The kitten who showed up at my house, wouldn’t leave, and adopted himself into my family.  My baby sister’s  whirlwind engagement, bridal shower, and wedding.

Opportunities missed, though  not lost, since there are no rules about blog posts having to be current events.  I mentally added my dry spell to the running list of failures I had going in my head.

Like a flashing neon sign, the word “failure” was plaguing my subconsciousness, and I had been vaguely aware of it for months.  It was clouding my days and giving me sleepless nights. I’m not normally a sarcastic person, but my brain was giving me a very bitter lashing on a daily basis.

Every mommy blog and meme on the internet:  “I know it feels like you’re not appreciated and that you’re not doing life well, but you’re doing great, Mama!  Go motherhood!  You are succeeding!”

My bitter brain:  “Uh, yeah.  No. You don’t just feel like you’re failing.  You actually ARE.  You suck at everything.”

My middle and high school students are behind in their school work, and they don’t seem to care.  FAIL.

I haven’t worked on painting the interior of our home in over a year.  FAIL.

I frequently lack in patience with my little ones, and probably don’t read to them enough.  FAIL.

My teenager doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life.  FAIL.

According to a spiritual gifts test, mine is hospitality, and I never invite anyone over.  FAIL.

My bathrooms are never quite clean; my laundry is never caught up; our sheets don’t get washed nearly often enough.  FAIL.

I’ve lost count of how many years behind I am on scrapbooking.  Ok, no I haven’t – it’s 10.  Ten years behind.  TRIPLE FAIL.

Now I’ve cataloged a portion of my transgressions, and I’ve sat on it for a few days.  Stuck.  Unable to tie this thing up as something other than a keeping-it-real, honest motherhood kind of post.  God knows, I could write a truck load of those.  Having eight kids has given me plenty of material for that kind of thing.

I went to church yesterday asking God for direction.  Not just in my writing, but it was definitely on the list.  We sang the song, “Boldly I Approach (The Art of Celebration)” by Rend Collective.

When condemnation grips my heart
And Satan tempts me to despair
I hear the voice that scatters fear
The Great I Am the Lord is here
Oh praise the One who fights for me
And shields my soul eternally

I know that most of the “sins” listed above aren’t really sins.  Laziness or procrastination may have played a minor role in some of them, but mostly they are simply life happening.  But does that matter to Satan?  He will tempt me to despair over anything he can get his hands on.

The truth is I am NOT enough.  But my God always is.  Sometimes that means  He equips me to do things better, and beyond my natural ability.  But sometimes that means that His grace covers my deficiencies.  And I am grateful; for even when I suck at everything, God is somehow glorified.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Confessions

I recently realized that a blog site I have been reading also has a “confessional” section.  Anyone can post their “confessions” anonymously as a way to vent.  Others can offer their support with “like,” “hug,” or “me too!”  I can see the value in that….for commiserating about the hard parts of life.  For getting things off our chest.  It’s also a pretty dark place, with people telling secrets that are heart-wrenching, or scary, or even dangerous.  And there’s no way to reach out to those people, due to the anonymity.  More on that another day…..

Today, I thought I’d share some of my own “confessions.”  Nothing serious, or heavy….just for the fun of it.

My bathroom floor is absolutely filthy.  My kids rotate bathroom duty, so the essentials (toilet, sink, garbage, etc.) are taken care of.  I always intend to get in there and tackle the floor….but I don’t.  Between the painted tiles that everything sticks to, necessitating a scrub-by-hand-on-your-knees approach, and the claw foot tub that is impossible to clean under, it’s the worst job in the house.

I fake-nursed in order to sit on the couch longer and not feel lazy.  When I had nurslings, and they fell asleep at the breast, I would often just pretend they were still eating so I could rest some more.  I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who used that tactic.

I like mayonnaise on my cooked spinach.  Just a little bit, mixed right in.  Creamy, vinegary…yum!  My husband thinks it’s very weird and gross, but I’m the only one in my family who eats cooked spinach, so whatevs.  All for me.

My kids are not allowed to say the “f” word.  No, not that one!  I mean, obviously that one, too.  But also the one for gas.  I hate that word.  It makes me gag.  Sometimes I really can’t believe that anyone says it.  If you say it, I might judge you a little bit.

Of all the changes in my body after having children, I mourn my feet the most.  Stretch marks, loose skin, and other unmentionable things, are permanent evidence that I’m a mother.  And I’m fine with that, really and truly.  But my feet.  They are more or less the same length, but the ligaments seem to be permanently relaxed, so they spread when I’m standing.  I can’t buy strappy sandals anymore, or cheap sneakers, because they usually don’t come in a wide width.  I didn’t know how much I loved cute shoes until I couldn’t wear them anymore.

I served my family leftovers for dinner four nights in a row.  I always plan my menu with a leftover night in mind.  But this week, my mother-in-law brought me a bounty of Easter dinner leftovers.  With the weekend leftovers already in my fridge, we were set for the week!  I added a couple of frozen pizzas one night to break up the monotony, although monotony wasn’t really a problem with the number of choices we had.  Last night I served it up on platters and called it a “smorgasbord”.  I call that a total win.

I made up a song about corn bags, and now I’m forced to sing it every night.  My mom made my kids each their own corn bag for Christmas.  The first time my little girls used them for bedtime, I sang an impromptu song as I delivered the warmed-up bags.  It’s to the tune of “We Got a Dollar” from The Little Rascals.  “I got a corn bag, I got a corn bag, I got a corn bag with zebra stripes (or princess crowns, or sock monkeys)!  I got a corn bag, a warm corn bag, a warm corn bag with zebra stripes!”  If my husband or older kids try to sing the song and deliver the corn bags, they protest loudly.  I’m stuck for life.

So what about you?  Leave your confessions in the comments!

Embrace Your Place

I got a call from my husband at about 11:00pm.  “We’re at a gas station now, but I think Jr.’s going to need an x-ray tonight.”  Ugh.  Seriously?  I was in my pajamas, settled in bed with my laptop, thinking about actually going to sleep soon.  But my husband had to get up and out the door for work in the morning, and I did not, so it was logical for me to take the kid to the ER if he did indeed need to go that night.

My 15-yr-old son walked through the door, shivering because it was freezing outside and he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, in too much pain to change after playing basketball at our church’s open gym night.  He also was holding a paper towel full of ice on his wrist, and it was dripping coldly all over him.

As soon as I saw the pain in his face, and how gingerly he shuffled down the hall, my annoyance at being disturbed vanished. “Can we get a coat on you?”  He winced.  Nope.  I threw a sweatshirt over his shoulders and grabbed a blanket and my purse.

In the next 18 hours (after three hours in the emergency room, an inconclusive set of x-rays, a visit to the orthopedist, a temporary cast on his possibly-broken wrist, and a padded and wrapped possibly-broken elbow on the OPPOSITE arm) I began to do something I had not done in quite a while.  I took care of my son.

I held doors open for him.  I buckled his seat belt.  I held the ice pack on his wrist when his hand went numb.  I put pills in his mouth and held a cup to his lips so he could drink water.  I untied his shoes and pulled them off.  I prepared him food and drink when we got home, and tucked a blanket around him on the recliner before I passed out on the couch.

In the days that followed, I continued to serve him.  There was so much he couldn’t do.  Put his sweatshirt on and off.  Put his socks on.  Wash his hair.  Open a pill bottle.  Pour himself a drink.

This first-born child of mine is independent with a capital I and has been since he was very young.  Yes, he’s still needed me.  To talk to him.  To teach him.  To guide his decisions.  To drive him where he wants to go.  To grant permission for the things he wants to do.  To embarrass him by dancing in the kitchen.  But he hasn’t NEEDED me.

There’s something different about serving him now than there was before.  Babies and toddlers need parents to provide for their every need.  To do everything for them.  The willingness to do those things springs from our love and adoration of them.  But then they learn how to do things for themselves, in leaps and bounds, needing us a little less every day.  We rejoice with pride at their new accomplishments.  But there’s also a pang, with each step toward independence, at the unprecedented separation.  It’s as it should be…..and yet….

I have served this boy-man of mine through this time of healing, and it has been my pleasure.  I’m reading my own words here, and I know it seems like I’m romanticizing something small and mundane.  Of course my child, who is closer to being grown than being born, doesn’t need me to care for his physical needs anymore.  Of course, when the need arose I took up that care again, willingly.  So why all the emotional blather?

This past weekend I attended a women’s conference called IF:Gathering.  My church hosted an IF:Local simulcast, and I was there for over 15 hours over two days, worshiping God, enjoying time with some amazing friends, and being fed spiritually.  What I gleaned from the women who shared from God’s Word and their hearts is worthy of a dozen blog posts.

From my notes:  Embrace your place….when God is ready to use you, He will find you!  and Service is preparation for battle, not performance.

In our small group discussion time, we addressed a question about how to focus on the eternal a midst the practical.  A wise woman in my group (a.k.a. my mom) reminded us that during the years when our lives are consumed with the 24/7 acts of service associated with raising children, we are also ministering to their souls.  We are attending to their eternal souls with our practical, mundane, sometimes thankless service to their physical needs.

Whether they are just hours old and completely vulnerable, or approaching adulthood and quite capable….

Whether the ones you are serving are your children, parents, and siblings….or your neighbors, friends, and strangers….

Serving practical needs IS eternal, because those you are ministering to have eternal souls. 

Mothers, your mothering makes you great.  Your service to your children is service to your King, and it’s preparing you for whatever He has for you in the future.  Never, ever, believe the lie that what you do is only valuable in the moment.

Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Everybody can be great…because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”

Children are the Best Medicine

There’s a lot of darkness in this world.  Depression.  Illness.  Lack.  Anxiety.  Crime.  Loss.  Sorrow.  Sometimes it all comes at once, closing in on us.  We reach out in desperation for something to hold on to, to keep us from swirling away in that darkness.  I reach out to Jesus.

I reach out for comfort and clarity.  The comfort usually comes immediately, as soon as I say His name, because I know He is there.  But clarity.  That one can evade my grasp indefinitely.  And the harder I strive for it, the more elusive it becomes.  I think Jesus wants us to have clarity, for sure.  He wants us to step forward in life with confidence in His plan.  But He also wants us to trust Him.  If we had the whole picture, we’d have to push really hard against the temptation to let that trust shift to ourselves.  So He only gives us a glimpse.

Instead of trusting “the plan,” I’m forced to simply trust in Him.  Trust in what I know for sure.  That He created me in His image.  That He loves me more than I can grasp.  That He wants only good for me.  That I am righteous through His sacrifice.  As I circle around, clinging to those truths and waiting for what comes next, I’m still in the midst of my hectic life, keeping it together for the sake of my family.

It occurred to me, the other day, that the Lord has orchestrated my life for such a time as this.  He has given me the medicine I need to bring back my joy, and then bring it back again and again when I lose it.  He has given me children.

I am in a somewhat unique position.  While I do not have a baby right now, nor do I have any adult children, I’ve got pretty much everything in between.  The joy in parenting is different for each stage of childhood, and right now, I feel like I’ve got it all!  God has blessed me with eight amazing little (and not-so-little) people.  Not just for a lifetime; not just for eternity; but for this day.   I want to bring you an ode to my children….the tools through which God is the “lifter of my head.”

Fourteen-year-old boy.  It is surreal and almost giddy to see him, so tall, strong, and handsome.  I see that when he gently roughhouses with his tiniest sister, he’s not just avoiding his school work….he actually enjoys it.  He rolls his eyes and runs away when his sisters try to tackle him, but I can see that it pleases him, and he lets them catch him.  We are still working on respect, but he is getting it.  He’s working hard.  He’s still a kid, and would rather be playing, but when we call on him to help out, he does it diligently and with 100% effort.  Joy number one.

Thirteen-year-old boy.  He recently offered a greeting and a goodbye to family members, unsolicited, and unprompted.  That is huge for this boy.  My heart swells to see him engaging in conversations, looking others in the face, and smiling when he does it.  With a memory like a steel trap and a voracious appetite for reading anything and everything, I can see that God has equipped him to overcome those blind spots in his mind.  While his stories and his LEGO creations are intricate, he finds pleasure in simple things, and the whole world knows when he is amused.  Joy number two.

Eleven-year-old boy.  I see him seeking out the little boys at church, letting them hang on and pummel him.  He begs for a baby brother;  but while he is waiting for God to give him that, he embraces his role as big brother to five sisters.  In school, he struggles only against his desire for perfection.  Learning comes easily to him, and I am glad.  He loves to hear, “I love you,” and always says it back.  He might even let me hug him.  Joy number three.

Nine-year-old girl.  This beauty is a fascinating blend of her father’s athleticism and her mother’s introverted mind.  His singing voice, my book addiction.  Her insanely thick hair gives me vain pride, and her nurturing attitude makes me smile.  She still climbs into my short lap, with her long legs, for a snuggle.  On the brink of adolescence, tears come more easily to her now; and while I know that the coming years may be filled with emotional upheaval, I’m excited for what we’ll get to share.  Joy number four.

Seven-year-old girl.  I see her big smile – teeth overcrowding her little mouth – and freckled nose, and can’t help but smile back.  Her laugh is at times a guffaw, and so contagious.  She’s usually included in the “big kid” activities, but she’ll also take the lead with the younger kids, engaging them in a tea party or block-building marathon.  When doing chores, she does more than is required of her, without complaining.  Her servant heart is emerging.  Joy number five.

Six-year-old girl.  We call her “Brutus.”  Since she was a baby, she has come at life with a great force and boundless energy, sometimes trampling those in her way.   She stubbornly refuses help when she’s reading, often books that are beyond her ability, and just makes up words when she is stumped.  The results are pretty hilarious.  She is fearless, and thinks she can do it all.  Even her rascally escapades exude creativity and ingenuity.  Joy number six.

Four-year-old girl.  Her fake-looking eyelashes are ridiculously beautiful on a child, and her eyes captivate me.  Four is a fun age, filled with curiosity, drama, and rapid learning.  She speaks with a bit of a lisp.  She admires the older boys in her life….brothers, cousins, and friends of theirs.  They can usually tolerate her hanging on their arm or putting their name in a song, because she is so adorable.  I think she forgot how to walk, because she seems to leap or skip wherever she goes.  Joy number seven.

Three-year-old girl.  She will be three in one week, but it seems like she’s already been three for months.  I’m not one to rush through life’s stages, but she has been a very articulate two-year-old.  We crack up daily at her observations and explanations of  life.  Her snuggles lift my spirit immediately.  If you’ve never had a toddler bury their face in your neck while patting your back as you embrace, I highly recommend it.  Even her fake tantrums (“fake” because she’s not really upset), with her arms folded and an exaggerated pout on her face, fill my heart to the brim.  Joy number eight.

I could write for days about both the trials and the joys of motherhood.  But the Lord has brought these joyful moments to the forefront for me….like one of those trippy hidden pictures that were all the rage in the ’90’s.  You’re looking at a crazy, swirling, confusing, and frustrating mess.  Then all of a sudden, you see it.  The picture seems to magically rise to the surface.  And I realize……children are the best medicine.

Evil is Cool

The world I’m raising my children in is nothing like the world I grew up in.  I never imagined that everything would change so drastically, so quickly.  The differences are evident in a myriad of ways:  technology, fashion, education, pop culture, all of which would be fun or interesting to muse about.  What has gripped my heart, though, falls into the pop culture category.  We, as Americans, have become incredibly desensitized.  Our kids, especially.

We are a culture of profanity.  A culture of vulgarity.  A culture that embraces evil.  A culture of disrespect.  A culture of obscene excess.  A culture of shallow materialism.  A culture with blatant sex in every corner.  A culture that drowns its sorrows in self-abuse.

Sounds pretty hopeless, doesn’t it?  How can we possibly raise children to adulthood without them being desensitized to all of that….that disaster I just described?  Will they get to the point of not even noticing that it’s going on around them?  Will they accept it as just “what kids do” these days?  Even if they choose to not be a part of it, will they fail to be shocked by what they see and hear?  When they stop being shocked,  they become part of it.

As parents, we have the tough job of setting the standards for our children.  What will we allow them to watch, listen to, read, or even say?  What friends will we permit them to hang out with?  We want to protect them, and to teach them how to protect themselves; but there comes a point when we have to allow them to begin to make their own decisions, and pray we have equipped them well.  It’s scary.   I’m slowly entering that realm myself, in my parenting career.

In our home, God sets the ultimate standard.  Not because we have to live up to some perfect model of the “Christian life”  in order to please Him…..let’s be perfectly clear on that.  Salvation doesn’t hinge on our performance, or how well we follow the rules.  It’s free, and unconditional.  But God’s Word is good, and every bit of it has a purpose.  His warnings to guard our hearts and our minds, to be careful of what comes out of our mouths, to avoid giving the appearance of evil….these guidelines aren’t just suggestions.  They are a recipe for a joyful, fruitful, peaceful life in which we can serve Him more wholly and make a difference for His sake.

I realize that Christians have differing opinions about what things are good, and pure, and worth allowing into their lives.  I tend to ere on the side of caution.  We don’t know how much violence will trigger recurring fear or anxiety in our child.  We don’t know how much nudity or sexual innuendo will trigger an obsession with lust (no human can escape the feeling of lust, I am sure, but we’re talking destructive levels here).  We don’t know what brand of evil, demonic influence, or darkness will intrigue them to delve deeper.  Clearly we can’t shield them from any of these things forever, unless we go the deserted-island-family-commune  route.  But we can delay and control their exposure, so that we can have those crucial conversations with them.

We’ve all seen evil disguised as good, but what about the other way around?  What about something that’s inherently good, with a solid, Christian message, that’s draped in an evil costume to appeal to our “modern” sensibilities?  Because evil is cool.  Darkness is fascinating.  It draws them in.  I’m not really comfortable with that brand of trickery.  That, to me, is a perfect example of desensitization.

You Might Have a Big Family If…..

When I had my fourth child, I began getting some strange, intrusive comments from strangers, and I realized….I had entered the realm of “big families.”  I was a little surprised, because I didn’t feel like I had a big family,  But I got it.  In our culture, in our time, four is more than average, for sure.   Now I have eight babies.  Not all babies, of course, but as my 5-yr-old will quote me as saying, “Even when you’re a grown-up, you’re still your mama’s baby.”  So I may be a bit of an expert on big families.  🙂  Are you?

You might have a big family if you drive a 12-passenger van, 15-passenger van, or a retrofitted school bus.

You might have a big family if you buy condiments in gallon-sized containers.  (We do this with salsa.)

You might have a big family if you have ever been asked if you run a daycare when only your children are present.

You might have a big family if you have ever been accused of trying to “beat” the Duggars.  (Please….I’m not even close.  And I don’t pro-create for sport.)

You might have a big family if your children have ever been counted by a stranger as your family walks by them.

You might have a big family if you’ve heard, “Wow, you have your hands full!” and you only had half your kids with you.

You might have a big family if you can easily tune out a squealing baby, a toddler banging her fork on the table, knock-knock jokes followed by crazy laughter, a game of keep-away with your child’s hat flying across the table, and ranch-covered fingers gripping your arm while you have a conversation with your spouse.

You might have a big family if you can play a game of kickball without any guests.

You might have a big family if you’ve been asked if you know “what causes that,” or been told, “wow, you’ve been busy (*wink, wink).”  These people always think they’re hilarious and original.  They are neither.  🙂

You might have a big family (and a small house) if your children sleep in a pile like puppies; it’s even sweeter when they don’t have to, because you actually do have enough beds, but they love each other so much that they do it anyway.